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Title: Doreen. The Story of a Singer.
Author: Lyall, Edna [Bayly, Ada Ellen] (1857-1903)
Date of first publication: 1894
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Longmans, Green, and Co.
   Third printing, August, 1894
Date first posted: 14 January 2009
Date last updated: 14 January 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #235

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones, Juliet Sutherland
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




[Illustration]


                                  DOREEN

                          THE STORY OF A SINGER


                                    BY

                                EDNA LYALL

     Author of "Donovan," "We Two," "In the Golden Days," "Knight
          Errant," "A Hardy Norseman," "Derrick Vaughan,"
               "The Autobiography of a Slander,"
                   "To Right the Wrong," Etc.

    "_What we wish is, that where there has been despondency there
shall be hope; where there has been mistrust there shall be confidence;
where there has been alienation and hate there shall be
woven the ties of a strong attachment between man and man_"
                                        THE RIGHT HON. W. E. GLADSTONE



                                 NEW YORK

                          LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

                                   1894



                             COPYRIGHT, 1893,
                         BY LONGMANS, GREEN. AND CO.


                          FIRST EDITION, MAY, 1894.
                       Reprinted June and August, 1894.



                             THE CAXTON PRESS
                                  NEW YORK


                                 Dedicated

                        IN GRATITUDE AND REVERENCE

                                    TO

                   THE RIGHT HONOURABLE W. E. GLADSTONE.


                   "He might have had the World with him,
                    But chose to side with suffering men
                    And had the World against him."




                                  DOREEN.




CHAPTER I.


         "A voice of ... heavenly sweetness, with that reedy
         thrill in it which you have heard in the thrush's
         even-song."
                                      OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


"Her name is Doreen," said Max Hereford, laying emphatic stress on the
last syllable. "Why do you insist on calling her the little Colleen
Bawn?"

"Because she invariably wears that red 'Colleen Bawn' cloak," replied
his cousin Miriam, with a gleam of amusement in her dark eyes.
"Probably, like charity, it hides a multitude of sins, for I fancy the
O'Ryans are very poor and of the shabby genteel sort. My old French
governess would have called the cloak a '_Couvre douleur_.'"

"Who are you speaking about, my dear?" said Mrs. Hereford, looking up
from her embroidery frame.

"Why, aunt, about the little Irish girl that Mr. Desmond and Max take
such delight in studying. We found her in difficulties one day with
Mr. Foxell's dog, which was frightening her small brother nearly into
fits, and ever since Max has done nothing but rave about her charming
little touch of the brogue and her bewitching voice. Several times she
has been out in the boat with us, and I have been obliged, in
consequence, to play the unpleasant part of second fiddle."

"She is a child of twelve years old, mother," said Max, leaving John
Desmond, his tutor, to enter a protest against Miriam's last
sentence, "the jolliest little girl you ever saw. She and her mother
are lodging at that gray house not far from the lodge. Michael--that's
the small boy--had been ill, and the mother seems to be half an
invalid."

"You should have told me of her before," said Mrs. Hereford. "She
might have been glad to borrow books, for this lonely country place
must be dull for an invalid. Is she as Irish as her daughter?"

"No: on the contrary, she is English, and seems quiet and reserved,
and as if she had lived through a lot of trouble. I can't make out
much about the father, except that they are to join him in a few
weeks' time; I fancy he is a literary man of some sort: Doreen spoke
once about his writing."

"It is a very curious name," said Mrs. Hereford.

"It makes one think of a soup tureen," said Miriam, naughtily. "Though
Max will declare that it is the most beautiful old Irish name in
existence. Nothing offends him more than to lay the accent on the
first syllable. If I call the child Dor-een, he says it sounds like
the feminine of John Dory."

"She certainly has the most beautiful voice," said John Desmond.
"Could we not make her sing to Mrs. Hereford?"

Miriam clapped her hands with delight at the suggestion.

"The very thing," she exclaimed, "to pass away this dull afternoon.
See, it does not rain so very fast, and I am sure that cloak must be
waterproof. Do go and fetch her, Max, and tell her that I am shut in
with a bad cold, and want to be amused."

"Stay; I had better write to Mrs. O'Ryan. It is hardly civil not to
explain to her that I am unable just now to call upon her; and, Max,
you can take down the new 'Contemporary'; she might like to see it,"
said Mrs. Hereford, turning from her embroidery frame to a cosy little
writing-table that stood by the hearth.

The mother and son were not unlike each other. Each had the same
well-cut features, and warm English colouring; and though Mrs.
Hereford's light brown hair was flecked with gray, her eyes were
almost as bright and frank as her son's. They were eyes which, once
seen, could never be forgotten, owing to their curious colour, which
some people called light hazel, and others yellow, but which all
agreed in praising. Mrs. Hereford had the ready wit and the strong
character which not unfrequently accompany a delicate physique. She
was often unable to take any part in active life, but she had never
for a single day ceased to guide and influence Max, and had contrived
somehow, during the long years of her widowhood, not to spoil him.
Others had done their best, it is true, to flatter and make much of
the young heir of Monkton Verney, but the mother had loved him well
enough to deny herself the pleasure of indulging him to her heart's
content, and had done her best to mitigate the flattery of others.

"You must not make him a prig," she had protested when his godmother
had showered down upon him "treasuries of devotion" and manuals of
self-examination.

"You shall not over-amuse him and make him _blas_ before he is of
age," she had said plainly to Colonel Hereford, his uncle and
guardian, whose idea of making a schoolboy happy was to fill his
pockets with money, let him fare sumptuously every day, and take him
to the play every night.

Max was now eighteen; in October he was to go up to Oxford, and for
some months John Desmond had been coaching him. It was partly in order
that he might have more time for reading that Mrs. Hereford had given
up the usual summer visit to Switzerland, and had taken for three
months an old castle in the South of Ireland, far removed from
distractions of any sort, and in the heart of a wild, mountainous
district. She had brought her niece with her as a companion; and
Miriam, tired with her first London season, was glad enough to rest
and read novels, to amuse herself in a cousinly fashion with Max, and
to enjoy the tutor's silent admiration. Life, as yet, was not at all
a serious thing to her; she was just playing with it in a happy,
contented fashion, with a firm conviction that the future must
infallibly be better than the present, and a comfortable sense of
success and self-satisfaction to buoy her up.

The little, dreary, gray house at which the O'Ryans were staying stood
at the foot of a mountain called Kilrourk, and was not more than five
minutes' walk from the gates of Castle Karey. Max, having inquired for
Mrs. O'Ryan, was ushered by the unkempt but pleasant-looking landlady
into a room in which the chairs and tables were pushed about in wild
disorder, while on the back of the old-fashioned horsehair sofa sat a
little girl with her arms tied behind her and a pair of tongs
uncomfortably dangling from them.

"God save Ireland!" she cried. Whereupon the small boy who mounted
guard beside her, with a tin pot for a helmet and a brand-new sixpenny
sword, silenced her in the most peremptory fashion.

"Faith, children, and whativer is it that you are afther, at all, at
all!" exclaimed the landlady. "Here is a gintleman from the Castle
come to see the misthress."

Doreen, who had been sitting with her back to the door, started up,
the fire-irons about her hands and feet clanking dismally, while the
dragoon, who was of a timid nature, drooped his head shyly, whereupon
the tin pot fell with a clatter to the ground.

"I can't shake hands with you," said Doreen, her blue eyes dancing
with merriment. "We are playing prisoners, and I'm heavily ironed."

"And who is this?" said Max, patting Michael's head reassuringly.

"He's an English dragoon guarding me. I'm John Mitchel, and have got
fourteen years' transportation. This sofa is the prison van, and we
are driving from the court, and just now I saw a great crowd and asked
where the people were going, and he--the dragoon--told me they were
going to a flower show. You know they really did say that to Mitchel;
but it was a lie--the people had come because they loved him."

"My mother has sent a note to Mrs. O'Ryan, asking if you will come to
the Castle," said Max. "Should you be afraid of the rain?"

"Oh, not of the rain," said Doreen, loftily; "but you see I can't very
well leave home, for my mother is lying down with one of her bad
headaches."

"But perhaps the house would be quieter if you came," said Max. Then,
seeing that he had said quite the wrong thing, "I mean, of course, if
you brought the dragoon with you."

"It's my birthday," said Michael, rather dismally, "and we was going
to pop corn over the kitchen fire."

"We have a fire in the drawing-room, summer though it is," said Max;
"that old place is as cold as a barn. Bring your corn with you, and
you shall show me how to do it. And there are real helmets and swords
there which you will like to see."

The armour settled the question, and before long Max and the two
children were walking along the dripping avenue which led down to
Castle Karey.

"Here they are, mother," he said, taking them straight into the
drawing-room; and Mrs. Hereford, looking up somewhat curiously, saw a
little red-cloaked figure, with a parcel tucked under one arm, and a
small boy clinging to the other.

Doreen was small for her age; she scarcely looked more than ten years
old. She had a little pale, winsome face, and a thick bush of dark
brown hair; her blue eyes were shaded by long and singularly black
lashes; and the face was of that pure Irish type, oval in shape, with
rather high cheek-bones, finely moulded chin, and sweet but firm
mouth, so often to be met with in the South and West.

"I am glad you could come," said Mrs. Hereford, greeting the little
couple kindly; "I hope you did not get very wet."

"Thank you, no; it is such a little way: but if you will let me take
Michael into the hall, I will change his boots; he had bronchitis last
month, and we have to be careful with him."

There was something so captivating in the silvery voice, with its
sweet modulations, and in the little motherly air with which the child
glanced at Michael, that Mrs. Hereford bent clown and kissed her.

"I hope you have your own shoes, too, in that parcel," she said.

"No," said Doreen, "I forgot my own; but it doesn't matter, because I
am quite strong, you see."

"Miriam, dear, you will take them both to your room," said Mrs.
Hereford, "and see if you cannot find some slippers." And Miriam, who
was the most good-natured person possible, took charge of the two
children, and had soon made even shy Michael quite at his ease.

Doreen looked wonderingly around the great panelled drawing-room when
she returned, never having seen before such quaint old oak furniture,
such marvellous crewel work of ancient design, such stores of
old-world china. Her little eager face delighted Mrs. Hereford.

"Do you like it?" she said. "We have all taken a fancy to this room."

"I never saw such a beautiful story-book place before," said Doreen,
"and it all smells so lovely and old."

They laughed, but well understood what she meant; for, indeed, the
whole Castle had that old-time atmosphere which, indescribable as it
is, lends such a charm to the homes of generations gone by.

"Do you think you could sing to my mother?" said Max. "I want her very
much to hear the song you gave us in the boat last week."

"You mean 'She is far from the land,'" said Doreen; "but the worst of
it is, that is almost sure to make Michael cry: he seems to think it
means I am going to die when that bit comes, 'Oh, make her a grave.'
It is very funny, for he never cries at 'Kathleen O'More.'"

"You don't sing that with the tears in your voice," said Michael; "but
I will promise not to cry, if directly after you will sing, ''Tis no
time to take a wife.'"

"What a lugubrious choice," said Miriam, laughing.

"Ah! but he did take a wife in spite of them all," said Doreen. "You
will see."

And with a happy freedom from nervousness, partly caused by her youth
and simplicity, and partly by the kindly, uncritical faces around her,
she began to sing.

Her voice, though as yet untrained and immature, was clear and sweet
as a bird's. It rang through the old room; it thrilled through Mrs.
Hereford's heart with a strange inexplicable power, it softened
Miriam's bright eyes, it lighted up John Desmond's thoughtful face,
and it filled Max with exultation. It seemed to him that the voice was
in some sense his; he delighted in having been the one to discover
such a treasure in this lonely Irish hamlet.

No one was surprised that little Michael had to fight gallantly in
order to keep his promise. He sat with his funny little face rigidly
fixed, lips pressed together, eyes staring hard at the painting of the
Battle of the Boyne on the opposite wall, while in his mind he was
saying, "I'm six years old. I must give up crying."

But it was all very well to theorize in this fashion; the fact
remained that most of the grown-up folk had tears in their eyes when
Doreen sang,--


    "She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
      Ev'ry note which he loved awaking:
    Ah! little they think who delight in her strains
      How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

    "He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
      They were all that to life had entwin'd him;--
    Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
      Nor long will his love stay behind him."


"Who is it all about?" asked Miriam, at the end.

"Father told me it was about Miss Curran who was betrothed to Robert
Emmet," said Doreen.

"And who was Robert Emmet?"

The child opened her eyes wide, with an air of such nave surprise
that no one could possibly have been offended by the astonished
question that escaped her.

"Didn't they teach Irish history at your school? Why, Robert Emmet was
one of our greatest patriots! They hung him; Michael and I often go up
the Castle steps at Dublin, and he is buried there behind a high wall
on the left as you go up. Of course we can't see over, you know, and
there would be nothing but grass to see if we could. It is waiting, as
he wished, for its epitaph, till Ireland takes her place among the
nations of the earth."

She paused, glanced anxiously at Michael's brimming eyes, and soon
made them all laugh with the blithe song,--


    "'Tis no time to take a wife, honest John O'Grady.
    When the land is filled with strife, gallant John O'Grady.
    Who can think of beauty's charms, in the midst of war's alarms?
    'That can I, to be sure!' said fearless John O'Grady."


Her humour was equal to her pathos, and they all realized that a child
with such gifts had in all probability a great career before her. And
yet, somehow, it was hard to think of a public life for that little,
simple, innocent-faced girl. She was so fresh and sweet and pure that
Mrs. Hereford shrank from the thought of what she might become in that
wearing struggle for fame which is the greatest test of character.

"Where do you get your voice from?" she asked, drawing the child down
to the sofa beside her. "Is your mother musical?"

"No; but my father sings well, though he has never been taught. He
says I shall be taught when we go to America."

"You are going to leave Ireland, then?"

"Yes," said Doreen, sighing. "As soon as father comes back."

"You will be sorry to leave your country, I am sure," said Mrs.
Hereford. "But perhaps your father has been preparing a nice home for
you over in America?"

Doreen's blue eyes opened wide, with a puzzled expression.

"I--I thought you knew," she said. "He is in Portland Prison."

There was a moment's silence. Then Max struck in quickly, to the
relief of every one else.

"For his political views, no doubt," he said.

"Oh yes," rejoined Doreen quickly, her colour rising, "of course not
for anything wrong. It is because he loved Ireland, and because he is
a Fenian."

"And he will soon be with you again?" asked Mrs. Hereford gently,
taking the child's hot little hand in hers, as she spoke, with a
tender, comforting clasp that seemed like a caress.

"He will be free almost directly now," said Doreen, her eyes lighting
up. "We are to meet him at Queenstown and to sail for New York. It
seems such a long, long time since he went away, though. Of course we
go to see him now and then, but it is, oh, so tantalizing. For the
first few weeks we used to see him every day in Richmond Prison, and
then in Kilmainham; but after the trial he was sent to England, for
fear the Irish people should rescue him."

"Has he been in prison a long time?" asked John Desmond.

"About five years," said Doreen. "Michael can't remember the time when
he lived at home. Of course he was quite a baby; but I was seven, and
can remember just how he looked the morning they arrested him. He had
not been to bed at all that night, because mother was ill, and he was
too anxious to leave her. He had been writing letters in her room, and
by and bye came downstairs to say she was asleep; and he let me seal
his letters, and afterwards I sat on his knee, making patterns on my
arm with the seal he wore on his watch-chain. It had a cross and an
anchor, and was shaped like a shamrock leaf. I suppose we were
talking and laughing together; for we never heard what was going on
till all at once three men came into the room, and one of them strode
up to my father, and thrusting his hand between us laid it on father's
shoulder and told him that he arrested him, and showed him a paper. At
first I wasn't frightened, only surprised. I didn't understand what
they were talking about; but when I looked into father's face, I began
to be terrified, for it had quite changed. I think he was full of
anger and grief. They let him go upstairs with one of the men to say
good-bye to my mother, and the men who were left took up all the
letters that were on the table where I had been sealing them, and
turned out father's desk and hunted everywhere for papers. But when I
began to cry, one of them was very kind to me; he looked so sorry for
me that I've always sort of liked policemen since. He said, 'Don't
cry, my pretty little maid.'

"Then father came down once more, and his face was changed again--it
looked very still and strong; he took me up in his arms and kissed me
a great many times, and when he said, 'Take care of mother and little
Michael till I come back,' his voice was changed, too, so that I
hardly knew it."

Remembering the injunction to take care of Michael, she glanced round
with an uneasy consciousness that he was too quiet, and began to make
many apologies when she found that he had emptied his little paper bag
of corn on to the hearth rug and was carefully choosing out the
largest grains. It was something of a relief to turn from the
startling story of the Fenian father to the children's funny
explanation of the mysteries of corn-popping. "It's the way you find
out if your friendships are going to last," said Doreen, as Miriam set
on the fire the little copper skillet for which she had asked. "There
is a grain of corn for each of us, and now we must choose pairs. You
must choose first," and she looked up at her hostess, her blue eyes no
longer sad with memories, but brimming over with laughter and
enjoyment of the game.

"I will choose Michael," said Mrs. Hereford.

"And I will choose Mr. Desmond," said Miriam, with a coquettish glance
at the tutor.

"Then that means that we two are together," said Doreen, composedly,
drawing Max towards the hearth and making him drop his grain of corn
into the skillet beside hers. "Now we must watch and see how they
pop."

The first to go were Mrs. Hereford's and Michael's; they popped just
as they should have done, inside the skillet.

"You and I will be friends for ever and ever," said the child,
clapping his hands. "I wonder if you'll be so lucky, Doreen."

"No," said the little sister. "It hardly ever comes that more than one
pair are lucky. Ah, there goes Mr. Desmond! Sure, and it's you that
will be breaking your friendship; for it popped outside and flew right
towards you, and there goes the other popping inside. It will be all
your fault. What a long time ours do take. At last! there they go! Oh
dear, dear! No luck at all for us; our grains both popped outside!
That means that we shall both agree to separate. I'm never lucky at
corn-popping unless I pair with Michael, and we always stay friends."

"Then I shall make hay while the sun shines," said Max, laughing. "And
to-morrow you must come again with us in the boat."




CHAPTER II.


         "Rent in other countries means the surplus after
         the farmer has been liberally paid for his skill
         and labour; in Ireland it means the whole produce
         of the soil except a potato-pit. If the farmer
         strove for more, his master knew how to bring him
         to speedy submission. He could carry away his
         implements of trade by the law of distress, or rob
         him of his sole pursuit in life by the law of
         eviction."--CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY, _Young Ireland_.


After dinner that evening, the talk naturally enough turned upon the
story which little Doreen had told. It was not difficult to fill in
the gaps that had occurred in the child's account, and John Desmond
seemed well up in all the details of the Irish troubles five years
before.

"One has grown so accustomed to regard Fenian and fiend as equivalent
terms," said Miriam, "that it almost took one's breath away to hear
that pretty little girl talking of the arrest as she did, and counting
the days till her father is released."

"Yet to Irish ears Fenian suggests all sorts of memories of the heroic
deeds of the Feni, or companions of Finn, one of the noblest of all
the warriors in Irish history," said Desmond. "I have no doubt Doreen
O'Ryan could tell you plenty of the legends connected with his name."

"But her father," said Mrs. Hereford. "Do you imagine he is one of
those desperate wretches who caused the explosion at Clerkenwell?"

"No; those were a few desperadoes, and the genuine Fenians utterly
repudiated all connection with them. He must, of course, have been
mixed up with the insurrection in some way--possibly was on the staff
of that paper of theirs."

"'Tis almost enough to make one pardon the wildest schemes for reform
to see the state of things in this place," said Max. "I wonder what
sort of man Lord Byfield is to allow it."

"Oh, he is a good enough fellow," said Desmond. "But he detests this
place. They say he hasn't been here for years, and leaves everything
to that brute Foxell, his agent. I hate that man, with his arrogant
manner, and his way of talking of the tenants as though they were
pigs."

"The pigs that pay the rent!" said Max, with a laugh. "He is a bully,
and the people detest him. I don't know which is the greater brute,
himself or his dog."

"You are very rough on the dog," said Desmond; "the man's not worthy
to be named in the same day with him!"

"Come, Max," said Mrs. Hereford, "let us have our game of backgammon;
I must have my revenge on you for last night."

The tutor wandered away to the other end of the drawing-room, where
Miriam was playing a sad little Polish melody of which he was
specially fond. She looked up at his approach, with smiling welcome in
her brown eyes. Her grandmother had been a Jewess, and Miriam had
inherited her beauty: there was something very fascinating about her,
and few could resist the spell. Max had been under it more or less all
his life, though he knew Miriam's faults well enough; even Mrs.
Hereford, though strongly disapproving of some of her niece's
proceedings, clung to the girl with an affection which she could not
feel towards some perhaps more deserving of favour. That Miriam after
a brilliantly successful London season should be in danger of falling
in love with the tutor never occurred to her aunt. Desmond was poor
and plain,--a sallow man with a very high but somewhat narrow
forehead, and dark wild-looking eyes, which seemed out of keeping with
the quiet, sedate manner and ordinary face. "He is a mixture of the
Quaker and the brigand," had been Miriam's naughty criticism when she
had first met him. But little by little his silent admiration began to
tell upon her; she began to look up to him, to value his opinion. A
reverence which she had never before felt for any one took possession
of her heart; she realized that his love for her was something more
than admiration for her face, and that afternoon, as little Doreen had
sung to them, she had known for the first time that she loved John
Desmond. A sort of delicious, dreamy happiness filled her heart as he
sat beside her in the dimly lighted room. She played, every now and
then, quiet, dreamy music in accordance with her mood, but for a great
part of the time they talked--that new, sweet, confidential talk that
was infinitely more charming to her than the badinage and the
compliments of which she had grown very weary in London.

She slept little that night, but kept living over again all the
delicious hours of the afternoon and evening, so that naturally enough
the morning found her worn and tired and quite in a mood to yield to
her aunt's advice, and keep in bed for a few hours in the hope of
curing her cold.

Desmond, finding that there was no chance of seeing her before five
o'clock tea, proposed that he and Max should walk across the mountains
to Lough Lee, where he had hopes of finding a certain rare plant for
which he had long sought in vain.

"Let us at the same time keep our promise to Doreen, and take her with
us on the pony," said Max. "The child is longing to see that lake
about which she was telling us some old legend."

Doreen's delight when the tutor and his pupil arrived at the little
gray lodging-house, leading a mountain pony for her special use, was
pretty to see. She came running out to meet them.

"You are sure the day will not be too much for you?" asked Max; "the
lake is many miles off, even by this short cut over the mountains."

"Oh no," she protested, "I could go all day long on a pony, it is only
such a pity that it's too far for Michael; but I've promised to tell
him all about it, and to bring him a great bunch of flowers. I believe
he thinks Lough Lee is a sort of fairy place, and he will expect me to
see Ugly Gilla Dacker and his horrible horse, or Dermot of the Bright
Face, or some of those people."

Max made her tell them about the brave Feni, in the days of old. Her
silvery voice would have made the dullest legend charming; and though
Desmond was all the time longing for another voice and another face,
he was fain to own that the child was a delightful companion.

The day was fine though somewhat gray; but as they climbed higher over
the rock-strewn ground, the sun came out brightly for a time,
glorifying the well-known outline of the range of hills which were
seen from the Castle windows, and revealing exquisite glimpses of the
Kerry mountains. By and bye they descended to the right, into a
valley, and emerging upon a rough tract, wound down into the road
which led to the gloomy and desolate lake.

Doreen's face was a curious study. Here was the place she had dreamed
of so long, and it was not the least like her dreams. It was
indescribably sad-looking; its very beauty seemed so steeped in
melancholy, that all her romance of the past was stricken dead, and a
sense of oppression fell upon her, sadly spoiling her happiness.

Max, to distract her attention, began to tell her about the walks near
his home at Monkton Verney, of the little lake in the garden with its
water-lilies, and the old ruined priory in the park, and of the heath
hills and fir hills down which she would enjoy running.

And soon in the excitement of getting into the boat and of being
allowed to steer, Doreen recovered her spirits and began to sing merry
songs in spite of the excessive gloom of this desolate spot. It was
impossible to be melancholy for any length of time with a companion
like Max. It was not that he was specially witty, but his whole
aspect was so full of cheerfulness, he so thoroughly enjoyed life,
that he carried about him a sort of atmosphere of lightheartedness
which insensibly affected his companions. They laughed and talked and
sang and jested, while John Desmond, intent on spoils, made them land
him every few minutes to search for that insignificant but rare plant
which their careless eyes were little likely to discover. Doreen,
cosily ensconced in the stern, looked with the innocent admiration of
a child at the sunburnt, glowing face opposite her, with its light
brown hair and the incipient moustache of which the owner was secretly
vain, and the well-opened, fearless eyes which seemed full of
sunshine. And Max felt strangely drawn to this merry little girl in
the familiar red cloak; the sweet voice and the rippling laughter
fairly bewitched him: little did he think that this hour on the lake
was destined to be the last hour of her childhood and the last hour of
his own careless youth.

"Let us row across to the further side," said Desmond; "steer for that
cabin from which the smoke is rising."

Doreen glanced across the water and saw that from a little roughly
built cabin the turf fire was sending up a curling column of blue
smoke.

"What a dreary place to live in!" she exclaimed; "but see, there is a
nice clearing all round it at the back. I don't see where you can land
very well, for the rocks fall sheer away down to the water from the
cabin."

Max turned, and descried a possible landing-place a few yards to the
right of the hut, and Doreen, anxious to steer them with the utmost
precision, broke off in the midst of singing the "Minstrel Boy," and
concentrated her whole attention on her work. In the silence that
followed, the sound of voices reached them distinctly from the shore.

"There is a woman crying!" exclaimed Doreen, a startled, pitying look
stealing over her face.

Desmond turned round to see whence the noise proceeded, and they soon
perceived two men standing on the little patch of ground before the
cabin, while in the open doorway a woman, with her apron thrown over
her head, was sobbing aloud with a wild, unrestrained grief that shook
her from head to foot. The men were talking together, evidently on
some vexed question.

"What's up, I wonder," said Max. "Why, look, 'tis Mr. Foxell, the
agent; see how the fellow blusters, and how he threatens the old man!"

"It's old Larry, our potato man!" exclaimed Doreen. "He comes every
week with his donkey-cart and sells us things. Oh, look! look! how
angry he is with him!"

"Pull to shore as fast as you can," said Desmond, a look of fury in
his dark eyes. He leapt out, and Max followed him, eager to see what
was passing.

"You had better stay in the boat," he said to Doreen. "The agent seems
in such a temper, I should not like you to come near him."

The child obeyed, not much liking to be left all alone, but too much
absorbed in the loud altercation which she could plainly hear from the
little plateau above her to have much leisure for fear. She let the
boat drift out a little, so that she could see what was passing by the
cabin. Max stood by the open door, among a whole litter of little
pigs, talking to the woman, whose wailing had ceased; but John Desmond
had stepped in between old Larry and the agent, and was vehemently
arguing in the poor old peasant's defence.

"Because the man has made a garden out of a wilderness, because he has
toiled while the landlord played, and starved while the landlord
feasted, you double his rent. That is your devilish plan!" he cried,
in a voice that appalled Doreen.

"Allow me to remind you, sir," said the agent angrily, "that 'tis not
the part of a meddlesome tourist to interfere."

"Look at my petaty patch, yer honour," moaned old Larry. "Sure it was
just a disused stone quarry, with niver a grain o' soil, till on me
own back I carried the airth to it, little by little, and a mortal
time it took, and now he asks rint for the land I made wid me own
hands, and if I don't pay it,--and the blissed saints know it's just
that I can't do that same,--he will pull down the cabin that I built
myself. Sure, and I'm an ould man to begin all over again." He turned
away and began to sob like a child.

"You d----d hypocrite!" said the agent. "Have done with that nonsense,
and don't waste any more of my time. The place is worth double what it
was, and you shall pay or go."

"I'll not go!" wailed the old man, facing round upon the agent, in a
passion of wrath and grief. "It's bin my home long years before your
cruel face was iver seen at Castle Karey, and I'm cursed if I'll lave
it."

"Then I shall have it pulled about your ears," said the agent.

"Shame! Shame!" cried Desmond. "I'll have this case exposed in the
papers--'tis not to be borne."

"No cockneys here, please," said Foxell insolently, his bull-dog face
darkening with anger.

"I, too, am an Irishman," said Desmond, for the first time feeling
that thrill of patriotism which reminded him that although English by
education, he had yet Irish blood in his veins.

"Then one stick will serve for the two; for insolence there's not a
pin to choose between you," said Foxell, irritated to the last degree;
and, seizing Larry by his shirt collar, he was about to bring his
knotted walking-stick down on the old man's bent shoulders, when
Desmond, maddened by the sight, sprang forward and wrenched it from
his hand. Both were now beside themselves with anger; they closed with
each other and fought with a fury which terrified Doreen. She saw Max
hurry down from the cabin door and try to induce them to stop. He
might as well have spoken to two wild beasts; for their blood was up,
and nothing now would quiet them. The fight, though it seemed long,
was in reality brief enough; nearer and yet nearer the two struggling
figures drew to the verge of the rock overhanging the lake: it seemed
to Doreen that they would both be hurled over into the water, and in
deadly terror she rowed close into the little cove where they had
landed.

The combatants were still visible. She could plainly see Desmond's
wild eyes with their horrible, gleaming light; then suddenly she saw
the agent's grip relax; his hand fell back from Desmond's throat; she
caught just one glimpse of a dreadful, distorted, blackened face, as
he fell back from the rock. There was a splash, an exclamation of
horror from Max; then the waters of Lough Lee closed over James
Foxell.

For a minute Doreen sat motionless; she seemed paralyzed with horror;
it was with intense relief that she saw Max plunging down between the
arbutus trees that surrounded the landing-place.

"Steer to the place where he sank," he exclaimed, springing into the
boat and pushing off from the shore. With trembling hands Doreen
grasped the tiller, ashamed of the terror that seized upon her when
she thought of again beholding that dreadful face. "Perhaps he is not
really dead; perhaps we may save him," she said to herself, fixing her
eyes steadily on the spot where the agent had disappeared, and putting
force upon herself to steer to the very best of her ability. All at
once a little cry escaped her; for, looking steadfastly at the water,
she saw that dreadful vision rise again to the surface. Max made a
desperate but ineffectual effort to lay hold of the body; for one
moment he grasped the short wet hair, but it was dragged downwards; it
slid through his fingers, and again the waters closed over Foxell. The
boy--pale through all his sun-burning--dropped back into his place in
the boat, panting for breath.

"He was quite dead," he said after a moment, glancing up at Doreen.
"But perhaps he will rise again; we will wait and see."

They waited in silence for what seemed to Doreen a long time; the
dreadful gloom of the place grew more and more intense. If she looked
at the purple mountains surrounding them, she fancied fiends hideously
staring at them from among the gray boulders; if she looked into the
lake, its dark waters seemed as though peopled by endless repetitions
of that dreadful, distorted face which must for ever haunt her memory.

"It's no use waiting longer," said Max at length. "I suppose it must
have caught in the reeds at the bottom and will not float up again."

"But what will they do to Mr. Desmond?" cried Doreen, her eyes
dilating, as a terrible thought for the first time occurred to her.
"They will say he murdered that man; he will be hung or kept in
prison!"

"They will probably call it murder," said Max with a shudder. "But,
Doreen, if ever I saw a man mad,--for the time quite mad,--why, it was
he. Did you see his eyes?"

"Yes," said Doreen, "they looked wild and dreadful; he was quite
changed. If people ask us how it all happened, we can explain to them
that he was mad. Oh, don't leave me alone in the boat," she added, as
Max sprang ashore at the landing-place.

He was too much agitated to have very much thought for her just then,
but he turned and held out his arms to her, and lifted her on to dry
ground; then, with knees trembling beneath her, she toiled after him
up the bank, among the holly bushes and the arbutus trees, and
followed him across the open ground beyond, to the cabin. Every one
had gone inside, even the pigs, and old Larry and his wife were
talking fast and eagerly. John Desmond sat on a three-legged stool
beside the turf fire; his face was flushed; there was a strange look
in his dark eyes; he was quite silent, and took no notice of their
entrance.

"He must have been unconscious when he fell," said Max to Larry. "The
body only rose once to the surface, and I couldn't lay hold of it."

"All the better, sir," said Larry gravely. "'Tis eighty feet dape, and
it do be makin' a safe grave. I take it he'll lie as aisy down there
among the reeds as iver he'd a done in churchyard mould; and may God
have mercy on his sowl!"

As he spoke, the old man thrust into the fire the knotted stick that
the agent had let fall when he closed with Desmond.

"What do you do that for?" asked Max.

"Sure thin, yer honour, 'tis the last of the man that's lift," said
Larry. "His hat was made fast with a string through his buttonhole and
will tell no tales. And now this stick is kindlin' fine, and there
won't be the laist little small bit to git his honour there into
throuble."

Desmond looked up. "What is that you are saying?" he asked, as if his
mind had just awaked to the present.

"We say, your honour, that we will niver spake one word of what we
heard and saw awhile since. You stood by us, and, by the cras o'
Christ, we'll stand by you. Norah, swear the same."

The old woman crossed her forefingers with a gesture which impressed
Doreen strangely.

"By the cras o' Christ," she repeated solemnly, "neither to man,
woman, nor child--no, nor even to the praist himself--will I tell what
I saw and heard this day."

Desmond rose from his place by the fire. "Thank you," he said, in a
voice unlike his own. Then, staggering a little as though seized by
giddiness, he put his hand within his pupil's arm. "I must go away,"
he said; and with hurried farewells to the old peasant and his wife,
they left the cabin and once more got into the boat.

"Steer for the landing-place," said Max; and poor little Doreen fixed
her eyes bravely on the rude causeway at the far end of the lake, and
tried not to let herself think of what lay beneath the cold gray
waters over which they were gliding.




CHAPTER III.


    "'God of justice!' I sighed, 'send your spirit down
    On these lords so cruel and proud,
    And soften their hearts, and relax their frown,
    Or else,' I cried aloud--
    'Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant's hand
    To drive them at length from off the land!'"

                                           THOMAS DAVIS.


They had rowed a quarter of a mile before any one spoke; at last John
Desmond broke the silence.

"When does the next train leave Kilbeggan?" he asked.

"There is one at nine" said Max, with a startled look. "But you are
surely not going?"

"I can't stay here to bring your mother into all this trouble, and
your cousin," said Desmond, hoarsely. "Were it not for them I would
wait and give myself up. 'Tis an hour's drive to the station, but that
will leave me time to get my things together. I can say that I am
hastily summoned home, owing to family trouble."

"Will not your leaving possibly lead to suspicion?" said Max.

"I think not," said the tutor. "And if it does, there is not a shred
of evidence against me. Old Larry and his wife will not break that
oath, and you--of course I can trust you."

"Of course," said the boy. "I give you my word that I will not tell."

Yet even as he spoke, he felt the awful burden that had been thrust
upon him, and his heart sank as he reflected that all through life he
must carry with him this terrible secret.

"There is that child," said Desmond. "What are we to do about her?"

"Leave her to me," said Max, with an inexpressible dislike to the
thought of extorting a promise from their light-hearted little
playfellow. Must she, too, be burdened with this horrible secret? It
would be harder, infinitely harder, for her to bear!

"Somehow her lips must be closed, at any rate for the present," said
Desmond. "Sooner or later 'tis bound to leak out through her--she has
a ready tongue as a child, and will have it, you may be sure, as a
woman. The fear that may restrain her now will have no power a few
years hence. But somehow you must get her to swear secrecy, or I am
undone."

Doreen had not heard the whole of this speech; they were nearing the
landing-place, and she was intent on her steering; but a word or two
had reached her, and she knew that before long she, too, would be
asked to swear as Larry and Norah had done. The thought weighed upon
her. But she was left unmolested for some little time.

Desmond was so much exhausted that he proposed trying to hire a car at
the nearest inn, and Doreen herself was not sorry to lose the ride
across the mountains. They gave the pony in charge to the landlord of
the forlorn little hostelry not far from the lake, and with a fresh
horse and a crazy and springless outside car made their way back to
Castle Karey, by the more circuitous but easier high-road. A blight,
however, seemed to have fallen upon all they saw, and Doreen shuddered
as they drove through the narrow, rocky pass, with its threatening
crags and its rugged gray and purple boulders, from which, ever and
anon, it seemed to her that the agent's face looked fiercely forth. As
they drew nearer home, the dreadful longing to rush straight to her
mother and tell her everything, grew almost overpowering. But at the
first of the gates leading into the Castle grounds Max Hereford
paused.

"I promised once to show you the grotto," he said, feeling much as if
he were trapping the poor little girl to her doom. "We will come now,
while Mr. Desmond goes on to the Lodge and settles with the driver."

Desmond glanced at them in an abstracted way as they got down. Then,
without a word, he drove on. The tears started to Doreen's eyes; she
longed so very much to go with him, to sob out all her terror and
misery on her mother's knee; if she could but do that, surely the
horrible face would cease to haunt her?

With unwilling feet she walked beside Max through the wood; the
winding path was cut through the undergrowth of nut trees which had
clustered about some fine old oaks, and at any other time it would
have been to her the most fascinating place. Even now the beauty and
the quiet, sheltered peace of the wood relieved her heavy heart, it
made such a welcome contrast to the gloomy pass and the desolate Lough
Lee, and the horrible scene which had taken place there. Presently an
exclamation of delight escaped her, for in the heart of the wood they
came upon a place which seemed to her like fairyland. Tiny paths and
rustic steps led up the steep banks, gray boulders and quaintly shaped
tree stumps and mysterious caves and arches formed the background, and
on every side rose the most beautiful ferns she had ever
seen,--graceful "ladies," sturdy male fern, dark-leaved holly fern,
delicate oak and beech, feathery parsley, long, drooping
hart's-tongues, and fringes of Killarney fern. At the far end of this
fernery stood a miniature tower in gray stone, a summer house known as
the "Keep." She had longed to see it; yet as Max took her in, she
shivered, for the place, only lighted by two ivy-shaded windows,
seemed dark and depressing; the horrible recollections that had for a
minute been banished from her mind by the beauty of the fernery, came
trooping back with double force.

"Do you think Mr. Desmond will get into trouble?" she asked.

"He most certainly will," said Max, "unless we all four keep silence.
Will you promise never to tell what you know?"

"I would not hurt him for the world," said Doreen, "but please do let
me tell my mother."

"'Tis already known to too many people," said Max; "if more are to be
told, it will be quite impossible to keep the matter secret."

"If I might just tell mother," pleaded Doreen, "it would be so much
less hard to bear."

"Yes, yes, I can understand that," he said, faltering a little as the
blue eyes searched his face wistfully. "Yet she is not strong, and the
telling her, though a relief to you, could do no real good,--could, in
fact, only trouble her very much."

Doreen's face fell. "I had forgotten that," she said. "Then may I not
tell my father when I see him? He would never betray Mr. Desmond. Do
let me just tell him!"

"But surely that would be very unwise," said Max. "The disappearance
of this agent will be talked of all over the country, and your
father--a Fenian just released from prison--would be far safer if he
knew absolutely nothing about the matter and could swear that he was
ignorant."

"We must not let him run any risk," she said gravely. "I must just
bear it alone."

Great tears gathered in her eyes, and Max, cut to the heart by the
child's grief, and the thought of the dreadful burden that he was
putting upon her, caught her hand in his and held it tenderly. But
this proved fatal; for there are times when the mere touch of a hand
will open the floodgates of emotion as no words could do. Doreen broke
into a passionate fit of weeping.

"Oh," she sobbed, "I don't think I can ever be happy any more!"

"Don't cry, dear," he said, drawing her towards him. "You and I are
in the same case, but perhaps in time the memory of to-day will fade
and grow less horrible. After all, we have done no wrong. It is our
misfortune, not our fault."

The sense of his companionship in her trouble began to comfort her,
but it was her practical good sense that checked her tears.

"I mustn't cry," she said, "or mother will guess something by my red
eyes. I can't think how Ellen Montgomery managed; she cried between
two and three hundred times in the 'Wide, Wide World,' for I counted
up once, but she always seems to have looked natural and pretty; it
never says that her eyes were as red as ferrets'."

Max smiled. It was cheering to him to think that Doreen's sunny nature
would triumph even over this dark shadow that had crossed her path.

"You will swear to keep silence?" he said presently.

"I swear it," said Doreen, "by the cross of Christ."

"I also swear to keep silence," said Max, still keeping her hand in
his as he repeated the words of the oath. Then he stooped down and
kissed her, and felt her childish lips softly pressed to his cheek in
a shy response.

Half an hour later Doreen, with a very wan little face, but a sturdy
determination to keep her secret, opened the door of her mother's
sitting-room.

"Why, my child, you are late," said Mrs. O'Ryan. "And how very tired
you look! It has been too long an excursion for you."

"Oh no, mother," said Doreen. "I am a little tired and hungry; but it
wasn't such a very long way, and we came back on a car."

"Tell them to bring in tea at once," said her mother. And Doreen, glad
to escape, ran away, and having taken off her cloak and hat, studied
herself critically in the looking-glass, then, with a dissatisfied
exclamation, plunged her face into a basin of cold water and
vigorously scrubbed her white cheeks with a rough towel. The worst of
it was that tears would keep stealing up into her eyes, even now, in
a fashion hitherto unknown to her. Indeed, though she little dreamt
it, years were to elapse before her nerves quite recovered from the
severe shock of that afternoon.

"Doreen has so much spirit" reflected her mother, "she would go till
she dropped. But the child is certainly over-tired. I must put a stop
to these very long expeditions."

She had no idea that her simple questions about Lough Lee and the
doings of that afternoon were taxing her little daughter's powers more
than any number of additional miles could have done. No suspicion of
any grave trouble was roused by Doreen's replies, and the two settled
down to their usual game of cribbage, when the tea things were
removed, as composedly as though Foxell's body was not lying at the
bottom of the lake.

By nine o'clock the child was in bed, but her sleep was uneasy and
troubled by dreams. She woke shuddering with terror as the clock
struck eleven. All was dark and still; they were an early household,
and by this time every one would be asleep. She sat up in bed, staring
out into the darkness; had it, after all, been only a dream,--that
frightful scene of a man falling back with distorted face, and sinking
into the water, yet rising again close beside her? Alas! it was a
dreadful reality. She remembered everything distinctly now, and fell
back again on the pillow in a paroxysm of the most agonizing fear she
had ever known. It was not the mere memory that terrified her, nor
even the fear that John Desmond might be arrested; it was a wild,
unreasoning fancy that the murdered man was close beside her. Every
moment she dreaded to see his face looming out of the darkness, and
she lay like one paralyzed, hearing nothing but the throbbing of her
heart, and not daring to close her eyes. Some would have found relief
in drawing up the bedclothes and cowering down beneath them; but
Doreen always preferred to face her fears. In the extremity of her
misery she began to think whether she could summon up courage to rush
to her mother's room, as she had sometimes done before in moments of
panic. Then she remembered her oath, and the terror of breaking it
drove out, for a moment, all other terrors.

"I must not go to mother," she said to herself. "She would certainly
guess something. And yet, oh! how lovely it would be to creep into her
bed and feel her arms round me! I should be asleep in two minutes,
just as I was last time I was frightened in the night. But what if I
talked in my sleep? What if I told the secret in my sleep? Oh! I shall
never feel safe all my life! What shall I do! What shall I do!"

Again the horrible fancy that Foxell was close by made her teeth
chatter, until at last, in desperation, she summoned up all her
courage, and springing from the bed began to grope her way across the
room in search of matches. The light was a wonderful relief, but there
was not more than an inch of candle left. She set it on the
mantelpiece and prayed that it might last till daylight, with sad
misgivings that she was asking an impossibility.

"I will think of other things," she said valiantly, and began to study
with extreme care a marvellously worked sampler in a black frame which
hung upon the wall. Hitherto she had only pitied the unlucky child who
had been made to work it; now she set herself to read the words, which
ran as follows:--


     "In the glad morn of blooming youth
     The various threads I drew,
     And, pleased, beheld the finished piece
     Rise glowing to the view.
     Thus when bright youth shall charm no more,
     And age shall chill my blood,
     May I review my life and say,
     Behold, my works were good!

  "Bridget O'Brien's work, finished in her tenth year, 1844."


"I shall never be like Bridget O'Brien, whoever she was," reflected
Doreen, sadly. "I don't feel as if I should ever be able to
say--'Behold, my works were good!' And there will always be this
dreadful memory at the beginning. The sampler wouldn't have looked
very nice if some one had spilt a great blot of ink on it just as
Bridget O'Brien had worked the first corner. There! I am thinking of
it again! I will crowd it out. Let me see; I'll count the things in
this sampler. There are rose-bushes up there, and trees like the ones
in Michael's Noah's ark. And next come some queer-looking birds,
grinning at each other across those pagodas. Then there's a brown
cottage with a scarlet roof, and two great birds balancing on the two
small chimneys, and looking down on that very green lawn strewn about
with red, white, and blue flowers. Then there's a pink bridge leading
to a green hill, and on the top of the hill a blue and brown castle,
and the Union Jack a great deal smaller than that enormous light blue
bird with a dark blue head. Next there's a row of trees and
flowers,--horrid to work, I'm sure. And down below there's a large
brown house--poor Bridget, how she must have hated it! There are seven
windows, a blue roof, a green door, and a yellow knocker. On the roof
sit four big birds. To the right and left are apple trees and
rose-bushes, flanked by four cows, a dog, and a stag, all worked in
sky-blue."

The clock in the kitchen struck twelve. Doreen shivered a little, and
wished she had never read the lines about--


    "'Tis now the very witching time of night,
     When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
     Contagion to this world."


Suddenly she remembered that under her pillow there was a little Irish
book of prayers, called "The Key of Heaven," which she was in the
habit of taking to bed with her because it belonged to her father and
seemed like a link with him. Perhaps there might be something in that
to quiet her fears. She seldom opened it, but now in her terror she
drew it out, and, in turning over the pages, was, not unnaturally,
arrested by the words, "Litany for the Dead." Surely it would be well
to pray for the man who had gone with such awful suddenness to his
doom. She knelt up in bed, using such of the sentences as pleased her
best.

"Be merciful, O Lord, and pardon their sins. From the shades of death,
where the light of Thy countenance shineth not, deliver them, O Lord.
By the multitude of Thy mercies, ever compassionate to human
frailties, deliver them, O Lord.

"We sinners beseech thee to hear us.

"That the blessed view of Jesus may comfort them, and His unfading
glory shine upon them. That the whole triumphant church may soon
celebrate their deliverance, and the choirs of angels sing new hymns
of joy on their never-ending happiness."

Then she lay down again and tried to sleep, but in vain. The clock
struck one. The candle flared in its socket, then once more darkness
reigned. "If only the light would have lasted till dawn!" she thought,
as the horror of her loneliness began again to overwhelm her.

But her prayer was, nevertheless, answered; for it was in the darkness
and terror of that night that her spirit awoke to the recognition of
all that had hitherto been to her mere matter of belief. Mrs. Hereford
had sighed to think of the difficult life which probably lay before
the sweet-voiced little girl. Max was even now chafing at the thought
of the burden which Desmond's rash act had brought upon one so young
and innocent. They both forgot that with need comes power, and that to
those of whom much is required, much is also given.

A whole night without sleep seems long to every one, but to a child it
seems well-nigh endless. Doreen no sooner heard the landlady stirring
in the room above, than she sprang up and dressed, glad to remember
that it was the day on which the washing was done and that Mrs. Keoghn
would be hard at work at her wash-tub before sunrise. She had a
craving to get out into the open air, and astonished the good
landlady by appearing at the kitchen door in her cloak and hat as the
clock struck five.

"Sure, and whativer is it that you are afther, me dear?" she
exclaimed.

"I was awake, and the morning is so fine that I mean to go up
Kilrourk," said Doreen. "Please will Dan lend me the loan of his
stick? The long one with the hooked handle."

"Sure, and it's proud he'll be if you'll use it," said Mrs. Keoghn,
drying her hands on her apron. "And just you wait a bit, the while I
cut you a little, small slice of bread; 'tis ill faring on an empty
stomach."

Doreen thanked her, and running out at the back of the house, began
slowly to make her way up the steep, grassy ascent, eating the bread
as she walked. But the ground was wet with dew, and somehow the climb
seemed toil-some; before she was a quarter of the way up she began to
grow tired, and finding a plateau of smooth, short turf from which the
gray rock cropped out here and there, she thought she would rest
there, at any rate for the present. To the left there was a little
group of oaks and arbutus, while a few hundred yards in advance, on
the extreme verge of the rocky summit of this first spur of the
mountain, stood a solitary fir tree, its gaunt trunk and storm-twisted
branches glowing ruddily in the light of dawn. She lay down among the
rocks at the foot of an arbutus tree, watching the tall fir with its
dark green foliage standing out clearly against the strip of sky. Down
below, among its verdant woods, she could see the gray turrets of
Castle Karey, and the silvery brightness of the calm water, and the
glorious peaks of the mountains rising like the wings of guardian
angels on the further shore. Far away, in the opposite direction,
there lay, as she well knew, the gloomy Lough Lee; the light was
breaking there too. She turned away with a shudder at the thought, and
looked instead at all the lovely things close at hand,--the green turf
and the little yellow tormentilla twisting about in all directions,
and the tall, brown grasses with their shimmering spikes waving in
the breeze, and the soft feathery moss half veiling the gray rocks.
Then she noticed that the dark holly-bush close by had been suddenly
glorified, every shining leaf becoming a mirror for the sun, as it
rose majestically above the crest of the mountain. The beauty of the
country seemed to steal into her heart as it had never done before;
for the first time she fully realized that the land was her own.

"If only I can be worthy of it!" she thought to herself. "If only I
can serve it! Keeping this secret is dreadful. I wish I had lived in
the times of the Rebellion, or in '48; there were lovely secrets to
keep then, and real patriots to save and shelter. Yet Mr. Desmond was
kind to poor Larry; he meant to help. How strange it seems that if
only the agent had been just to old Larry, it never would have
happened. Why are they so unwilling to be just to us Irish?"

But musing over that problem proved too much for the tired little
brain. Doreen's head sank lower and lower, till in a few minutes she
was sleeping, like Jacob, with a stone for a pillow, and, doubtless,
with angels to guard her, though she was too weary to dream of them.




CHAPTER IV.


    "A man must grab whatever he can get;
    We human creatures are not angels yet.
    You must not stab, nor strangle, a poor neighbour,
    For, if you did, why you would lose his labour;
    No, take advantage of his cramped position
    To mangle him with your cruelest condition.
    Rob soul and body by superior wit
    And fortune; ignorant hunger will submit.
    If he should gash you, that were ugly murder:
    Dribble his life-blood slowly--you're in order."

                                     HON. RODEN NOEL.



When John Desmond had dismissed the car at the Lodge on the previous
afternoon, he made his way quickly to Castle Karey and went straight
to the drawing-room, with the intention of telling Mrs. Hereford that
he was obliged to go home that very evening. He found, however, that
Miriam was the sole occupant of the room; she was leaning back in a
great armchair, with "Vanity Fair" in her hand.

"You see," she said, "I am dutifully obeying you and beginning to read
Thackeray to improve my mind. But what is the matter?" for suddenly
she observed the great change that had come over his expression, and
she glanced from his troubled eyes to the letter which he held--a bill
from Oxford, as it happened, but a missive which exactly suited his
purpose.

"I have bad news," he said hoarsely, "and am obliged to go home at
once. The Lodge people put this letter into my hands as I
passed,--they had been to Kilbeggan and had called for the afternoon
post. Do you know where Mrs. Hereford is? Can I speak to her?"

"Aunt has gone out," said Miriam. "As the afternoon kept fine, she
drove to the Glebe House to see the Macgregors. Oh, I am so sorry for
your trouble! Is it illness?"

"No," he said, his brow contracting. "A worse trouble, and one which
will not bear talking of. It will force me to go; it will cut me off
from you for ever."

The wild look in his eyes terrified Miriam.

"You must not say that!" she cried. "Nothing could do that, for we
are--friends."

Her voice faltered; she laid her hand pleadingly on his arm, but he
shrank away as if the touch were torture to him.

"There is one thing that must part us," he said vehemently, "and that
is disgrace. Since you have been here, since I learned to love you, my
life has been a dream of happiness. That is all over now. I must go
home, and I beg you just to forget me."

"I cannot forget," said Miriam faintly.

"I implore you not to waste another thought on me!" he replied, with a
vehemence which alarmed her. Then turning abruptly away he strode out
of the room, leaving the girl perplexed and greatly troubled, almost
inclined to think that the tutor must be going out of his mind. She
went slowly upstairs to dress for dinner, and on returning to the
drawing-room found her aunt full of concern about the news that Max
had just brought to her.

"I have ordered dinner somewhat earlier, dear," she said as Miriam
crossed the room. "You have heard perhaps that Mr. Desmond is obliged
to catch the nine o'clock train to-night."

"Does he go to-night?" said Miriam, her heart sinking.

"He is packing now; it is some family trouble, I am afraid, from the
message he sent me," said Mrs. Hereford. She broke off as the butler
approached her with something a little unusual in his well-regulated
expression.

"If you please, ma'am, can Baptiste speak to you?"

"Certainly; send him in here," said Mrs. Hereford, and the next moment
the French valet entered. He was a new acquisition and had won much
favour in the household by his extreme good-nature; but he could
neither speak nor apparently understand a word of English. With much
excitement he now announced that his master begged Mrs. Hereford to
come upstairs at once, for Mr. Desmond was seriously ill.

And so after all the flight from Castle Karey had to be abandoned; for
by the time the nine o'clock train steamed out of Kilbeggan station
the local doctor had pronounced without the least hesitation that the
tutor was suffering from inflammation of the brain, probably caused by
the shock he had undergone in receiving bad news from his home.

Max had insisted on sharing the night watch with his valet; and since
Baptiste was known to have some experience of nursing, and proved
extremely handy in the sick-room, the doctor seemed content, and left
them with strict orders to keep the room perfectly quiet and to
exclude all other people.

This was an injunction that the boy was ready enough to obey; for he
was in deadly terror lest Desmond should, in his delirium, let fall
some word which would betray the secret of Foxell's death. He never
stirred from his post till, at six the next morning, the doctor looked
in again to see how his patient was progressing, and, finding Desmond
asleep, took a cheerful view of the attack and spoke hopefully of the
future.

"And now, sir," he said, laying a kindly hand on the boy's shoulder,
"as you will be wanted when your friend wakes, I advise you to go and
rest. Baptiste will keep out all intruders, and you look to me very
much fagged."

Max was fain to own that he was tired, though not sleepy; his head
ached miserably, and seeing that the day was bright and clear, he said
he would walk up the avenue with the doctor. His companion put
several questions to him, but they were all easy enough to answer,
since they concerned Desmond's previous health.

They were so much absorbed in their talk, that they passed the Lodge
and walked a little way along the high-road until Max was recalled to
the present by the sight of the little gray lodging-house and of the
landlady in her garden hanging up clothes to dry.

Mrs. Keoghn seemed delighted to catch sight of them; she came to her
gate, without even pausing to hang up the wet shirt she held in her
hands.

"Good morning to ye, gintlemen," she said. "Have ye heard the news
that's goin' round about the agent?"

"What news?" said the doctor. Max struggled desperately to express
nothing but a half-careless curiosity, though his heart beat like a
sledge hammer.

"They say he never came back yesterday, and his wife is onaisy in her
mind, and thinks he has been made away with; and for the matther of
that, it's well hated he is by many a one, the cold-hearted crathur!
She will have it that the Fenians have been and murthered him."

"Pooh!" said the doctor. "There are no Fenians about here. Are the
police taking it up yet?"

"Sure, and they are, sir. The country is to be searched for him, and
all the village is astir about it. Mrs. Foxell won't give them a
moment's peace till he's found; one would think they had been the best
o' friends, but sure and I've heard the folk say they were a rare
quarrelsome couple, and that she had a scolding tongue. Maybe that
soured the agent's temper and made him harder to the tenants."

"I must go and hear about it," said the doctor cheerfully. "But depend
upon it, the fellow will turn up all right. When was he last at the
Castle, Mr. Hereford?"

"I heard that he was there in the morning," said Max. "I believe my
mother saw him."

"Well, good morning to you," said the doctor. "Why, your hand is cold;
you are not so used to being up all night, as I am. Take a brisk
walk,--nothing like a walk before breakfast for the circulation."

He turned away, but Max lingered a moment longer beside the gate.
"Miss Doreen was not over-tired yesterday, I hope?" he asked.

"Bless you, no, sir," replied the landlady. "Why, she was off at five
o'clock this morning, runnin' up the mountain yonder as brisk as could
be."

With a strong desire to know how the sharer of his miserable secret
was bearing her burden, Max followed the direction which Mrs. Keoghn
had indicated and began to climb Kilrourk. He had not gone far when he
descried the red cloak among the moss-grown rocks to the left, and,
stealing quietly over the dewy turf, saw that the child was fast
asleep. Her little peaceful face touched his heart strangely; he bent
down and kissed her softly and reverently on the forehead. Doreen
smiled in her sleep and, feeling for his hand, held it closely in both
her own. The clasp of her fingers on his had a curious effect on him;
spite of all the misery and fear which had oppressed him only a few
minutes before, Doreen seemed witching him into a content as blissful
and dreamlike as her own. Just at that moment, a thrush alighted on
the arbutus tree above them, and his song roused the child. Her dark
blue eyes looked right into Max Hereford's with a smile of
recognition.

"I was dreaming of you," she said, with a direct simplicity which
confused him a little.

"I found you sleeping on the mountain with your crook at your side,
like Little Bo-Peep," he replied laughing.

Doreen, with a puzzled face, looked at the crooked stick lying on the
turf among the little yellow flowers of the tormentilla; she looked at
the storm-twisted boughs of the fir tree, she looked across the glen
to the mountains beyond, and then with a shudder and a sudden look of
dismay and fear, she sprang to her feet as the recollection of Lough
Lee and the sinking agent returned to her.

"Oh!" she said, with a sob in her throat, "will it always come back to
one like that? Is it only in dreams that we can be quite at rest?"

"I am so sorry for you, dear," he said, taking her hand in his as they
climbed higher up the mountain. "Has the night been very hard for you,
too?"

"I couldn't sleep," said Doreen. "And the dark was dreadful! I kept on
thinking I should see--you know what."

"Poor little soul! you were quite alone, then?"

"I thought of going to mother; but then, you know, she might have
guessed, or I might have told the secret in my sleep. Afterwards God
talked to me, and it was better," she concluded abruptly, with the
instinctive reserve which veils all that is most sacred. There was a
pause. Max looked down at the little, tired, white face with a sort of
wondering admiration. "Then," continued Doreen, "I climbed up here and
saw the sunrise for the first time, and the country looked so
beautiful! I never knew before how much I loved it. Oh! I am so glad
God made me Irish, but I do wish He had made me a boy; then when I
grew up, I could serve the country."

"What would you do?" asked Max, smiling at her eagerness.

"I would speak," she cried, her eyes flashing; "I would make the
English understand how different things are over here--would make them
long to see justice shown to Ireland, as mother says they longed to
see justice shown to Italy. They were ready enough, mother said, to
make much of Garibaldi; but my father, only for what he had written
and for belonging to the Fenians, was thrust into prison."

"If you can't be a second Daniel O'Connell, you can, I should think,
be the national singer," said Max.

Doreen sighed. "Do you think I could?" she said. "Yet, even if it were
possible, all that is so indirect. How I wish I were you--rich, and a
man, and with the power to speak."

"How do you know I have the power?" asked the boy, half amused, half
startled by her tone of conviction.

"I have known it ever since that day you took me first in your boat;
don't you remember how after the picnic you and Mr. Desmond and Miss
Hereford made speeches for fun? The others were as silly as could be,
but you made us really laugh and really cry; and when you told the
legend of the Castle, it made me shiver all down my back like lovely
music. Why should we not have a nice secret between us, and a nice
promise!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up. "Let us plan that you
shall go into Parliament when you are older, and promise me that you
will speak for Ireland."

He smiled at her enthusiasm.

"My mother would like nothing better than that I should stand a few
years hence for Firdale; but if I adopt your principles, there would
be small chance of my getting in. I will promise, though, to speak for
Ireland if ever I have the power and the chance."

And vague dreams of a far-away future began to float before him as
Doreen climbed Kilrourk at his side, chanting to herself her favourite
song,--


       "'God save Ireland,' said the heroes;
        'God save Ireland,' said they all;
        'Whether on the scaffold high,
        Or the battle-field we die,
    Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we fall!'"


"Why, in England they call your heroes the Manchester murderers," said
Max.

"Yes," said Doreen. "But we Irish call it murder to hang three men
because one policeman was accidentally shot. Had a policeman burst
open a lock with a pistol, and an Irishman chanced to be behind the
door, would they have called _that_ a murder, do you suppose? How well
I remember walking in the funeral procession in Dublin that was got up
in their honour! There were two thousand of us children, and in the
whole procession twenty-five thousand people."

"Then they were buried in Ireland?"

"Oh no! in quicklime in the prison graveyard," said Doreen. "But that
doesn't matter at all; your own great patriots were mostly dishonoured
after death--dug up, you know, by their opponents and gibbeted. The
Manchester martyrs live on in the hearts of the Irish people."

Max had been diverted for the time from his anxieties by the little
girl's eager words, but a cloud of care settled down upon him as once
more he reached Castle Karey.

That afternoon when, after spending many hours with his tutor, he had
just had the satisfaction of seeing him fall asleep, a low knock was
heard at the door, and Baptiste, who had been dozing for a few
minutes, stole with cat-like tread across the room to ask what was
needed. Looking up, Max saw that his mother stood in the doorway,
beckoning to him.

"I want you down in the library for a few minutes," she said, as he
joined her in the passage, noiselessly closing the door behind him. "A
most extraordinary thing has happened. Mr. Foxell, the agent,
disappeared yesterday, and not a trace of him is to be found. Two
constables and a detective are down below, and they want to put a few
questions to you as to when you last saw the poor man. It is thought
likely that he has been murdered."

Max made an inarticulate exclamation. To one of his highly nervous
temperament the prospect of the interview was appalling; the dread of
ruining his friend and the dread of lying made his heart throb with a
horrible anxiety such as he had never before known. He walked on
steadily, trying to think that he was going to shield the man who had
been to him friend as well as tutor, yet with a faint perception even
then that John Desmond's noblest course of action would have been to
surrender himself, and plead guilty to manslaughter in a moment of
frenzy. They could scarcely have called the affair wilful murder, and
the tutor's impulse to disappear and save Mrs. Hereford and Miriam
from all the wretchedness of being mixed up in such a case was perhaps
more chivalrous than wise or honest. Doreen's talk about the men who
had been hung for rescuing the Fenian prisoners returned to him,
however, unpleasantly.

"At least my part is clear," he said to himself, as these thoughts
rushed through his mind. "I have sworn secrecy, and must at all costs
hold my tongue, however much I may wish that he would have confessed
to it himself."

By this time they had reached the library; he opened the door for his
mother, and followed her into the room, nodding to the constables,
whom he knew by sight, and bowing to the keen-eyed, somewhat
cadaverous-looking man in plain clothes, to whom Mrs. Hereford
introduced him. The detective was disappointed to find such a very
young, boyish-looking Mr. Hereford. A fresh-faced, genial,
good-tempered school-boy, he thought to himself, imagining as he
looked into Max Hereford's well-opened, fearless eyes, that he could
read him like a book.

"I need not trouble you with many questions, sir," he said; "you will
have heard from Mrs. Hereford of the disappearance of Lord Byfield's
agent, Mr. James Foxell?"

"Yes," said Max. "My mother has just been telling me about it."

"You had heard nothing of it before, I suppose?" He looked him through
and through as he put this question.

"Yes," said Max; "I was walking outside the grounds early this morning
with the doctor, and Mrs. Keoghn told me that the village was all
astir about it."

"And yet you said nothing about it on returning home? How was that?"
said the detective.

"I purposely said nothing," said Max steadily. "My mother is not
strong, and I knew the story would trouble her and make her nervous."

"I see that this boy is older and more thoughtful than I imagined at
first sight of him," thought the detective. "By the bye, Mr.
Hereford," he said, "can you throw any light on Foxell's movements
yesterday?"

"I heard that he was here at the Castle at nine o'clock," said Max,
marvelling at his own composure. "But you have probably been able to
trace him later than that?"

"Yes; his wife saw him at ten, but further than that we can get no
clue. He told her to expect him at seven in the evening, and, as you
know, never returned. Did you see him yesterday?"

"When he was here? No; I merely heard that he had called to speak to
my mother."

"When did you last have speech with him?"

Max paused for a moment; his breath came fast, but he still maintained
a sort of ghastly composure; then remembering that on the fatal
afternoon he had only exchanged words with old Larry and his wife, and
that it had been Desmond who had remonstrated throughout with the
agent, he said quietly, "I don't think I have spoken to him since
Sunday as we came out of church."

With that his ordeal ended, and with relief he found that his mother
was urging him to go out, and speaking of some commission which she
wanted him to see to at Kilbeggan.

"I will order the car to be brought round at once," she said. "You
will be doing a service to Mr. Desmond by fetching this medicine, and
already you look quite ill with sitting so much in his room."

Max made no objection to the plan, and as he drove along the mountain
road, the difficult problem filled his mind, was it a greater evil to
tell a lie or to break an oath? He was thankful that by the wording of
the detective's questions he had just been able to steer clear of
either course, and yet to keep the man at bay, but the strain of the
interview had been great, and he dreaded above all things to be put
through a second examination. Little Doreen would at any rate be saved
from that. And as his thoughts turned to her once more, an idea
struck him and he drove to no less than three shops in Kilbeggan in
search of a certain present which he had set his heart on giving her.

The nightly game of cribbage was going on in the little parlour that
evening, when Mrs. Keoghn entered with the lamp in one hand and a
parcel in the other.

"Nothing has been heard of the agent, ma'am," she remarked. "I make no
doubt he's come to some dreadful end."

"Oh, I hope not," said Mrs. O'Ryan, endeavouring to hush up the good
landlady, as she noticed that Doreen's eyes had a startled look in
them, and that her lips grew white. "What is that parcel?"

"Sure, thin, ma'am, 'tis for Miss Doreen; Mr. Hereford has just left
it; he's been to Kilbeggan."

"See, mother," said Doreen, recovering her self-possession. "It is the
present he owed me. We had a double cherry at the picnic last week,
and I was the first to speak the next day."

Hastily unfolding the paper, she saw with delight a bronze crucifix,
and beneath it, hanging by chains to the two arms of the cross, a tiny
bronze lamp, with the wick already prepared, and a slip of paper with
the comforting assurance that when filled the lamp would burn seven
hours. The dread of a second night which had been weighing upon her
all day passed away now; and perhaps no gift ever given her brought
such a rapture of relief and pleasure, or filled her with such intense
gratitude to the donor.




CHAPTER V.


    "Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
    'HE SERVED HIS COUNTRY, AND LOVED MANKIND.'"

                                   THOMAS DAVIS.


"How much time do you give me, doctor?"

The questioner lay in one of the berths of a stateroom on an Atlantic
steamer; he was a man of sixty, though his deeply lined face and
silvery hair made him look older. His hollow cheeks and emaciated form
told their own tale, and so did the over-bright eyes, which now looked
keenly into the doctor's embarrassed face.

"I fear, Mr. O'Ryan, that the time is but short,--that you can
scarcely hope to reach England."

The sick man laughed.

"And I don't know that I should break my heart about that," he said in
a tone free from all bitterness, and full of a humour which at such a
time struck the doctor as pathetic. "England, you know, was my prison
house for five years. Will I live to reach Queenstown, do you think?"

The doctor shook his head.

"My dear sir, if you will have the plain truth, I fear that it is but
a question of hours. Is there anything I can do for you?"

The dying man sighed. "Send Doreen to me," he said, "and tell my wife
that I am now free from pain. Is there no possibility of letting me
see her?"

"I am sorry, but it is out of the question," said the doctor
decidedly. "For the children's sake, you would not let her run any
risk. I will send your daughter to you."

Patrick O'Ryan thanked him courteously, and lay with closed eyes,
musing over the past, certain lines of patient endurance first traced
by the years in Portland Prison becoming more distinctly visible about
his mouth. He had faced death too often to fear it, and the manner of
his death pleased him well enough. He knew that he should take his
place in that long line of patriots who have laid down their lives for
Ireland. Nearly six years ago he had come out of gaol with his health
undermined,--now with unexpected suddenness the end had come, just as
he was leaving America for London, there to embark on fresh and
congenial work, and to enjoy Doreen's first appearance as a public
singer.

The sound of some one at the door made him open his keen blue eyes. He
saw at a glance that the doctor had told his daughter the truth; for
Doreen's face, which had been singularly young and girlish for her
eighteen years, had strangely altered; it was stamped now with a look
of grief and care which went to his heart.

"Child," he said, taking her hand in his, "you must not fret over me.
Is there a priest on board?"

"No, father," she said, with deep regret; for she knew that he, as a
devout Roman Catholic, would feel the deprivation in a way which she,
who had been brought up to share her mother's opinions, could not
fully enter into.

"Well, it can't be helped," he replied. "It sometimes happens on the
battle-field that two soldiers have to confess to each other." And
with his hands folded between hers he made his shrift.

"Oh, if I, too, could tell father what happened at Lough Lee!" thought
Doreen. "Might I rightly break my oath to ask advice of one who is
leaving the world?"

The temptation was strong, but she thought of Max Hereford's words in
the fernery, and was silent. Gradually, too, all her thoughts became
absorbed in her father's words; when he had ended, there was a long
silence. Nothing was to be heard save the swish of the waves against
the steamer, and the ceaseless throbbing of the engine, which to her
fancy seemed eternally playing the tune of "God save Ireland." There
had been something pathetic in the extreme simplicity of the
confession to which she had listened. This rebel, who had twice tried
unsuccessfully to free his country from oppression, failing because he
had tried in mistaken ways and before the times were ripe,--had not
only the devoted courage which characterizes the pioneers of all great
movements, but he had, what is much more rare, a perfectly childlike
faith.

"I have been thinking," he said, "it will save much trouble if my
funeral be at sea. Don't shrink so, mavourneen. What does it matter? I
would sooner lie at the bottom of the Atlantic than in an English
grave, and it would be but an ill opening for your public career, to
have all the Irish in Liverpool trooping to the funeral of O'Ryan the
ex-convict."

"We shall touch at Queenstown," she faltered.

"Yes; and were Ireland freed from her chains, I might feel
differently. As it is--let me be buried at sea. Some day when this new
scheme ripens, and Home Rule brings peace to our land, why, you can
build me a fine monument at Glasnevin in the O'Connell circle." He
smiled and stroked her cheek. "Oh, it's great things I expect of you,"
he added tenderly, while her tears fell fast. "Your voice and your
good courage will serve the children in this strait, and will serve
old Ireland, too, if I mistake not. Do you remember the last time we
were together at Glasnevin? It was but a few days before my arrest; I
taught you to know the blackbird's note, and we looked together at the
graves of the patriots, and you learnt Ellen O'Leary's poem and said
it to me once when you came to see me at Kilmainham; don't you
remember it?--


    "I'm very sure, if right took place, we'd all have full and plenty;
     The landlords live upon our toil, and leave us bare and empty."


There followed some hours of great weakness and weariness, in which
the sweet-natured patience which had always characterized Patrick
O'Ryan's personal character, shone out radiantly. Early in the
morning, when the doctor had paid his visit and had gone to report
progress to the poor invalid wife, who was too ill to be moved, Doreen
and Michael, who were keeping watch beside the dying man, heard him
make a faint request.

"Something of Newman's," he said dreamily.

And Doreen, taking up a book from the open portmanteau close at hand,
read a poem which she knew to be a favourite with her father,--a poem
which perhaps naturally appealed to one whose life had been made up of
hard fighting and crushing disappointment, ending with a far-distant
yet confident hope.


    "When I sink down in gloom or fear,
      Hope blighted or delay'd,
    Thy whisper, Lord, my heart shall cheer,
      ''Tis I, be not afraid!'

    "Or startled at some sudden blow,
      If fretful thoughts I feel,
    'Fear not, it is but I,' shall flow
      As balm my wound to heal.

    "Nor will I quit Thy way, though foes
      Some onward pass defend;
    From each rough voice the watchword goes,
      'Be not afraid!...a friend!'

    "And oh! when judgment's trumpet clear
      Awakes me from my grave,
    Still in its echo may I hear,
      ''Tis Christ; He comes to save.'"


As she ended, his eyes opened for a minute, and Doreen bent down to
listen to a brief whispered message for her mother; then, having
kissed them both, he lay at rest for some time, a sort of drowsiness
stealing over him till just as eight bells rang his lips moved, and
Doreen again bent forward, thinking that he wanted something.

She caught the words,--"God save Ireland!"

They were the last he spoke.

For the next few days Doreen felt like one in a horrible dream. But
the glimpse of the beautiful harbour at Queenstown, with its wide
welcoming shores, its indescribable look of home, roused her and drew
her back to the actual needs of the present. As they approached
England, she became more and more absorbed in the manifold
arrangements for her mother's comfort, and in the care of Dermot,
Mollie, and the baby,--the three little ones who had been born during
those happy years at New York.

Already it seemed to her a long, long time since she had stood with
Michael on the deck, listening to the words of the burial service read
by the captain, and watching the great Atlantic waves as they surged
over her father's coffin and hid it from view.

Sorrow and anxiety, and long nights of watching with her mother, had
robbed her cheek of its colour and sobered the dancing blue eyes;
nevertheless there was still a look of unquenchable youth and spirit
in the face, which made the careworn lines about the lips seem nothing
but a mistake.

"How soon shall we be in, dear?" asked Mrs. O'Ryan faintly, from her
berth, glancing a little anxiously at the wild confusion which
prevailed in the stateroom.

"They said it would be half an hour just now, mother," said Doreen,
seizing on books, clothes, and music, and crowding them into a
much-enduring carpet-bag; then, pausing to catch up little Bride, the
baby of six months old, she hastily averted an impending cry with a
snatch of "The Meeting of the Waters."

She sang brightly, so brightly that one might have fancied her heart
was as light as it had been six years before when she sang to the
Herefords at Castle Karey.

"Little time-waster!" she said tenderly, as she put the child down on
the floor again between two small people of five and three. "Now play
with Dermot and Mollie, there's a doat, and leave me the use of my
hands, for in truth they've enough to do."

Just then there came a tap at the cabin door, and a brisk,
cheery-looking American woman entered. She must have been about forty,
but looked younger, owing to her trim figure, and fresh, rosy cheeks
with their high cheek-bones; her hard, shiny, bright face always
reminded Doreen of a well-polished apple, while her eyes, small, dark,
and twinkling, were like the eyes of a robin.

"Can I help you, miss?" she asked; and scarcely waiting for permission
or thanks she began to do everything that had to be done, strapping
bags and portmanteaux, dressing the baby, and chatting to little
Dermot and Mollie, while Doreen was set free to wait on her mother,
who looked very unfit for the move on shore.

Hagar Muchmore was migrating from her New England home to Liverpool to
visit her only son, who, somewhat to his mother's dismay, had married
on his twenty-first birthday a woman several years his senior. The
news had perturbed Hagar, and she had resolved to cross the Atlantic
and see for herself whether the match were satisfactory or not. The
villagers at Salem had remonstrated with her for wasting her money on
such an expedition, but Hagar thought peace in the heart was worth
more than gold in the bank; she drew out her savings and started for
England, enjoying the thought of the pleasant surprise she was
preparing for her boy.

The crossing would, however, have been both dull and lonely for her
had it not been for the great interest she had taken in the O'Ryans.
Many people had sympathized with them, had patted the children on the
head, or filled Michael's pockets with chocolate, or said kind words
to Doreen. But Hagar Muchmore had thrown her whole heart into the
sorrows of these fatherless children, had identified herself with
them, had waited on Mrs. O'Ryan as though she had been her own maid,
and had learnt to love them almost as much as though she had nursed
them and cared for them all their lives.

"The doctor says my mother must not travel to London yet," said
Doreen. "He has told us of rooms in Grove Street, where the terms
would not be very high. Do you know whether it is far from the
landing-quay?"

"No, miss," said Hagar; "I'm as new to this country as you are. But I
can find out from the stewardess. And I'm thinking I would just as
soon come round with you there and settle you in before going to my
son; for he'll not be back from his work till night, I guess, and I'm
in no such haste to see his wife."

Doreen's face lighted up.

"Oh, what a comfort you will be!" she said. "I was wondering how I
should ever manage with the little ones and yet be free to help my
mother. How kind every one is!"

She took little Mollie in her arms and carried her on deck, receiving
friendly farewells from several of the passengers, and soon descrying
Michael, not as she had expected, however, among his friends the
sailors, but standing apart looking with wistful eyes at the crowded
landing-quay.

"Will you mind Mollie for a minute, while I see to the others?" she
said, noticing that there were tears in the brown eyes that looked
anxiously up at her.

"Doreen!" he exclaimed. "I heard that old lady with the curls telling
her husband that mother would never be better; she said it would be a
dreadful thing for you to be--to be left--with all those children on
your hands."

"Nonsense!" said Doreen hastily, yet with an odd choking in her
throat. "She knows nothing about it. Mother may be much the better for
the change, and for seeing auntie. I shall write to auntie to-night
and beg her to come to Liverpool, as we can't go straight to London."

Michael looked relieved, but his burden seemed to have transferred
itself to Doreen, who went back to the stateroom with an aching heart
and a mind full of heavy fore-bodings. She seemed to see her mother
now with different eyes, for the first time fully realizing how worn
and thin her face had become during the last few days, and how slight
a hold she seemed to have of the world.

"People always look worse when they first wear their walking-things,"
she said to herself. "It is the bonnet that makes her look so ill, and
the excitement of landing that has brought that horrid little flush to
her cheeks. Oh, Dr. Lewis, have you come to help us? That is very good
of you!" she exclaimed, as the ship's doctor entered with the
steward's mate behind him.

"We'll get Mrs. O'Ryan on shore if you will see to your little people
on deck," said the doctor. "Young Vanheim is attending to your
luggage, so you need not have any anxiety about that."

"And I'll see to the baby," said Hagar Muchmore, skirmishing round the
stateroom in search of anything that might be left, like a kindly bird
of prey.

So with good-natured help and friendly farewells and much sympathy the
sad little group was set on shore, and Doreen, looking at the busy
streets of Liverpool, fancied that, after all, this strange country
had a sort of homelike air, and that she should soon grow to love it.
Thanks to the doctor's recommendation, they had no difficulty in
getting rooms, and before long Hagar Muchmore had settled the four
children round a comfortable tea-table, which, as she remarked, would
keep them quiet for a good half-hour; and Doreen, having helped her
mother to bed, was able to write to her aunt, Mrs. Garth. She snatched
up pen and paper, but somehow to begin was a difficult matter. Some
letters are hard to write, from dearth of anything to say; others are
hard because there is so much that must be said,--such ill news to
convey, such sorrow to restrain, such fear for the future that must be
hinted at, yet not too clearly expressed. Doreen opened her inkstand,
then she sat with her head resting on her hands, vainly struggling to
clothe her thoughts in words. Roused at length by the remembrance that
there was no time to be lost, she forced herself to write the brief
lines which should summon Mrs. Garth to Liverpool.


         "MY DEAR AUNTIE:--We have just arrived in England
         and are in sad trouble. My father had an attack of
         spasms of the heart and died two days after leaving
         New York; and mother, who was never very strong,
         and who has been, as you know, since Bride was
         born, quite an invalid, seems as if she could not
         rally from this great shock. The doctor will not
         hear of letting her travel to London, but she has
         counted very much on seeing you, and begs that, if
         possible, you will come to us here. I think she
         will not rest till she has seen you; so that if you
         could come at once, it would be a great comfort.
         Your affectionate niece,             DOREEN O'RYAN."


Hagar Muchmore posted the letter when she set off in search of her
son's home, and poor Doreen, feeling very desolate and burdened,
despatched Michael to keep guard in his mother's room, and set to work
to put the three little ones to bed, having desperate hunts for
straying nightgowns and lost brushes and combs, and sighing many a
time and oft, to think that in the matter of orderliness she should
have failed to inherit the least trace of her mother's nature, and
should have been wholly Irish.

"But at any rate I can keep them in good humour by singing," she
reflected, and spite of all the sorrow that filled her heart she sang
whatever Dermot and Mollie begged for, from "Come back to Erin" to
"Kate O'Shane," and finally left them sleeping as happily as though
one great sorrow had not just passed into their lives while a fresh
one stood waiting at the threshold.

But when her own work was done, when the landlady had been interviewed
and provisions ordered, and Michael cheered with hopeful words and
tucked up in bed, proud to think himself in charge of the little ones,
Doreen was so weary that to sleep was impossible. She lighted her
little night-lamp and then lay down beside her mother, aching in
every limb and with ears still on the alert to catch any sounds from
her small charges in the next room, yet afraid in her restless
wakefulness to stir, lest the sleep into which the invalid had fallen
should be broken. It was all very well to speak hopefully to Michael,
but the fears that had troubled the boy's heart began now to trouble
her, to force themselves upon her notice, to refuse to be stifled as
she had hitherto contrived to stifle them.

And then all the dreams, the ambitious plans, of her girlhood came
back to her with a bitter sense that just as they were beginning to
become practical possibilities, her desire for them had faded utterly
away. What did she care now for the chance of becoming a great public
singer? The mother who was to have enjoyed her triumph was dying. What
could she care now for the rights of Ireland, when the father whose
sufferings had wrung her heart would not be there to rejoice in the
progress of the cause? The rain came driving against the window, the
wind howled drearily down the narrow street, and Doreen lay looking at
the familiar shadow cast by the crucifix on the wall and wondering if
all her life it would happen that the good things so long waited, so
eagerly hoped for, should come invariably hand in hand with sorrow.
Very vividly she remembered how, when at length her father's
imprisonment had ended and they had met him once more, the happiness
of the reunion had been most sadly marred by the dreadful secret that
had been weighing on her heart. Time had softened to some extent the
misery of the remembrance of that afternoon on Lough Lee; it had
ceased to be a continual burden to her, for her nature was too buoyant
to be crushed for very long, and, fortunately, she was not given to
brooding over anything. Still, there were times when the past became
fearfully vivid, times when she was filled with a most dreadful
craving to see Max Hereford once more,--the one person in the world to
whom she might speak of what had passed on that last day of her
childhood.

"My darling," said Mrs. O'Ryan, opening her eyes and taking the
girl's hand in hers, "I am afraid you have not slept. You are sadly
tired. What is the time? I am feeling so much better."

"The clock has just struck two, mother; you have had a longer sleep
than usual."

"I thought so," said the invalid. "Lie still, dear; I want nothing.
What was the name, Doreen, of those people at Castle Karey? I have
been dreaming about them."

"Their name was Hereford," said Doreen, glancing at the crucifix. "Mr.
Hereford always sends Christmas cards to Michael and me. I believe he
must still think I am quite a little girl, for last year it was a
picture of a robin singing to a harp; just an absurd thing, more fit
for Dermot or Mollie than for me!"

"Where did they live in England?" asked Mrs. O'Ryan.

"Somewhere in the South, I think," said Doreen. "Firdale was the name
of their nearest town."

"I had a dream that they were very good to you," said her mother. "I
wish it may come true, for I am leaving you with but few friends and
with many cares."

"Oh, mother, don't talk like that!" said Doreen, tears choking her
voice.

"I should like to be spared to my children; but, in any case," (she
stroked Doreen's hand tenderly,) "it does not bring death nearer to
speak of what may happen. Your father has left Donal Moore his sole
executor; he will help and advise you about the children: there is not
a kinder, better man living. It would, of course, be possible for me
to leave your uncle and aunt co-guardians, but I think it will be
better not. To them Donal Moore is no doubt only a dangerous agitator,
newly released from prison; they might not work well together. I would
rather that you and Donal shared the guardianship of the little ones,
though I know auntie will always be ready to help you, and you will
naturally turn to her in any trouble."

"What is Uncle Garth like?" asked Doreen. "I can't recall him well."

"I know very little of him, save that he is a good, honest man, clever
and very silent. The Garths were Tories of the old school, a
delightful family, full of old-fashioned hospitality; they sadly
disapproved of my marriage, but were very kind to me, for all that.
Yet, somehow, I cannot think that Uncle Garth and Donal Moore could
ever pull together, specially as your uncle is a strong Protestant,
and as the boys must be brought up in their father's faith according
to our agreement. If they do come across each other, you will have to
play the part of peacemaker."

"My temper is too hot for that part," said Doreen. "It is you, mother,
who will manage to bring them together and smooth the rough places."

Mrs. O'Ryan sighed.

"If I live," she said, "I doubt whether I can be anything but a burden
and an expense, and God knows there is little enough for you all to
live upon."

"Oh, mother, mother, don't!" sobbed Doreen. "Have I not got my voice
that the maestro told us would some day make our fortune? And what do
I care for it if you are not here?"

"The thought that at least you have that is my great comfort," said
Mrs. O'Ryan. "A sweet voice, a good training, and a brave heart,--with
these you are left to face the world and to support four children.
Michael is but twelve, and can be nothing but an expense to you for
many years. It is a terrible burden to leave to a girl of eighteen."

"It would be far worse without the children, mother; at least I shall
have them to work for: it will seem worth while," said Doreen.
"Besides, father said something of money invested in some railway."

"It is very little," said Mrs. O'Ryan; "it would not realize more than
four hundred pounds. Donal Moore will see to that for you, and God
grant it may keep you until you begin to earn money enough for your
needs. It is strange how vividly I dream now. It still seems almost
like something that really happened, that talk with Mrs. Hereford and
her son; I should like to think you would come across them again. It
must have been, I suppose, some remembrance of the old days when he
used to come and persuade me to let you go with them on some
expedition, but I seemed to hear his voice saying, just as he used to
then: 'I will take such care of her.' What became of that tutor who
was taken ill with brain fever?"

"He was getting better when we left, they said," replied Doreen; "but
since then I have heard nothing about him."

She pressed her lips tightly together, for once more there came upon
her the old, burning desire to tell everything to her mother. The
unreasoning wish was all the more difficult to resist because of her
exhausted state, while the sense that the time left to her was short,
that soon all chance of unburdening her mind would be over, weighed
upon her with an intolerable oppression. Could it be wrong to tell
now, to unburden her soul to one who was leaving the world, to win
that counsel and sympathy for which she craved so terribly?

The temptation was strong, so strong that again and again it nearly
overmastered her. Was she to fight so desperately all for the sake of
a stranger who, for aught she knew, might be dead? Was she to be
silent now when probably all danger was over? Had she, indeed, ever
been right to keep such a thing from her mother? "Help me, God! Help
me, God!" she cried desperately; and, as if in answer, there rose
before her a vision of the lovely fernery at Castle Karey, and of the
little Keep, and of Max Hereford's clear, truthful eyes, as he
repeated the words of the oath, and, stooping down, kissed her for the
first time.

"I will be true," she said, and, venturing to raise herself a little
on her elbow, she looked at her mother and found that in the long
silence she had again fallen asleep quite tranquilly. Into the girl's
sanguine heart there instantly rushed a glad thought: "I have been
true to God; perhaps--oh, perhaps--He will, after all, spare mother to
us."




CHAPTER VI.


    "Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comforts be,
      All comfort else has flown;
    For every hope was false to me,
      And here I am alone.
    What thoughts were mine in early youth!
      Like some old Irish song,
    Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
      My spirit gushed along."
                                      THOMAS DAVIS.


Doreen's letter arrived in Bloomsbury the next morning, and lay on the
breakfast table to greet the mistress of the house, without any black
border to herald its contents. At sight of the Liverpool postmark,
Aunt Garth caught it up eagerly, and over her worn and somewhat sad
face there flitted a smile of content.

"They have landed, then!" she exclaimed, "and to-day I shall see Mary
again after all these years of separation!"

In outward appearance the two sisters were much alike; but Mrs. Garth,
though her life had apparently been much less trying, looked,
nevertheless, sadder than Mrs. O'Ryan, who, spite of poverty and
sorrow, and the long imprisonment of her husband, had retained a
marvellous youthfulness and buoyancy which was lacking in her sister.
There was something very winning, however, in Aunt Garth's face; a
sort of quiet strength was the first thing that impressed all who
observed her, but scarcely any one really knew her: she lived a life
apart, even while forming the very centre and main-spring of her
household. Some people were bold enough to question whether even Uncle
Garth himself really understood her, and perhaps he did not, being a
man who accepted the great facts of life with the unquestioning faith
of a child, and probably troubling himself very little about them. He
was a good man and a good husband, but the enthusiasm of his nature
spent itself in his daily work at the British Museum, and ancient
Egypt was far more real to him than modern England, while as to
Ireland, it was to him as Prince Metternich would have said,--merely
"a geographical expression." Egyptology, however, had not at all
interfered with his kindliness of heart; absent and preoccupied he
might be, but if once roused to the perception that other people
needed his help, nothing could exceed his readiness to serve them.

He was in a particularly absent mood that morning, his mind being full
of some recent discoveries made at Alexandria, and his wife knew that
it would be of no use attempting to make him listen to anything until
he had opened the letter with the Egyptian stamp which awaited him.
His dreamy gray eyes lighted up as he caught sight of the little view
of the pyramid and the Sphinx upon his plate, and Aunt Garth went
quietly about the table, cutting bread and putting eggs in the
egg-boiler and pouring out coffee, with now and then a rather wistful
glance towards the gray head bent over the sheets of large foreign
paper. There is a popular notion that antiquarians and men of science
are all shaggy, wild-looking, and unkempt; but Uncle Garth--possibly
owing to his wife's exertions--was a particularly well-clothed,
well-brushed man, and had an indefinable air of good preservation,
from his closely cropped gray head and short gray beard to his
faultless boots.

"I have had a letter from Doreen, dear," said Mrs. Garth, when at
length the letter from Egypt was folded up and a possible pause in
Uncle Garth's reflections arrived, owing to the necessity of
decapitating an egg,--a ceremony which he always performed with
scrupulous care after a peculiar method of his own invention. "She
writes from Liverpool in great trouble, for her father died during the
voyage."

"What! Patrick dead!" exclaimed Uncle Garth, with a look of concern.
"Poor fellow,--poor fellow! What a wasted life! And your sister and
those five children but ill provided for, I am afraid."

"I should fear there can be very little for them, though I know they
left America free from debt and were hopeful about some appointment
which he had got in London as correspondent to one of the Irish
papers," said Mrs. Garth. "Several times Mary has written of his
failing health; he has never really been well since he was in prison,"
she said; "being ill-fitted to stand the rough work he had to do, and
fretting his heart out all those five years about her and the little
ones. There were only the two of them then,--Doreen and little
Michael. I remember staying with them just after Michael's birth, when
you were in Egypt,--it must have been the year before he was
arrested,--and his devotion to the children was wonderful to see.
Doreen used to follow him about everywhere like a little shadow."

"It's a sad business," said Uncle Garth reflectively. "He was a very
good fellow and pleasant enough to talk with, but with this unlucky
craze about Irish rights. I remember well the very last talk I had
with him when he was full of the national rights and the national
duties, and I plainly pointed out to him that Ireland being wedded to
England had ceased to be a nation, that it had no separate rights,
that it was in fact in the position of a wife. But these Irish fellows
are so impracticable, one might as well have talked to the winds.
Hopelessly perverse and headstrong, the whole race of them!"

Aunt Garth smiled ever so little, having divined the weak point of his
argument with its frank admission of the essential difference between
the two nationalities. Then she thought of her sister, and her face
grew sad once more.

"I fear Mary is very ill, from what Doreen says," she remarked,
handing the letter across the table to her husband. "If you don't
mind, dear, I think I must go to them to-day, and see what can be done
to help them."

"It is a very damp day for you to risk a journey," said Uncle Garth,
looking up from the letter. "But still, this seems urgent. If you go
to-day, I might run down from Saturday to Monday, and see what can be
done to help them. Poor things! it is a sad lookout for those
children."

So Aunt Garth, who was scarcely allowed out of the house in cold
weather, owing to her delicate chest, set off by the morning express
to Liverpool, and arrived in Grove Street that afternoon, tired and
anxious, and chilled to the bone, in spite of the sable cloak wrapped
closely about her. She asked for Doreen, and was ushered by a shabby
maid-of-all-work up the narrow staircase. At the foot of the second
flight, however, their way was blocked by a little blue-eyed
dreamy-looking boy with sunny brown hair cut across his forehead and
hanging in short, tangled curls about his neck. He was entirely
absorbed in the story of "Rumpelstiltskin" which a boy some years his
senior was reading aloud to him, the book lying on the top stair and
the reader extended at full length, in a position which displayed to
the best possible advantage his well-patched knickerbockers and his
thin legs.

"Master Michael," said the servant, "get up quick, there's a good boy;
here's a lady a comin' up."

Michael was on his feet in a minute.

"Oh, auntie!" he cried. "How glad mother will be to see you! We were
afraid it would be too cold for you to come. Shall I carry your bag
for you?"

Mrs. Garth, wondering to find the little fellow who used to visit
them, on his way to Portland, grown into this well-mannered boy,
followed him as he led the way into a bedroom close by. The light was
growing dim, and the comfortless look of the lodgings struck her
painfully. A pale, slim girl, with her head well set upon her
shoulders, and a dignity that seemed beyond her years, came quickly
forward with eager greetings, carrying in her arms a fretful baby,
while on the bed, she caught sight of another child sitting beside the
motionless figure that lay there unheeding all that passed in the
room.

"How sweet of yon to come at once," said Doreen, with a warmth of
welcome which made Mrs. Garth's sad eyes shine. "Mother is not exactly
asleep, I think, but all day she has lain like that, only rousing up
when we actually speak to her."

Mrs. Garth moved quietly across to the bedside, and stood for some
moments, looking at the fragile face which yet was less changed than
she had feared.

"I will take off my bonnet," she said, "and then come back to stay
with her. Don't disturb her just yet."

"Michael will take care of them here for a minute, and I will show you
your room," said Doreen. "Oh, Mrs. Muchmore!" she exclaimed, as they
passed out on to the staircase. "Have you come back to us again?"

"Should have been round before," said Hagar, who seldom employed a
pronoun if she could help it, "but there was no leavin' my son and his
wife. Guess the marriage will turn out well, after all, though it did
seem a flyin' in the face of Providence which ordained that man should
be created before his wife. How's Mis' O'Ryan?"

"She has been drowsy all day," said Doreen. "This is my aunt, Mrs.
Garth, who has just arrived. I wish you would order tea to be brought
up quickly; perhaps mother would take a little."

"Will see to it," said Hagar, bustling off, while Doreen, still
carrying the baby, took Mrs. Garth to her room, talking as they went
of Hagar's goodness to them on board.

"They were all kind to us," she said, "but Mrs. Muchmore was our good
angel." Then, laughing a little at the idea, "She is not much like the
conventional angel with yellow ringlets and a doll's face, is she? But
that brisk, cheery way of hers kept us all going through that dreadful
time."

She broke off abruptly. Some day, perhaps, she might speak freely of
all that had passed at the time of her father's death, but now her
lips were locked, not only by the sense that all her powers were
needed to cope with the present trouble, but by that curious barrier
which generally, to some extent, exists between those of different
generations.

When they returned they found that Hagar Muchmore had lighted the
candles and drawn down the blinds, contriving by a few rapid and
dexterous touches to give a somewhat more comfortable air to the whole
place. Then she carried off all the children to tea in the lower
regions, promising that some should be sent up in a few minutes to the
sick-room.

"Mother," said Doreen, bending down to kiss the invalid, "there is
good news for you. Auntie has come; see, she is waiting to speak to
you."

For the first time since her husband's death a gleam of pleasure lit
up Mrs. O'Ryan's face; for a little while she was quite roused, and
lay with her hand clasped in her sister's, listening eagerly to all
that she had to tell, and to Doreen's great delight seeming even to
enjoy the tea when it came. The poor girl had no experience to warn
her that this was but the last faint flicker of the flame, and that
death was close at hand. Once more her buoyant nature began to hope,
and to weave countless plans for the future. She laughed and chatted
with the children as she put them to bed, and consented without
hesitation to lie down for a while herself, and leave the first watch
of the night to Mrs. Garth. Her aunt was loath to disturb her; but
about midnight so unmistakable a change set in that she dared not
hesitate, and candle in hand she glided into the quiet room, glancing
first at Michael and little Dermot sound asleep in their bed in the
corner, with "Rumpelstiltskin" ready for an early morning hour, then
crossing the room to the other bed, where, with the baby's cradle
within reach, and with little Mollie's arms clasped about her, lay
Doreen. The girl looked far younger asleep than awake; the curve of
her cheek against the pillow, the dimple near the mouth, the
untroubled calm of the whole face, told of youth and health. She
yawned with the abandon of a sleepy child when her aunt roused her.

"What, time to get up already!" she exclaimed drowsily; then, suddenly
noticing the strange voice, she started up with dilated eyes. "How is
mother?" she cried.

"She is asking for you,--for you and Michael," said Mrs. Garth. "But
she does not want the others to be disturbed."

With a sudden, terrible realization of what it all meant, Doreen, like
one blind, groped her way across the room to rouse Michael,--no easy
task. Then, together, they stole into the dimly-lighted room,
awe-stricken and trembling, though there was nothing of what they had
expected,--no painful struggle, no effort to say last words, no
anxiety for the children she was leaving,--nothing but a tender
embrace and a murmured blessing, then a peaceful sliding away into
unconsciousness.

And even in the midst of her bitter sorrow Doreen was comforted to
think that this was the sort of death her mother had always hoped for,
an undisturbed death, with neither doctor nor clergyman, nor
professional nurse, nor many friends standing by; but with the bustle
of the working-day ended, and with the darkness revealing the presence
of other worlds.

It was not until her aunt had left her, and until she had soothed
Michael and settled him off to sleep again, that she altogether gave
way. But as she once more lay down between the two youngest children,
the sight of the little unconscious sisters to whom she had to play
the part of second mother utterly overcame her. She buried her face in
the pillow and wept as though her heart would break.

"I shall never, never be able to do it," she sobbed. "And they are too
young to remember!"

How she lived through the days that followed, Doreen never quite knew,
but probably the haunting consciousness of their poverty, and the
urgent need that she should have all her wits about her, kept her from
breaking down under the double shock she had undergone. People must
either use their sorrows as stepping-stones, or be crushed beneath
the weight of them. Doreen belonged to the climbers; a difficulty
stimulated her and called out all that was best in her nature.

The very first sight of her raised Uncle Garth's spirits, when, on
Saturday, he arrived, much perturbed to think of the responsibility
that had been cast upon him by the death of his sister-in-law, and
wholly at a loss to know how to dispose of her five children, who were
so much less easy and pleasant to deal with than his beloved mummies.
Uncle Garth did not like responsibility; he was ready to sacrifice
anything except his peace of mind, but he guarded that jealously; the
children might if they pleased look to him for food or clothing, but
to spend his time about their affairs, to be expected to start the
boys in life, to take, in any sense, the position of a father towards
them, was quite another matter. He felt unequal to such a task; it had
been difficult enough in the case of his own two sons, and having just
started them in life,--the one in Canada, the other in India,--and
experienced the blissful relief of having such cares and anxieties at
an end, he was not at all inclined to embark upon a whole family of
Irish orphans, who, as he reflected with some irritation, need never
have been orphans at all, had it not been for the headstrong
folly--miscalled patriotism--of their unfortunate father.

It was a shock, certainly, to a man of his secluded habits, to be
shown into a room where children seemed to abound in so strange a way;
but Doreen, quickly guessing that their presence would fatigue him,
sent Dermot and Mollie away under Michael's care directly the
greetings were over, marshalling her little flock so quietly, and
taking such pains to make the newcomer comfortable, that Uncle Garth
at once realized that he had to do with a woman, not with a mere
school-girl, as he had anticipated. Even her slight Irish accent did
not annoy him, and he watched with a vague admiration the
understanding way in which she handled the baby,--for a baby had
always been to him a fearful and wonderful thing, "not by any to be
enterprised nor taken in hand unadvisedly." Bride, to be sure, was a
plump and comfortable-looking infant, but he preferred to regard her
from a distance.

"We have been talking, dear, about the future," began Mrs. Garth
quietly. "Doreen has had a very kind letter this morning from one of
her father's friends, offering to make a home for them in Ireland; but
as it is necessary for her to be in London, if she is to become a
public singer, we think the offer had better be refused."

"A singer?" said Uncle Garth. "Ah, yes, I remember hearing something
to that effect."

"I have had a thoroughly good training in New York," said Doreen, "and
have brought over a letter of introduction from my old maestro, which
will, I hope, help me in getting engagements. But he advises me to
have a course of lessons in oratorio singing from Rathenow, and that
will, of course, be an expense. When everything is paid for here, I
shall have scarcely anything in hand; and though Donal Moore will sell
out the money that father had in the London and North Western, it will
not realize more than four hundred pounds, mother thought. We must
live upon that until I begin to earn money, and perhaps you would be
willing to lend us some if my engagements do not at first come in very
quickly. I am afraid all artistes have a hard struggle at first."

She sighed a little, with the impatience of one who feels a great
power within himself doomed for a time at any rate to inaction.

"I shall most willingly help you, my dear, as far as money can help,"
said Uncle Garth. "But I should fancy the life of a professional
singer is full of difficulty, and where one succeeds hundreds are
fated to fail."

But Doreen was not to be daunted by this somewhat damping speech. "I
must sing," she said simply. "I have intended to be a singer ever
since I was ten years old."

"My dear, many people form wishes early in life which have,
nevertheless, to be abandoned," said Uncle Garth. "Both of my boys
vowed they would go to sea, but here is one of them farming in Canada,
and the other in the Indian Civil Service, and happy enough in their
work,--happy enough."

"Yes, perhaps," said Doreen, smiling ever so little. "But I am going
to be a singer."

Her resolute voice made further argument impossible; and, fearing that
she had spoken too vehemently, she added:--

"As to this offer of a home in Ireland, why, it is impossible to
accept it; for Donal is a great deal too poor, and we have no real
claim upon him. It is just his good-heartedness; he would give away
the very clothes from his back if they would fit us! Donal Moore is a
sort of primitive Christian, born by mistake in the nineteenth
century, and awfully puzzled to find that orthodox people don't
understand his notions of sharing."

"Donal Moore, did you say!" exclaimed Uncle Garth. "You don't mean
Donal Moore the Nationalist?"

"Sure, then, but I do," said Doreen, instantly becoming a little more
Irish in accent. "Donal is the kindest man alive; he lived for a whole
year with us in America, and the boys just worship him. He is but
lately married and settled in Dublin, and it would not be fair for us
to take him at his word and quarter ourselves upon him. If you knew
how full of suffering his life has been, and of all that he went
through in prison, you would understand just how I feel about it."

"I quite think," said Uncle Garth hastily, "that it would be a most
undesirable arrangement, and I hope, my dear, you will come to us. Now
that my sons have left home, there is plenty of room, and I am sure it
is the arrangement that your poor mother would have desired."

"We spoke of it together," said Aunt Garth, in her quiet voice; "and
it seemed to set her mind quite at rest. Doreen need not feel that she
is thrusting a burden upon you; when her reputation is made, she will
be able to repay anything that you advance for the children; in
accepting this offer she will in no way sacrifice her independence."

"It was not so much of the money that I was thinking, auntie,--that,
of course, I could repay,--but it is the trouble to you and the change
in your household, and all the coming and going and bustle that it
must involve. They are good children; but of course where there are
children there is bound to be noise, to say nothing of all my
practising, which will, I am afraid, be tiresome for you."

"My dear," said Mrs. Garth, "has it never struck you that a house may
be too quiet?"

And as she took her niece's hand in hers, Doreen guessed by the little
tremor which she felt in it, that Aunt Garth was fretting sorely for
the two sons who were supposed to be so happily settled abroad. Her
heart went out to the patient, uncomplaining, reserved woman; it would
be easy to respect Uncle Garth, to be very grateful to him for his
kindness, and to put up with his hundred and one crotchets, but
already she had learned to love her aunt, and to feel that she
belonged to her.

"You must let me know," said Uncle Garth, "of any expenses that you
are unable to meet here; there will be, of course, the mourning for
yourself and the children: that alone will be a heavy tax on your
purse."

"Thank you," said Doreen. "But I do not mean to wear black or to put
the children into it. I am sure my father and mother would rather we
did not run into debt. And what do we want to be thinking of
dressmakers and milliners at such a time as this?"

"I am afraid people may misunderstand you," said her uncle
hesitatingly. "You see it is the custom."

"Yes; but a heathenish custom, to my mind," said Doreen. "If for
protection it is necessary to have some badge of grief, why, a black
rosette fastened to one's jacket would answer the purpose quite as
well."

"One would shrink from the talk it would inevitably make," said Uncle
Garth.

"Yes," said Doreen wearily. "But some one must go first in every
reform."

Her mind was so evidently made up that he ventured no more
remonstrances, though in his secret soul he hankered sorely after an
entirely proper equipment, with the orthodox depth of crape, the black
veils, the black-bordered handkerchiefs, and the black kid gloves.

"The poor child is evidently born with revolutionary tendencies," he
thought to himself. "It's a sad inheritance!--a sad inheritance!"

Spite of it all, however, there was something in Doreen that he
cordially liked and respected. The quiet courage with which she bore
up in this time of grief and overwhelming sorrow, the buoyant
hopefulness with which she faced her future, most of all, perhaps, her
devotion to her little brothers and sisters, impressed the
Egyptologist not a little. For her sake he made heroic efforts to hide
the disgust he felt at the prospect of having to meet Donal Moore, the
Nationalist, and on the Sunday morning spent a considerable time in
debating how he could best combine courtesy to the man with a certain
unresponsive stiffness which should betoken loathing of his
principles. It was, after all, natural enough that Patrick O'Ryan's
old friend and executor should run over from Dublin to the funeral;
his kindly offer to the children must also be borne in mind, and
severity must be tempered with all due hospitality. The Irishman must,
however, be made to feel that though with them, he was not of them.

With these thoughts in his mind, Uncle Garth returned from his Sunday
morning walk and entered the sitting-room; Doreen, with her white face
looking a degree less sad than he had yet seen it, sat on a low stool
warming her hands at the fire. Opposite her, in the depths of a big
armchair, with Michael on one side and Dermot on the other, and with
little Mollie perched on his knee, sat a fair-skinned, broad-browed
man, whose kindly blue eyes and peculiarly gentle face looked too
young for his grizzled hair.

"Mr. Moore has just come, uncle," said Doreen; and Uncle Garth, with a
murmured greeting, put a limp hand into the hand of the
ticket-of-leave man, permitting him to shake it or not, as he pleased.
Donal Moore, who never did things by halves, gave it a hearty grip,
just as though they had been the warmest friends; and, in truth, he
was thinking that he liked the look of Mr. Garth, and felt sure that
the children were in good hands. He was not a self-conscious person,
and it did not occur to him that the Englishman was at that moment
thinking, "So, this is the notorious ex-Fenian! This the ardent Home
Ruler!"

In spite of his prejudices, Uncle Garth was obliged to own that there
was something singularly attractive about the newcomer. Years of
suffering and imprisonment had, strangely enough, only elevated Donal
Moore's noble nature. Forced into gaol amongst criminals of the lowest
type and treated with greater severity than the vilest murderer, this
man had somehow managed to retain his faith in human nature, and he
had come out into the world again full of eager plans for coping with
the evils which tend to produce criminals.

"Evidently he might have been a most useful member of society,"
reflected Uncle Garth regretfully, "had he not had the misfortune to
be born in Ireland. Strange, that so thoughtful and sensible a man can
yet be such a fool as to throw away the best years of his life on a
mere visionary idea, a hare-brained scheme for recovering the land for
the people."

Donal Moore, in the mean time, had somehow managed to discover Uncle
Garth's hobby, and as they sat down to luncheon he skilfully drew the
Egyptologist towards the subject that he loved; being resolved to help
Doreen as much as possible, and guessing well enough how sore a heart
lay beneath her quiet manner. She looked as though all the sparkling,
radiant, joyous nature had been crushed out of her. He wondered
whether she could ever again be the same light-hearted girl whose
rippling laughter and merry talk had been wont to keep the whole
household gay in New York.

It was not until they were actually driving to the cemetery that he
had any chance of talking to her alone, and then, strangely enough,
the least flicker of amusement passed over her face as the door was
closed upon them.

"Uncle Garth will think me more unorthodox than ever," she said, "for
arranging to come in the second carriage with you. But by this time
you have exhausted Egypt, and who knows what unlucky topic he might
have chanced upon. It is very good of you, Donal, to come to us in our
trouble. It does make such a difference to have you. Have you ever
been to a Protestant funeral before?"

"Only once," he replied; "and that was during my sixth year in
Dartmoor Prison. Park, the well-known burglar died, and I was one of
the prisoners told off to dig his grave and to carry the coffin."

"How horrible!" said Doreen with a shudder; "that wretch who had
robbed and wounded so many people!"

"Well, God rest his soul," said Donal; "he was about as bad a man as
could well be, but then you must remember he had been bred up in a
sort of Fagin's school of crime. And as for the task of digging his
grave, why, that is a piece of work most eagerly coveted by all
convicts, for the vicar of Princetown has a kindly practice of giving
the prisoners something to eat when their task is over; and I well
remember, that bitter, cold day, what it was to get the rare treat of
a good cup of tea and a decent slice of bread and meat after all those
years of prison fare. There was a pretty little child who came out to
look at us when the servant brought us the food, and a hideous lot we
must have been in our convict garb, with our faces blue with the cold,
and the damp, churchyard earth still clinging about us.

"'Why have they dug that hole?' asked the child.

"'Well,' said the servant, 'one of the prisoners is dead, my dear.'

"'Dead!' said the child. 'Why, then he'll be going up to heaven, you
know; oh, do let me stay and see him go up.' And she looked at the
sky, as if she fully expected to see it opening in preparation."

"It makes my blood boil, when I think of you in that horrible prison,"
said Doreen. "Oh, Donal! just think how different things might have
been, if England had but shown us justice! When one looks at those
smug, comfortable people, walking along so unconcernedly, it is hard
not to grow bitter. It was the prison life that killed my father, and
it was the shock of his death that killed my mother."

"Don't think of what might have been," said Donal Moore quietly.
"Think of what may be, what assuredly will be won by the sufferings of
all the thousands of Irish patriots. Do you think because people
forget them that God forgets?"

"No," said Doreen, sighing. "I believe it all, and yet this apparent
waste of so much sacrifice and devotion sometimes seems unendurable.
If one could see the least reason or purpose in this long delay of
justice, it would be less hard to bear. I am like the little child in
the Princetown churchyard, and want to see the heavens opened, and
know the 'Why' of everything."

Donal Moore was silent; he thought sadly of the family whose warm
welcome to him in America had made so delicious a contrast with his
dreary years of imprisonment; and that saddest thought of "Sweet
households overthrown," carried him back to his own childhood, and to
the remembrance of an eviction which had ruined his parents, and
brought them all to the verge of starvation.

"Doreen," he said, in his simple, kindly fashion, taking the girl's
hand in his, "many's the time that I have grown bitter and wrathful,
thinking over the wrongs and cruelties of the past. And then there
comes to my mind the saying of a good old priest,--'twas Father Flynn,
whom you'll have heard your father speak of;--and when I told him of
the blind rage and the vindictive hatred that seized me when I
remembered certain scenes, he said to me: 'Donal, you were made to
play a better part than that of cat's-paw to the devil. It's a good
knight of Christ's that you're called to be, and this memory of the
injustice is to spur you on to help your suffering countrymen.'"

"I should like this grief to spur me on to help," said Doreen. "But
the sight of comfortable, ignorant, callous indifference, like Uncle
Garth's, just maddens me. I know I will begin to hate the English, now
that my mother is no longer here to keep me gentle-hearted."

"No, no," said Donal Moore; "haters can't be helpers. We shall hinder
our cause if we fight with the devil's weapons. I am no longer a
believer in physical force, but in moral compulsion. And you,--why
there is a great career before you! Your voice ought to do much for
Ireland."

And so with kindly words of good cheer, and even more by the
perception that came to her of her companion's noble character, Doreen
was helped through that long drive to Sefton Park cemetery. The sting
of her sorrow seemed gone; she was able to look at the future with
Donal Moore's eyes, and through all the grievous pain of the next
half-hour she felt the strong support of his presence.

The ticket-of-leave man, the ardent reformer and agitator, was somehow
the only man living who could have made that funeral service anything
but a time of torture to her. But as she stood with Michael's hand in
hers, at the foot of the open grave, she looked not down into the
dreary depth at the coffin lid, but up to where Donal Moore stood at
the further side, his grizzled head uncovered, his strong, gentle face
outlined against the pale blue of the wintry sky; and she saw how his
sufferings had helped, and for a moment she had her wish,--heaven was
opened.

The fresh west wind blew upon her face; it seemed to brace her, to
fill her with new life. Her spirit rose up bravely to meet the future.
When the grace had been spoken, she turned promptly away, and, with
her face lighted up by that wonderful spiritual beauty which now and
then startles the dwellers upon this earth, she slipped her free hand
into her aunt's. Together they walked slowly back to the gate, while
Donal Moore and Uncle Garth followed behind.




CHAPTER VII.


    "December days were brief and chill;
      The winds of March were wild and drear;
    And, nearing and receding still,
      Spring never would, we thought, be here.
    The leaves that burst, the suns that shine,
      Had, not the less, their certain date:--
    And thou, O human heart of mine,
      Be still; refrain thyself, and wait."

                                        CLOUGH.


Rathenow, the celebrated singing-master, was at first almost as
depressing as Uncle Garth himself.

"The market is sadly over-crowded," he said, when at her first lesson
Doreen showed him the letter of introduction from her old maestro in
America. "You had better employ an agent, but you must not be
over-sanguine."

"Which agent do you advise me to try?" said Doreen, her heart sinking
a little.

"I should advise you to go to Freen, in New Bond Street, and have your
name put down in his office; then, if anything turns up, he will let
you know." As he spoke, he opened the copy of the "Elijah" which
Doreen had brought, and began half dreamily to play the beautiful
little fragment of chorus, "Open the heavens and send us relief: help
thy servant now, O God!" Then, to her dismay, he turned the leaf and,
playing the few bars of Elijah's part, bade her take the trying bit of
recitative sung by the Youth--quite the last thing she would have
chosen to begin with. However, Doreen had happily grown up with an
innate tendency to grasp her bull by the horns. She conquered her
nervousness, and her voice rang out gloriously toward the end of the
brief dialogue. A curious change came over Rathenow's dark features.
"You will succeed," he said quietly, glancing up at the girl's eager
face. And then for the rest of the lesson he made her work hard at
"Hear ye, Israel," bestowing no single word of praise, but parting
with her at the end with a smile benignant enough to send her away in
the seventh heaven of happiness. Sorrow and loneliness and anxiety
were for a time non-existent; as if treading on air, she hurried away
to New Bond Street, Mendelssohn's perfect music still ringing in her
ears, and the exultant sense of the good gift that had been bestowed
on her filling her with an exquisite happiness.

The agent was civil, business-like, and brisk; he might have been a
clerk in a counting-house; there was nothing artistic about him; he
seemed a combination of all those virtues of punctuality, despatch,
appreciation of the worth of money, and capacity for bargaining in
which artistes of all kinds are generally lacking. Though managing the
affairs of most of the greatest singers of the day, Mr. Freen frankly
owned that he was not musical. He was ready enough to admit a pupil of
Rathenow's upon his books, and to accept the verdict of the American
maestro as to her powers; but he himself could only judge that she was
a blue-eyed Irish girl, winsome and attractive, without being strictly
pretty, and with that terrible eagerness for work which distinguished
almost all the younger portion of his visitors.

The next time Doreen visited the office, however, her face was less
bright; no engagement had turned up. She went sorrowfully away, to
wait as patiently as might be for that work which she so sorely
needed. But the days passed into weeks, the weeks into months, and
still Freen found nothing for her. When she had finished her course of
twelve lessons she told Rathenow that she could at present afford no
more.

"As to engagements, I begin to despair of them," she said, with a
sound as of repressed tears in her voice, which made her teacher
glance at her keenly.

"Oh, you must not be impatient," he said. "A year of waiting and
practising will do you no harm at all. You are young and can afford to
wait."

"But that is just what I cannot do," said Doreen. "How is it possible
to afford a year's delay when I have myself and four children to
support? We are orphans, and I, being far older than the rest, must,
somehow, make enough to keep them."

"I have heard it rumoured that Madame De Berg is going next autumn to
America, and if so, that will be very much in your favour. I think
there would be some likelihood that Boniface might engage you for his
series of concerts during her absence. I will mention your name to
him. For the present, however, there is nothing for it but patience."

Unfortunately, patient perseverance in waiting was precisely the most
difficult thing in the world to the girl's Keltic nature, and at this
part of her life she was intensely lonely. Aunt Garth, though
extremely kind, was too reserved to be quickly known, and far too
quiet and self-contained to understand Doreen's more stormy
temperament. Uncle Garth seemed to her overwrought and severely taxed
brain the most intolerable combination of dulness and fussiness. The
silence and the lack of mirth and light-heartedness in the Bloomsbury
household weighed upon her like a pall; and the extraordinary contrast
between this death in life and the scrambling, merry, happy-go-lucky
home in America was too great to be wholesome. There was nothing to
divert her attention from her sad memories, and her great anxiety as
to the future; for Uncle Garth, like many antiquarians, was also a
recluse. He found his friends in the strange hieroglyphic records of
the past, and hated any interruptions, so that of society there was
absolutely none in the Bernard Street home.

"Instead," wrote Doreen to Donal Moore, "of the perpetual coming and
going of my father's friends, and of all the mirth that even in spite
of trouble was seldom absent for long, we live through dreary, silent
days. Aunt Garth is a great reader, and has learnt to make books her
friends, and Uncle Garth has his mummies and things, and once or twice
two old fossils have dined with us, but they could talk of nothing but
Egyptology; otherwise he wouldn't have asked them, for he cares for
nothing more modern than Moses."

When she had written this her conscience began to prick her, and she
reflected that her unmethodical ways must be extremely trying to the
Egyptologist, and that a girl who sang as she ran up and downstairs
and who had a fatal readiness to chatter upon the smallest
provocation, who laughed when she should have merely smiled, and
wholly declined to take Uncle Garth's decisions as being
unquestionably right, must be a very disturbing element. Happily, they
had two bonds of union: one was their mutual devotion to little
Mollie, whose sweet, sunshiny nature had made her the darling of the
whole house. The other was Uncle Garth's love of ballads. He was not a
musical man; elaborate music was to him a weariness of the flesh; but
Doreen's beautiful rendering of her own native songs and of many of
the old English ballads delighted him, and more than once had lured
him from his study to the drawing-room, to Aunt Garth's surprise and
satisfaction.

Then again, when all four of the children fell ill with the measles,
Uncle Garth showed in his best colours. He never once grumbled at
having his house turned into a hospital, but went to and from the
Museum every morning, and worked in his study all the evening, just as
if nothing unusual had been going on. Many men would have murmured,
but the Egyptologist never made a single complaint, and looked
distinctly pleased when the invalids began to come downstairs.
Perhaps, in his quiet fashion, he had missed them a little.

One bleak day when, what with the trying spring weather, the fatigue
she had undergone during the children's illness, the grief of her
bereavement, and the wearing disappointment of each day of
expectation, Doreen was feeling more than usually depressed, it
chanced that she had to take a note to her uncle at the Museum. The
sight of Mr. Garth's absorbed, happy face awakened in her a sort of
envy. She paced miserably through the long galleries, conscious of
being a mere unit in the great realm of Art, yet hungering with an
indescribable hunger to "make good" her "standing-place, and move the
world."

Crossing the great entrance hall, she pushed open the swing door
impatiently, and made her way past the drinking-fountain and the great
dingy columns, pausing for a moment at the top of the steps to watch
the pigeons as they swooped gracefully down into the gravelled
inclosure. Just then a young man strode quickly up the broad flight.
Something in the girl's attitude and in the outline of her slim figure
arrested his attention; he glanced at the pale, wistful face,--surely
he had somewhere before seen those pathetic blue eyes, and the white
skin, which contrasted so curiously with the dark hair and
humorous-looking dark brows?

Meanwhile, the pigeons flew off, and Doreen, glancing at the
passer-by, encountered his eyes, and instantly recognized Max
Hereford. Her whole face lighted up,--had she not been longing to meet
this sharer of her secret ever since they quitted America?

"You will hardly remember me, Mr. Hereford," she said, greeting him
warmly; "I am Doreen O'Ryan."

"I was certain I knew your face," he said, taking her hand in his. "It
was your height which puzzled me."

"Yes, yes, I knew quite well you thought I was still a child," said
Doreen, her eyes dancing with fun. "Did I not have your fat robins and
your Father Christmas cards every year? Confess now that you thought I
was still a little girl with a bush of hair and short skirts?"

"I plead guilty," said Max, laughing, "to invariably picturing you in
a little red cloak. But tell me, are you living in London? Has your
career begun? and when am I to have the pleasure of hearing you sing
at St. James' Hall?"

"Oh," said Doreen, "I begin to despair of ever getting a hearing. I
was going to New Bond Street now to see if my agent has heard of
anything, but always there is disappointment."

"Will you let me walk with you there?" said Max, quickly falling back
into the frank and friendly tone of intimacy which they had gained in
Ireland.

"It will seem very natural," replied Doreen, "to be walking once more
with you, though Oxford Street is but a poor exchange for our
mountains and valleys. But were you not just going to the Museum?"

"I can go later on," said Max. "I had only to verify one or two
quotations in the Reading Room."

"Then your career has begun?"

"Yes, after a fashion. I am chosen as the Liberal Candidate for
Firdale at the next election, and in the mean time am working my own
particular hobby, and speaking now and then when there is a chance."

"What is your hobby? What do you speak about?"

"Temperance," he replied.

"I wish it were Ireland," said Doreen.

"Well, that is to come," he said, smiling. "At least, I hope so. You
have my promise. And, as to temperance, why, you ought to be
enthusiastic about that, for one of the pioneers of the movement was
your fellow-countryman, Father Matthew,--the noblest worker the cause
has ever seen. How is little Michael, by the bye? I suppose he is at
school now?"

"Not yet," she replied. "I am too poor to send him. We have been in
such great trouble. My father and mother died just after Christmas,
within a few days of each other, and Michael and I and the three
little ones whom you have not seen are living with my uncle and aunt
in Bernard Street. In time, no doubt, I shall be able to support and
educate the children, but this dreadful struggle for fame must come
first, and it is so hard to be patient."

Max, for whom such an easy lot had been provided, felt aghast at her
description of the plight in which she had been left.

"Have you no friends to help you?" he asked, looking at the girlish
profile beside him, and marvelling how, with such a load of care, she
endured life at all.

"Oh yes," replied Doreen brightly. "Not rich friends, but very good
ones. My uncle, Mr. Garth, has a post at the British Museum, and the
house in Bernard Street is his own property, so that he can at any
rate put a roof over our heads; and then there is father's friend and
executor, Donal Moore,--he would take good care that we did not
actually starve. And perhaps the greatest help of all is a most quaint
American woman who crossed over in the same steamer with us. Her name
is Hagar Muchmore. She grew so fond of us all, and specially of the
baby, that when my mother died she offered to stay with us for a year
without thinking of wages. I don't know how the children would have
fared without her."

The relief of having a good talk with any contemporary was so great
that the walk from the Museum to New Bond Street seemed far too short.
At the door of Freen's office she paused to take leave of Max, but he
was not so easily dismissed.

"Let me at any rate hear the result," he pleaded. "If the news is
good, you will want some one to share it with; and if bad, why then,
perhaps, all the more you will have some use for me."

She laughed, and entered the office with the same eager hope which had
so often been doomed to bitter disappointment.

"I suppose you have not heard of anything yet?" she said wistfully, to
the brisk Mr. Freen.

"I was just about to write to you," he said. "It is not much of an
engagement. You must not raise your expectations; but Warren, the
tenor, who is arranging the music for one of the city dinners the day
after to-morrow, has just been in to inquire for some one to fill the
place of Miss Latouche, who is suddenly indisposed. The fee for your
services would be three guineas. I should advise you to accept it."

"Why, yes, to be sure," said Doreen, smiling. "I would sing in the
street if any one promised me three guineas."

The agent smiled.

"Oh, you will get on; you have a career before you, and spirit enough
to win through the struggle."

"So every one tells me," said Doreen, with a little sigh. "I hope it
is true. What shall I have to sing?"

"The solo in 'God save the Queen,' the soprano part in the
Grace,--here is a copy which Mr. Warren left for you,--and two other
songs, whatever you yourself prefer. Mr. Warren will be here at twelve
o'clock to-morrow to hear you sing through your part."

In the highest spirits Doreen quitted the office, and Max Hereford, by
the merest glance at her face, knew that she had heard of work.

"And where are you to make your first appearance?" he inquired, as
they walked back together to Bernard Street.

"You will never guess," she said, laughing. "Not as you predicted, at
St. James' Hall, before a crowded and appreciative gathering, but just
to a lot of city dignitaries, after they have been feasting on turtle
soup."

"No!" he said, in deep disgust. "You surely are not going to do that?"

"Why, yes, I am," she said. "Who am I to pick and choose,--I, who have
four children to support! Oh, I dare say you know a great deal about
temperance, but you know just nothing at all about poverty. It is a
highly respectable dinner at the Grocer's Hall, and the great
contralto, Madame St. Pierre, is the star of the evening. I shall be
just a nobody; you seem to think I am doing them an honour in going at
all!"

"So you are," he muttered, looking positively out of temper. "I hope
they pay you well."

"Oh, the dignitaries have nothing to do with the music; all that is
managed by Mr. Warren. I forget whether he is one of St. Paul's choir
or Westminster Abbey; it's one or the other. He will give me three
guineas. I am so glad it is guineas, not pounds. The three shillings
will buy my white gloves, and the sovereigns can all go to the
children. Why do you look so grave? Are you unhappy to think that
you'll never know the bliss of earning money which you really need?"

"I am afraid I grudge you to the aldermen," he said, his eyes resting
tenderly on her bright face, just for a minute.

"For my part, I think they are a very good old institution," she said
gaily. "And think how inexpressibly funny it will be to sing the Grace
when we have had just no dinner at all!"

"You can think of your guineas," said Max, laughing. "What other songs
shall you sing?"

"I wish you would come home and help me to decide," said Doreen. "I
should like very much to introduce you to my aunt."

Max was not slow to avail himself of the suggestion; for Doreen
fascinated him, and he recognized the same curiously winsome nature
that had so greatly taken his fancy years ago. Since then, he had been
courted and made much of by dozens of far prettier, far richer, far
better-dressed girls, but to none of them had his heart responded in
the same way. Doreen, with her varying Irish nature, now sad, now gay,
and invariably warm-hearted and courageous, fairly bewitched him.

Mrs. Garth seemed a little startled when her niece appeared in the
drawing-room with Max in attendance; however, she quickly realized
that to a girl brought up in America all seemed natural enough, and
then, moreover, this handsome Mr. Hereford was an old friend and had
known her as a child. She had not talked with him for ten minutes
before she was fully satisfied that he was the sort of a man her
sister would have approved of. Together they discussed the important
question of what songs should be sung, and Aunt Garth having
counselled something tolerably well known, Max turned over the songs
in the portfolio, till he came to Bishop's "Tell me my Heart," and
protested that it was precisely the song to suit the audience, who
would be sure to like what they remembered in the days of their youth.
He was intensely eager to know how Doreen's voice had developed, and
his face, as she sang the song, was a study. Was it, Mrs. Garth
wondered, merely admiration of her singing, which brought the glow to
his cheeks and the light to his eyes, or was it some deeper feeling?
The great charm of Doreen's voice lay in its mellow sweetness; she had
no very great compass, but her notes had that fresh purity which one
hears now and then in the voice of a boy, while she had gained from
her woman's heritage of pain and sorrow a depth of expression to which
no boy chorister could possible attain.

"That is perfect," said Max, at the close.

"I was afraid you were going to make the remark that I am weary of
hearing," said Doreen, laughing. "Every one says, 'Ah, what a great
career you have before you!' and the wretched thing will not begin."

"It is to begin the day after to-morrow," said Max; "and you must
certainly give them something Irish."

"The 'Minstrel Boy,' perhaps," she said. "It ought to be something
familiar,--something to which they will wag their feet in time, you
know, which is always a soothing sensation, and conducive to applause
at the end."

Mrs. Garth left them for a while, and Doreen eagerly availed herself
of the chance of asking a question which had just occurred to her.

"There is one thing I have been longing to know all these years," she
said; "have you heard anything more about the search for Lord
Byfield's agent? or has it now passed out of memory?"

"I have heard nothing more of it since we left Ireland," said Max;
"the affair caused great commotion just at the time, and every effort
was made to get some clue to the mystery; but it has fairly baffled
them all."

"Do you remember," said Doreen, with a shudder, "how they said his
wife had vowed that she would never rest until she had brought some
one to the gallows for it?"

"Yes, poor creature; I heard that her grief had taken the form of a
thirst for vengeance, but the secret has been faithfully kept, you
see, and she is baffled."

"What became of Mr. Desmond?"

"I have lost sight of him. He recovered from his attack of brain
fever, or insanity,--for undoubtedly it amounted to that,--and while I
was at Oxford I saw him once or twice; then he went abroad, and for
the last five years I have been unable to learn his whereabouts."

"Do you know," said Doreen musingly, "since I have grown older, I have
often thought it was very wrong of him to let four people bind
themselves by such an oath. You would never have done such a
thing,--you would have gone straight to the nearest magistrate and
told the whole truth; that it was just a quarrel, and that the
provocation had been intense; and you would have gone to prison for
manslaughter, and borne it all nobly. And then you would have come out
again stronger than ever to help Ireland."

"I am not so sure," said Max; "your ideal is a high one. I should
probably not have done anything so heroic. As for poor Desmond, we
must not forget the state of mind he was in,--utterly bewildered by
the shock, and incapable of judging. He meant to shield my mother and
Miriam from discomfort, and he sacrificed us. I have often been
miserable enough at the thought of what had been forced upon you."

"When I feel very wretched about it all," said Doreen, "I think how
it was a little like Moses killing the Egyptian and burying him in the
sand. It was the wrong way of delivering his countrymen from the
oppressors, and yet God let him afterwards become a true deliverer.
Perhaps even our mistakes will teach us."

"You must have longed for some one to speak to about it."

"Yes; I can't tell you how terrible the craving was. The worst of all
was just before my father and mother died."

"Had your father any sort of guess, do you think, as to the affair?"

"Never," she said. "Once he asked a few questions as to the condition
of the tenants on Lord Byfield's estate, and actually inquired what
the missing agent was like. But they say every girl with a secret
becomes a good actress; I described that dreadful face, which you and
I shall always be able to see, and he knew nothing from my look or
tone that I did not wish him to learn. I still burn your little lamp,"
she concluded, looking with a smile into his face; "nothing would
induce me to be without it; it has been my good friend all these
years. The other night when Brian Osmond, our young Irish doctor, came
to see Mollie, who sleeps in my room, he was quite taken with it, and
vowed that he should get one like it when next he goes to Ireland."

"Who is Mr. Osmond?" asked Max, with an unreasonable pang of jealousy.
"Is he a friend of Mrs. Garth's?"

"Yes, and of mine; that is, of course, a new friend," she added,
colouring a little, as she realized how much more Max Hereford was to
her. "He was very good when the children were ill, and I like him; but
he is rather too grave and silent; I take great pleasure in obliging
him to laugh."

"You leave me jealous, both of doctors and aldermen," said Max, rising
to take leave as Mrs. Garth returned. "I must tell my mother that you
are in London, and if you will allow it, we will come the day after
the concert to inquire after you."

"I should so much like to show Mrs. Hereford the children," said
Doreen; "and Michael has never forgotten the corn-popping over the
fire at Castle Karey."

"But our kernels behaved badly, if I remember right," said Max, taking
a long look into the merry blue eyes.

"Yes; it was foretold that we should agree to part," said Doreen, her
face assuming a comical expression of mock gravity. "Good-bye."

"May the aldermen value their privileges," said Max. "I wish you good
luck."




CHAPTER VIII.


    "Young hearts are free: the selfish world it is
      That turns them miserly and cold as stone,
    And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss
      Which but in giving truly is their own:--
    She had no dreams of barter, asked not his,
      But gave hers freely as she would have thrown
    A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth
      Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth."

                                                 LOWELL.


Warren the tenor seemed greatly pleased with the substitute the agent
had found him, and Doreen acquitted herself well, as even the
unmusical Freen could guess. Her eagerness to do everything in the
best possible way was satisfactory. "It was not every one," he
reflected, "who took so much pains for a city dinner."

"Come a little early to-morrow night," he said, "and we will run
through the Grace and the national anthem in the artistes' room with
the other parts. I will ask Madame St. Pierre to be kind enough to
come a few minutes beforehand for your sake."

Doreen could talk of nothing else when she got home, and the children
shared in her excitement; yet when the day actually came, the poor
girl felt sad enough, for the craving for her mother's presence
returned with overwhelming force, reaching its height when she
unfolded the white silk dress, embroidered with shamrocks, which had
been the last work that her mother had done before leaving New York.
More than one hot tear fell as she put it on, and it was well that
Dermot and Mollie came trotting up to beg to be her page and her maid;
for nothing but their childish gaiety and their delight in the new
dress could have cheered her. All too soon Hagar Muchmore came to
carry them off to bed.

"It's much too early," protested Dermot, prepared to offer a stubborn
resistance; "the clock only stroke six just now; I _heared_ it."

"That's so," said Hagar, quietly; "but I guess you'll always have to
be in bed early the nights your sister sings, for I must go and take
care of her."

"Why?" asked Dermot. "I thought grown-up people took care of their own
selves, and Doreen is awfully old."

This set them all laughing, and in her heart Doreen rather wondered
how Mrs. Muchmore would comport herself in the artistes' room. Her
presence, however, was decidedly comforting, when, having left the
children safely in bed, taken a hurried farewell of Aunt Garth and
Michael, over their game of draughts, and of Uncle Garth, buried in
papyrus documents, she stepped forth into the cold night, and leaning
back in the cab saw the gas-lit streets and the busy passengers
flitting past as they rolled swiftly away to the city. Arrived at the
Grocer's Hall, she was taken upstairs to the room set apart for the
performers, and having taken Warren's injunction to come early in the
most literal sense, she waited through what seemed an eternity before
any one else appeared, growing more and more nervous every minute. At
last Warren himself came in, accompanied by the pianist, who was
introduced to her; then, after an interval, a very fat, heavy bass,
with an enormous black beard, stalked in with his music under his arm.
Finally, with a little bustle of arrival, which seemed to betoken her
celebrity, there entered the great Madame St. Pierre, with her French
maid in attendance. Warren treated her with the greatest deference,
while Doreen, feeling horribly young and inexperienced, watched the
great lady as she was divested of a magnificent plush cloak, bordered
with the most costly fur, and contemplated with awe the regal gown of
ruby velvet and the diamonds that flashed upon the ample white neck of
the great contralto. Beside such assured grandeur, such queenly
composure, she felt like a wretched little white ghost; she was
conscious, too, of being decidedly hungry after her long waiting and
her very frugal four-o'clock dinner. Her knees trembled beneath her
when Warren said, "May I introduce Miss Doreen O'Ryan to you, Madame
St. Pierre, a _dbutante_ from America, and a pupil of Rathenow's."

Madame St. Pierre gave her a stately, somewhat frigid
greeting,--novices from America were not popular. She consented,
however, to run through the Grace, and the national anthem; and at the
close there was a distinct change in her manner. "Oh, you will get on
very nicely; you need have no fear about that," she said
good-naturedly. "By the bye, Mr. Warren, have you heard anything about
Madame De Berg's projected tour in America? I hope it is not true that
she intends to take with her that unlucky little violinist, a mere
baby of seven, who ought to be in the nursery."

"No; her father will not permit her to appear as yet in public, and is
taking her to Germany to study there till she is ten or eleven."

"That's the most sensible thing Harry Kingston ever did in his life,"
said Madame St. Pierre, approvingly. "It went to my heart to think of
that unfortunate child being dragged through the United States in the
company of Madame De Berg."

"She is Kingston's cousin," said the tenor.

"Yes, and has a most unlucky influence over him. It will be well for
the child if her kinswoman's career is over before her own begins. I
should like to have invited Una to play with my own children, but I
assure you it was out of the question; the child is a perfect little
heathen, and lies as glibly as a hardened woman of the world. It's
easy to see who has had the training of her."

Doreen listened to the conversation with some interest, feeling not a
little compassion for the infant violinist who was too depraved to
meet Madame St. Pierre's children; and while she was still wondering
what sort of person this Madame De Berg could be, the summons came for
the performers to go down to the banqueting-hall.

A brilliant scene was disclosed as they emerged from the staircase
into the gallery at one end of the building; down below were the
gorgeously decorated tables, with their lavish display of flowers and
rich plate, their tempting fruit and dainty sweetmeats darkly outlined
by the prosperous-looking diners in their sombre evening dress. At the
other side of the gallery sat a few magnificently attired ladies, the
wives of the city magnates and of the most distinguished guests of the
evening. And now the dreaded moment had actually arrived, and above
the subdued roar of conversation rose the stentorian voice of the
toast-master who stood behind the chairman.

"Gentlemen, pray silence for Grace!"

It was a voice that made one feel as if the Day of Judgment had come.

Doreen tried to forget the great hall and the glaring lights; she
thought of the dim nursery at home, and of the children asleep. She
tried to pretend that she was singing in the drawing-room to Max
Hereford once more, and her voice rang out clearly as she sang:--


    "For these and all Thy mercies given,
    We bless and praise Thy name, O Lord;
    May we receive them with thanksgiving,
    Ever trusting in Thy word.
    To Thee alone be honour, glory,
    Now, and from henceforth for evermore. Amen. Amen."


The ordeal was over; and while the toast-master shouted out,
"Gentlemen, be pleased to fill your glasses! bumpers, if you please,"
Doreen was able to sit down, and was glad enough to do so; for the
floor of the gallery seemed rocking beneath her. The thought of her
solo made her shudder, and it was not till the whole assembly rose
loyally shouting, "The Queen! The Queen!" that she forgot her fears.
But when, as the four performers stood up, a hush instantly fell upon
the great gathering, a sense of power and of keen delight in the power
came to her. The pianist led off, and the first verse of the national
anthem was sung as a quartette. Then Doreen's fresh young voice rang
through the building, and she first realized what it meant to rouse
and stir an audience. In her rendering of the verse


    "Thy choicest gifts in store,"


there was such ardour, such contagious enthusiasm, that not only the
professional singers, but the whole assembly joined in the
chorus,--joined not formally or frigidly, but with purpose and
intention.

"I call that pretty good for a Fenian's daughter," observed the fat
bass to Warren, as the singers left the banqueting-hall for a time.

His voice had been insufficiently lowered, and Doreen, who was a
little in advance, turned to confront him.

"I am a Home-Ruler," she said, her colour rising a little, "not a
Separatist. There is no one I reverence and admire more than the
Queen. But when I pray that she may 'defend our laws,' I assuredly
don't mean the countless coercion acts under which my country has
groaned, but the just laws our Parliament of the future will pass.
Even rebels know how to honour goodness. Meagher once thrashed a man
who spoke disrespectfully of Her Majesty."

The fat bass stared; he did not in the least understand her; but
Warren, the tenor, liked her spirit, and with a kindly word or two
turned the talk to some other subject.

After this came an interval when she was glad to sit quietly by Hagar
Muchmore in the artistes' room. A strangely dreamy feeling crept over
her; she forgot her present surroundings, and fell to thinking of Max
Hereford. Why had his eyes rested so tenderly on her as he said that
he grudged her to the city aldermen? Why had he professed to be
jealous of Brian Osmond, the doctor? Why had he, at parting, taken her
hand right into his, and held it for a minute, as if he would fain
protect her? Not one of her New York admirers had been capable of
reaching her heart. They had been charmed by her singing and by her
amusing talk; but Max Hereford, by a mere look, a mere touch, had, in
a single afternoon, outstripped them all. She turned over the leaves
of her next song by way of checking her thoughts, but to little
purpose; for was not the song "Tell me my Heart"? And what was it that
her heart was telling her? It was silent, quite silent, about that
great career which every one prophesied for her; it was not the very
least elated by the consciousness of her power, or the knowledge that
she had succeeded well. It held only one image,--that frank, open,
English face, with its warm colouring, its genial expression, its
light brown hair, and well-opened hazel eyes. If any one had given her
the choice at that moment of all that she most desired, she would
unhesitatingly have said,--the presence of Max Hereford.

"Time for your song, Miss Doreen," said Hagar; "and you'd best be
careful of your dress on the stairs; for those waiters, they've
dropped gravy and custard, and I don't know what all, upon them."

Doreen laughed; as she gathered up her train, she wondered what had
come over her, that all at once she should feel so strong to face the
world. Only a little while ago she had stood like a forlorn little
ghost beside the great contralto, and had glanced with timid awe at
those marvellous silk dresses of the city ladies, which looked as if
they would stand alone, from the inherent virtue of their extra
super-fine quality. There was surely, too, a new power in her
rendering of Bishop's song. Never before had she attained such pathos
as in the first verse, or such joyous, irrepressible happiness as in
the second part of the song. The audience heartily approved of her,
and she went home with Hagar Muchmore, holding the three sovereigns
and the three shillings in her hand, with a glad consciousness that
they were but the earnest of much more to follow. It was not until the
quiet of the house in Bernard Street once more surrounded her, that
she realized how lonely she was. Uncle and Aunt Garth were the kindest
people in the world, but they had singularly little power of
expression, and went on the principle of "Deeds, not words." Now
Doreen was one of those who disputed the truth of this saying, stoutly
maintaining that deeds without words were as dull as bread without
butter. She sorely missed the genial flow of talk which her father had
accustomed her to; she longed with an intolerable longing for her
mother's sweet face and ready sympathy. Half the pleasure of success
would have been in the joy it would have given to her parents; and
somehow it was impossible to give a graphic description of the evening
at the supper-table, where Uncle Garth sat with his newspaper before
him, or to respond very much to Aunt Garth's low-toned questions. The
profound gravity of the atmosphere seemed to strangle all natural
mirth; moreover, there was something trying in the very small
appetites of the host and hostess, to this hungry girl of eighteen,
who, after her very early dinner and the hard evening's work, could
have eaten a far more substantial meal than the one prepared. It was
inevitable that in the silence her thoughts should wander back again
to Max Hereford,--Max, who had somehow helped her that night to sing
as she had never sung before, and whose life, for weal or for woe, was
irrevocably bound up with her own.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he and his mother
should call the next day; the house grew brighter at once, to her
fancy, and with an almost motherly pride she enjoyed showing the
children to Mrs. Hereford, whose heart was touched by the little pale
faces which showed evident signs of recent illness.

"They want country air, my dear," she said. "You had better send them
down to Monkton Verney; we would take every care of them; have you a
nurse you could trust to take them there?" "Yes; Mrs. Muchmore is the
most trustworthy being in the world," said Doreen. "But there are so
many of them, it would be giving so much trouble in your house."

"The place is just standing empty," said Mrs. Hereford, "and a month
in the country would do them all the greatest good. As to trouble, you
need not be afraid in the least; the servants will be thankful to have
them, for they find the months of our absence dull enough. Come, let
us arrange to send them down next week. It is such an easy journey;
and then in Easter week, when we intend to spend a few days there
ourselves, you will, I hope, come with us: the country will be looking
very pretty by that time. To my mind, there are great advantages in a
late Easter, and you will be able to see how your little folks are
getting on."

Doreen's heart bounded with pleasure at the suggestion; she could only
gladly consent to a plan so entirely in accordance with her own
feelings, and as Mrs. Hereford turned to talk to Mrs. Garth, she
looked up half shyly at Max.

"Do you remember," she said, "how long ago in Ireland you told me all
about your home, and about the old priory, and the fir hills, and the
heather?"

"Ah, we shall just be too early for the heather," said Max. "You must
come again later on for that. There are dozens of places I want to
take you to. We must climb Rooksbury together, and you shall wish for
a prosperous career at the wishing-tree, and we will row on Trencham
Lake, and fancy that we are once more at Castle Karey, and--happy
thought--we will have the grand opening of the new Firdale Coffee
Tavern while you are there."

"After last night, I feel more than half inclined to turn teetotaler,"
said Doreen. "What an atmosphere it was to sing in! And then, when I
got back to the artistes' room, with my throat all on fire with the
smoke, and the concentrated essence of the dinner which floated up to
us in the gallery, there was all the difficulty in the world to get
just a glass of water; there was any amount of champagne, but a glass
of water seemed unattainable, until Hagar Muchmore, who is not easily
beaten, went down herself to forage for it."

"Who will go about with you, if this Mrs. Muchmore is down at Monkton
Verney with the children?"

"Well, if I am lucky enough to get any engagements, I shall have to go
alone," said Doreen. "But they say it is better when you can to have
some one with you. I shall not be able to take Hagar about the country
with me when I begin to get provincial engagements though, for you see
the expenses would mount up dreadfully. Those who are alone in the
world must learn to fend for themselves."

A look of trouble swept over Max Hereford's bright face; he seemed
about to speak, but at that moment little Mollie trotted up to her
sister with a note which had just arrived.

"Freen, the agent!" said Doreen, glancing at the handwriting. "Perhaps
he has heard of more work for me. Excuse me one moment."

She read the letter, and looked up with sparkling eyes.

"It is an offer to sing in the 'Messiah' the day after to-morrow, at
the Albert Hall. Just think! that charming Miss Latouche is still
indisposed."

They all laughed at her candid speech.

"Well, well," she added, "I am, of course, sorry for her, and I hope
it's a comfortable sort of illness. But only to think that my greatest
wish should have come so soon! I wonder how I shall manage 'Rejoice
Greatly' in that huge place; it almost frightens me to think of it."

"We must come and hear you," said Mrs. Hereford. "By the bye, had you
not better drive there with us? What time should you wish to be
there?"

"Oh, not more than five minutes before the beginning," said Doreen.
"Never again will I be unpunctual at the wrong end, and have a whole
hour to wait as I had last night; it takes all the courage out of one
and sets one's nerves on edge. It is so very kind of you to offer to
take me."

"It will be a great pleasure," said Mrs. Hereford, kissing the sweet,
sunshiny face, which seemed to her still to retain much of its
childlike character. "I have often wondered whether I should ever
again hear the voice that Max discovered in Ireland; and to hear you
in the 'Messiah' will be a special treat."

"I shall not feel so alone if you are in the audience," said Doreen;
"I shall sing to you, and forget the rest of the people."




CHAPTER IX.


    "A smile that turns the sunny side o' the heart
      On all the world, as if herself did win
    By what she lavished on an open mart!
      Let no man call the liberal sweetness sin,--
    For friends may whisper as they stand apart,
      'Methinks there's still some warmer place within.'"

                                     E. BARRETT BROWNING.


"Was I right?" said Max to his mother, as they drove that afternoon
from Bernard Street. "Is she what I described to you?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Hereford. "I don't think you said a word too much in
her praise. If success does not spoil her, I think she will be a very
noble woman. And I don't think it will spoil her, for she seems too
large-hearted for petty vanity."

"I wish she need never take up this hateful profession," said Max,
with a sigh. "Think of the mixed lot of people she will be forced to
associate with; some of them no better than they should be."

"You might say just the same of Miriam, in her society life," said his
mother. "I don't see that it is more objectionable to sing with a bad
man than to dance with him: the tares and the wheat are together, and
we have not the separating of them. Doreen seems to me the sort of
girl who would pass unscathed through the most difficult life. 'Mailed
complete in her white innocence,' as Whittier puts it. By innocence I
don't mean ignorance, but a nature without guile,--a nature that will
neither harm nor be harmed."

"Yet the fate of her nation seems to be upon her," said Max. "Think of
the troubles that have from her very childhood persistently beset her!
Do you remember the account she gave us of her father's arrest?"

"Yes, poor child; and for all her brightness you can easily see that
the shock of last January has, in a sense, ended her girlhood. Though
so much younger than Miriam, she has already about her an almost
motherly tenderness which I doubt whether Miriam will ever gain."

"You are always a little hard on Miriam," said Max, laughing; "but we
should fare very ill without her. She is quite unique, you must admit,
and, like Phyllis in the song, 'never fails to please.'"

Mrs. Hereford did not reply; for in truth her niece was a sore
perplexity to her, and she had for the last three years lived in
terror lest Max should fall in love with her,--a possible, but highly
undesirable, ending to the cousinly friendship and intimacy which had
so long existed between them. She ardently longed to see Miriam
satisfactorily married and settled, but the girl seemed in no haste to
comply with this wish; she flirted and amused herself, and used Max as
a convenient _cavalire servente_, when no one more desirable was to
be had. It was, perhaps, natural that Mrs. Hereford, in her terror of
what this might lead to, and her desire to rescue her son from a
position which chafed her motherly pride, should turn with relief to
such a woman as Doreen O'Ryan. She had immediately learnt, from her
son's way of talking about the girl, that he greatly admired her, and
she was too unworldly and unconventional to care in the least for
wealth or social standing. Doreen was good, loving, well bred, well
educated. What did it matter that her father had been on the staff of
a rebel paper, and had been imprisoned at the time of the Fenian
rising? The important thing was that this sweet-voiced, sweet-natured
Irish girl would be far, far more likely to make Max a good wife,
than Miriam, with her restless craving for incessant amusement and
incessant admiration.

She left the choice of seats for the concert to Max, and was secretly
amused at his chagrin when he returned.

"Nothing to be had in the stalls till the tenth row," he said;
"however, it is the right side, so perhaps after all it is not so bad.
Are there any decent flowers in the conservatory that we could send
Miss O'Ryan?"

"Plenty of lilies-of-the-valley, if they will do," said Mrs. Hereford.
"You had better let Harding arrange them for you; she made two lovely
sprays for Miriam the other night."

But this did not suit Max at all. His mother learnt from the maid that
he had insisted on arranging the flowers himself, and the result
seemed satisfactory; for when, on the eventful night, they called for
Doreen, the white lilies in her dark hair, skilfully arranged by Mrs.
Muchmore's clever fingers, looked really charming.

"The rest of them I have here," she said, throwing back her cloak, and
showing the lilies nestled against her snowy neck.

"And there is the real, original, 'Colleen Bawn' cloak," said Max;
"now I can imagine myself once more at Castle Karey."

"Well, not exactly the original one," said Doreen, laughing; "that has
been cut up for Mollie. You seem to forget that I have grown since we
were in Ireland."

Presently a silence fell upon them. Mrs. Hereford guessed that the
girl was somewhat nervous; yet there were no signs of special
excitement about her face, when now and then it became clearly
visible, as the light from a street lamp flashed across it. "It is a
noble face," thought Mrs. Hereford; and, in truth, that was the first
impression that Doreen usually made upon people. Later on they would
describe her as charming and winsome; but the first thought was
invariably of a certain indefinable air of goodness, a loftiness of
soul, which invested the face with a strange power.

"This must be a great day for you," said Mrs. Hereford, guessing a
little what was passing in the girl's mind.

"Do you know," said Doreen, "it feels to me like my confirmation day;
and I am so glad that what may be counted as my first real appearance
in public is to be in the 'Messiah.' How I have dreamed of attempting
it, and longed to try!"

"I suppose you do not come in just at first?" said Max; "doesn't the
soprano always have an effective little entrance all to herself just
before the pastoral symphony?"

"Yes," said Doreen, "disturbing the first violins, and making an
unnecessary fuss. I don't mean to do that, but shall come in at the
beginning with the others; it seems to me in better taste, especially
for a novice."

With a little shudder she saw that they were fast approaching their
destination,--there upon one side was the Albert Memorial, while in
advance she could see the lights in the great hall, and the throng of
carriages.

"There goes Madame St. Pierre!" she exclaimed, as they paused while
the brougham in advance of them set down its occupants. "That is
fortunate; now I can go to the artistes' room under her wing."

For a moment her hand rested in Max Hereford's as he helped her to
alight; then with hasty farewells she ran up the steps, pushed open
the swing door before he could forestall her, and hurried away in
pursuit of the retreating contralto. Max, feeling baffled and
unaccountably miserable, returned to the carriage.

"Stalls' entrance!" he said sharply to the coachman as he closed the
door.

"Well, she seems in good spirits," said Mrs. Hereford; "it is a
terrible ordeal for a girl of that age."

"Yes," said Max grimly; "but her whole heart is in her work. She is,
in every sense of the word, an artiste."

"True artiste, yet true woman," said Mrs. Hereford quietly; and the
words came back to Max comfortingly as he sat in the vast hall,
listening to that somewhat stirring process of the tuning of a great
orchestra, and watching the chorus as they assembled, yet never
letting his eyes roam far from that particular little opening whence
he knew the solo singers would shortly emerge.

But first of all came the conductor, with evident intention of making
a speech. A thrill of disapprobation ran through the assembly; for was
not Clinton Cleve, the great tenor, to sing that evening, and had he
not, owing to his terribly susceptible throat, a most trying habit of
disappointing people at the last moment? There was perfect silence for
a minute, and the conductor, to the general relief, announced that,
owing to the indisposition of Miss Latouche, the soprano solos had
been undertaken, at very short notice, by Miss Doreen O'Ryan. The
people clapped, not because they cared at all for this unknown
_dbutante_, but because they were intensely relieved that it was the
soprano and not the tenor who had failed. In another minute, there was
a burst of applause, as the bass appeared, leading Madame St. Pierre,
followed by loud cheers as the beloved tenor, the idol of the public,
emerged from the back of the platform, graciously ushering in the
white-robed _dbutante_, and making her smile by a low-toned
injunction to remember the words spoken to Fanny Kemble, and to regard
the audience as so many rows of cabbages. Fortunately for Doreen, the
very size of the vast assembly was in her favour; the place seemed
vague and dream-like, the huge gathering, just an impersonal mass,
gorgeously coloured like some brilliant and crowded flower-garden.
Then, when Clinton Cleve had sung, as no other tenor could sing,
"Comfort ye," and "Every Valley," she no longer thought of success or
failure, of criticism or of the children's daily bread, but lost
everything in the perfect enjoyment of the music, and in the strong
desire to tell forth her divine message in the most perfect manner
possible. In the last chorus before her trying recitatives, she sang a
few bars, gaining confidence as her voice blended with the others, and
falling more and more into the spirit of the oratorio, as with her
heart and soul she sang of "The everlasting Father, the Prince of
Peace."

All nervousness had now left her; it was Max who was nervous, as he
sat there in the stalls, watching the absorbed, sweet face of the girl
he loved. Had she, indeed, forgotten this great assembly of critical
people? It seemed like it, for she looked as happy and peaceful as
though she had been listening to the angels' music on the far-away,
quiet hillside near Bethlehem. And when the violins ceased, she stood
up with a simple, straightforward, almost childlike air, her clear,
reedy voice sounding softly through the great hall, as she told how
"There were shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their
flocks by night." Max lost all fear for her, as she delivered the
message of the angel; he lost that shrinking from the thought of the
solitary girl standing up in the huge building, for it was no longer
possible to doubt that Doreen had found her true vocation. He wondered
that he had wished it to be otherwise, so great a thing did it seem to
him that she should be able to keep thousands spell-bound, to raise
them, if but for a time, into such divine enjoyment. It was not until
the end of her most trying solo, "Rejoice Greatly,"--a song which
taxed her strength very severely,--that she could receive any
recognition from the audience; but then, just as she became conscious
of her excessive exhaustion, there came a stimulating burst of
applause. This was renewed so vigorously and persistently after "Come
unto Him all ye that labour," that it became really necessary to
repeat the song, and there were tears in many eyes as the exquisite
air, all the better loved because so familiar to every one, fell once
more upon the listening throng in that wooingly sweet voice. In the
interval, she realized that her career had begun most auspiciously,
for every one spoke to her with the greatest kindness. Clinton Cleve
laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder, genuine pleasure lighting up his
rugged old face, as he looked down at her.

"You did very well,--very well indeed," he said. "I like your style,
and the _timbre_ of your voice is sympathetic. Would to heaven that I
were at your age, with my career just beginning!"

He patted her cheek as though she had been a child, and turned away
with a sigh, wandering off in search of a mirror, that he might see
whether his wig was well adjusted. Doreen was next accosted by the
conductor, who, at the rehearsal on the previous day, had been
somewhat brusque with her, but was now full of compliments and
congratulations; and then Madame St. Pierre came up to introduce her
husband, the well-known harpist.

"We have a little project to suggest to you," she said. "Monsieur St.
Pierre and I intended to get up a company this autumn for a provincial
tour. Mr. Freen tells me you have at present no engagements for the
autumn, and I am quite willing to accede to the terms he requires for
you. Possibly we may have Madame Gauthier, the pianist; but there will
be no other lady in the party, and you would find her rather a
pleasant travelling-companion; we hope to induce Ferrier, the
celebrated bass, to be one of the party."

Doreen could only thankfully accept a proposal which would, as she
well knew, do much to give her an assured position in the musical
world; and when, at length, her work for that evening was over, and
she found Max Hereford waiting outside the door to help her into the
brougham, her face was radiant.

"My dear, how tired you must be," was Mrs. Hereford's motherly
greeting, as she made room for the girl beside her. "You have, indeed,
given us a treat to-night."

"They were all so kind to me afterwards," said Doreen. "And, oh, it is
a wonderful oratorio to sing in! I am so glad my first appearance was
in that, for it is the Irish Oratorio, you know."

"How is that?" said Max.

"Handel was very fond of the Irish," she replied, "and the 'Messiah'
was first performed in Dublin, and the proceeds were given to the
distressed prisoners' fund. Many of those who were in gaol for debt
were really freed by it. I kept on thinking of that to-night: it was
the performance, you know, when all the great ladies agreed to leave
off their hoops, that there might be more room."

"What did it feel like to have that huge audience applauding you so
heartily?" said Max.

"It felt lovely," she said, with the utmost frankness; "as refreshing
as ice-cream soda on a hot day in New York."

They laughed at her simile; but a passing gas-lamp revealed to her the
same look on Max Hereford's face that had startled her when she spoke
of Brian Osmond, the doctor, a few days before.

"You said you grudged me to the aldermen, and I believe you had the
same feeling to-night," she said, smiling. "And that is very unfair,
since you yourself were among the audience. Or is it that you grudge
me the applause? That is even more unfair. You see the short-lived
triumph, but you don't at all realize the years of study and
preparation, the scales and the exercises and the monotony of hard
work, to say nothing of the anxiety."

Max wondered how she had discovered from his manner that vague
discomfort which he could not at all justify.

"Every one must have realized to-night that you had found your
vocation," he said, "and to-morrow I shall seize the opportunity of
laying trophies at your feet in the shape of the daily papers."

"Ah! the critics! I had forgot that they were there taking notes
to-night. How I dread them! It is horrible to think how much depends
on a few lines in a paper. And if the writer happens to be in a bad
temper or to have the toothache, ten to one he will visit his
discomfort on others, and put in words of carping criticism that may
ruin a singer's reputation."

"Somehow, I don't think they will be hard on you," said Max. "If they
are, you must follow the example of Vaughan the novelist. I met him at
the club the other day, and the talk happened to turn on a most
ruffianly attack made upon him lately in the 'Hour.' Now I happened to
know who had written it, and said so. 'Don't tell me his name,' said
Vaughan, with that quietly humorous smile of his; 'I prefer to picture
him as a poor, struggling, penny-a-liner, working in a garret, soured
by lack of success and desperately hungry. With the proceeds of that
_critique_, he went out and had a rattling good dinner, and upon my
word I am glad to have furnished him with a meal.'"

"Was the critic really poor and half-starved?" said Doreen.

"No, nothing of the sort; just a conceited young jackanapes fresh from
Oxford, and much spoiled by the flattery of his home circle; a
fastidious, narrow-minded prig, who, if he lives to be a hundred, will
never do as much for the world as Vaughan has already done."

"And the moral of that is, 'A fig for the critics,'" said Doreen,
laughing. "But all the same, I shall want to see what they say, and I
don't at all want to share the fate of Kingsley's 'Feckless hairy
oubit,' when 'The saumon fry they all arose and made their meals of
him.'"

The talk turned upon the arrangements for sending the children to
Firdale, and Doreen, tired but very happy, was set down in Bernard
Street, where every one but Hagar Muchmore had retired to bed.

"Cold and hungry, ain't you," said the kindly nurse; "come and sit you
down by the fire, and eat this basin of mock turtle. 'Twill hearten
you up nicely."

Doreen, dreamily happy and content, took the proffered chair, and held
out her dainty white-shod feet to the fire.

"Please take the lilies out of my hair," she said. "I want to keep
them. Oh, Hagar! it has been a wonderful evening; I wish it were just
beginning over again instead of all being over."

"Bless your heart!" said Hagar, almost tenderly; "you're young,--yes,
very young."

But it was not the applause, or the sense of triumph, or even the
recollection of the music, which lingered in Doreen's memory so
deliciously. It was the close pressure of Max Hereford's hand as he
bade her farewell on the doorstep, and the glance which had said so
plainly, "I belong to you, and you to me."

All night long she seemed to dream of him, and it was with no surprise
that soon after twelve the next morning, as she was practising in the
drawing-room, she heard his name announced. He came in looking
unusually blithe and contented, some half-dozen newspapers in his
hand.

"Here are the trophies," he said, when she had replied to his
inquiries, and had persuaded him that she was none the worse for the
fatigue of the previous night. "Oh yes, you need not be afraid; you
can read them without calling up that picture of the hungry scribe in
the attic, for they are one and all agreed about you."

"And prophesy the great career, no doubt," said Doreen, laughing
merrily as she glanced through the _critiques_. "Well, they are very
kind to me,--quite wonderfully kind. Such praise makes one inclined to
quote Dr. Watts, and sing, 'Not more than others I deserve.' And yet
do you know last night when it was all over, and I went up to look at
the children in bed, and found them sleeping so peacefully, and was so
happy to know that their education and bringing up was now quite safe,
I couldn't help feeling that I should be very, very sorry if Mollie or
Bride had to be professional singers. I don't think I could bear to
think of it for them."

"Now you understand me," said Max, triumphantly; "now you realize that
grudging feeling of which you accused me."

"But to be a singer is my vocation," said Doreen, musingly; "I am as
certain of that as that we are talking together at this moment. I
couldn't be a painter, or a governess, or a do-nothing sort of person,
or a nun. Even before the Castle Karey days I knew quite well that I
had to be a singer."

"Yet you own that you would not wish one you love to take up the
work?"

"If it were their vocation, they would be obliged to take it up, but I
hope it will not be their special work. I would so much rather they
could just be quietly at home."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I see now that the life of any artiste must be a double life,
and that it must be very, very difficult to make both the lives what
they should be. It is bad enough to face it for oneself, and a great
deal worse to think of my sweet Mollie having to play so hard a part."

Max seemed about to speak, but something in his look made her
hurriedly proceed, as though she were anxious to check him.

"But it is ungrateful to speak thus of the life, when all the time I
know there will be much that is enjoyable about it, and that it is my
clear duty to live it. And now, as to the children's journey to
Firdale. I am the worst hand in the world at Bradshaw, but auntie
assures me that the 2.45 is the best train, and that they won't have
any change."

Max found himself remorselessly plunged into the dreary discussion of
practical details, and knew that it would now be impossible to say
what had been trembling on his lips but a minute ago. However, he
consoled himself by the remembrance that Doreen would soon be at
Firdale herself, and that it would be hard indeed if the fir woods,
the lake, or the ivy-grown ruins of the Priory would not afford him
place and opportunity to open his heart to her.




CHAPTER X.


    "Her summer nature felt a need to bless,
     And a like longing to be blest again."

                                     LOWELL.


Miss Latouche remained obligingly ill for the next fortnight, and
Doreen was fortunate enough to be asked to take three of her
engagements in the provinces. Nothing, however, chanced to interfere
with her visit to Firdale, and Mrs. Hereford arranged to call for her
in the carriage and take her to the station; for she was one of those
people who, although rich themselves, have enough imagination to
understand how to be really helpful to those who have to think of
every sixpence. Her visitors were always made to understand that no
gratuities must be given to her servants, and the servants themselves,
who were amply compensated in other ways by their mistress, would no
more have accepted a fee than an attendant in a well-ordered theatre
or a waitress in an aerated bread shop. In this way it was possible to
make Monkton Verney the greatest boon to many who were sorely in need
of change, yet had little enough to live upon.

Doreen was just sufficiently tired to enjoy most thoroughly the
prospect of a rest, and, though she was far from being self-indulgent,
and was quite content with the simplest style of living, she was
nevertheless conscious of keen enjoyment as she lay back in the
luxurious carriage, and still more when at the station she found
everything beautifully arranged for her. It was delightful to be
waited upon by Max Hereford; it was pleasant to have no anxiety about
luggage, or recalcitrant porters, or grasping cabmen; it was restful,
too, to be tucked up cosily in the corner seat of a first-class
carriage, instead of skirmishing for oneself in a crowded third-class
compartment; and, above all, it was a treat not to be alone, but to
have companions who at every turn seemed to consider her comfort. She
made them laugh with her merry account of her three journeys into the
provinces.

"Aunt Garth did not half like my going alone," she said, "and
persuaded me at Exeter to go to a very small, quiet, old-fashioned
hotel, thinking it would be nicer for me. But nothing could have been
worse. It was so very quiet that there was only one other visitor. I
came down rather early to dinner, and thought that at such an hour I
should probably dine alone. But at the long table were two places
laid, and scarcely had the soup been removed, when in stalked a
solemn, black-bearded Frenchman. He spoke no word, but sat down
opposite me, tucked his table napkin into his collar, felt in his
waistcoat pocket and drew out a pill-box, from which he produced two
huge black pills as big as the top of my thumb,--they truly were quite
as big. Whether he saw me shaking with suppressed laughter I don't
know. We simultaneously grasped the water caraffe; he withdrew his
hand; I poured out a tumblerful, and gulped down my mirth as well as I
could; he followed my example, and with frightful agility swallowed
his pills. After that experience, I don't think I shall venture on
small hotels again!"

The first sight that greeted them on the Firdale platform was
Michael's eager little face, which lighted up till it positively shone
as he caught sight of Doreen.

"The coachman let me drive part of the way to the station," he said
gleefully. "He is the jolliest man you ever saw, and, oh, there are
such heaps of things to show you! Mollie wanted to come too, but we
thought she'd better not, because I shall have to be inside going
back, as the what-you-call-it--the waiter--no, I mean the
footman,--from London, will be on the box."

Michael's unfailing tongue chattered the whole way to Monkton Verney,
and his pride in pointing out to Doreen every possible point of
interest greatly amused Mrs. Hereford.

"Why, Michael, I think you must be intended for a newspaper
correspondent," said Max, greatly taken with the bright-eyed boy.
"Nothing seems to escape you."

"Oh, I don't want to write," said Michael. "It's Dermot that means to
go in for that. I do so want to be an engineer."

"Yes, indeed, I counted it a great proof of your affection that you
were looking out for me, when our train came in, and not studying the
engine," said Doreen, laughing. "Engines are his latest hobby; he will
read the driest books about them, and will rattle off the names of
their component parts in a way that makes my brain reel."

"But you like them yourself," said Michael, wistfully.

"Why, yes, asthore, of course I do. I like anything that you like, and
will never forget to tell you the name, and the sort, and the colour
of every engine I travel by."

"It will be a great help to you, if both boys have some marked
inclination to guide you in their education," said Mrs. Hereford. "You
had better talk to the Worthingtons, who are coming to stay with us
to-morrow. Sir Henry Worthington is a great railway director, and
would be able to give you plenty of advice as to Michael's future."

"You will like the Worthingtons," said Max. "They are the most
delightful people; and Lady Worthington is Irish. We must keep off
politics, though; for they are of the opposite party. Have you heard
yet, mother, when Uncle Hereford comes?"

"He says he will ride over from the camp to-morrow afternoon. His
portmanteau must be brought from the station with the Worthingtons'
things. Now, Doreen, this is the beginning of Monkton Verney, and we
shall soon be home. I am sure you must be longing for afternoon tea."

"And for the children," said Max, with a glance at her eager eyes.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "What a paradise it has been for them!"

The road skirted the park, of which glimpses could now and then be
seen through a thick wild-wood which bordered it. On the other side
lay peaceful, green meadows, a narrow, winding river, and the woods of
a neighbouring estate, not yet in leaf, but with those varying hues of
early spring which are almost more beautiful than the following stage.
Presently they came to a place where four ways met.

A steep, sandy road led upwards among stately fir groves, and Max drew
her attention to it.

"That is the way we shall take you to Rooksbury," he said.

"And there is the water-mill that I sketched for you in my letter,"
said Michael.

"And here we are at home," said Mrs. Hereford, as the carriage turned
in at the pretty gate-way near the mill.

But Doreen had hardly a glance to spare for the solid, well-built,
slightly prosaic mansion; she only saw two little figures dancing
about on the steps, and in another minute Dermot and Mollie had flung
themselves upon her.

"And if you choke me with the four arms of you round my throat, what
will become of us all then?" she said gaily, carrying off Mollie to
greet Mrs. Hereford, her heart full of joy at the sight of the bonny
little face so dear to her.

The country air had brought the colour back to all the pale little
faces, and Mrs. Muchmore, established in a large, airy nursery, was
full of pride in the well-being of her small charges.

"Hagar Muchmore is really the most wonderful woman," said Doreen, as
she rejoined Mrs. Hereford in the drawing-room. "She has the art of
making herself at home everywhere; she does not seem cramped in a
crowded little cabin, or in dreary lodgings; and yet she does not look
out of her element in that beautiful nursery of yours, where a dozen
children would have room and to spare."

"Ah, my dear, I often wished I had the dozen to fill it," said Mrs.
Hereford. "It used to look gaunt and bare, somehow, when there was
only Max to tenant it. As often as we could we had Miriam with us, but
being both only children, they quarrelled a good deal, and it was not
always a successful experiment. The servants have nothing but praise
for your four little ones,--never were such children, according to my
housekeeper."

"Well, I think they are all pretty good hands at amusing themselves,"
said Doreen. "I was a little bit afraid that Hagar Muchmore, with her
brusque, independent ways and republican frankness, might not get on
very well, but she seems to have made friends all round and looks as
happy as a queen. Perhaps her intense veneration for the first real
ruin she has ever seen was in her favour. The ruins and the ivy seem
quite to have taken her breath away. You see we can't supply old
priories in America, and ivy does not grow there."

When they had had tea, Max proposed that she should come out and see
the Priory; and together they crossed the smooth, well-kept lawn, and,
skirting the side of the little lake, passed through the shrubbery to
the park beyond, where, in the soft sunset light, stood the gray old
ruin, with its air of peaceful decay, its forlorn, roofless walls, its
graceful arches and fragments of delicate tracery. Sheep were
peacefully grazing within the dismantled choir, and birds flew
homeward to their nests in the thick ivy which clustered about the
pillars.

"I don't think you are so enthusiastic as Mrs. Muchmore," said Max,
looking into her face, which had grown sad and wistful.

"Ruins are somehow depressing," she said. "Do you remember the ruined
Abbey near Castle Karey? I never could understand how your cousin
could spend whole days in painting it. One can't help thinking of the
builders and how all their hopes and efforts are at an end; failure
seems written over the whole place in spite of its loveliness."

"It shelters sheep still, though not the two-legged ones it was
intended for," said Max, smiling.

"Yes; but it is much too good for mere animals," said Doreen.

"What would you do with it if it were yours?" he said. "Some people
think I ought to restore it; but I am not going to be such a fool as
to plant a huge church in a place where there is not even a village."

"I think," she said musingly, "I should turn it into almshouses for
old people, or into a convalescent home for Londoners. You could use
the choir for the chapel. It would perhaps spoil your view a little
from the house, but the building could be low and need not be
unsightly."

"I wonder what my heir would say to it," said Max. "However, I need
not trouble much about that thought, for the property will certainly
never come to him."

"Why not? Is it only yours for your lifetime?"

"It is a curious thing," he said. "But this property never remains in
the same family long. It may pass from father to son, but the grandson
has never been known to succeed. I am told it is the case with all
estates that were once church property, and there is a book containing
many instances of the kind. I would not like to say that I altogether
believe in the legend, and yet it certainly seems something more than
a mere coincidence." Doreen shivered a little. At heart she was
superstitious, and this idea appealed to her Keltic imagination.

"How did it come into your possession?" she asked.

"The estate was in the market. My father bought it, but died only a
year after the purchase. Do you see that old crone over there picking
up sticks? She told me, as a child, all manner of legends about the
former owners. She is rather a character; I should like you to see
her."

They walked on towards a plantation, where a skinny old woman was
slowly tying up her bundle of firewood, with many muttered
ejaculations.

"She looks like a witch," said Doreen.

"As children, we used to call her Goody Grope, after the old woman in
Miss Edgeworth's story; and the name has stuck to her ever since. But
she is a worthy old body, and full of humour when you get her in the
right mood. Good evening, Goody; how are you?" he exclaimed, as the
old woman looked up and caught sight of them. "This lady comes from
Ireland, and she wants to hear all the stories about Monkton
Verney,--all that you used to tell us long ago. Don't you remember?"

"Glad to see you home again, sir," said Goody, curtseying to them
both. "The lady, I take it, is of kin to the pretty little lass I saw
up at the house last week."

"I am her sister," said Doreen, with her usual happy pride in claiming
kinship with Mollie. "Have you been telling your delightful tales to
the children, I wonder? There's nothing they would like half so well;
they are just crazy about stories."

"Bless their little hearts!" said Goody; "there's many a tale I could
tell them."

"But don't you go telling them about the ghost, Goody; I don't allow
that ghost to be talked about. He's part of my property; and now that
I'm of age, I'll manage him myself. You'll be scaring the children if
you tell them the Priory is haunted. Many's the time as a child, that
I've made myself go shivering to the window, ashamed to lie quaking in
bed, and have looked out at the ruins to see if he was really there."

"And did you ever see it?" said Doreen, who, like Minna Troil, did not
believe in ghosts, but was, nevertheless, afraid of them.

"Never," he said, with a mischievous glance; "but Goody has often seen
him; you ask her."

"What is it like, and where did you see it?" asked Doreen, with an
interest that charmed Goody.

"Thrice have I seen it, but never again will I run the risk; for
afterwards it makes a body feel badly for weeks to come," said the old
woman. "Drains all the strength out of you, that it does."

"Is it, then, so dreadful to look at?"

"No," said the old woman, musingly; "it's not that it is altogether
horrible to see, but it's uncanny to look up all at once, as you are
crossing the park on a moonlight night, and thinking of nothing in
particular, to be taken right back into the past,--to see a figure
kneeling there in the ruins in the old-time dress, a wide ruffle about
the throat of him, and a little beard cut in a point, and a cloak cast
about his shoulders. You can see his picture in Monkton Verney Hall
now, and the ghost is as like the picture as eggs is like eggs."

"Is he inside the Priory or outside?"

"Well, I reckon it is where it would have been the inside, but the
outer wall being all down, you can see him plain enough as you cross
the park; he kneels there prayin' and prayin' to be forgiven. Many's
the night I've heard his pitiful cries,--fit to make your blood run
cold."

"A banshee, is it?" said Doreen. "Does he foretell misfortune?"

"Owls," whispered Max; "I have often seen them, and heard them, too."

"Oh yes," said Goody, not heeding the murmur of the Sadducee who owned
the ruin. "Doubtless, he foretells misfortune; there's always
misfortune to them as owns this property."

"Now, Goody, put it mildly," said Max, laughing. "You know there are
exceptions to prove every rule. You always admitted that I might be
the happy exception. And if you made out such a black case against
Monkton Verney, you will be frightening my guest away the very day she
has come."

"I always had hopes of you, sir," said Goody, looking into his blithe,
cheerful face. "If ever there was one fit to reverse the ill-fortune
of the place,--why then, it's you. But it's seen many a sad tale.
There was Lord Royle, who got it first in King Henry's time, and
turned out the Prior and spoiled the church; that's the one that
walks," she added, with a glance at Doreen. "He lived to be an old
man, and saw every one of his children come to a bad end. Then there
was Sir Peregrine Blount, in King Charles' days; his only son was
killed in battle. Next, the Lepines had the place, and all went well
for a time, and there was two bonny lads born to them; but the heir
and his brother, they both fell in love with the same lady, and they
fought a duel together, and one was killed and the other was hung for
his murder. Then the Wintons bought the place, and did well for a bit
till the South-Sea Bubble burst,--I don't rightly know where, but it
ruined them somehow, and the place was in the market again till the
Chorleys took it; and they did well and were good to the poor, and the
father saw no ill in his time, nor the son in his; and men thought the
doom was at an end. But when the grandson came into the estate, men
saw that the delay had only made the doom all the worse; such trouble
there had never been before. From being a pleasant enough boy, young
Mr. Chorley grew into the wildest and wickedest man that Monkton
Verney had ever known for its owner. He went to the bad, and there
were shocking doings, I've heard my mother say. And one night, when
there was a great party of them in the house, drinking and gambling,
sudden destruction came upon them. The master was taken ill, and the
next day two of the guests were stricken down. The rest fled, but
before the week was out Squire Chorley was carried to the churchyard.
After that the house stood empty many years, until Squire Hereford
bought it. There's a doom on the place,--nobody can deny that, though
nowadays folk laugh at such things. They can't get over facts; and
it's my hope that the squire here will be warned in time, and give
back to the Almighty what is His by right."

"For my part," said Max, smiling, "I think it's uncommonly hard that I
should be made to suffer for the sins of Lord Royle, which took place
in 1536. The place was bought with money which my father had
honourably earned as a civil engineer, and why can't you let me enjoy
it in peace, Goody?"

The old woman shook her head. "There'll never be peace in Monkton
Verney," she said; "not lasting peace."

"The same might be said of most houses in the world," said Max,
entirely unconvinced. "Show me the family that in three generations
contrives to escape great and grievous trouble, and I will believe
your legend."

"Have ye heard the doom, miss?" asked Goody, turning to Doreen for
sympathy, and scanning her Keltic face with a keen but appreciative
glance.

"Oh, is there really some rhyme about it?" asked Doreen, eagerly.

"Some beautiful doggerel; but it sounds impressive when Goody says it,
specially in the twilight," said Max, with a mischievous twinkle of
fun in his eyes.

"The rhyme was found, miss, in the old church register, written in the
margin by the entry of Lord Royle's burial," said Goody; and in slow,
measured accents, she repeated solemnly the following doom:--


    "'Gained by fraud,
    No good shall come;
    None shall find
    A lasting home.
    Peace shall ne'er
    Be here again,
    Till the land
    Is freed from stain.
    This is Monkton Verney's doom.
    Lord, let Thy blessed kingdom come!'"


There was a minute's silence, then the old woman picked up her bundle
of firewood.

"'Tis getting late, sir, and the lady will be taking cold," she said.
"I wish ye both good evening."

They bade her a kindly farewell, and thanked her for the story.

"Lady Worthington will be here to-morrow, and she will be coming to
see you for certain, Goody," said Max; "she loves nothing better than
to hear you tell of the ghost."

They turned away and crossed the park to the shrubbery, the old crone
pausing more than once to look after them.

"Yon's a bonny-looking lady," she said to herself; "and there's that
in her face that might likely enough reverse the doom. It would be a
fine-thing if she was, indeed, to bring peace to Monkton Verney and
lay the ghost. The squire, he do seem took with her, but he be young
and a bit headstrong, and with a temper that ill brooks contradicting;
and I reckon the lady herself is a trifle too much of the same sort of
temper,--holds her head like a queen, she does."

"Isn't she a funny old soul?" said Max, as they walked briskly home;
"I like to see her solemn dark eyes grow bigger as she says that
wretched bit of doggerel which, to her, is more beautiful, I am sure,
than any poem in the world."

"There was something quite uncannily prophetic about her whole air as
she said it," replied Doreen, smiling. "And yet, you know, there is
truth in the words,--


    'Gained by fraud, No good can come.'


Why, really, the whole rhyme might be applied to the way in which the
Act of Union was gained. It's a sort of Home Rule song, and I couldn't
help thinking, as she said it, how you English cheated and tricked us
out of our parliament."

"Now, here is fresh light on the problem," said Max, laughing. "Lady
Worthington and her sister are for ever telling me to restore the
church, and I tell them I will wait till the congregation is ready for
it. You think that by turning Home Ruler I shall set right this
ancient wrong."

"No, not this one; this is your own private affair, and the other a
national matter. I only compared one with the other."

"Ah, yes, it was to be almshouses, or a convalescent home. But I don't
really think it's fair that I should suffer and try to make amends for
somebody else's wrong-doing."

Doreen turned and looked at him for a moment with puzzled eyes.

"Why," she said, "I thought that was exactly what we had all promised
to do. Isn't that following Christ?"

She had the usual Irish habit of speaking with the utmost frankness of
spiritual things; in her voice there was no slightest change, no
conventional tone of piety: there was to her no borderland between
sacred and secular, and the effect was strange enough to startle an
Englishman. Some would have deemed the tone irreverent, but to Max,
after the first shock of surprise, it seemed like the unaffected
sincerity of a child; and back into his mind there flashed a
remembrance of a mountain-side, and of a little figure in a red cloak,
and of a sweet-toned voice, ending the graphic description of a night
of terror with the words, "Afterwards God talked to me, and it was
better."

"Do you recollect that morning on Kilrourk," he said, "when you began
to make plans for the future and fired me with the ambition of being a
public speaker? You seem to have the gift of inspiring people with
ideals. Your scheme is certainly more practical than Lady
Worthington's. It even begins to make me feel a little uncomfortable."

"Why uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable as one feels in the morning when the bell rings, and
you know that before long you must get up just when you long to lie
lazing."

"You are not very complimentary," said Doreen, laughing. "Never before
have I been compared to anything so disagreeable as a dressing-bell."
Then, as they paused to close the gate leading into the shrubbery, she
glanced once more at the gray old Priory. "Do you know," she
exclaimed, "when old Goody was saying that misfortune always followed
the owner of Monkton Verney, I couldn't help wondering whether that
had anything to do with your ill-luck in being present that day on
Lough Lee, and witnessing the struggle between Mr. Desmond and--"

She broke off suddenly with an involuntary start, for at that moment,
as they turned a sharp angle in the path hedged in by closely clipped
shrubs, they came suddenly upon Baptiste, the French servant.

"Mr. Stanley has called to know if he can speak to you, sir," said the
man, speaking, as usual, in his native tongue; for he had proved
singularly slow in acquiring English, and still protested that he
could not understand it unless spoken very slowly.

"It is the manager of our coffee tavern," said Max. "What a plague the
fellow is to come just now! I suppose I must go and see him, and,
perhaps, you have had as much walking as you care for."

"Do you think," said Doreen, with a feeling of vague discomfort, "that
Baptiste can have heard what I was talking about? We came upon him so
suddenly, when I never dreamt any one was there."

"Oh, I don't think he could possibly make anything out of such a
fragment as that, even if he heard the words. And, as a matter of
fact, I don't suppose he did hear, for he is a regular duffer at
learning English, and knows little more than when he first came to us.
We should not have kept him, only he is such a handy fellow, and
always gets on with people."

"It was careless of me to speak about it at all," said Doreen; "but I
made sure we were quite alone, and it is somehow such a relief to be
able to speak of it now and then."

At that moment Michael caught sight of her, and came running across
the lawn, while Max, very loath to attend to business, went in to
interview the manager of the coffee tavern.

Baptiste, in the mean time, had retired to his room in the servants'
wing, and, unlocking a desk, had drawn forth a shabby little
note-book. Sitting down by the window to catch the fading light, he
made the following entry in French:--

"To-day the 18th April, being five years and eight months from the
time of Mr. Foxell's disappearance, I travelled down from London to
Monkton Verney with my master, Mrs. Hereford, and a young Irish lady,
Miss Doreen O'Ryan, now becoming noted as a public singer. Heard much
talk about this lady's childhood, she being a daughter of one
concerned in the Fenian rising some years ago. She was also staying
near Castle Karey at the time of Mr. Foxell's death, and accompanied
my master and Mr. Desmond on the 18th August on an expedition to Lough
Lee, as before mentioned in my journal. Taking a message to my master
late this afternoon, I heard him closing the shrubbery gate, and
paused behind a bush in hopes of overhearing their talk; was fortunate
enough to hear Miss O'Ryan use the following noteworthy words, 'Your
ill-luck in being present that day at Lough Lee, and witnessing the
struggle between Mr. Desmond and--'

"Compared with Mr. Desmond's words let fall during delirium, I am in
hopes that at length we have the clue."




CHAPTER XI.


    "Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,
    No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
    In angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
    Interpreter between the gods and men."
                                          _The Princess._


Doreen was so happy that first day at Monkton Verney, that she was
almost inclined to regret the advent of other guests, and inhospitably
wished General Hereford had not seen fit to ride over from the camp in
time for lunch. He came, bringing with him an atmosphere that somehow
was uncongenial to her, and she could scarcely help smiling when
Dermot drew her confidentially apart as soon as the meal was over, and
in the softest of voices, asked, "Is that Mr. Worldly Wiseman? He's so
awfully like him."

"Why, Dermot, what a goose you are," said Michael, reprovingly. "He
always seems to be thinking that he sees people out of books! The
other day, when we were in Firdale, there was a circus passing through
the town, and on one of the cars there were two lions in a cage and
the tamer in with them, and Dermot shouted out, 'Look, look! there's
Daniel in the lions' den!'"

Doreen laughed; but she thought Dermot had very accurately hit upon a
likeness for General Hereford, though she could hardly have defined
what it was about him that she disliked. He carried off Max to the
smoking-room, so that she had plenty of time to muse over her somewhat
uncomfortable first impressions, and Mrs. Hereford presently proposed
a drive, relapsing before they had ended the first mile into a gentle
doze, and leaving her companion to the enjoyment of the scenery and of
her own thoughts.

"I wish he had not come," she said to herself. "He seems to be for
ever sitting in judgment upon everything and everybody, and he
patronizes Max,--how hateful it is to see any one patronize him! To be
sure, he was once his guardian, and, perhaps, it is the remains of the
old manner in which he treated him as a boy,--but that he, of all men,
should dare to do it! A man so inferior in every way, so shallow and
selfish and conventional, one of the coldly censorious people that can
never be stirred up into an honest enthusiasm over anything. I detest
him, and I am sure he detests me."

At this moment Mrs. Hereford awoke, refreshed by her nap, and not in
the least imagining that she had really slept. She began to tell of
the Worthingtons, of their children, of Sir Henry's kindness to Max,
and of the help he had always been to her.

"They are our oldest friends," she said. "Katharine and I were at
school together as girls, and Sir Henry was a college friend of my
husband's. What they were to me at the time of my husband's death, I
can never tell you; and all through the difficulties of later years
when I so greatly needed advice, there has always been Sir Henry to
turn to. In many ways he was more truly my son's guardian than General
Hereford, and Max, though not at all agreeing with many of his views,
has the most profound veneration for him."

"Did I not hear that Lady Worthington was Irish?" said Doreen.

"Yes, but not of your persuasion," said Mrs. Hereford, smiling.
"Still, I think you will like each other,--I feel certain of it; Lady
Worthington takes strong likes and dislikes: but I shall be greatly
surprised if you two do not quite fall in love with each other."

The surmise proved correct; for Doreen instantly felt a sense of
kinship with the tall, graceful, bright-eyed Irish woman, whose rapid
movements and rapid talk, and keen, quick glances, were so full of
animation and vitality that she seemed younger at fifty than many
women at thirty. Max watched a little anxiously, to see what her
impression of Doreen would be, for he knew from experience that if she
happened to take a dislike to any one, she would take small pains to
conceal it; he knew that Lady Worthington had heard from his mother of
Doreen's history and parentage, and though well aware that politics
would, as usual, be a tabooed subject during the Worthingtons' visit,
he was a little afraid that she might start with a prejudice against
Patrick O'Ryan's daughter.

But Lady Worthington, who had protested to her husband all the way
from the station on the folly of Mrs. Hereford in humouring her son's
admiration for the penniless daughter of a Fenian, was fairly caught
and enthralled the very moment the girl was introduced to her. For
about Doreen there certainly was a curious power of fascination;
perhaps it lay in that frank sincerity which had so charmed Mrs.
Hereford, that genuine goodness of a nature without guile; or again,
it might have been in the unquenchable brightness of spirit, the
mirthfulness which sorrow and care were powerless to crush. But it was
a fascination which few could resist, and it appealed to what was
highest in others, not merely to their sensuous nature.

A very merry and cheerful dinner ensued, and Doreen's heart was
entirely won over when, afterwards, Lady Worthington begged to see
little Bride, and went up with her to the night nursery to visit the
children in bed. She had three children of her own and seemed to have
endless experience of all childish ailments.

"They are careful comforts, my dear," she said. "But very real
comforts for all that, and I don't think I ever saw a more charming
little quartette than yours."

To Doreen, who was quite as proud of her children as though she had
been their mother, this in itself was enough to stamp Lady
Worthington as a delightful and discerning person. She was amused to
see Michael's knight-like devotion to her, and made Max laugh by
telling him of the boy's comments.

"He thinks Lady Worthington must be the most beautiful lady in
England. 'I thought' he said, 'that people with titles like that would
be horrid and pompious, but she is not the least bit pompious,--she's
less so than other people, not more.' Michael is never so funny as
when he gets hold of a long word and pronounces it in a way of his
own; in one of his letters he assured me that the Priory was very
capricious from the drawing-room windows."

"I shall call him Mr. Malaprop," said Max, laughing. "But by the bye,
that reminds me that your Convalescent Home would also be very
conspicuous from the drawing-room, and not after such a pleasing
fashion." He turned to Lady Worthington, and asked her what she
thought of the idea.

"'Tis the most sensible notion I have yet heard," she said, "and Miss
O'Ryan, as the originator, ought to lay the foundation stone."

"But what will the artists say to our spoiling the ruins? My cousin,
Claude Magnay, will call me a Goth."

"He may grumble, but his sensible little wife will soon make him see
reason. They have just returned to London; I travelled down with them
from Rilchester yesterday."

"Is he all right again?"

"I doubt if he will ever be quite as strong as he was before the
accident," said Lady Worthington, "but he is so far recovered that he
can begin to work again. It has been a wonderful recovery, and they
are as happy as their own two babies."

They relapsed into talk about Rilchester, and Max and Doreen wandered
off to the other end of the drawing-room, where, between talking and
singing, the time passed only too quickly.

The days that followed were to Doreen more like a delicious dream
than a bit of real life. After those weary months of sorrow and
anxiety, after all the illness and suffering she had had to witness,
after the torturing sense of poverty and helplessness, this easy life
in the country house was the perfection of rest. She seemed able to
live only in the present; neither the griefs of the past nor the cares
of the future oppressed her, while each day deepened within her a
happy consciousness that she and Max Hereford somehow belonged to each
other.

On the last afternoon of their visit, it had been arranged that they
should go up a well-known hill close by, called Rooksbury; an
expedition which the elders of the party entirely declined, for
Rooksbury was steep, and there was no winding path by which it could
be easily scaled. Lady Worthington preferred to drive with Mrs.
Hereford, Sir Henry and the General rode over to the camp, and the
children, to their great satisfaction, found that only Max and Doreen
were to accompany them. The fir woods which clothed the hill rang with
the merry voices of the climbers, as they toiled up over the bare
ground, slippery with fir needles. At the summit, upon the further
side, looking away from Monkton Verney over a wide stretch of
heath-covered, undulating ground, there stood a crooked hawthorn,
known as the wishing-tree; and here Max insisted that they must all
register a secret wish, solemnly walking three times round the
bush,--a proceeding which enchanted the children. This ceremony over,
the two boys went to the more sheer and slippery part of the hill to
enjoy the delight of incessant running up and down, and Max found a
sheltered nook for Doreen, where she could watch Mollie at a little
distance searching for daisies in the grass near the wishing-tree.

"How strong I ought to be for all the work that is coming," said
Doreen, "after this heavenly rest. It is odd, but do you know, being
here has made me feel years younger."

"I hate the thought of your going back to that struggling life!" he
exclaimed impetuously. "Doreen, why must you go at all,--why not make
this your home? You know--you must know--that I love you! Come and
help me to reverse the doom on the old place. I love you, dearest,--I
love you! be my wife, and help me to keep the promise to work for
Ireland!"

Doreen did not speak; but neither did she resist him when he took her
hand in his, and held it closely. The light in her blue eyes was
reassuring; he remembered how as a child, when wakened by him on the
mountain, she had looked up at him with glad recognition, almost
embarrassing him with her frank, "I was dreaming of you."

There was a newly awakened look about her eyes now; but it was a
thousand times more beautiful. It seemed to him that all her soul
looked out of them, recognizing and claiming his. At last she spoke
reflectively,--almost sadly.

"I wonder," she said, glancing towards little Mollie, "whether I ought
to let you wait for me. Even if I succeed as a singer, it would be
impossible for me to think of marrying for the next five or six
years."

"You are thinking of the children, and of providing for them," he
said; "but surely you know that they would be to me like my own
brothers and sisters. We could make them very happy at Monkton
Verney,--you see, already they love the place."

She put her other hand upon his with a little, tender caress.

"Max," she said, speaking his name for the first time, half shyly,
"you know that I love you, and you must not misunderstand and think me
proud or ungrateful, but I cannot let you marry the whole family like
that,--I really cannot. It is right that I should use my one talent; I
am not going to hide it in the earth and just be idle."

He sighed; but he had known beforehand that she would never consent to
abandon her profession. She would not have been the girl whom he loved
and reverenced, had she done so.

"I will wait," he said. "My father himself was engaged seven years,
and married but one. The doom will surely not be cruel for two
generations."

Doreen's eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Max," she said, "I cannot let you pledge yourself to me like
that; it is not fair to you. There shall be no engagement between us;
but if five years hence you are still in the same mind,--why, then,
you can tell me."

Max vehemently protested against such an arrangement, but Doreen was
firm.

"Indeed, it will be best so," she pleaded; "it would never do for the
engagement to be publicly announced now; it might hamper you in your
political life,--it might even make my career more difficult and
tedious. Besides, I should feel all the time that I was perhaps doing
you harm. You might meet some one in your own set who would make you a
far better wife; and then, if you were really betrothed to me--! No,
no; I cannot let that be! Let us wait; we can meet often as friends,
and no one save your mother need know that we understand each other."

"And your aunt; she ought to know," said Max, certain that he should
never get upon a comfortable footing in Bernard Street unless Mrs.
Garth were taken into confidence.

"Yes; you are right," said Doreen; "and auntie will be a very safe
person. She will not talk us over with her friends."

"And in four years I may speak again," said Max, boldly cutting off a
whole year from the time she had stated.

She assented, and began to speak of all the work that would make the
time pass quickly. And Max, being quite certain of her love and of his
own constancy, prepared to face the waiting-time with a certain brave
cheerfulness which characterized him.

"We will make a compact that four years hence we will climb Rooksbury
again together, and--and manage things better," he said, smiling; "but
who knows that when you are a great _prima donna_, and I, perhaps, an
unsuccessful candidate for Firdale, that you will not throw me over?"

"How can you say such things!" she cried; "you know well enough that I
shall not change."

"Very well; I will take your word for it," he said, smiling. "The plan
we made long ago as we climbed Kilrourk is in a fair way to be
fulfilled; now let us seal our promise as we did that very different
promise in the Castle Karey fernery."

But the kiss was to each of them as unlike that former one as the
promise itself was unlike that unwelcome pledge of secrecy. In the
strength of the love which it symbolized, Doreen felt that she could
face her four years of waiting and working, and her face was so
transfigured with joy that even Michael noticed it, and wondered.

"We have had such a jolly time on the other side!" he exclaimed. "Why
didn't you come there and watch us?"

"Well," said Doreen, readily, "the sun was on this side."

"How it does seem to shine on your face," said the boy. "I never knew
before, Doreen, that you were pretty."

"For which frankly fraternal speech you shall be chased down
Rooksbury," said Doreen, laughing; and, having seen that Max had taken
charge of Mollie, she bounded down the hillside, her feet flying over
the steep, slippery ground, as she sprang from one tall, straight
trunk to another, being well aware that those who try to walk down a
fir hill generally come to grief.

Max, with little Mollie on his back, paused at the top to watch her
lithe figure in its swift descent. Who would have thought that this
was the singer who had held thousands in rapt attention at the Albert
Hall such a little while ago! and who would dream that this girl of
eighteen had all the care and responsibility of a family of four
brothers and sisters to whom she must be guardian and breadwinner!




CHAPTER XII.


    "If then thou dost not make use of the shield of
     patience, thou shalt not be long without wounds."

                                        THOMAS  KEMPIS.


"I have come to confession," said Max that night as, according to his
invariable custom, he looked in the last thing to bid his mother good
night on the way to his own room.

The maid had gone, and Mrs. Hereford in the prettiest of
dressing-gowns sat beside the fire, reading. The sunshine of late
April might be pleasant enough in the day-time, even on the heights of
Rooksbury, but the nights were still chilly, and in her large, lonely
room she liked a fire for company. The large, old-fashioned sofa stood
at right angles with the hearth. Max sat down in his usual place
beside her; in his well-opened eyes there was a curious mixture of
gravity and subdued triumph.

"I am a rejected lover," he said, smiling.

"Your looks belie you," said Mrs. Hereford, glancing with motherly
pride and love at the comely face, and thinking within herself that he
need not greatly fear rejection.

"Nevertheless, I'm speaking the strict truth," said Max, sighing a
little. And by degrees he told her what had passed that afternoon.

"I know what you will say," he concluded. "You will say it is the best
thing that could have befallen a fellow who has all his life been
spoilt and indulged, and had exactly what he wished the moment he
craved for it."

"Well, dear," she said, "I am sorry for you, but I really do think
this waiting-time will do you no harm. I suppose some people would say
that you ought not to have proposed to her while she was staying here,
but I can't regret it; it is far better that you should understand
each other."

"Far better if she would consent to a real engagement, to my way of
thinking," said Max. "However, it is of no use; she will not hear of
it. Seems to think it might be hard on me, or a hindrance, and was
ready with all sorts of prudent considerations that I should never
have thought likely to cross the mind of a girl of her age."

"She has seen many sides of life, and has been forced to think for
herself. That she should dwell so much on your side of the question
shows how much she loves you, and that she is no mere weak, impulsive
girl, but a true woman."

"Ah, _Mtterchen_!" he said, using the tender German term of
endearment which he had learnt as a child, "what a mercy it is I
belong to you, and not to a mother like Aunt Rachel, who would expect
me to marry money and a title."

"Of money you already have enough," she replied, smiling; "and I would
much prefer your marrying Doreen O'Ryan, with her sweet nature and her
lovely voice, to your marrying into the most aristocratic of families.
But indeed you wrong Aunt Rachel. Though she is anxious to see Miriam
well married, I don't think she covets a title for her. Indeed, to
tell the truth, I have always been a little afraid that she wished you
to be her future son-in-law."

"Heaven forfend!" said Max. "Miriam and I shall always be good
friends, but nothing more. There is hardly a single subject we agree
upon; we should indeed make a quarrelsome couple."

There was a minute's silence. Mrs. Hereford, thankful as she was to
think that Miriam would not be her daughter-in-law, could not but
realize that in marrying Doreen O'Ryan there might be sundry
difficulties and discomforts which Max could hardly yet realize. That
the two would be very likely to disagree as to future arrangements she
quite foresaw.

"Do you think," she said, "that such an artiste as Doreen would ever
be willing to retire from public life at the end of four or five
years?"

"Oh, it will be time enough to think of that later on," said Max,
easily. "I daresay by that time she will be sick of all the drudgery,
and glad enough of rest and peace."

"I don't think she accounts it drudgery."

"But in time it must become so. Think of the sheer hard work of the
travelling; and then the excitement, the jealousies, and the
criticisms, the wearing anxiety, the galling sense of living in the
fierce light of public life! Oh, how I hate the thought of it all for
her!"

"I think you scarcely realize how sacred her calling is to her," said
Mrs. Hereford. "I have been very much struck with the way in which she
regards it as a sort of divine mission."

"I see she has lent you her favourite American poet," said Max, taking
up the volume which Mrs. Hereford had been reading when he entered. "I
tell her it is a contradiction in terms for a public singer to be
devoted to a Quaker."

"I fancy she owes a great deal to the gospel according to Whittier,"
said Mrs. Hereford. "You will never persuade her that Browning is the
only poet in the world, and Mark Shrewsbury the only novelist. She has
much more catholic tastes than you have, and will see the best points
of many rather than the supreme excellence of one. To me her great
charm lies in that readiness to perceive beauty in everything. There
are some lovely thoughts in this 'Andrew Rykman's Prayer,' which I was
reading."

Max did not care for Whittier, but the sight of Doreen's pencilled
line in the margin made him read the following passage:--


    "Thou, O Elder Brother! who
    In Thy flesh our trial knew;
    Thou, who hast been touched by these,
    Our most sad infirmities;
    Thou alone the gulf canst span
    In the dual heart of man,
    And between the soul and sense
    Reconcile all difference;
    Change the dream of me and mine
    For the truth of Thee and Thine,
    And, through chaos, doubt, and strife,
    Interfuse Thy calm of life;

    *    *    *    *    *

    Make my mortal dreams come true
    With the work I fain would do;
    Let me find in Thy employ
    Peace that dearer is than joy;
    Out of self to love be led,
    And to heaven acclimated,
    Until all things sweet and good
    Seem my natural habitude."


"It must be his straightforward simplicity that she likes," he said,
putting down the book; "that and his practical way of looking at
spiritual things. What shall you say, mother, if I really try to make
something of this notion for putting the old Priory to use?"

"I shall say it is a capital plan," said Mrs. Hereford; "and the
arranging will be a very good thing for you during your waiting-time.
But you could not build it in a day; it would need a good deal of
thought and care."

"Yes, and some retrenchment," said Max. "But I shall not mind that; it
will make my life a little more like hers. There are several expenses
which we might cut down."

"Yes," assented his mother, restraining a smile; for Max, though not
exactly extravagant, had a way of letting money slip through his
fingers, and the thought of his practising economy seemed somehow
incongruous. But he was absolutely in earnest, and as he bade her good
night his mind was full of schemes for the future.

As he entered his room, Baptiste turned the lamp a little higher,
adjusted the shade, and inquired whether his master needed anything
further.

"Nothing more," replied Max. "Call me at seven to-morrow morning."

"I will get up early," he thought, "and run through those accounts
before breakfast. And talking of retrenchment, I might just as well do
without Baptiste. He is a handy fellow, and I shall miss him, but
after all--after all--"

The thought was never completed, for as usual his head had hardly
touched the pillow before he was asleep, and the next thing he knew
was that a clear and unwelcome voice was endeavouring to rouse him.

"_Monsieur! Monsieur!_" said Baptiste, with peremptory firmness. Then,
as Max muttered some rejoinder, he instantly relapsed into his usual
tone of humble deference.

"A fine morning, _Monsieur_, and the clock has just struck seven."

Max gave just a sufficient indication that he was awake to induce his
tormentor to leave the room. Then, with a portentous yawn let his
eyelids close once more.

"After all," he said to himself, drowsily, "one would make but a poor
hand at accounts before breakfast. I will think matters over here,
instead. Baptiste shall go, and--and--"

Here he relapsed again into a delicious sleep, from which he was only
roused by the ringing of the eight o'clock dressing-bell.

"It is Doreen's last day here," he reflected drearily, and came down
to breakfast feeling disgusted with himself and with life in general.

Doreen, however, was one of those people who wake with a buoyant sense
of strength and a conscious delight in being alive. The morning was
invariably her best working time, and this particular spring morning
when, for the first time, she had awaked to the remembrance that Max
loved her, was one of the red-letter days of her life. Her bright
face and merry talk seemed to bring sunshine into all hearts, and
when, after breakfast, she went away to superintend the packing, she
seemed to leave an extraordinary blank behind her.

"I would almost as soon hear that girl talk as sing," said Lady
Worthington; "her voice in speaking has something absolutely
bewitching in it."

"She must not waste her last country morning over packing," said Mrs.
Hereford. "I will send Harding to do it for her, and persuade her to
go out."

Going upstairs, she knocked at Doreen's door, catching, as she did so,
the familiar strains of--


    "'Tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
     And they're hanging men and women there for wearing of the green."


Doreen, on catching sight of her, apologized for making such a noise.

"I get into the way of singing to the children up in my bedroom," she
explained. "One or other of them generally comes to be my page or my
maid."

"I want you to let Harding finish the packing for you," said Mrs.
Hereford, taking little Bride on her knee, and looking with motherly
eyes at the sweet, bright face of the girl Max loved.

"Thank you, but it is really almost done," said Doreen. "I woke very
early and was too happy to go to sleep again, and the dew was so heavy
that I was afraid to risk going out, though it looked just like
paradise. I have grown so to love this view."

"My dear, it makes me very happy," said Mrs. Hereford, "to think that
some day in the future you will make this indeed your home. Max has
told me that you understand each other, and have agreed to wait."

"I hope," said Doreen, earnestly, "that you do not think I did wrong
in what I said. Indeed, it seemed to me the only right way. Had I
loved him less, I might have consented to an engagement."

"I think I understand you, dear," said Mrs. Hereford. "And I believe
you are right. The four years will not be idle to either of you, and
you are both young."

She could not help reflecting that not one girl in a hundred would
have allowed the heir of Monkton Verney to remain absolutely free and
unbound, dreading lest an engagement should in any way thwart his
prospects or mar his life.

"There is only one thing," said Doreen, "that troubles me a little.
And that is that later on, even if I have a very great success, there
will certainly be many of your friends and relatives who will think it
a very strange and unfitting marriage. General Hereford, for instance,
regards professional people as of quite another order; and I do not
think he will at all approve of me as a niece, though, of course, as a
guest in your house he has been very pleasant to me."

"There never yet was a marriage that pleased an entire family,
including all the uncles and aunts," said Mrs. Hereford, laughing.
"And one thing I may safely promise you, my dear; you will have a
mother-in-law who loves you very dearly, and will not be always
seeking to interfere."

Doreen, charmed with the words and the look which accompanied them,
threw her arms about Mrs. Hereford's neck. A few months ago she had
seemed more desolate and forlorn than any one in the world; now, all
at once, her cup was filled to the brim with unlooked-for joys.

The lovers, ostensibly for the sake of talking over the future plans
for the Priory, had later in the morning a long ramble in the park,
and it was in the ruined church itself that they had their real
parting; but neither the leave-taking, nor the melancholy tokens of
failure and decay around them, nor even the prospect of the four
years' waiting, could depress Doreen. As the balmy spring air blew
softly in her face, it seemed to fill her with new life; her feet
passed lightly over the smooth turf flecked with daisies; she felt as
free from care as the birds that flew about the old ivy-covered
walls, and darted off blithely to the trees beyond as they approached.
Her bright hopefulness infected Max, who did not as a rule fail to
take cheerful views of life,--at any rate, after the first two or
three hours of the morning were over. He began to realize that his
position with Doreen gave him many privileges, though not all that he
coveted; and he derived great amusement and satisfaction from
successful attempts to dodge General Hereford, who was bent on showing
him sundry trees in the park which he thought had better be cut down.

Even when he returned from Firdale that evening after seeing the last
of his guests, he was still in tolerably good spirits, and was
awakened rudely enough from dreams of Doreen by a discovery which
stirred him to greater anger than he had given way to for many a day.

Happening to go to his room to dress for dinner somewhat earlier than
usual, he noticed, to his surprise, through the open door, that the
upper drawer of his secretary, which he invariably locked, was wide
open; approaching quietly he looked in, then with a wrathful
ejaculation strode forward and caught Baptiste's arm in an iron grip.
In the valet's hand there was an open letter, beside him on the
dressing-table a pile of documents which he had evidently been looking
through.

"What is the meaning of this?" thundered Max. "How dare you unlock my
secretary and meddle with my papers?"

"_Monsieur_ knows that I do not read English," protested Baptiste. "I
was but rearranging and tidying the place; it was in great disorder,
as _Monsieur_ well knows."

This was true; things belonging to Max were seldom methodically
arranged, and had he been prudent he would have let the matter pass,
and have told the man later on that he had previously decided to
dismiss him. But though usually self-controlled, Max had a naturally
hasty temper, and nothing irritated him so much as any sort of
deception or untruth.

"You scoundrel!" he cried passionately. "You are telling a lie, and
you know it. Leave the room."

"I assure you, _Monsieur_" stammered out the servant; but Max would
not hear another word.

"Do you wish me to doubt my own eyes? I saw you reading the letter;
you were so absorbed in it that you did not hear my steps."

Baptiste volubly assured his master that he could speak but little
English, and could read it--not at all, certainly not at all. But Max
knew well enough that the fellow was lying, and hastily scrawling a
few words on a sheet of paper, handed it to him with a gesture of
dismissal. Baptiste, surprised and confused, utterly lost his head.

"_Monsieur_" he pleaded, "I can but obey, yet I implore you not to
take away my character."

"Oh! you can read that," said Max, drily.

He had written in English a brief direction to the housekeeper. "I
have dismissed Baptiste. Pay him his wages and let him go at once."

The man flushed deeply; an angry gleam came into his dark eyes.

"I have served faithfully for many years," he said. "Will you for a
mere bagatelle ruin my life and take away my character?"

"No," said Max; "I will say the truth, that I have found you an
excellent servant in every respect save one. If they ask me why you
left, I shall certainly not represent you as the soul of truth and
honour."

"Then _adieu, Monsieur_" said Baptiste, drawing himself up, and
darting a malicious glance at his master. "You will live to regret
this day."

Later on, in the drawing-room, Mrs. Hereford remonstrated a little
with her son on what she deemed a somewhat hasty dismissal of an old
and tried servant. "You might at least have given him his _cong_ with
less severity, particularly as you had decided before to part with
him," she urged.

"There was no time to think of that; I was far too angry," said Max.
"He may think himself lucky that I did not kick him downstairs as he
deserved."

Mrs. Hereford sighed, and her troubled look instantly softened Max.

"Indeed, mother, I don't think I gave him more than he deserved. Don't
worry about it; the fellow will have no difficulty in getting another
place; he is far too clever to be long out of work."

"I was not so much thinking of Baptiste as of you," she replied. "I
hoped you had at last got your temper quite in hand; but if such a
thing as this can so move you, how will you endure the far worse
provocations you are sure to meet with?"

Hot tempered and intolerant of any sort of deception, Max was,
nevertheless, thoroughly conscious of his own shortcomings; he took
the reproof with the silent deference seldom seen except in children.

Mrs. Hereford had certainly not spoilt her only son, and her task had
been no easy one; for Max for the first ten years of his life had been
one of those excessively passionate children so difficult to
manage,--most loving and devoted when good, and most fiendishly
vindictive when put out. The last of his serious outbursts of temper
with his mother had long ago taken place. Having been guilty on his
tenth birthday of some specially flagrant act of disobedience, she had
punished him by shutting him in alone into her little sitting-room.
Furious at losing a whole hour out of his holiday, he had revenged
himself by opening the cage containing a very favourite canary that
his mother prized above all things because it had been her husband's
last gift to her. With huge delight he saw the bird flutter round the
room and soar out of the open window into that free, sunny landscape
from which he deemed himself most cruelly and unfairly detained. But
his triumph did not last long; his mother's surprise and sorrow at
finding the cage empty gratified him for a moment, but the utter
dismay and grief in her face as she turned to him with the sudden
perception that he must deliberately have tried to hurt her broke down
his pride for ever. He flung himself at her feet, sobbing out the
whole truth and pouring forth all his self-loathing, all his love for
her. He prayed as he had never prayed before that the canary might
come back. But it never did, and its empty cage gave him many a
wholesome heartache.

"I will, at any rate, say good-bye to Baptiste, and give him the
option of remaining till the end of his month," he said after a few
minutes' silence. "He was to blame, but I certainly lost my temper
with him."

But when he went out into the hall to make inquiries, the butler told
him that the valet had already left. A month after his character was
applied for by a gentleman living in Dublin, and Max, true to his
word, said all that could be said in the man's praise, but when asked
the reason of his leaving, wrote uncompromisingly, "I found him
reading my private letters, and dismissed him in sudden anger. It was,
however, to the best of my belief, his first offence."




CHAPTER XIII.


    "In my thought I see you stand with a path on either hand,
    --Hills that look into the sun, and there a river'd meadow land;
    And your lost voice with the things that it decreed across me thrills,
    When you thought, and chose the hills.
    'If it prove a life of pain, greater have I judged the gain.
    With a singing soul for music's sake, I climb and meet the rain.'"

                                                            ALICE MEYNELL.


In the course of the next few years the drawing-room in Bernard Street
entirely lost its air of stiff propriety; it was the despair of the
housemaid, whose vain attempts each morning to tidy unmanageable
stacks of music, or to marshal the books in seemly ranks, or to hide,
or, if possible, to confiscate the heterogeneous collection of rubbish
which the children called toys, sometimes stirred even Doreen's untidy
nature into momentary sympathy.

"Poor Marianne!" she would sing in a comical parody. "What with
uncle's study, which she may only dust at rare intervals when there
are no valuable remains lying about, and what with the children's
playthings straying all over the place, and, worst of all, with my
Bohemian ways and manifold comings and goings, and meals at
unseasonable hours, it is a wonder that she still stays here and
doesn't desert us for some comfortable situation in a tidy and
Philistine suburban villa."

But Marianne was devoted to Doreen, and waited on her gladly, even
when she gave a good deal of trouble; and as for Aunt Garth, she
seemed to like the drawing-room in its new state far better than in
former times, when it had been a mere reception-room, never used as a
sitting-room, or in any way made the centre of the home. She liked it
specially in that interval when Doreen had come up from her solitary
four-o'clock dinner, and sat working away at her letters at the
davenport near the fire, breaking the monotony of her unwelcome task
every now and then by merry snatches of talk.

It was now four years since the day when the house in Bernard Street
had opened its friendly doors to the five orphans. As Mrs. Garth sat
knitting by the fireside and glanced across the hearthrug at her
niece, she saw how great a change time had wrought in Doreen.
Happiness and success had entirely banished all signs of care and
sadness from her bright face; yet, nevertheless, she looked old for
her twenty-two years, and, spite of her simplicity of manner, gave
people the impression that she was a woman who knew the world and was
capable of holding her own. Gay and light-hearted and talkative she
would be to her dying day, but her early struggles and the necessity
of going forth into public life alone at an age when most girls are
shielded from all care and trouble and danger had given her a sort of
dignity which greatly enhanced the charm of her frank friendliness.

Her success had been extraordinarily rapid after those first weary
weeks of waiting for a chance of being heard. Everything seemed in her
favour; the retirement of Miss Latouche and the American tour of
Madame De Berg left excellent opportunities for a new soprano, and
Doreen had speedily become the rage.

"You must have managed very cleverly," said Madame De Berg, with a
withering smile on her thin lips. "I suppose you have given little
suppers to all the critics; that pays very well sometimes, and has
doubtless brought you some of those pleasing laudations."

"I don't know any of the critics," said Doreen, laughing, "and I'm
sure they wouldn't like having supper with me, for I go home to
nothing but a great joram of bread and milk, and am far too hungry to
share it with any one."

Madame De Berg made the slightest possible gesture with her shoulders;
she smiled, but not sweetly.

"Then how has all your popularity come about?" she said.

"I can't think," said Doreen. "It is just a delightful surprise. I
have done nothing but work hard, and of course there are plenty of
singers who do that."

"Well, make hay while the sun shines," said the rival soprano,
assuming a friendly tone, "for I don't think you'll last, my dear; you
haven't the _physique_ for a singer's life."

With which Parthian shot she sailed out of the cloak-room, while
naughty Doreen ran up to the cheval glass and studied her slim figure
critically.

"Must one grow so very, very stout to be a lasting sort of singer?"
she asked, turning, with laughter in her eyes, to Ferrier, the
celebrated bass. He was a man who from the first had befriended her;
she liked him better than any of her fellow-workers, and was very
intimate with his wife and daughter.

"No need at all," he replied, "if only singers would take more
exercise. I have been singing for the last quarter of a century, and
am still one of the 'lean kine.' As for your success, my dear, it is
not of the kind that springs from critics and little suppers, or from
pandering to the taste of the public and singing sentimental twaddle;
you have succeeded because you are an earnest worker, and a
conscientious artiste."

Doreen had known how to appreciate such praise, and the words more
than repaid her for Madame De Berg's spiteful attack.

The years had passed by, on the whole, with wonderful swiftness, and
they had been happy years, full of hope and hard work and healthy
enjoyment of the struggle to overcome difficulties. Rathenow had found
her a pupil after his own heart, determined to reach the highest
standard of which her powers would admit; her earnestness made her
respected by all genuine musicians; her merry light-heartedness made
her a favourite in the artistes' room, and a certain indescribable
purity of heart and life gave her a peculiar position of her own in
the profession, which was not to be impaired even by her occasional
displays of a vehement Keltic temperament. Every one knew that
although it was difficult to rouse Doreen O'Ryan by any sort of
personal attack, it was very easy indeed to stir up her wrath by an
attack upon Ireland or the Irish, or by venturing to speak in a
disparaging way of Donal Moore and the Land League.

The busy pen was flying over the paper at lightning speed when the
door opened, and Dermot ran in, cap in hand; his curls had been shorn,
for he was now a schoolboy of ten years old, somewhat thin and
delicate-looking, however, and with a dreamy look in his eyes,
curiously unlike Michael's wide-awake expression.

"Two minutes to post time, Doreen!" he exclaimed.

She made an ejaculation of dismay.

"This London post will be the death of me! Stamp those, there's an
angel, and this one for America."

"Oh, is that a poem?" cried Dermot, pouncing upon some verses which he
espied.

"Don't talk, asthore, or I will be putting 'affectionately' for
'truly' to a man I have never seen. Yes, yes; you shall read the
verses when you come back. Now fly, or they will be too late."

Dermot caught up the pile of letters and bounded out of the room,
while Doreen, flinging down her unwiped pen, pushed back her chair
somewhat wearily, and crouched down on the hearthrug to warm her hands
by the fire.

"Drawback number one to the pleasures of an artiste's life," she said,
smiling, "the dreary drudgery of much letter-writing. Drawback number
two, the plague of dressmakers. Drawback number three, having to take
one's family life in fitful snatches. Oh, how I wish there was no need
to turn out to-night!"

"Are you tired, dear?" asked Mrs. Garth, looking with some anxiety at
the mobile face, upon which the flickering firelight played.

"Not tired, but lazy; or, to quote Mr. Fox, it's a touch of 'what
Madame Fox and I call lassitude,'" said Doreen, smiling. "I have been
singing now for some years, at an average of five nights a week, and
somehow I wish they would invent a new form of concert, for there is a
hideous monotony about the ordinary sort. It is marvellous to me how
people can go week after week to Mr. Boniface's concerts, for
instance; again and again I see the same faces, and they never seem to
weary of the eternal round of ballads."

"What are you singing to-night?"

"A song of Spohr's; a catchy little duet with Madame St. Pierre, which
is very popular just now; and, of course my great consolation, a real
old Irish melody."

"Ah, here comes Dermot, eager to hear the poem."

Taking up a piece of manuscript from the table, she read some pathetic
lines about an Irish eviction,--lines which made the child's eyes dim
with tears.

"They are by Mr. Brian Osmond," she said, "and a friend of his out in
America--a tenor named Sardoni--has just set them to music. By and bye
I will sing you the song; to my mind it is a lovely air, and it ought
to be a great success. I only wish he could bring it out at once, but
there is sure to be delay before he has arranged with a publisher,
specially as he is across the Atlantic. I long to be singing this and
stirring up the indifferent."

"What was it that Mr. Moore was saying about the evictions that had
taken place last year?"

"He was saying that owing to the bad season and the great distress,
the number of evictions had greatly increased. Last year there were
over a thousand families evicted; this year he thinks the number will
be probably doubled, and that things must go from bad to worse until
real substantial justice has been shown to the nation. I wish I could
do something more for my people than singing ballads and national
airs!"

"Yet to be the national singer is no small thing," said Mrs. Garth, in
her quiet voice. "I am not sure that your songs will not outweigh
other people's speeches; and in any case it is not so much what we do,
but the spirit animating us that is of real importance. You actively
work for your country, love her, and pray for her welfare unceasingly.
Did you ever hear that saying of Marcus Aurelius, 'Every man is worth
as much as the things are worth about which he busies himself'?"

Doreen was silent for a moment, gazing into the depths of the fire and
tracing some curious resemblance to the outline of Monkton Verney
Priory.

"So you think," she said, looking up with a smile, "that the monotony
of eternal ballad concerts, and the woes of dressmakers, and business
letters, and even perhaps the plague of autograph-hunters, may be set
down as indirect work for Ireland? It would be a very consoling
belief, though the process seems roundabout. But then, to be sure, it
is a roundabout world. Did you hear that Mrs. Hereford wants me to
sing at Firdale when the election work begins? I only trust it may be
in my least busy time of year, for I should dearly like to do a bit of
direct work like that just for once. Happy thought! Why should I not
persuade this Signor Sardoni to let me sing his song just during the
election, even if it is not already published? We will make him secure
his copyright as soon as possible."

"Has Mr. Hereford seen the song?"

"Not yet, but I am sure he will like it. Oh, he is becoming very much
devoted to Ireland; we shall soon have him a good staunch Home-ruler.
Here come the children, eager for a dance, I can see."

A little fairylike girl of seven came bounding across the room and
flung her arms about Doreen's neck. She had the most winsome and
coaxing of faces, but there was a fragile look about her which
sometimes filled the elder sister with anxiety. Mollie was her
greatest treasure, but a somewhat careful comfort. Little
four-year-old Bride, on the other hand, was much such a child as she
herself had been, only more solidly built, and with rounder, rosier
cheeks. Her black hair was cut straight across her forehead, and Max
Hereford used to declare that living in the same house with Mr. Garth
had given the child a sort of Egyptian look.

A merry romp followed, then Doreen played Garry Owen, and the three
children transformed themselves into Oberon, Titania, and Puck, and
danced the most fantastic dances conceivable, talking in the intervals
in a sort of comical jargon, partly Shakespearian, partly suggested by
the latest pantomime and spoken in a stately measured fashion, freely
sprinkled with thees and thous, a mode which was deemed proper among
fairies.

Doreen forgot all the petty vexations and anxieties of her life as she
watched them, and if the children added considerably to her work, they
nevertheless contrived to keep her heart young and fresh, sweetening
with their sunshiny presence the difficult double life to which she
had been called.

After a while Michael returned from his work at Bermondsey, and there
was much to hear of his day's doings. He was now a tall, bright-faced
lad of sixteen, and had just begun his course of training as an
engineer. Doreen was immensely proud of him, and his chivalrous
devotion to her was pretty to see; he was the only one who could fully
realize all that she had been to them, and already he was beginning to
take thought for her comfort in a fashion far beyond his years.

"They say you are to have some wonderful infant prodigy at the concert
to-night," he said, as he turned over the pieces in Doreen's
portfolio, to find the songs she would need.

"Yes, to be sure; I had forgotten. Little Una Kingston is to make her
first appearance in England. It seems to me a very cruel thing, this
craze for precocious children. She is only eleven."

"Is she a pianiste?" asked Mrs. Garth.

"No, she plays the violin: a solo of De Beriot's, I see. Poor little
mite! one feels sorry for her. Madame St. Pierre says she is now
entirely under the care of Madame De Berg, for her father died six
months ago, and this cousin of his is sole guardian."

"Do take me to hear her," said Mollie, coaxingly.

"No, no, darling; you are far better in bed; and for the matter of
that, so would the little prodigy be, too. Some other time I will take
you to hear her when she is playing at a morning concert. In all
probability she will become the rage. Why, here comes Mrs. Muchmore;
Bride, my sweet, you must go to bed, and Mollie shall come and help me
dress."

"Wait," cried Dermot, receiving from the hands of the nurse a lovely
spray of pink and white azaleas and maidenhair, "here come Mr.
Hereford's flowers. How clever it is of him always to remember when
you are going to sing. It must cost him an awful lot to get so many
flowers! Does he send them to many other singers, do you think?"

Doreen laughed, and picking up the flowers in one hand and Mollie in
the other, ran upstairs.

"You had better ask him," she said, looking back with a mischievous
gleam in her blue eyes.

A little later in the evening, having climbed the familiar stone
staircase at St. James' Hall and passed through the narrow outer room,
she was confronted in the artistes' room by a somewhat unusual sight.
A little girl in the shortest of white silk frocks stood crying by the
table. Nothing was to be seen of her face; it was hidden by the
long-fingered, delicately shaped hands, while wavy golden hair
shadowed the forehead and hung in lovely luxuriance over the bent
shoulders. Beside her stood Madame De Berg, florid and flushed,
evidently in the worst of tempers, and soundly rating her little ward.
In the doorway Ferrier and M. St. Pierre lingered, either from
curiosity, or from an innate feeling that the child would fare worse
if they went away.

"Come, my dear," said Ferrier, greeting Doreen in his fatherly
fashion, "you are precisely the very being I wanted. Go and rescue
that unlucky child from her tormentor;" and ignoring the fact that
Madame De Berg was Doreen's bitterest enemy, he sauntered across the
room and putting his hand on the little violinist's shoulder, drew her
gently away.

"There is a lady who wishes particularly that you should be introduced
to her," he said, kindly. "She knows all about first appearances and
stage fright, and she likes nothing in the world so well as children."

Madame De Berg shrugged her shoulders.

"I wish you joy of _this_ child," she said, greeting Doreen a little
less stiffly than usual. "But if you will only bring her to a proper
frame of mind in time for her solo, I shall be much beholden to you. I
must go down; it is time for my duet."

As she left the room, Una yielded to Ferrier's exhortations, uncovered
her tear-stained face, and lifted a pair of frightened gray eyes to
glance at the stranger who wished for an introduction. She saw a face
that took her heart by storm, not by its beauty, but by its
tenderness. In a moment she felt that here was a being to whom she
belonged. Doreen stooped and kissed her.

"I have heard of you often," she said. "I heard of you on the night of
my own _dbut_ when I was quite as miserable and frightened as you
are."

"Were you all alone?" asked Una.

"Quite alone; that is to say, I knew no one at all. Of course Mrs.
Muchmore was with me. By the bye, I will get her to fetch you some
water. We must bathe your eyes and make you look yourself again. It
will spoil people's pleasure if you go on looking sad and woebegone."

"I wouldn't mind so much," said the child piteously, "if Herr Rimmers
could have been here. He is my master, and he would have played my
accompaniment; but we have just heard that his wife is dreadfully ill
and he can't come."

"That does seem hard on you. But you must try to play all the better,
and not add to his trouble. And as to the accompaniment, why, Ciseri
is the most perfect accompanist in England, and you may be quite at
rest about that. Is this your violin?"

"It was my father's," said Una, speaking eagerly. "I think he cared
for it more than for anything in the world except me. I never played
on it till a few months before he died, but directly my hands were
large enough he let me. I used to have a three-quarter size, and
played on that when I played at the Leipzig concerts."

"Guess you'd best let me fix you," said Mrs. Muchmore, when the
tear-stained face had been washed, and Una found her republican
frankness so surprising and yet so comfortable that she resigned
herself entirely to her tender mercies, listening meantime to Doreen's
cheerful flow of talk.

"And now we had better come down to what we call the family pew," said
her new friend. "Mrs. Muchmore will bring the music, and you can take
the fiddle, and I shall take you." She took the child's cold hand in
hers, talking all the faster when she felt the nervous clasp of the
fingers. "I have to struggle into this long pair of gloves," she
added, with a laugh. "Do you know the saying about gloves? 'A
Frenchwoman puts on her gloves in her bedroom, an Englishwoman in the
entrance hall, a Scotchwoman out of doors.' And as to the Irishwoman,
I think she never puts them on at all till she is forced to do so."

Una smiled, forgetting for the moment the ordeal that was before her;
but she clung very tightly to Doreen's hand as they entered the funny
little den leading to the platform. It was some relief to find that
her guardian was still singing the duet with the tenor; she could hear
that they were fast approaching the end of "_Mira la bianca, luna_."
Meantime Doreen was greeting her friends and doing her best to make
her little companion respond graciously to the remarks addressed to
her; but Una was a painfully shy child, and was not easily drawn out
of her shell.

"Come and look at the audience and get accustomed to them," said
Doreen, taking her to the foot of the steps where she could gain a
good view of the platform and a partial view of the hall. "I can see a
dear little girl just about as old as you over there in the balcony;
she has come on purpose to hear you, I should think, and you must play
to her so beautifully that she will never rest until she has learnt to
play well too. And down there in the stalls I see a gloomy old man;
you must play to him so entrancingly that he will quite forget his
cares and troubles."

At this moment the duet ended, and Madame De Berg, with the regulation
smile fading from her face, tripped down the steps and gave a keenly
critical glance at Una.

"Well, I'm glad you have come to your senses," she remarked. "Pray
don't treat us to any more scenes of the kind."

The child blushed and faltered; there was an ominous quiver in her
voice as she said:--

"Don't watch me, please don't watch me; it makes me nervous." Madame
De Berg shrugged her shoulders.

"I can assure you I am heartily tired of both you and your fiddle,"
she said, with a sarcastic little laugh; and without another word she
marched out of the family pew and betook herself to the cloak-room,
while Una, with a look of relief, turned to Doreen.

"If Cousin Flora keeps away, I don't so much mind. I will think of
what you said, and please stand just there so that I can feel you
near."

And now the final tuning of the fiddle was over, and Ciseri took the
child's hand and led her up the steps.

"Good luck to you, dear!" whispered Doreen, watching the poor little
victim and well knowing with what dire tremblings of the knees she
made her first curtsey to that great unknown public. Yet she did not
appear nervous; the little feet in their white satin slippers were
planted firmly; the slim legs in their white silk stockings betrayed
no trembling; the pretty face only showed by heightened colour and
over-bright eyes the strain of this ordeal. Pleased with the unusual
sight of a violinist who might have walked to all appearance straight
out of one of Carpaccio's pictures, the audience gave the newcomer a
warm reception, and Una, when once embarked on De Beriot's "_Le
Trmolo_" forgot all about her surroundings and played brilliantly.
Her tone, of course, was as yet wanting in richness, but both
execution and expression showed that the child had wonderful talent,
and there was something almost uncanny in the mastery which the shy,
delicate-looking little girl displayed over her instrument. Una and
her violin together were undoubtedly a rare power; but without the
violin she was just a shrinking, nervous child, and it was with much
ado that Doreen could persuade her to face again the applauding
audience and to bow her acknowledgments.

"Will you not play again?" said old Mr. Boniface kindly. "You have
evidently pleased the people."

"Oh, not now, not now," pleaded poor Una. "There are still the Scotch
airs in the second part."

"Then at any rate run on once more and curtsey," said Doreen; "and
just notice how you have changed the whole look of that doleful old
man; he is shouting '_brava!_' and looking positively delighted."

Una obeyed, then returning once more, was wholesomely diverted from
dwelling on her triumph by finding that Doreen was to sing. Would this
sweet-faced Irish heroine of hers have a voice equal to her face, she
wondered; and sitting down on the steps leading to the platform, where
she could see without being seen, she watched Doreen with an eager
excitement, not unlike that with which Max himself had waited for her
first appearance in the Albert Hall. That most perfect and satisfying
of songs, Spohr's "Rose Softly Blooming," was one which suited Doreen
particularly well. It had been her father's favourite air, and both
for that reason and for its own sake she loved to sing it. Una
listened entranced, quite forgetting that her own ordeal was not over.

"Oh, do, do sing again," she implored, as Doreen returned; and the
public clearly expressing the same wish, Doreen with a smile turned
over her national song-book, and asked Ciseri to play for her the
lovely Irish melody usually sung to Moore's "Last Rose of Summer," but
which she had always sung to Lady Dufferin's words,--


    "Oh, Bay of Dublin! my heart you're troubling,
      Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream;
    Like frozen fountains, that the sun sets bubbling,
      My heart's blood warms when I but hear your name,

    "And never till this life pulse ceases,
      My earliest, latest thought you'll cease to be.
    Oh, there's no one here knows how fair that place is,
      And no one cares how dear it is to me."


As she returned from singing it, Una looked up into her face
wonderingly. What was it that brought that strange light into the
Irish blue eyes? She stood up and slipped her hand into Doreen's. The
touch at once recalled the singer to the needs of the present.

"Are you tired, dear?" she said, glancing down at the pretty, flushed
face. "It is hot in here; let us come outside."

"I see," said Ferrier, as he held open the swing doors for them, "you
have been wise enough to adopt Miss O'Ryan as your guardian angel. She
is the best friend you could possibly have."

Doreen laughed and protested against being exalted to the angelic
host. "A wingless and faulty angel," she said, as they went upstairs;
"but your friend I will be, dear, with all my heart."

Una's words did not come readily, particularly when she knew that
Madame De Berg was close at hand; but she squeezed Doreen's fingers in
response, thinking in her heart that Ferrier had spoken nothing but
the truth; for, had not her new friend sung like an angel? Had not
there been the most wonderful look on her face when she returned from
her work? And had not her kindness been altogether unlike what was
usually to be met with in this hard bustling world? Nevertheless, she
could not but perceive that her guardian angel had a hot Keltic
temper, which did not accommodate itself at all easily to Madame De
Berg's sarcastic remarks. For, in truth, sarcasm had upon Doreen the
same effect which the sharp, cold steel of a spur has upon a
high-mettled horse. There are people who are simply pained by sarcasm,
and others who are chilled and silenced by it; others, again, seem to
catch the infection, and are able to defend themselves in evil fashion
by sarcastic retort. But Doreen was apt to be entirely upset, and
dangerously roused by a mode of attack which seemed to her like a
personal encounter with the devil. Fortunately, the public ovation she
had just received, Ferrier's undue praise, and the effect of her own
singing had armed her with that humility which is slow to take
offence. With an effort she managed to control the hot anger which set
her blood on fire, as Madame De Berg talked with her, and as she
glanced at the eager eyes of the child, so evidently watching and
understanding all that passed between her two companions, a strong
desire to do what she could for the forlorn little prodigy gave her
courage to strangle her angry resentment, and actually to ask a favour
of her rival.

"I have been talking to Una of my little brothers and sisters," she
said. "Will you spare her to us next Sunday? I hear it is her only
free day, and I should much like to have her."

Madame De Berg shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, have her by all means, if you please. I should be glad indeed of
anything that roused her up and made her a little more like other
children. Her Sundays are her own, and she can do as she likes about
accepting your invitation."

"I like to come, please," said Una, her face glowing with delight.
Then, as Madame De Berg was summoned for her next song, she put both
hands in Doreen's with a shy but eager gesture, and with the boldness
which so often curiously accompanies an exceptionally timid nature,
said hurriedly:--

"I want so to tell you, before any one comes, how much I love you--I
love you more than any one I ever saw. I wish, oh, so much, there was
something I could do for you!"

Doreen had listened to many declarations of love from sufficiently
tiresome admirers, always with the vexed consciousness that it was her
refusal to be actually engaged to Max Hereford which laid her open to
such disagreeables. But she had never before come across this strange,
touching, and yet almost amusing hero-worship from a little girl.
There was something in the child's intense fervour and eager,
lover-like devotion which pleased her greatly; and, though she could
not help smiling a little at the thought of the suddenness with which
this passion had possessed her little worshipper, she knew that such
love was from its very purity and freshness a thing to be highly
prized. Her heart went out to Una with that motherliness which
characterizes the love of all true women.

"We must see a great deal of each other," she said, stooping to kiss
the sweet little face with a tenderness which thrilled through the
child's heart, and seemed to fill her life with new possibilities. But
neither of them in the least guessed how curiously their lives were to
be bound up together.

Her thought at present was entirely how she could serve the poor
little violinist, whose character and _physique_ seemed so ill-suited
to a life of hard work, late hours, and constant excitement. Una's
reception after the playing of the Scotch airs was almost
overpowering. It was quite clear that she would become the rage, and
Doreen learnt with deep regret that she was in the hands, not of
sensible and considerate Freen, but of an agent who would not scruple
to work her to the utmost, and from whose bondage there was no
possibility of escape for the next two years.

"I congratulate you on your success," said old Mr. Boniface, as the
child followed Madame De Berg down the stone staircase, looking sadly
pale and tired now that all was over. Her face lighted up for a
moment, however, as she caught sight of Doreen, who was standing
beside the old man.

"Will you take this home to your little sisters?" she said, holding
out a huge box of _bonbons_, which had been presented to her at the
close of her last piece; then, as Doreen protested that she ought to
eat them herself, she added entreatingly, "I would rather they had
them, and indeed my head aches, and it makes me feel sick even to
think of chocolate creams."

After that, there was nothing for it but to accept the present, and
urging Una to come as early as she liked on Sunday, Doreen bade her
good night, and turned to Mr. Boniface with a sad look in her eyes.

"There is something very wrong there," she said, in a low voice. "That
poor little soul is being robbed of her childhood."




CHAPTER XIV.


    "The wide, transparent radiance of the gloaming
      Broods high above the city's great unrest,
    And rosy little clouds, like tired birds homing,
      Flutter soft wings against the shining west.

    "Down the long vistas of the crowded highways,
      A purple bloom is gently gathering,
    And daintily through streets, and squares, and by-ways,
      Flit the sweet hesitating steps of spring."

                                             FRANCES WYNNE.


Among the audience that evening at St. James' Hall, there chanced to
have been, unknown to Doreen, her old acquaintance, Miriam Hereford.
The General, too, had patiently sat through the whole concert to
please his daughter; but his thoughts had been engrossed with other
matters, and as they drove home his talk took a practical turn.

"My dear," he said, "I think that notion of yours as to your cousin's
fancy for Miss O'Ryan was all a mistake. The years pass on, and
nothing comes of it."

"I don't know what to think," said Miriam, indifferently. "He makes no
secret of his admiration for her; but then, as you say, nothing
happens."

"It is a great relief to my mind," said the General, "for a more
unfitting marriage could not well be."

"Well, papa, I don't know; Doreen is very charming and very clever;
and if her father was an Irish rebel, I don't see that it need affect
us very much. He died years ago, and will never give any more
trouble."

"Max ought to marry in his own set," said the General, decidedly; "and
you know well enough, my dear, what I have always desired for him."

"Yes, you were always a hard-hearted father," said Miriam, saucily.
"Most anxious to get your daughter safely disposed of. It's very
unlucky, daddy, that you and I look on that question so differently. I
am in no hurry at all to leave you."

"Ah, my dear, it is of your own good that I think," said the General.
"It is well enough for you now; but what is to become of you at my
death? And time is passing by; you ought seriously to consider the
matter. I own that I long to see you established at Monkton Verney,
and Max is a thoroughly good fellow; he would make you perfectly
happy."

"No, daddy," she protested, "he would make me perfectly miserable. As
a cousin, I like him very much, but as a husband he would fidget me to
death. I know his faults a great deal too well."

"You are hard on him," said the General. "He is no immaculate hero,
but he is one of the best fellows I know, liked and respected by all
who come across him."

"Yes, yes, Max is all very well," she said impatiently, "but it is so
dull to marry one's cousin; and then, he has never asked me."

"You could easily make him," said the father. "You have always had
great influence over him."

"Perhaps," she confessed; "but I don't want him, daddy; and what's
more, I won't have him: he is quite given over to philanthropy and
politics, and would expect a wife to sympathize with his tastes. Yes,
yes, I quite agree to all you would say; he is handsome and
rich,--perhaps I should like him better if he were not quite so
aggressively handsome and rich."

"Well," said the General, with a sigh, "I confess I don't understand
you, my dear; he seems to me a delightful fellow."

"So delightful, but so uncomfortable," said Miriam, naughtily. "People
who meet him in society only know one side of him, and the sunny side
is fascinating enough; but when he is put out, he can be more like a
grizzly bear than any one I know. And besides, now I think of it, I
fancy Doreen O'Ryan really does care for him, and the politics and the
philanthropy are so much more in her line."

As she recalled Doreen's bright face that evening, her thoughts
wandered back to the summer visit to Ireland long ago, and to the
remembrance of the little curly-headed Irish girl who had sung to them
at Castle Karey. Certainly, she reflected, she would not at all like
"the heart of the minstrel" to be "breaking," for the sake, too, of a
purely conventional and worldly marriage on her own part.

It was true that she had often contemplated a loveless marriage with a
certain calm docility, but somehow she would have preferred not to
sacrifice Max or Doreen. Still, as her father said, time was passing;
she was now eight and twenty, and it was scarcely to be supposed that
her whole life was to be devoted to the memory of John Desmond,--a man
who, by some strange magic, had won her heart as a girl of eighteen,
and whose plain, forcible face rose before her now more vividly than
faces she had seen but a few minutes ago. She leant back in the
brougham, letting various possibilities float through her mind,
weighing the advantages and the disadvantages of marriage in a
curiously calm, unembarrassed fashion. Should she yield to her
father's and her mother's great wish, or should she still be loyal to
that dream of her girlhood? An irritating sense of the great power
which Desmond had gained over her, and of the little she really knew
of his life or character, took possession of her and brought a cloud
of trouble over her beautiful face. Most fervently did she wish she
had never paid that Irish visit which had been destined to change the
whole tenor of her existence. After all, it would be very satisfactory
to be at the head of the Monkton Verney household, and her father had
rightly said that she had great influence with Max. She might do much
to divert him from his tiresome schemes of reform, might lure him into
safe and pleasant paths and make him more like other people; might
tone down his disturbing and unfashionable enthusiasms, and develop in
him that slightly cynical indifference which was, to her mind, "better
form."

The brougham stopped as she reached this point in her reflections; her
father handed her out and fumbled for his latch-key while she waited
on the door-step, looking out over the moonlit garden of the Crescent.
Suddenly she was constrained to look at the face of a man who paced
slowly along the pavement; she started as though she had seen a ghost,
recognizing in an instant that pale, sallow face, almost livid-looking
in the moonlight, and those dark, wild eyes which met hers now sadly
and hungrily. Miriam made a step forward as though to speak, but John
Desmond merely raised his hat and passed on.

"Come, my dear," said the General, throwing open the door; "it is too
wintry a night for moon-gazing."

And the girl with an effort dragged herself across the hall, and with
a hasty good night to her father, crept upstairs to her room,
dismissed her maid, and dropped into a chair beside the fire,
trembling in every limb. He was alive and in London. He knew where she
lived, and he still loved her! All her calm dispassionate
consideration of a loveless marriage with Max Hereford faded away as
though it had never for a moment existed; the world held for her only
that one man whose extraordinary influence she acknowledged without in
the least understanding it.

In the meantime, Desmond, even more agitated by the recognizing glance
which he had received, paced slowly back to his rooms in a dismal back
street at Westminster. He was much altered since the Castle Karey
days, though the change was not one that could be noticed by Miriam in
the moonlight. Seen, however, beneath the flaring gas-burner in his
scantily furnished lodging, Desmond revealed the traces of many
years' anxiety and excitement; there were deep lines round his mouth,
the hair had receded from his forehead, making it more noticeably high
than ever, and his eyes had a restless, unsatisfied look in them. On
the whole, he was altered very much for the worse; and though there
was still about him a certain force of character, and a genuineness of
devotion to what he deemed right, the man's whole nature seemed
twisted and distorted, so that he was really incapable of judging
justly. When he had left Castle Karey he had returned to his home,
there to endure as well as might be the tedious months of
convalescence, and to struggle against his love for Miriam. Finally,
he had resolved to put the Atlantic between them, and, dropping all
correspondence with Max, had buried himself in a great American city,
where he did his best to forget the past. The events of the summer had
roused in him a keen sense of the wrongs of Ireland; but, unluckily,
instead of falling in with men of the same calibre as Patrick O'Ryan,
or noble-minded, unembittered Nationalists like Donal Moore, he was
thrown among men of a very different type, and he had become a member
of a Secret Society, whose extreme views and reckless plans of action
were the despair of all the more sober reformers. As an agent for this
Society he chanced now to be for a short time in London, and curiosity
had led him that night to St. James' Hall. It was with a very strange
feeling that he listened to Doreen O'Ryan's songs; was this graceful,
white-robed singer indeed the little Irish girl whose merry laughter
and lively talk had once amused him as they rowed about Lough Lee? Was
that, indeed, the face which he had seen blanched with terror on that
terrible afternoon? And had those hands, indeed, grasped the tiller
and steered with desperate resolution over the water beneath which lay
the body of James Foxell?


    "Peacefully smiling, so let me be,
     Living or dying, sweet rose, like thee."


These were the words she sang. He wondered greatly if beneath her
frank, sweet face, with its sunshiny look, there yet remained hidden
away a dark, ghastly remembrance of that past scene. Had all this
applause and success driven out such memories? She was graciously
vouchsafing an encore, and her choice had fallen on a well-known
national song. In thinking of her country's deep wrongs, had she
perhaps forgotten the fatal dispute she had so unwillingly witnessed
in her childhood?

But suddenly all thoughts of Doreen were banished from his mind, for
he caught sight of Miriam Hereford, and the beautiful face, with its
Jewish outlines, which had so long lived in his heart, set every pulse
within him throbbing wildly, and for the time made him forget the
hopeless barrier that divided them. He had followed her home by an
irresistible impulse, and her glance of surprised recognition, the
eager light in her eyes, her impetuous movement towards him, filled
him with delight. He slept little, and the next morning his feet
seemed to turn naturally in the direction of Wilton Crescent. He paced
slowly past the house, then returning, was just in time to catch sight
of General Hereford's portly figure descending the steps, in close
conversation with a lady in a long sealskin jacket; something of
similarity in height and bearing made Desmond feel sure that this must
be Miriam's mother. He walked after them at a discreet distance in the
direction of Victoria, with no very settled purpose, but from
curiosity, and from his acquired habit of shadowing people.

Arrived at the Metropolitan station, he reached the ticket office
exactly in time to learn the destination of Miriam's parents, took a
ticket himself for the same station, followed them down the steps, and
kept them in view as they paced up and down the platform waiting for
the train; more than once as they passed him, he caught Miriam's name.
It was quite clear that the absorbing conversation related to her, and
Desmond's curiosity became more and more aroused. He did not venture
to get into the empty compartment, however, towards which the General
steered his way. He got, instead, into the adjoining one, where,
though effectually hidden from view, he could, when the train was not
in motion, distinctly hear, above the barrier, all that passed.

"I told her," said the General, "that she had great influence with
Max. She has only to draw him on a little, and he will propose fast
enough."

"He certainly admires her," said his wife. "Nothing could be more
desirable in every way than the marriage; but what more can I do? She
is thoroughly wilful, and has refused every offer she has received."

"She was not unreasonable last night, as we drove home from St. James'
Hall," said the General. "You had better get her invited to Monkton
Verney for Easter, and, unless I am much mistaken, she will yield to
our wishes. Miriam is a sensible--"

But here the train plunged into the echoing subway, and Desmond heard
no more. He had heard enough, however, to fill him with uneasy
compunction. What was he to do? To dream of marriage with Miriam was
absurd. His whole past cut him off from any such possibility, nor did
he feel disposed to break with his present mode of life, even could he
with safety have done so. Should he see her once more and explain to
her the hopelessness of the barrier between them? Unfortunately that
was impossible; there was too much that he was quite unable to reveal.
And, moreover, to be brought face to face with each other would be but
an ill preparation for the final parting. Yet somehow, he must prevent
her from sacrificing her whole life, must at all costs free her from
any lingering bondage to that past dream of love. He would write to
her, would lead her to think that her marriage with Max Hereford was
what he most desired. And in truth he could better bear to think of
her as wedded to his old pupil, than as leading a forlorn life, and
constantly incurring the displeasure of her parents. She was
hopelessly lost to him. Why should she not marry Max? He would, at any
rate, take good care of her, and fill her life with every luxury that
wealth could buy.

Making his way back to his dreary lodging, he spent the rest of the
morning in the attempt to write what would in some degree satisfy him,
but with small success; in the end he was obliged to content himself
with the following lines:--

"Last night, after an absence of nine years and a half, I saw you once
more, but had imagined that time had altered me too much for
recognition on your part to be possible. That you knew me and would
have spoken to me gives me a strange pleasure, even though I write
this expressly to beg that you will do your best to forget me and to
forget that I ever had the presumption to love you. The barrier of
which I told you at Castle Karey will always exist, and there are now
other reasons which make it impossible for me to remain long in this
country, or to venture ever again to see you. My life is not wholly
unhappy, for I have work which interests me, nor have I to look
forward to a dreary old age, for those who adopt my present pursuit
are seldom long-lived. I shall not attempt to see my old pupil, but
you might casually mention to him that you have met me, and that I am
still in the land of the living. I am told that he is one of our most
promising public speakers; if so, a man with his advantages ought to
have a grand future before him. If he should some day win that which I
have been forced to relinquish, I shall bear him no grudge; on the
contrary, it would brighten the remainder of my life to think that you
were at least established in a home not unworthy of you. And now, for
the last time, I wish you good-bye."

The effect of the sudden shock of the previous night had been to keep
Miriam in bed for the next four-and-twenty hours with a severe
headache. Being a person of leisure, she yielded rather easily to any
slight ailment. Doreen, with a similar amount of pain, would have gone
about her work, travelled, perhaps, a couple of hundred miles, sung
the same evening, and rattled home again the next day, enduring the
discomfort as best she could. But Miriam had not herself and four
brothers and sisters to support; she was at present supplied with
every luxury in her father's house, and the only thing he expected of
her in return was that eventually she should marry a rich man.

It happened, therefore, that she received John Desmond's letter alone,
and in her own room, and that she had ample time to muse over the
strangely worded communication. What his life-endangering work might
be she could not guess; possibly it was some sort of scientific
research, likely to enfeeble his health. As for the barrier, she
fancied that could only mean money or debt, for of any other
difficulties she knew nothing. There was, however, an absolute
hopelessness about the tone of the brief note which made her feel that
she must, indeed, do her best to obey him and to bury the past in
oblivion. It was strange that he, too, should harp upon this same
notion of her ultimate marriage with her cousin. Could it, indeed, be
that she and Max were suited to each other? She had great influence
with him, it was true, but in her secret soul she much doubted whether
her influence was for good or ill. And then there was Doreen O'Ryan.
Did he, after all, care for her? And was it only her fancy that
Doreen, who was so sunny and light-hearted at all times, became just a
little more bright and witty whenever Max was present? That her eyes
became distinctly bluer, that a sort of glow came into her usually
pale face, that her very voice had a more mellow ring about it? Surely
it was no fancy, the girl did care; and Max, if he meant nothing by
his attentions, had certainly treated her very badly. No; she would
not step in between them, even to please her father and mother; she
would not be made the cat's-paw to bring the wealth of Monkton Verney
to her father's assistance. After all, she cared for Max far too much
to marry him just for his estate. John Desmond should be obeyed; she
would do her best to forget the past, but nothing should induce her to
draw her cousin on in any way, or to promote the scheme which her
parents so ardently desired.

Miriam had many faults, but she had good impulses, and she not
unfrequently followed them. A knock at her bedroom door made her
thrust Desmond's letter hastily beneath her pillow; she looked up with
a smile at her mother.

"Are you better, my dear?" said Lady Rachel, anxiously.

"Yes, mamma, but I have not felt warm since last night's concert. I
must have caught cold on the way home."

"There is great news for you," said her mother. "Your father has just
heard that the Dissolution is to take place at Easter. It is much
sooner than was generally expected. In a few weeks, you see, we shall
be in the thick of the General Election. I am going to write this
evening to your aunt, and propose that you go down with her to Monkton
Verney. She will have a number of people to entertain, and constant
coming and going, and it is just at those times that she so much needs
some one to play the part of daughter of the house."

"Mamma," said Miriam, decidedly, "I am very sorry, but nothing will
induce me to go to Monkton Verney for such an early Easter as we have
this year. Why, Good Friday is on the 26th of March! Just think what
the cold will be in that country house!"

"Oh, they will warm the house; and besides, you will have very good
fun at the election. You had better go, my dear; your father
particularly wishes it."

"Mamma," said Miriam, piteously, "please do not write to auntie. I
know why you wish it so much, but don't urge me just now. I shall only
hate Max forever, if I have to listen to all his election speeches.
That sort of thing bores me to death. Do let us keep out of it. Take
me abroad, and let us have a nice time on the Riviera while they are
all talking themselves hoarse here. And, then, next season, if Max
gets into Parliament, I will perhaps think of what you so much want."

"We only want your good, my dear, and your best happiness," said her
mother, reluctantly consenting to her suggestion as she left the
room.

"My best happiness?" repeated Miriam to herself half dreamily. "I
wonder what my best happiness would be?"

And then in fancy she saw the announcement in the newspapers:--

"A marriage has been arranged between Mr. Max Hereford, M.P., and Miss
Miriam Hereford, his cousin, the only daughter of General Hereford."

Or again, it might be:--

"A marriage is shortly to take place between Mr. Max Hereford, M.P.,
and Miss Doreen O'Ryan, the charming and popular Irish vocalist."

She caught herself humming a quaint little song which Madame De Berg
had given as an _encore_ at the concert.


    "I know not, no, not I, where joy is found!"


Suddenly she drew Desmond's letter again from beneath her pillow; she
read it slowly, lingeringly,--read something of his love for her
between the lines,--and then suddenly broke into a passionate fit of
weeping.

"It is all very well for mamma to talk of my best happiness," she
thought to herself. "The only rag of happiness left to me is not to
interfere with the happiness of other people."




CHAPTER XV.


    "If sadness at the long heart-wasting show
     Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted;
     If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow
     The armies of the homeless and unfed--
     If these are yours, if this is what you are,
     Then am I yours, and what you feel I share."

                                  MATTHEW ARNOLD.


On the Saturday afternoon after the news of the Dissolution had been
made public, it chanced that Doreen was travelling back from
Southampton, where she had been to sing in Haydn's "Creation."
Ferrier, the well-known bass, and her old friend Warren, the tenor,
who now treated her with the greatest deference, and no longer
ventured to offer her three guineas for singing at a city
dinner,--were in the adjoining smoking-compartment; they had
laughingly supplied Doreen with all the Liberal papers, had seen that
she was well wrapped up with a railway rug and provided with a
foot-warmer, and then, to her great content, had left her in the empty
compartment to her own thoughts. She wanted much to be alone and to
have time to think, for the news had taken her altogether by surprise.
Max had always imagined that the General Election would be in the
autumn, and this sudden announcement had almost taken her breath away.
It had filled her with hope for her country, and it had come at a very
opportune moment in her own personal life. In April that four years of
waiting for which she had stipulated would come to an end, and she
felt that in every way it would be better for her engagement with Max
to follow rather than to precede the election. Her four years of
public life had taught her to know the world tolerably well, and she
was convinced that she would best consult her lover's interests by
adhering strictly to the term of probation.

Yet it was with a sigh of glad relief that she realized how nearly the
tedious waiting-time was over. The years had been happy, yet they had
been beset with difficulties; and with an absolute trust in Max, she
looked forward to her betrothal as to a haven of rest and peace.

Her face lighted up with happiness as they drew near to Firdale, and
as once more she looked forth on the green meadows and the white tower
of the church and the long avenue of elms on the ridge in the
background. The familiar little station seemed more crowded than
usual; a group of townsfolk had apparently come to meet some person of
importance, and she was engrossed in watching the fussy movements of a
little, officious, red-faced man who was giving a most obsequious
welcome to the newcomer, when suddenly she was startled by Max
Hereford's voice.

"Is there any room for me?" he said, with his hand on the door. His
fresh, glowing face looked to her almost as boyish as it had done in
the old Irish days.

"I thought you were in town!" she exclaimed, as he sprang in and took
a place beside her, holding her hand in his, with a momentary glad
pressure of greeting.

"I was obliged to run down yesterday to see my election agent," he
explained. "And I was not without hope that I might chance to meet you
on your way back from Southampton. To find you like this, and without
your usual duenna, is indeed good luck."

"I was staying with some friends of ours who live there, and so could
dispense with Mrs. Muchmore," said Doreen, who, the moment she could
afford it, had been careful always to take Hagar about with her,
unless she was secure of Madame St. Pierre's company. "Who is that
very grave-looking man that every one is making so much of?"

"That," said Max, laughing, "is my rival, Mr. John Steele, and the
small crowd of his supporters is made up of the oddest mixture of
Firdale scribes and Pharisees, publicans and sinners."

"Is he popular? He looks a most depressing person."

"Oh, he is extremely popular; it will be a hard fight," said Max. "It
will be easy enough for him to make the Firdale folk believe that
their future welfare is bound up with the consumption of beer, and
that it is absurd for them to be represented by a notorious temperance
worker. By the bye, what colour shall we choose? I see they have
already donned red and blue rosettes."

"What is your favourite?" she asked.

"White," he said; "which you will say is no colour at all. Now put
your favourite with it."

"Oh, I am for the wearing of the green," she said, laughing. "That is
but natural."

"Very well, that is decided; green and white, but none of their grass
greens or apple greens. It must be one of the new greens--the shade of
that dress you wore last summer."

She smiled to think that he should remember it, and in her heart she
was pleased. There was a brief silence as the train slowly steamed out
of the station, leaving the Conservative candidate looking somewhat
uncomfortable and oppressed amid the motley crew surrounding him.

"Do you remember," said Max, in a tone which startled her, "the
promise you made me?"

"Which?" she said, laughing and blushing. "I have made you so many
promises. I have not forgotten that I promised to sing as much as you
liked during the election, and I have a delightful song which will be
exactly the right thing if I can get the composer's permission to sing
it."

"Then you will certainly win the election for me," he said. "But it
was of another promise I was thinking. Doreen, why must we wait any
longer? Why--can you not--"

"Stay," she said, springing up, and crossing to the other side of the
carriage. "There is Rooksbury. I never pass this bit of the line
without looking at it. After the election we will climb it once more.
I do not, indeed, break my promises; but please have patience till
then." Her eyes, blue and tender and a little wistful, were lifted to
his.

"You think I am going to be beaten by the Publicans' favourite," he
said, smiling; "and you keep the Rooksbury expedition as a consolation
prize for the vanquished."

"No, quite the contrary; nothing will persuade me that Mr. John Steele
is going to defeat you; but when you have won the battle, you may
perhaps look on life with other eyes."

She took one final look at the fir-crowned hill, then returned to her
former place.

"Did you look on life with other eyes after your success?" said Max,
moodily.

"Well--no," she admitted, after a pause. "I don't know that I did; but
men are different."

"I thought you were the one woman in the world who did not pass
sweeping judgments on men."

"I don't judge them; I don't say that they are not so constant as
women, but that they have a greater capacity for seeing more than one
side of a question."

"There was more than a little touch of blarney about that," said Max,
unable to help laughing at her expression. "Well, I will be patient if
you bid me."

"You will keep your promise," said Doreen, with a mischievous glance,
"and I, for my part, shall keep mine."

She did not, however, make any resistance when he took her little
ungloved hand in his and kissed it, only defending herself by asking a
prosaic question or two about the probable date of the Firdale
election, and the ways in which she might be of use to Mrs. Hereford.

"Perhaps, however," she added, "your cousin will be staying at Monkton
Verney; she must know so many of the people in the neighbourhood, and
would be a much better helper."

"Unluckily," he said, "she detests the whole affair, and I heard only
yesterday from my uncle that they are all going next week to Hyres.
By the bye, Miriam wrote to tell me a curious thing: it seems that
John Desmond is in England once more; she saw him in the street. He
just raised his hat to her, but seemed anxious to avoid speaking. One
can understand that well enough. There is no doubt he was in love with
Miriam in the old days; I only trust she doesn't care for him. It is
hardly likely after all these years,--there are limits, I suppose,
even to the constancy of women."

Doreen laughed and promptly changed the subject, not at all desiring
to relapse into a discussion which she had purposely checked. And so
they travelled swiftly through the long, undulating stretches of sandy
country, with its heathery banks and dark fir trees, talking
contentedly, and enjoying to the full the unusual chance of a quiet
interview that had fallen to them.

"Madame St. Pierre would scold me well were she here," said Doreen, as
they drew near to London. "She has a dreadful theory that public
singers should not tax their throats by talking in the train. I tell
her that an exception must be made in favour of Irishwomen, who could
not possibly sit mum throughout a whole journey. How wonderful it is
to think that the next time we travel this line together the election
will be over!"

She broke off abruptly as the thought suddenly flashed through her
mind that the next time Max helped her on to the platform at Waterloo
she would in all probability be betrothed to him. Her cheeks were
still tinged with the blush that had suffused them at this thought,
when Ferrier came to the door to offer to put her into a cab. He knew
Max Hereford, having met him once or twice at Bernard Street; but
to-day a latent suspicion that had long haunted him became a
certainty. He sedulously waited upon Doreen, forstalled Max in taking
possession of her travelling-bag, and in fatherly fashion waited till
she was safely ensconced in a hansom, then made his way homeward with
a somewhat grave and preoccupied air.

"A nice enough fellow," he thought to himself. "But our little Irish
_prima donna_ will be lost to the profession."

Doreen found on her return a complication of family duties and an
alarming pile of letters to be answered. Till twelve on that Saturday
night she was hard at work, and she slept late on the Sunday
morning,--not an ideal thing to do, or at all in accordance with a
model heroine, but yet a natural enough proceeding on the part of an
overworked artiste, whose severely taxed strength required more sleep
than it was ever likely to get. Uncle and Aunt Garth, with their lives
of steady routine and rooted habit of waking in the early morning,
failed to understand how greatly this girl of two-and-twenty needed
sleep, and how impossible it was for her, after the brain-exciting
work she had been through, to sleep as they did during the first watch
of the night. But shrewd Hagar Muchmore understood without any
scientific training to help her; and on Sunday mornings, the only time
when Doreen could afford to have her sleep out, Hagar was a veritable
dragon, silencing the least attempt at noise on the part of the
children with a sentence that made them feel like criminals of the
deepest dye. "Can't you be quiet for one hour and let your sister have
her sleep out, when she is toiling for you from week's end to week's
end?"

The good woman's face was comical to behold when, on the morning after
Doreen's return from Southampton, Michael stole softly upstairs with
the news that little Una Kingston had already arrived.

"Why, it's but nine o'clock!" she exclaimed. "And I never think of
disturbing Miss Doreen till half-past on a Sunday. Whatever can have
made her come at this hour of the morning?"

"Devotion to Doreen," said Michael; "and I believe she was told to
come as early as she liked."

"Is it Donal that's come?" shouted Bride, in her loudest and most
penetrating voice, running out from the nursery in high glee;
whereupon Doreen, roused at once, opened her door and laughed to see
the energetic way in which the boys suppressed poor Bride.

"I do believe," said Michael, "you have voice enough to fill the
Albert Hall!"

"Don't scold her; it's high time I was awake," said Doreen. "Did you
say Donal had come?"

"No, it's the infant prodigy," said Michael. "The prettiest little
girl I ever saw, but seems to think every one is an ogre in the house
except you."

"Bring her to the nursery; I'll be ready in ten minutes. And, Mollie,
make an extra slice or two of toast; I daresay she will like a second
breakfast."

So Una was piloted upstairs by the boys, of whom she was desperately
afraid, into the snuggest little room she had ever seen. Even the two
little girls made her shy, however; for she had been so long cut off
from child life that she hardly knew what to make of her own
contemporaries. Fortunately, no O'Ryan was ever troubled with shyness,
and Mollie and Bride gave her the warmest of welcomes, relieved her of
her hat and jacket, and politely inquired if she liked making toast.

"I don't know," said Una; "we never had toast in Germany."

"That's a mercy," said Michael; "everything is made in Germany
nowadays, till one gets quite tired of the words. I'm glad they leave
the toast-making to us."

"Try," said Mollie, courteously relinquishing the much-treasured
toasting-fork. "It's such fun making it. Bride and me always make it
on Sunday mornings for Doreen, and she lets us get her breakfast ready
up here, so as not to bother the servants. Sunday is the nicest day in
the whole week; we see much more of Doreen, and she never writes
letters or does anything horrid, but just rests, and gives us a good
time."

"Did you come so early to go to church with us?" asked four-year-old
Bride, with the unabashed directness of her age.

Una blushed and hesitated. "Do you go?" she asked.

"Doreen always takes us in the morning to Mr. Osmond's church; but we
don't stay as long as she and auntie do, you know, and it's really
rather nice. Then we come out, and uncle takes us for a walk till
dinner," said Mollie.

"Which church do you go to?" asked Bride, in her emphatic voice, her
rosy, babyish little face beaming upon shy Una. "The boys go to the
Oratory, and Hagar to the Congregational."

"I have never been in London," said the little violinist, colouring,
"and I never used to go in Germany till I read Schiller's 'Wandelnde
Glocke,' and was afraid the bell might come to fetch me."

"To fetch you?" said Bride, with dilated eyes. And Una was beguiled
into telling them the legend, until, what with toast-making and
talking, she had quite forgotten her fears. Then Doreen came in,
bright and cheery as ever, with a welcome which made the child's heart
throb with delight, and the merriest of breakfasts followed, Una
discovering that for once she really was hungry, and that there was
something in toast one had made oneself that was specially good.
Perhaps she had never in her life been so happy as she was that
afternoon, when Doreen took her down to the Hospital for Incurables on
Putney Heath, where she often used to sing on Sunday to the patients.
To be alone in a hansom with her new friend, to be allowed to slip her
little forlorn hand into the comforting clasp of those motherly
fingers, to open her heart to one who would understand and sympathize
with her, seemed to Una the perfection of bliss. Then, too, the spring
day was as full of quiet beauty as a mild day in February can be, and
it was rapture, after the imprisoned life she had led of late, to
drink in the fresh air, and to feel that for once that she had nothing
to do but to enjoy herself.

"Do you always come here on Sundays?" she asked.

"Not always to this hospital, but generally to some hospital or
infirmary when I am in London. You see it is the only way in which I
can give at present."

"I never somehow thought about giving," said Una, musingly. "I wish,
oh, how I wish, you would sometimes let me come too, and bring my
violin. Do you think the people would like it?"

"I am sure they would, but I am not sure that you ought not to keep
your Sundays quite free from anything that might tire you, for you are
very young for public life."

"Oh, that would not tire me; it is just perfect rest and happiness to
be with you," said Una, with such a sincerity of devotion, that Doreen
hardly knew whether to smile or to cry.

"Well, that is a very easily attainable piece of happiness," she said,
with a kindly glance at the little fragile face. "You can come and
spend every Sunday with me if you like."

The child's face lighted up until all the signs of over-pressure and
care had utterly vanished, and it was once again the face of a child,
radiant and unclouded and aglow with happiness. Doreen gradually
learnt to understand her completely, for little by little Una told the
whole story of her past life.

It seemed that from her earliest childhood Madame De Berg had been her
evil genius. Of her mother she had no recollection whatever; she and
her father had lived as best they could a more or less nomadic life,
and she had had a succession of nurses and nursery governesses, with
all of whom Madame De Berg had ultimately quarrelled.

"Cousin Flora used to swoop down upon us unexpectedly," said Una, "to
see, she said, that all was going on well; but somehow her coming
always set things wrong, and just as I had grown fond of my governess
or my _bonne_ she was dismissed. Then for a year we lived with Cousin
Flora at St. John's Wood. I was always so dreadfully afraid of her,
and just to avoid one of her scoldings got into the way of telling
lies; even now she can terrify me into saying almost anything, and yet
there is nothing that one can exactly complain of. She never punishes
me; it is only her dreadful tongue; but I would rather any day be
whipped than scolded by her. I never told my father, having a sort of
notion that grown-up people always stood by each other, and I was
afraid I should never be able to make him understand how miserable I
was. Perhaps he guessed a little, for four years ago last Christmas he
took me to Germany to study under Herr Koner. They were very kind to
me at Leipzig. Of course, Frau Muller may have cared mostly, as Cousin
Flora says, for the money she received for my board, but I think she
did care for me, too, a little. The food was not very good; but then
she was poor, and had a married daughter who was always in trouble.
And she was very kind, and at the Christmas tree would put quite a
number of presents on my table. Cousin Flora says that was good
policy, to keep me from complaining of the food. Do you think people
are always kind just from self-interest?"

"No, I don't," said Doreen. "That is a horrible creed, and I could
give you a hundred instances to the contrary, where people have been
kind, though it was to their own hindrance. Was your father with you
in Germany?"

"Only in my holiday time; then we used to travel about, and sometimes
I was very happy, though often it was lonely in the hotels. I had a
doll, though, that was just like a real child to me, and I used to
pretend I was a very young widow, and was always begging my father to
buy me a black dress. He never would, though; men seldom seem to like
black," and Una looked down at her mourning attire with an acute
perception of how much her father would have disliked it.

"Was it in Germany that Mr. Kingston died?" asked Doreen.

"Yes; it was last September, at Baden. I had played there at a
concert, and all had gone well. He was very much pleased that night,
and kept speaking of plans for the future; how, when my education was
finished, we would travel about the world together. But the next
morning he was too ill to get up, and the doctor sent a sister to
nurse him. She was very kind to me, and she did all that could be done
for him,--only always it made me unhappy to look at her, because I was
so afraid it would some day perhaps seem to be my duty, too, to become
a sister and wear those dreadful clothes, and never play my violin
again. You don't think it ever could, do you?" she added, looking up
with her wide, gray eyes full of anxiety.

"No," said Doreen; "I think it is clearly your vocation to play the
violin." Her tone of quiet decision and the little sparkle of humour
in her blue eyes set Una at rest, and that "phantasm of the
conscience" was laid for ever.

"We telegraphed to Cousin Flora and her husband to come," she
continued; "but they came too late. He died the next evening. I was
sitting with my doll by the open window, the room had grown quite
dusk, when all at once he called to me from the bed, and asked me to
play him '_Pieta Signore_.' I thought he must be much better; for,
when I took the violin out of the case,--his own violin, which I had
only been allowed to use for a few months,--he took it from me and
tuned it himself. I wish, oh, so much, that they wouldn't still make
me play '_Pieta Signore_'; for always I seem to see again the room at
Baden, and the sister in her ugly dress, and father's face looking
like marble in the dim light. But Herr Rimmers always says it is one
of my best things, so there is no help for it. Father gave a great
sigh as I finished. I was afraid I had disappointed him; for, indeed,
my hands were cold, and I had not played very well. But when I put
down the violin and stooped down to kiss him, he caught me in his
arms; 'I am proud of my _Herzblttchen_,' he said, and then suddenly
his arms fell back from me, and the sister came quickly forward, and
somehow from her face I understood that this was death."

The description touched a chord in Doreen's own life; her eyes filled
with tears, and her heart went out more than ever to the desolate
little orphan who had made so sudden a claim upon her affections. By
this time they had reached their destination and were driving along
the pretty approach to the Home for Incurables, with its lovely
glimpses of distant country. Una was astonished when they were shown
into the beautiful building to see that the faces of the patients
were, as a rule, wonderfully bright, and that there was none of that
dreary hopelessness which she had anticipated. Far too shy to speak a
single word, she followed Doreen with loving admiration, listening to
her cheery greetings to one and another, and then sitting in rapt
attention to listen while Doreen sang "Come unto Him" from the
"Messiah," ending with two or three hymns which the patients liked as
well as anything, especially the familiar Vesper hymn which rang in
Una's ears all the way home. Surely, she thought, the words "union"
and "communion" had that day gained for her a new meaning,--a meaning
which must brighten and widen her whole life. By the time they reached
Bernard Street tea was ready,--not on Sundays a mere drawing-room
affair, but a regular children's tea, at which Mollie and Bride were
wont to consume surprising quantities of bread and jam and sponge
cake. Una, though much afraid of Uncle Garth, soon found that the
presence of the children thawed her shyness, and there was something
so gentle in Mrs. Garth's face that in spite of a certain awe inspired
by her quiet reserve of manner, Una felt sure that she should love
her, and was perhaps better capable in some ways of appreciating her
character than Doreen, whose spontaneous and demonstrative Irish
nature still at times found it hard to accommodate itself to her
aunt's reticence.

Sundays were not days of dull routine at Bernard Street, or of
compulsory idleness, and Una entered with spirit into the matter which
happened to be absorbing the children's minds,--the painting and
pasting and cutting out pictures for a scrap-book destined for a
Christmas tree at one of the "Sailors' Rests." Aunt Garth in the mean
time read aloud to them, and Una found Kingsley's "Water Babies" so
fascinating that she could hardly bear to wait a whole week for the
next reading. When Doreen and Michael left her at the door of Madame
De Berg's house, she felt as if she were coming back to a rather
dreary earth, having had a little glimpse into another and much
brighter region. Her life was of necessity hard and wearing, but
Doreen's thoughtfulness had at least rescued her Sundays, and the
child looked forward to them as--


    "Bright shadows of true rest....
     Heaven once a week;
     The next world's gladness prepossest in this."




CHAPTER XVI.


"What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people fight about,
  To a kind word from her lips or a love-glance from her eye?
Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure, they'd soon go to the
       right about
  If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by and by."

                               FRANCIS A. FAHY, _Irish Love Songs_.


On returning to Bernard Street that evening, Doreen and Michael found
that Donal Moore had just arrived. When he was in London he not
unfrequently dropped in on Sundays, knowing that he would probably
find them all at home, and to Doreen there was always a sort of
whimsical pleasure in watching the growth of that curious friendship
which gradually sprang up between Uncle Garth, the hater of change,
and Donal Moore, the ardent Nationalist. Sometimes when alone she
would laugh aloud at the comical recollection of the contrast between
their faces, or of the embarrassed nervousness of Uncle Garth's aspect
when Michael, who had a way of blundering into awkward topics with
charming _navet_ and frankness, only excelled by four-year-old
Bride, had turned the talk upon Irish matters. It was perhaps as well
that Mr. Garth chanced that night to be kept in his study until supper
time, for inevitably the talk turned upon the coming elections. Donal
Moore was in excellent spirits and was confident that the true wishes
of Ireland would be manifested as they had never been manifested
before, and that the dawn was breaking.

"If only my father had been spared for this time," said Doreen,
wistfully, "how he would have worked!"

"True," said Donal; "yet one who knows all the ins and outs of
political life could hardly wish him back to it. His innate love of
fighting would have kept him to the last in the thick of the fray, and
his health was too entirely shattered to have stood for long against
such a strain."

"And how was it shattered?" said Doreen, speaking low and quickly. "It
was the long years of imprisonment which killed him, and he was
imprisoned merely for writing words which every liberty-loving
Englishman would have written, had England been under the same unjust
'Castle' system."

"And yet," said Donal Moore, "ninety-nine intelligent Englishmen out
of a hundred will tell you, and will really believe, that Ireland is
governed as England is governed."

"Yes, it is easy enough to believe anything until you inquire into
facts and really study the question," said Doreen. "But you have made
one convert, Donal,--at least I feel pretty confident about him,--and
that is Mr. Hereford."

"I met him last night and had a long talk with him," said Donal; "but
he is your convert, my dear, not mine; he vows that you pledged him to
work for Ireland when you were only twelve years old."

"As we climbed Kilrourk together," said Doreen, a dreamy look stealing
into her blue eyes.

"He has the makings of a very fine fellow," said Donal Moore,
thoughtfully, "but yet I hardly think he realizes the difficulties
that lie before him. It is not one man in a thousand who is unselfish
enough to run the risk of spoiling his own career and incurring
general odium for the sake of a cause which, after all, is not really
his."

Doreen winced; it hurt her to hear Max discussed in such a calm,
dispassionate, critical way. And had this man, to whom she had given
her whole heart, only the "makings of a fine man" in him? After all,
that was but a _faon de parler_; in one sense, every one was in
process of being made. What she was slow to admit was the unwelcome
thought that Ireland could possibly be for him a matter of secondary
interest and importance. Donal Moore had argued that the cause was,
after all, not really his own. But was it not his own, when England
for generations had been misgoverning and unfairly treating the Irish?
Did not the responsibility of the past rest in part upon him? Was it
not his plain duty to help in righting the wrong?

The talk was interrupted by the entrance of Uncle Garth, who took no
sort of interest in the news of the Dissolution which was causing such
keen excitement throughout the country; he greeted Donal with much
warmth.

"I'm glad to see you, Mr. Moore; extremely glad. Doreen has perhaps
told you our great news."

"No," said Doreen, with a merry laugh, "I left it for you, uncle; that
is to say, I forgot all about it."

"A very great discovery has just been made," said Uncle Garth, his
eyes sparkling; "some one just by chance happened to meddle with the
head-dress of a mummy recently; the hair was coiled in bits of
papyrus, and it was actually found that this was covered with writing;
folds and folds of it were discovered merely in the hair of this one
body, and there is great reason to hope that a rich store of
information may be gradually acquired, as the hair of other mummies is
gradually investigated. I can show you, if you like, the sort of thing
that has been found"; and he bustled off to his study, while Doreen
with laughter in her eyes looked mischievously at Donal Moore.

"Farewell to Erin!" she said merrily. "Henceforward the evening will
be devoted to mummy curl-papers!"

Fortunately, during the Easter holidays, Doreen was less busy than
usual, and was able to spend most of the time with Mrs. Hereford at
Monkton Verney. Miriam, true to her decision, had gone to the Riviera,
and wrote amusing letters to her aunt, describing the delights of the
sunny south, and condoling with the poor victims who had to sit in
dreary rooms, listening to her cousin's election speeches. She little
guessed how keen a delight this was to Doreen, or how full of radiant
hope was the whole of that busy fortnight.

The contest was likely to be a severe one, but fortunately it was
fought in honourable fashion throughout; and though Max inevitably
came in for vehement personal attacks with regard to the position he
had taken on the temperance question, and was often greeted in Firdale
streets by the singing of--


    "D---- their eyes if they ever tries
     To rob a poor man of his beer,"


yet, on the whole, Mr. Steele proved a vigorous and determined, but
not an ill-bred, opponent.

Doreen found endless food for fun in the whole election, but, after
one or two attempts, she wholly declined canvassing.

"It's a hateful system," she protested, when one evening at dinner she
was urged by some one present to try her hand upon a few voters who
were known to be of doubtful mind. "If I were lucky enough to have a
vote, and some one came poking into my house at an inconvenient time,
and wanted to know the exact state of my views and what I intended to
do, I would be just like the pig that the man was driving over
Westminster Bridge, and he couldn't do it till he turned its tail
where he wanted its head to go."

"Of course," said her neighbour at the dinner-table, "there must be no
intimidation; only just a clear setting forth to them of Mr.
Hereford's views, and a little gentle persuasion to them to adhere to
the right side."

"I can't help it," said Doreen. "I was born to be a singer, not a
canvasser; and after all, one can only do well what one thoroughly
believes in. Now I will just tell you what happened when I went to see
one of these obstinate old rustics who have the privilege of voting,
which is denied to me. 'Have you heard Mr. Hereford speak?' I asked.

"'Oh, ay, I've 'eard 'un, and he be a rare fine speaker, so he be. But
I be a goin' to give my vote to the other chap this time.'

"'I am sorry for that,' I replied, 'for I'm sure Mr. Hereford will do
more for the country's good in Parliament than the other candidate,
and surely they told me you voted for the Liberal candidate at the
last election.'

"'So I did, my dear,' he replied. 'But ye see this time the other
chap, the Conservative, he be called John. Now John's me own name, and
so says I to my wife, "Let's give old John a turn."' And he will give
old John a turn, too, whoever goes to argue with him."

Max laughed heartily at the story.

"I am not sure that I grudge Mr. Steele that supporter," he said.
"And, as you say, it is a shame that women should have no power to
vote. I know well enough that their feeling here is so strong on the
temperance question that they would certainly give us the victory."

"But the majority of women are surely Conservative," said Doreen's
neighbour.

"So people say," said Doreen. "I rather doubt it; but even if that is
the case, why are they to be kept out of a right which they actually
enjoyed in olden times? Of one thing I am certain: they care more for
what is really right than most men do. It is only because it seems to
be expedient that men deny them their just rights. We are told in all
the histories that the great principle set forth in Magna Charta was
that there could be no taxation without representation, and that the
law of the land is the same for all; but people seem gloriously to
have broken that principle for generations."

"Your country blocks the way," said Mr. Farrant, the member for
Greyshot, who was sitting at Mrs. Hereford's right hand. "When Ireland
has Home Rule, there will, perhaps, be time to set this grievance at
rest."

"Are we to have Signor Sardoni's song again to-night?" asked Mrs.
Farrant, as the ladies went to the drawing-room.

"Yes, if you are not quite tired of it. The people seem to like it,
and I hear it now constantly whistled about the Firdale streets," said
Doreen. "Are you not almost weary of election work, having just been
through the campaign at Greyshot?"

"This is so different," said Mrs. Farrant, her bright face clouding
for a moment. "At Greyshot it was a very bitter fight, and I am glad
for my husband to be away from home for a little while: this thorough
change will do him great good. He was returned, you know, by a
majority of ten only, and I can't tell you what he has had to endure
all through the election,--the raking up of the past, the gross
exaggerations, the incessant slanders, or half-truths, bandied about
by his opponents."

"What did he do to check them?" asked Doreen, with keen interest.

"As a rule he refused to take any notice whatever, unless the slander
was likely to damage others also. He used to tell me of brave old
Hannah More, who steadily declined to vouchsafe the least notice to
the cruel slanders which saddened her life, even when they went to the
length of accusing her of attempting the assassination of the Regent."

"I think it is the one thing I should resent more than all others,"
said Doreen, thoughtfully.

As yet nothing of the sort had touched her; she had gained a high
position in the musical world, and had won the greatest personal
respect; the thought of having the least shadow cast upon her
reputation made her shudder, and it was with more understanding eyes
that she looked at Donovan Farrant when, shortly after, the gentlemen
rejoined them. Was this, she wondered, the explanation of that air of
having lived through a great struggle which made him so curiously
unlike Max? There was not so very much difference, after all, between
their ages. Mr. Farrant might be a few years older, but he had the
look of one who had fought a hard fight and had conquered, yet would
bear all his life the scars of the conflict. What had his past been?
she wondered. And was this what Donal Moore meant by a man that was
"made"? Must Max also pass through some great ordeal before Donal
would allow that he had more than the "makings" of a fine man in him?
She turned from the idea with a shudder of dread, unable to endure the
thought of any cloud coming over the fair horizon of his life.
Everything save sunshine and prosperity seemed so foreign to his
nature, his life had hitherto been so wonderfully smooth, that to
think of danger or trouble in store for him seemed unbearable.

"You are tired," said Max, crossing the room to the little nook behind
the piano, where she was somewhat absently turning over the songs in
her portfolio in search of something fresh for that evening. "I am
afraid we are letting you do too much."

She looked up into his fresh, cheerful face, met the eyes which always
seemed so full of sunshine, and promptly dismissed that thought of a
future ordeal in store for him. Surely nothing so incongruous as
trouble or danger could ever come near Max.

"No, I am not tired," she said. "I was only thinking of something Mrs.
Farrant told me of the disagreeables they had had to go through at
Greyshot."

"Firdale has been better behaved," said Max. "But there is no knowing
how it will treat me when Irish matters come to the fore, unless in
the mean time you have succeeded in fairly bewitching them with your
Irish songs. However, I am calmly talking as though I were already
elected. We must not make too sure of victory."

"But your agent is in very good spirits," said Doreen. "He looked
quite beaming when we met him this afternoon in the drive."

"He didn't tell you about the placards, did he?" said Max, laughing.
"You know the whole place was covered with posters adjuring people to
'Vote for Steele and keep Southshire solid.' Well, some wag on our
side amused himself last night by going round with paint-pot and brush
and neatly inserting a T into every placard, so that they are bidden
to vote for the Conservative to keep things stolid."

"How Michael would have enjoyed doing that!" said Doreen, with a
smile. "It would have been a trick after his own heart. Mrs. Hereford
does not look well to-night; I am glad she has given up the thought of
going."

"The excitement is bad for her, but it will soon be over now; by the
day after to-morrow we shall know our fate. Here comes the carriage;
let me roll up your song."

Doreen ran upstairs to get ready, reappearing before long in the
pretty white felt hat trimmed with dusky olive green velvet, and the
long green cloak lined with white fur, which she had specially devised
for the election. It was a costume of which Max heartily approved, and
it called forth Mrs. Farrant's admiration.

"It has been such fun singing at these meetings that I am quite sorry
this will be the last time," said Doreen, as they drove into Firdale.

"The last, but the most important occasion of all," said Max.
"To-night you have to rival the great gun Mr. Steele has managed to
secure; a member of the late cabinet, dull as ditchwater, but,
nevertheless, one who is bound to draw, for is he not a real live
Earl?"

"How clever it was of your agent to secure the Town-hall in time! It
is delightful to think that the other side will have to take refuge in
the Corn Exchange, and to talk of Protection, and sing 'We don't want
to fight,' in that depressing place, which is worse for sound than any
room I ever knew."

"The true red-hot election temper is beginning to possess you," said
Max, laughing. "For a singer, I consider that a most vindictive
speech!"

"Well, well," said Doreen. "For such songs as they will sing the place
is surely good enough. Now we really must have something better than
that wretched glass-roofed shed."

By this time they had reached the town, and as the lamplight flashed
across Doreen's eager face, Max found himself thinking of that evening
years ago when he had driven with her to the Albert Hall before her
first appearance in the "Messiah." She was far more excited now than
she had been before her own ordeal, and there was a happy confidence
in her manner which made his own heart beat high with hope. Max
usually succeeded in life, and invariably he expected to succeed. This
was not from conceit, but from a certain unconquerable hopefulness of
temperament, and from the long spell of unbroken good fortune which he
had enjoyed. Save that terrible incident in Ireland, of which he had
been the witness, no untoward event had occurred to cast a shadow over
his life; and he was not of a worrying nature, and had quite ceased to
feel Desmond's secret any sort of burden to him. If at times the
recollection of that scene on Lough Lee, and the horror of witnessing
Foxell's violent death, returned for a few moments, the discomfort was
brief enough,--a mere temporary disturbance of his serenity. He lived
in the present, and the present was full of excitement and hard work
and eager hope. His great personal popularity in Firdale counted for
much, and the cheers that rent the air as he and his companions
entered the Town-hall would have stirred a far older and more seasoned
warrior. Doreen thought no applause had ever sounded so sweet;
accustomed as she was to such demonstrations, she was, nevertheless,
moved almost to tears by this recognition of her lover, and all
anxiety for the morrow left her: she threw herself unreservedly into
the enjoyment of the present.

Perhaps every one else was a little weary of meetings, but Doreen to
the last entered into the spirit of the contest, and found endless
food for amusement in the study of the speakers and of the audience.
In the second row she could see a certain local magnate who had been
lured to the Town-hall simply by the desire to hear her sing, and who,
being of the other persuasion, listened to the speeches with the most
comically glum face imaginable. Then there were the labourers, the
older ones somewhat stolid-looking countrymen, the younger listening
intently, and occasionally opening their mouths wide for a great
bellow of applause excessively startling to their nearest neighbours.
The venerable-looking chairman, also a local light, was not without
some comic aspects which tickled Doreen's sense of fun. He was an
ardent politician, but a lame speaker, and he resorted to the simple
expedient of introducing the beloved name of the great Liberal chief
into his speech whenever he was at a loss, making a significant pause,
which, of course, was filled with loud cheers.

After this, one of Doreen's songs came very refreshingly to the
assembly, and with a comfortable sense of having stimulated her
hearers and kindled their enthusiasm, she sat down again, eager to
hear what sort of speaker Mr. Farrant would prove. One thing he
undoubtedly possessed,--the faculty of arresting the whole attention
of his hearers. He was no orator; he could not even be called an
eloquent speaker, but there was a thoroughness about him which seemed
to go straight to the consciences of the voters. His argument was
weighty and convincing; he never stooped to abuse his opponents, but
somehow contrived to raise the whole tone of the meeting, to fill the
electors with a sense of the grave responsibility that rested upon
them, and to make them understand in the clearest, most practical way,
what the effect of voting for Max Hereford would be, and how greatly
it might help in bringing about long-needed reforms. Doreen almost
trembled at the thought of coming after such a speaker. How was she to
maintain the lofty tone to which he had raised the minds of those
present? Sardoni's song, which had grown so popular, did not wholly
please her, somehow. It would be more in keeping after Max Hereford's
stirring, enthusiastic speech. She turned over the leaves of a book of
Irish songs which she had brought with her, and selected, instead, a
simple, stately, national air, one of those calls to battle, those
stirring appeals to help in the national defence, which, like "The
March of the Men of Harlech," appeal to all nations for all time. Max
could just see her profile as she sang, and he thought he had never
before seen her look so lovely. With one of those sudden flashes of
perception by which truth generally makes itself known, he all at once
realized to what an extent Doreen had influenced his life.

"If I win the election," he thought to himself, "if I am ever worth
anything at all, it will be her doing."

And when presently he was received by the audience with deafening
cheers, with an enthusiastic devotion which seemed to augur well for
the morrow, this thought still remained with him, adding very much to
the grace of manner which characterized all the more personal parts of
his speech. Then, throwing off all diffidence, he flung himself, with
fiery ardour, into the great questions of the day. As a speaker, he
was the exact opposite of Donovan Farrant. Where the one was calm,
logical, full of weighty arguments, the other was full of burning
eloquence, of scathing denunciation, of glowing enthusiasm, which
roused his hearers to the same pitch of strong feeling. Doreen, at the
close, turned with a smile to Mrs. Farrant. "They ought always to
speak together," she said. "Then every variety of hearer would be
influenced and won."

The polling day passed off quietly enough, as polling days should; it
was fine, but bitterly cold. Doreen, however, was in no mood to think
of prudent considerations, and drove hither and thither with Max and
the Farrants, regardless of the cutting east wind, and thinking only
of the fight that was being fought. Everywhere the Liberal candidate
was well received, and when, in the afternoon, Mrs. Hereford came in
from Monkton Verney and joined the others in the Committee Rooms,
Doreen gave her a glowing account of the way in which matters were
progressing.

Then the election agent came in with a yet more cheerful version of
the day's doings, and Doreen wandered to the window, which commanded a
good view of the market-place, and amused herself with watching the
faces of the crowd below.

Much laughter greeted the cart belonging to a local dyer, who was
zealously conducting tardy voters to the poll; and who, by way of a
novel effect, had sacrificed an unlucky little Pomeranian dog, dyeing
it half blue and half red, to the great delight of all the Firdale
children. An encounter between this ill-used quadruped and Mr.
Farrant's fox terrier, which had been decorated with a huge green and
white bow by Doreen, was attempted by some mischievous person, but
Waif magnanimously refused to quarrel with his blue and red rival, and
only walked round and round him with a puzzled air, sniffing a little
contemptuously, as much as to say, "Lord, what fools these mortals
be!"

All at once loud cheers rose from the crowd, and Doreen's heart began
to throb with eager pride as she saw that the greeting was in honour
of Max, who was just crossing the broad open space between the
Town-hall and his Committee Rooms. He raised his hat, and walked
through the eager crowd with an air of good cheer and hopefulness,
which inspirited his supporters not a little. Doreen felt a glow of
happiness as she reflected that he was the last man to be spoilt by
success. Suddenly the cheering was interrupted by a series of groans
and hisses; without glancing in the direction whence they came, Max
entered the house and soon joined them. But Doreen, looking keenly
down, saw that the prime agitator was a dark-haired man of about
forty, whose face she was certain she had seen before.

"News telegraphed of ten more great Liberal victories," said Max,
cheerfully. "That ought to help us to-day,--the flowing tide is with
us!"

"Do look here one moment," exclaimed Doreen. "There is a man just
below who tried hard to get up a demonstration against you, and I
cannot think how I know his face so well."

"Doubtless it's old Friday that you once asked me about at a meeting,"
said Max, laughing as he recalled some past scene. "Miss O'Ryan," he
explained to Mrs. Farrant, "was singing at a meeting ten days ago,
and at the end of her song quite upset me by saying, 'Who is that old
gentleman with marked features at the end of the room?' It was no less
a hero than the notorious Firdale drunkard, an old scamp who goes by
the name of Friday, and who takes refuge in the workhouse all the
winter and drinks all the summer."

"Of course Friday would be your opponent," said Doreen, smiling; "but
this man was a great deal younger, and I know his face perfectly well.
There, look; he is just talking now to that tall man who spoke at the
Monday night meeting. He must be abusing you; how angry they are
getting! See! see! there is some one throwing a flour bag at him. I
daresay he deserved it."

"Stupid fellows!" said Max. "I wish they wouldn't defend me in such a
fashion. I couldn't see the fellow's face, and now he looks like Lot's
wife, and it's impossible to recognize him."

The unfortunate victim of the flour bag disappeared into a barber's
shop a little lower down the street, and Max and Doreen, who had much
else to think of, speedily forgot the incident. Had Max been present,
however, when, after much washing and rubbing and brushing, the flour
was at last got rid of and the victim of the outrage restored to his
usual appearance, he would have deemed the affair worth a little more
reflection.

Old Killigrew, the barber, had just been about to start for the
polling booth, when his floury customer had arrived. He bustled about
his shop in an important way, keenly enjoying the chance of learning
all that had passed from the victim himself.

"Such things will happen on election days," he remarked soothingly,
"and Lor' bless me, 'twould be tame enough if they didn't. Things 'av
been mighty quiet here all day,--just a pane or two of glass broke by
some of Mr. Steele's supporters, they tell me, down at the coffee
tavern; but then, what can you expect? 'tis but natural they should
'ate the coffee tavern, which is just the apple of Mr. 'Ereford's
eye, and if 'e goes about speaking against the liquor traffic, why,
stands to reason there'll be some of 'em will get a bit riled. For Mr.
'Ereford 'e doan't mince matters. 'E's young, yer see, and 'e 'its
'ard. Now myself, I'm all for moderate drinkin', but these temperance
folk they say as 'ow 'arf an' 'arf measures 'av never cured one
drunkard, an' maybe they're right; yet for all that, I do like your
moderate men; they smooths folk down and are a deal more comfortable
than these Radicals. Not but what I'm a goin' to vote for Mr. 'Ereford
to-day. 'E's the best man of the two, an' I've a deal of respect for
'im, an' there's truth in what 'e says about Ireland."

"Don't you be led by him," said the victim of the outrage, emerging
from beneath the towel wherewith Killigrew was rubbing his hair. "I
know a deal more about Mr. Hereford than you do, and I advise you not
to vote for him."

"Why, Heaven preserve us!" cried Killigrew, catching sight, in the
mirror, of the face of his customer now restored to its proper hue,
"'tis Monsieur Baptiste! To be sure, if any one should know Mr.
'Ereford, why 'tis yourself that was 'is valet for years and years;
not but what I've 'eard folk say that a man's never an 'ero to his
valet."

"Mr. Hereford is certainly no hero to me," said Baptiste, whose
English had greatly improved during his four years' absence from
Monkton Verney.

As he spoke, there entered three more customers, burly, weather-beaten
labourers, come to be shaved before going to the polling station. The
eldest of the three, a man with great, brown, cow-like eyes, stared
hard at the Frenchman.

"And what may you know about 'Ereford, eh, man? We were just a goin'
to vote for un."

"You gowk," said his neighbour, "don't you see it's him that was
servant up at Monkton Verney a while ago?"

"Yes, my friends," said Baptiste. "I was in Mr. Hereford's service
many years, and was turned off by him at a moment's notice in a fit of
anger. That's the sort of man your Liberal candidate is,--a man with
no gratitude, a man who will use you and then throw you aside like an
old glove, a man that has no more control over his tongue and temper
than a child, yet who will talk fair about temperance and reform and
philanthropy. Curse him! He's a hypocrite! A whited sepulchre!"

"Softly, softly, my good friend," said the barber, swathing the burly
form of the old labourer in a white sheet. "'Tis but nateral you
should resent being turned off at a moment's notice; but still be
moderate, be moderate. I do like your moderate man who knows 'ow to
smooth matters over"; and with an expressive flourish he emphasized
his words by delicately lathering the face of his new customer.

"Why did he give yer the sack?" said the youngest of the new arrivals,
who for the first time in his life was to enjoy the privilege of
voting.

"I will tell you," said the Frenchman, dramatically. "For years, as
Mr. Killigrew well knows, I served him faithfully, nursed him when he
was sick, performed a thousand duties that were not really part of my
work, and then, having discovered that I knew of a damaging secret in
his past life, and fearing that I might reveal it, he turned me out."

"I never 'eerd nought against 'Ereford," said the man with the
cow-like eyes, as he was released from the white sheet.

"That may be," said Baptiste, darkly. "He knows well enough how to
hold his tongue. But mark my words, if you knew about him all that I
know, you'd as soon go to the poll and vote for the devil himself."

"And 'ow did you find this out, Mr. Baptiste?" asked Killigrew, his
good-humoured, mild face puckered and wrinkled with anxiety.

"I found it out a little when I was in Ireland years ago at Castle
Karey, and later on gained fresh light on the matter at Monkton
Verney. The instant my master suspected that I was on the scent he
dismissed me; but I was even with him: took service with a family in
Dublin, and worked away at my clew. The time will come when I shall be
able to expose him. But don't you men of Firdale be such fools as to
elect him to-day. 'Twould be a disgrace to the town to have its member
shown up to the world for the deceiver that he is."

"Good Lord!" said Killigrew, wiping his forehead. "Why, I've known 'im
since 'e was a baby. It must be a mistake, man; 'e can't have been so
much to blame as you thought. It was, maybe, a mere sowing of 'is wild
oats."

"Pshaw!" said the valet, contemptuously. "Do you take me for an
innocent, my friend? Is it likely that I should make anything of a
mere bagatelle of that sort? I do wrong to speak of it openly,
however; the time of revelation is not yet; only it vexes me to see
you all hoodwinked, and to think how you will regret having voted for
him when the law is on his track and he is imprisoned, and the world
knows him as he really is."

"Well, mates, anyhow we'll be safest in voting for Steele," said the
eldest of the old labourers, tossing down his twopence on the counter;
and Killigrew, with a perturbed face, saw them stroll out into the
street and walk off to the polling station.

"I can't vote against Mr. 'Ereford," he said, as he slowly swept up
the floor. "But I tell you what I shall do, Monsieur Baptiste, I shall
not vote at all."

Baptiste smiled an evil smile and left the shop with a sweeping bow.
"A very wise decision," he said. "I felt sure that you wouldn't vote
for him when you knew that he was not what he seems to be. _Au
revoir_, Mr. Killigrew; you are a sensible man, and I am glad to think
you will no longer be gulled by that hypocrite."




CHAPTER XVII.


    "Oh, not more subtly silence strays
       Amongst the winds, between the voices,
     Mingling alike with pensive lays,
       And with the music that rejoices,
     Than thou art present in my days.

    "Most dear pause in a mellow lay!
       Thou art inwoven with every air.
     With thee the wildest tempests play,
       And snatches of thee everywhere
     Make little heavens throughout a day."

                              ALICE MEYNELL.


The Monkton Verney party drove home that night in excellent spirits.
The result of the election would not be declared till the next day at
noon, but the general feeling was that Max had won the seat, and the
Conservatives, who at the previous election had had a large majority,
looked anxious and dispirited. Max had been hard at work all day, and
was thoroughly exhausted; to lean back in the corner of the carriage,
to catch faint glimpses of Doreen's face opposite him, and to listen
to the cheery talk of his companions, seemed to him a sort of paradise
of rest. The conversation happened to turn upon the ghost that haunted
the Abbey, and then Mrs. Farrant told a tale of a nice,
matter-of-fact, well-explained ghost, of the sort that one likes to
think of at midnight, and urged that all ghost stories could be
explained after a similar fashion.

"Nothing will make me believe that," said Doreen, who had a strong
tinge of Keltic belief in the supernatural. "I will tell you a story
of an Irish ghost which my father himself knew to be true: it is a
very nice sort, not at all creepy, and it shows a trait in the Irish
character which English people don't realize."

"What is that?" said Max.

"Their unceasing memory of kindness. An Irishman never forgets."

"Let us have the story," said Donovan Farrant. "This is precisely the
right sort of light for it."

"Well," said Doreen, in her clear, mellow voice, with its delicious
modulations, "there was once upon a time a well-to-do settler in
Australia, who lived some fifty miles from a town. He was in the habit
of riding in occasionally to draw out money from his bank, and on one
of these rides, as he was returning with a good deal of gold upon him,
he was stopped by an Irishman who begged him most piteously to lend
him some money to get his passage back to Ireland. The man was in
terrible distress, longing to get back to his people in the old
country, who needed him in some great trouble, but absolutely without
means to pay his fare.

"'You are a perfect stranger to me,' said the Englishman. 'How am I to
trust you?' Yet all the time he felt sorry for the poor fellow, and
inclined to believe in him.

"'If you will only help me,' cried the Irishman, 'I will never forget
it to you. Lend me the loan of the money, and I will pay you back,
and, should death overtake me, sure then I'll repay you in the next
world.'

"The Englishman, touched by the appeal, lent the money. Years passed
by, and nothing was heard of the Irishman. One day he was again riding
along the same road, and again carrying an unusually large amount of
gold from his bank. He was feeling nervous that day, for there had
recently been a bad highway robbery, and a solitary traveller had been
robbed and murdered by two ruffians who were still at large. In the
very loneliest part of the road he all at once felt that he was being
followed. For a while he tried to believe it was nothing but fancy;
the way was so rough and hilly that it was impossible to urge on his
horse, and at last, glancing round, his worst fears were realized; he
saw that two villainous-looking men were rapidly approaching him. They
drew nearer and yet nearer; in the clear atmosphere he could plainly
hear their words.

"'Now is the time,' said one; 'forward!'

"'Hold, you fool!' cried the other, with a sudden change of tone.
'It's no use; don't you see there are two of them?'

"Amazed at their words, he glanced round, and there, at his right
hand, was the Irishman, walking beside him. There was something in the
look of him that awed the traveller too much for words, yet he felt
nothing but intense surprise and relief. The two ruffians turned and
fled the instant they realized that there might be risk to themselves
in attacking their victim, and the Irishman walked steadily on beside
the traveller, until his home was in sight, then suddenly vanished.
And the Englishman realized that the promise had been kept, and that,
unable to pay the loan in this world, the man had doubly repaid him in
the next. He understood that the Irish never forget."

"That is the best ghost story I ever heard," said Mrs. Farrant; "but
did not the traveller speak to the Irishman?"

"I cannot say; he may have spoken. I tell the story as my father told
it to me, and I believe he had it from the traveller himself."

"It is so difficult ever to get a story at first hand," said Donovan
Farrant, "but I confess that sounds more possible to me than your
Abbey ghost, in which I can't get up any sort of belief."

"I believe in him," said Doreen. "Indeed, I am rather afraid of him.
Nothing would induce me to go to the Abbey after dark."

"You might go a hundred times and see nothing," said Max, laughing.
"It is only on certain nights, according to old Goody, that he takes
the trouble to show up. I wish to goodness I could lay him somehow,
for it is a serious drawback to the place; two or three times, when we
were anxious to let it for the summer, the plan fell through on
account of this silly superstition. The ladies of the party objected
to a haunted place, and it was no use to tell them that the ghost
limited himself to the walls of the ruins, and had never been so
ill-bred as to trouble us in the house."

"You are going to lay it yourself, by restoring the ruin," said
Doreen, smiling; and they fell to the discussion of plans for the
projected buildings.

Doreen woke the next morning with an exultant feeling that the great
day of her life had dawned, the day for which she had so long waited
and hoped. She sang to herself from sheer lightness of heart as she
dressed, and her bright face seemed to inspirit the others, when they
all met at breakfast. Afterwards, they drove into Firdale, to be
present at the counting of the votes, and the keen air of that sunny
April morning seemed to banish all the misgivings which had seized
them during the night, and to buoy them up with hope. The waiting was
terribly long; Doreen hardly knew how to endure it. Like one in a
dream, she watched the sedate, impartial air of the returning officer
and his assistant, the well-assumed calm of Mr. Steele, and the
undisguised eagerness of her lover. She sat beside Mrs. Hereford,
marvelling at her quiet patience, and from time to time, when the
tension became unendurable, she tried to forget it all, and looked
forth from the window at the crowd, which grew and grew, until by
twelve o'clock the whole of the market-place was packed with people,
eagerly waiting for the announcement of the poll. She had contrived to
become so much absorbed in outer things, that when Mrs. Hereford
touched her on the arm, she started back to a painful remembrance of
the present, and saw that the supreme moment was at hand: with
throbbing heart and panting breath she waited, hope struggling with
fear, yet always coming off conqueror. For a moment there was deathly
stillness in the room; only from the outside came the subdued murmur
of the waiting and expectant crowd. Then the returning officer
announced the figures:--


    For Mr. Steele, 700,     For Mr. Hereford, 697,
    Conservative majority, _three_.


The room swam before her eyes for a minute; when she could see again,
she found that Max was shaking hands with the new member courteously
enough, but with a dazed air, as of one who has just received an
unlooked-for blow. The action touched her; it bore witness to his
innate courtesy, which even in such a moment was not to be laid aside.
As the new member turned to Mrs. Hereford, she came close to Max, and
slipped her hand into his.

"You know how to fail," she said in a low voice, "and next time you
will surely win."

There was bustle and confusion in the room, the window was thrown
open, the returning officer stepped on to the balcony to announce the
result of the election, but the two lovers still stood a little apart;
in the bright, hopeful blue eyes lifted to his, Max forgot for a
moment his bitter disappointment.

Already he was thinking of the changes that would have come in his
life, when that "next time" of which she spoke had actually arrived.

"Shall I have your help in the next fight?" he asked, below his
breath.

"Why, of course," she replied, with a glance full of sweetness and
confidence; "you will always have it when you want it."

He pressed her hand, and together they moved towards the window and
once more heard the fatal announcement and the mingled cheers and
groans with which it was received. Then the new member spoke a few
pleasant words and politely hoped that he might always have to do with
so honourable an opponent; and when the victor had bowed himself off
the balcony, the crowd, after their usual somewhat trying fashion,
demanded a sight of the vanquished, and Max, feeling rather as if he
were stepping on to the scaffold at his execution, went out to receive
an ovation from his followers which was not a little trying in the
present state of his feelings. And yet there still lingered with him
the warm pressure of Doreen's hand, and that cheering thought of the
next time. In the strength of her hopefulness, he spoke a few
straightforward, manly words, candidly owning his disappointment,
confidently looking forward to future success. "Let our honourable
defeat," he concluded, "spur us on till at the next election our cause
may have an honourable victory."

After this, Mr. Steele's supporters dragged his carriage triumphantly
through the town, amid great rejoicings, and old Killigrew watched the
procession with satisfaction.

"'E is, after all, a very moderate Conservative," he reflected, "and a
pleasant-looking, urbane gentleman; there's something, too, that
pleases me in the way 'e cuts 'is beard. I'm not on the whole sorry
that 'e's to be our member; 'e'll be a credit to the place, there's no
doubt of that."

The old man stood on his door-step, discussing the very narrow
majority with some of the passers-by, and trying to discover if there
was any likelihood of a recount. Presently the sound of wheels roused
him from this discussion.

"Why, there goes Mr. 'Ereford," he remarked, making just as low a bow
as he had made a few minutes before to the successful candidate. "Poor
fellow! 'e do look disappointed. I'm really sorry for 'im; there's a
deal that's good in 'im, and 'e's a fine, 'andsome fellow, nobody
can't deny, though I do sometimes wish 'e would grow 'is moustache
just a trifle longer. But Lor' bless you, 'e don't think much of 'is
looks, or 'e'd realize fast enough that 'is mouth was not the best
feature 'e 'ad, and would be all the better for a little more 'air
about it. All 'e thinks about is what is best for 'is speechifying. 'E
do look mortal fagged, poor fellow, an' no mistake."

Max was in truth desperately disappointed, and like most high-spirited
people, when he did go down into the depths of depression it was no
easy task to get him out again. The Farrants were obliged to leave
directly after the poll had been declared, and there was something
very dreary in the atmosphere of the house when the three returned to
lunch after that dismal morning's work. Mrs. Hereford and Doreen made
brave efforts to talk during the meal, but Max was not responsive, and
afterwards shut himself up in the smoking-room. As for Doreen, she
fell fast asleep on the drawing-room sofa, more tired than she would
have cared to own, by the strain of the election.

To sleep was well enough, but to wake to the remembrance of that
crushing disappointment was hard, indeed; fortunately she was too
sensible to waste time in brooding over the inevitable, and springing
up from the sofa, she began to work conscientiously at _Solfeggi_,
then found some pleasure in singing "The Meeting of the Waters." This
speedily drew Max from the smoking-room; he stole in quietly, not
drawing near to the piano, but waiting in the oriel window at the
further end of the room, forgetting for the time his miserable
depression as he listened to the sweet voice and exquisite air. The
words, too, fell soothingly on his ear.


    "Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
     In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best.
     Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
     And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace."


As the last chords died away into silence she heard his step
approaching.

"Oh, is it you?" she cried, her face lighting up. "I never heard any
one come into the room."

"You played Orpheus to my Eurydice," he said, smiling, "and witched me
out of the inferno of the smoking-room and of my dismal reflections.
That song is, after all, the most beautiful of all the Irish
melodies."

"I sang selfishly to drive out my own dismal reflections," she
replied. "I took Moore's advice, you see," and with a smile that was
sweet, yet half mocking, she turned over the leaves of the book and
pointed to the lines,--


    "Friendship's balmy words may feign,
       Love's are e'en more false than they;
     Oh! 'tis only Music's strain
       Can sweetly soothe and not betray!"


"Do you believe that?" said Max.

"Why, no; not a bit," she replied, with a little rippling laugh. "What
a curious creed one would have, if it were necessary to believe all
that one sings!"

"What should you say to a walk up Rooksbury?" said Max, new life
seeming to fill him as he watched her sunny face.

She turned a little on the music stool, and took a rapid glance at
him.

"I think," she replied, "you are too tired for a climb after all that
you have been through."

"Does that mean that you will have nothing to say to an unsuccessful
candidate?"

"I don't break my promises, but we should perhaps climb better
if--if--" she hesitated.

"If we climb hand in hand?"

"Yes."

Her eyes, which had met his for a moment in a glance of perfect
comprehension, were cast down now; her hands trembled a little as she
locked them fast together in her lap.

"Doreen!" he cried, "we seem always to be drawn together by some
trouble or disaster. But to-day I had made so sure of success; to-day
I had hoped all our dreams of long ago were to be fulfilled. How can I
dare to ask you to be my wife at such a time as this? I, who, at the
best, feel so unworthy of your love?"

"I could not have loved you so much had you succeeded," she said,
lifting her face to his, with a light of such happy trust, such
perfect love about it, that Max was almost overwhelmed.

"My dearest!" he cried, folding her in his arms, "this is worth
waiting for."

And, in truth, the unexpected event of the morning had greatly altered
and inexpressibly deepened Doreen's feeling for her lover. His success
would have delighted her; she would have been full of eager excitement
and joyous pride. But his rejection stirred within her that passionate
sympathy, that absolute devotion, which she felt for her unhappy
country.

The afternoon which had begun so heavily passed away in a sort of
dream of delight. As for the election, it was forgotten with all else
belonging to the outer world, and neither of them had the least
consciousness of time. They might have sat together in the cosy corner
beside the hearth for hours, if Mrs. Hereford had not after a time
interrupted them. One glance at the two of course told her the whole
story. She came towards them, smiling.

"Are you ready for tea, children?" she said, smiling. "By a happy
impulse I was moved to order it in the oak parlour, which looked more
snug and cosy for such a small party, otherwise you might have had
Thomas breaking in upon you with the tea-tray!"

"Doreen has not rejected me this time," said Max, stooping to kiss his
mother. "And let us hope that Firdale will follow her example and only
keep me waiting a few years."

Perhaps under other circumstances the day of her only son's betrothal
might have been a trying time for Mrs. Hereford, but coming after the
disaster of the morning, the glad reaction was most exhilarating, and
dearly as she had long loved Doreen, she had never loved her quite so
well before. No one else, as she was well aware, could have driven the
cloud of disappointment from her son's brow, or made him bear the
thought of the long hours of wasted work so patiently and
uncomplainingly.

"And here have I been wasting my sympathy on you the whole afternoon,"
she said, laughing. "I left him in the smoking-room, bound hand and
foot by Giant Despair. How did you manage, Doreen, to draw him out of
the dungeon?"

"I think, perhaps," said Doreen, blushing, "he remembered, as the
pilgrims did, that he had a certain promise."

After tea the two lovers climbed Rooksbury together to see the sunset.
The wind was still cold and blustering, but they cared nothing for
that. Doreen only wrapped her green cloak more closely about her, and
stepped briskly forward, feeling ready in the strength of her new
happiness to walk for miles.

"I wear my election cloak to give it a new and happy association," she
said, laughing, as they climbed slowly up the hill beneath the stately
pines.

"I think you should put it away for the next election," said Max.
"Moreover, it is not convenient for us now; I can't get at your hand.
A sealskin jacket would be a hundred times more comfortable; I shall
get you one."

"That would be beautiful for America next winter, if we go."

"You are going to America?" he said in dismay.

"Oh, nothing is settled; I must talk it all over with you," said
Doreen; "but the St. Pierres think of making a tour in the States. We
should be away from September to February, and they are most anxious
that I should accept their offer. Financially, it would be an
excellent thing, but I have not yet been able to face the thought of
leaving the children for so long."

"You don't seem to take any account of me," said Max, with a
reproachful smile.

"Indeed I do," she replied wistfully. "It is for your sake that I
think I might screw up my courage to consent to the plan. You see, by
going to America I should earn just double what I could earn in
England, and so I should be all the sooner free."

"Why will you let this miserable money question stand between us any
longer?" pleaded Max. "You know all that I have is yours."

"Yes, I know," she answered, pressing his hand; "but all the same,
Max, I cannot let you marry the family. You must let me provide for
the children, and somehow it takes much longer than I thought it would
take. Perhaps I am not a good manager, but though I work hard, the
money seems somehow to melt, and a good deal will be needed to start
the two boys in life, and to get a really comfortable provision for
Mollie and Bride. Then there are so many expenses in an artiste's
life; dress is a very heavy item, and with regard to it I have had to
buy my experience. You men are so much better off in that way,--always
able to wear black."

"I am thankful you can't do that," said Max. "I should like you always
to be in white; nothing suits you so well."

"Yes," said Doreen, laughing. "You said so long ago, and you have no
idea what a struggle I made to meet your wishes, but it was just
ruination. The dirty floors in the artistes' room, and the constant
coming on and off the platform, make white dresses the trial of one's
life. And then comes the next bitter piece of bought experience,--the
dyer. Oh, I had a lovely white Liberty silk, and in an evil moment,
having worn it thoroughly dirty, sent it to be dyed peacock blue. It
came home looking no better than alpaca,--perfectly ruined. I shed
tears over that dress, but afterwards we had some fun about it,
drawing lots whether it should be made into frumpy frocks for the
children, or given to the Little Sisters of the Poor, or sent to the
rag and bone shop."

"You might be trusted to get fun somehow out of the direst mishap,"
said Max, laughing. "It was after that disaster with the dyer probably
that you insisted on wearing for so long a black satin dress which I
detested. It always made me think of that woman who was hung in black
satin, and proved unexpectedly a benefactor to her race, by sending it
out of fashion for years after."

"How long ago everything seems!" said Doreen. "The time itself has
passed quickly, and yet it is almost like looking back on another life
to think of that day when I met you on the steps of the British
Museum,--that last day of my miserable waiting-time."

"The day when you wanted me to congratulate you on singing at a city
dinner," said Max, laughing. "I remember very well how I hated the
city magnates who were going to requite you with three guineas."

"You will never understand how a drowning man catches at straws," said
Doreen. "Besides, it was not only the getting an engagement that made
me so happy that day. Do you suppose it made no difference to me to
find that after all I had a friend in London?"

"But you knew so many of your fellow-countrymen in town."

"I had not come across many of them then, and Donal Moore was away in
Ireland that spring. It was quite the saddest and loneliest bit of my
life. There was not a soul to whom I could really talk."

Max smiled. "You will never make me believe that you were long
silent," he said; "that is against nature. You mean there was no one
to whom you could confide secrets."

"I have no secrets," said Doreen. Then a sudden cloud and smile
flitting over her face: "At least, no secrets from you, and only one
that must be kept from the world. But there was no one with whom I was
really in touch. Then you came, and with you all other good things."

"What are we to wish this time at the wishing-tree?" said Max, as by
and bye they stood together at the summit of Rooksbury, and once more
looked over that wide, exquisite view. It was glorified now in the
sunset light, and the first hues of early green were bursting out in
bush and hedgerow, while the larger trees still stood out brown and
bare, relieved in places by the dark pines.

"What are we to wish, darling?" he repeated, looking down tenderly
into the bright, winsome face beside him.

"There is nothing left to wish for," said Doreen, dreamily. Then,
awaking from her heaven of peace to the recollection of the struggle
of the morning, she made a little exclamation, half of penitence, half
of amusement.

"Why, what am I thinking of!" she cried. "Of course, we must wish for
your success at the next election!"




CHAPTER XVIII.


    "Since then, through all the jars of life's routine,
       All that downdrags the spirit's loftier mood,
     I have been soothed with fellowship serene
       Of single souls with Heaven's own light endued."

                                   JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP.


"I would give something to know what the world in general will say to
your piece of news," said Michael, as on the following evening he sat
talking to Doreen over the nursery fire.

Mrs. Muchmore had a laudable habit of retiring very early to bed, on
such nights as her mistress did not require her attendance at a
concert, and the nursery was the general resort of the family, being
one of those delightful rooms that possess the supreme merit of
snugness,--a quality which in a room corresponds to charm in a human
being. Its window had a dull prospect, its light paper was the reverse
of sthetic, its carpet was merely what Mrs. Muchmore termed a
"Kidder," and yet, somehow, it was the ever-cheerful "house place,"
available for every purpose, and with an extraordinary elasticity
about it, accommodating itself in a wonderful way sometimes to two or
three inmates, sometimes to a dozen.

Doreen sat stitching away at a dainty little low bodice, which was
being altered for the next week's work.

"I hardly realize yet what _you_ say," she replied; "and that matters
to me more than anything."

"Does it?" said the boy, smiling, and evidently well pleased at the
words. "Well, I say, in the words of the old butler when he learned
that his mistress no longer needed him, 'But what be I to do?' Max is
a jolly good fellow, though, and I'm awfully glad for him."

"I shall never say I no longer need you, dear boy," said Doreen,
tenderly. "And you will do as the old butler did; you will stay. I am
not going to be married yet awhile, and by the time it really happens
you will probably have got an appointment somewhere, and will, of
course, always look on our home as yours until you marry and set up
for yourself."

"I shall have to go abroad before I can make anything of a living,"
said Michael; "and Dermot has brains enough to get a scholarship at
Oxford, if he tries; but that still leaves you with Mollie and Bride."

"And you think I could do without them?" said Doreen, smiling
reproachfully. "Even for Max I couldn't do that. How did Uncle Garth
take the news, by the bye?"

"Oh, he was greatly pleased. First the news of the election made him
chortle, and then when it came to your engagement to Mr. Hereford, he
grew quite talkative. I never heard him say so much in his life except
about a mummy."

"I take it as a great compliment that Uncle Garth should put me on the
same level as a mummy!" said Doreen, laughing.

Apparently Aunt Garth was equally pleased; nothing could have made her
talkative, but happily sympathy does not depend on words, or England
would be a dreary place. She gave Doreen what a girl so greatly needs
at all times,--a sympathy more ready to listen than to suggest; and
her great pleasure in the engagement did something to still the
longing for the dead father and mother which inevitably came to mar
Doreen's complete happiness.

Naturally, Max Hereford's relations were not so well pleased. The
General was greatly disturbed when the news reached him on the
Riviera. He had not much regretted the loss of the Firdale election.
It might have been convenient to have Max in Parliament; but it went
greatly against the grain to think of a Hereford being on the wrong
side. On the whole, the General was glad that the Firdale folks, by a
majority of three, had elected the Conservative candidate. But when
his late ward wrote to announce his engagement to the Irish _prima
donna_, all his family pride rose in arms.

"It would be bad enough," he protested, as he paced to and fro beneath
the palms with one of his friends, "if the boy had married any other
girl out of his own set. But that he should have chosen Miss O'Ryan of
all the women in the world, is past bearing."

"Well, my dear fellow, you know class distinctions are not what they
once were," observed his companion, comfortingly; "it's rather the
fashion to be in with all the celebrities, the actors, and public
singers, and all the Bohemians that our forefathers despised. And I
have always heard that Miss O'Ryan is as good as she is charming."

"Oh, it's not to the girl herself I have any objection," said the
General; "but consider what the father was! My dear Garwood, I assure
you that man was mixed up with every wrong-headed movement of his
time. As a young man, he was implicated in the Smith O'Brien rising of
'48, and was in jail then for some months. Then, in '65, he was
sentenced to penal servitude as a Fenian, and at the time of his death
he had taken to what he was pleased to call 'constitutional modes of
agitation,' and was an ardent Home-ruler. Now, frankly, would you like
a son or a nephew of your own to marry into such a family?"

"Is she the daughter of O'Ryan, the Fenian?" exclaimed the other,
evading a direct reply. "Well, I never heard that before. I remember
reading, a few years back, an account of his death. They say it was
his time at Portland that ruined his health, and such conditions of
life must have borne hardly on an Irishman accustomed to very
different surroundings. Of course, I can understand that the match
doesn't precisely please you. But what would you have? We can't expect
the young people to think of our feelings. That sort of thing is out
of date. And, after all, when Miss O'Ryan is once married, and has
retired from public life, the world will soon forget all about the
Fenian father; she will probably become a pronounced Conservative, and
will lead your nephew back into the right fold."

"Well," said the General, half mollified, "I could almost forgive her
parentage, if she would really do that."

Happening to catch sight of his daughter at that minute, he hurried
across the rough beach to impart the news to her. Miriam was sketching
under the shade of a red parasol. She looked up saucily, as her father
approached.

"Letters!" she exclaimed, with a smile. "I knew you would hear from
Max to-day. He will write a long account of his defeat, which we saw
in the papers."

"On the contrary, he writes a long account of something much less
satisfactory," said the General, ruefully. "He is engaged to Miss
O'Ryan, my dear, and I am extremely vexed with him."

Miriam naughtily clapped her hands for joy.

"Now you will not tease me any more about him!" she exclaimed, "and
that dreadful prospect of being forced to marry a philanthropist will
no longer hang over me. It is the best news I have heard for an age,
papa; and Doreen is one of a thousand, and will make him as happy as
possible."

"You don't seem to think anything of what the world will say to such a
marriage," said the General, irritably. "To think of that convict's
daughter being mistress of Monkton Verney is enough to try the
patience of Job."

"It is odd when you put it in that way," said Miriam, reflectively.
"How well I remember the shock it was to us all at Castle Karey, when
she--a little scrap of a girl with a great bush of dark hair, and a
shabby frock much too short for her--announced that her father was a
Fenian prisoner, much in the same tone in which I might have told any
one that you lived through the Indian mutiny, and were a V. C."

"Yes, yes, like all her race, she is wrong-headed and perverse," said
the General, with a sigh. "A nice, well-mannered girl, with a fine
voice, I quite admit, but Irish,--so dreadfully Irish."

In the profession, the news of Doreen's engagement was received
somewhat differently. Mr. Boniface had imparted the news to the first
arrivals in the artistes' room, at the Evening Ballad concert after
the election, and a little babel of question and surmise instantly
arose. Was Max Hereford the sort of man who would insist on her
retiring, or had he some sort of artistic feeling? Was he anything of
a musician himself? Was it in the least likely that he appreciated the
prize he had won? and so on. Ciseri, the accompanist, who adored
Doreen from a respectful distance, was in despair at the news, and
Ferrier himself, though not wholly unprepared for the tidings, seemed
depressed by them.

"We all wish you joy, my dear," he said, when by and bye Doreen
arrived with Mrs. Muchmore in attendance, "but we are nevertheless
extremely sorry to hear of it."

Doreen stood looking at them for a moment, then burst out laughing,
with the delicious, irresistible laugh of one who is utterly happy.

"You look as if I were going to be buried, rather than to be married!"
she exclaimed.

"And so you are, my dear, from our point of view," said Clinton Cleve,
putting his shaky old hand beneath her chin and raising the sweet,
radiant face a little, so that he could the better see it. The veteran
was, of course, privileged; all the world had been at his feet, and
Doreen was touched and pleased by the kindly words he spoke to her.
But all the same, she knew that Max would never understand the good
fellowship of the artistes' room, and that little details might grate
on him just because he had been accustomed to a somewhat more
constrained society. For the first time she seemed able to see all
things with his eyes, and a little shadow fell on her happiness, when
Ferrier said to her,--

"Is it decided that you retire on your marriage?"

"Nothing is decided," she replied. "I am just a little afraid Mr.
Hereford may wish it. That is, unless I can make him understand that
life without my profession would be at best a crippled life. In some
ways it is so difficult to make any one who is not an artist
understand anything about it. People talk as if art were a mere
pastime, to be taken up or laid aside at will. I do really believe
that many of them think a singer can sing a song, or a composer
produce an opera, or an author write a novel, or a painter paint a
picture, as easily as a housemaid can turn on a tap and fill a
water-can."

Ferrier laughed.

"We must try to persuade your _fianc_," he said, "that to take you
away from public life just now would be something very much like a
crime."

"Yes, I shall turn him over to you," said Doreen, gaily. "He is so
fair and open-minded, that directly he sees anything, he will act upon
it, though it were ever so much against his own wishes. He is one of
the very, very few Englishmen who really do try to understand and feel
with Ireland, and to do so is against all his interests."

"All?" said Ferrier, with a humorous glance. "I should have thought he
had every inducement to devote his best energies to your nation."

"Oh, he doesn't do it to please me, I assure you," said Doreen, "but
because he really sympathizes with the oppressed; he would feel for
Ireland just as much if I belonged to any other country."

"No doubt, if you still espoused Ireland's cause," said Ferrier.

"No, no; not at all, at all," said Doreen, laughing. "I see you do not
understand how utterly unlike he is to other people."

"But I do understand how insufferably dull other men seem in
comparison," interpolated Ferrier, smiling good-humouredly, as he
quitted the room for one of his songs.

The congratulations of Madame De Berg were of a somewhat acid nature;
her very politeness seemed venomous, and she took a spiteful pleasure
in hurling the news at Una Kingston, who turned pale, and shrank into
her shell of reserve, from which Ferrier and Mr. Boniface tried in
vain to draw her. Only Doreen possessed the power of reaching the shy
little girl, and, happening to return to the inner room when no one
else was present, she instantly understood why the tired little face
of the child-violinist looked more wistful than ever.

She gave her one of those sunny, cheerful greetings, which always
seemed to fill Una with new life. The child at once thawed, and became
her true, best self.

"Oh, Doreen," she said, "I do mean to try and be glad for you, but I
do so wish Mr. Hereford had waited a little longer."

"You hard-hearted child!" said Doreen, laughing. "But don't be afraid,
you have not lost me; and who knows whether, after all, I shall retire
when we are married? I don't at all want to play the part of the
'nightingale in the cage,' as Mr. Boniface says."

"Is the time fixed yet?"

"Oh, no; and it can't be just yet. Don't talk as if it were some
catastrophe! Why, you, who know Mr. Hereford, ought to do nothing but
congratulate me!"

Una liked Max well enough, but she was jealous of him, and she did not
consider him worthy of Doreen; but she gulped down her jealousy with a
heroic effort, and turned to other matters.

"It is decided that I go to America in the autumn," she said, sighing.
"I do wish they would have let me stay here."

Doreen made an ejaculation of regret.

"They will certainly kill that child before they have done," she
thought to herself. "Whom are you going with?" she asked aloud. "Your
agent gave you no choice in the matter, I suppose?"

"None," said Una. "One might as well be a slave. But it is the losing
you I shall mind most. It is M. St. Pierre who is getting up the tour,
and I would rather go with the St. Pierres than with strangers. And it
is just possible that Cousin Flora will not go. She said M. St. Pierre
was already in treaty with another soprano, whose reply would have to
be considered first."

"I am that other soprano," said Doreen, quietly.

The child gave a cry of delight, then her eyes filled with tears.

"But I _know_ you will not come now that you are going to marry Mr.
Hereford," she exclaimed piteously.

"On the contrary, I think that is the very reason why I shall be able
to come, and to make up my mind to leave the children. It is an
exceptionally good offer, and I rather think it would be wrong to
refuse it. Now are you not grateful to Mr. Hereford?"

Una's face became radiant.

"To have you for all those months!" she cried. "Why, it will be like
heaven! And I who had been dreading it all so much! Are you sure,
quite sure, that you will accept it?"

Doreen had already talked the matter well over with her lover, and had
only been waiting for some "leading" that should guide her to a final
decision. The leading seemed plainly given by this forlorn little
child-musician, who so sorely needed some one to lighten the burden
laid upon her by a tyrannical agent and a foolish guardian.

"My mind is made up," said Doreen, stooping to kiss the little girl.
"I am coming with you, and we will have a real good time."




CHAPTER XIX.


    "Government against the will of the people governed is the very
     definition of slavery."--GRATTAN.


Whether it was the unwelcome prospect of the long absence from home,
or the result of the hard work during the election, or merely the
effect of all the excitement caused by her engagement, Doreen's health
flagged as the spring advanced. She made light of it until her voice
began to suffer, then, after a little persuasion from Mrs. Garth and
Mrs. Hereford, she consented to be overhauled by a doctor, who decreed
that she must have three weeks' rest. It was in vain to protest that
the season was at its height, and that she had work which she could
ill afford to leave; the authorities were inexorable; and so it came
to pass that in June, when society was hard at work amusing itself in
London, and when the workers were hard at work in providing the means
of amusement, three happy travellers escaped from the great city, and
early one summer's morning steamed into Dublin Bay. The plan had been
Mrs. Hereford's, and it was easy to see that it was likely to prove a
success. Doreen, who had joined them at Euston on the previous night
looking thoroughly exhausted, seemed like a different creature as she
stepped on to the deck of the steamer on that bright June morning,
greeting her lover with a glance of such radiant happiness that Max
was well content with the decision of the Firdale electors, and
rejoiced in being free for this Irish holiday.

"You have lost the blue-and-white look which you had last night," he
said, "in spite of all the hours of travelling."

Doreen laughed. "They always say those dreadful blue shadows round my
eyes make me look like a willow pattern plate! But the very first
breath of Irish air drives them away, you see. And what a good
crossing we have had! It might have been a lake. Come round to this
side and let us see if the Wicklow Mountains are clear. Yes, look!
there they are! There is the dear old Sugarloaf, and there is Bray
Head, and away in the distance must be Glendalough, right in the heart
of the mountains. Let us keep my birthplace for the last of all,--the
_bonne bouche_; but, perhaps, to you it will not seem so perfect as it
always did to me."

"On the contrary," said Max, "it is, of course, my Mecca! The
birthplace of the Irish nightingale."

"A very pretty speech, but unluckily it will not do; there are no
nightingales in Ireland. It is a pity; but then, on the other hand,
there are no snakes; St. Patrick banished them,--to England I think."

"Come, come, no reflections on my country," said Max, laughing. "How
pretty Kingstown looks in this early morning light! How long is it
since you were over here?"

"Oh, I have been here every year since my _dbut_ just to sing in
Dublin and Belfast and Cork, but never to stay for more than two or
three nights since we had to go into exile. To think of three weeks'
holiday in my own land is wonderful, and I am glad we are to have a
night in dear old Dublin, so that I may show you some of the places I
remember so well."

Doreen proved an excellent cicerone; she knew Dublin as one knows the
home of one's childhood, with an absolutely indelible knowledge not to
be gained in later life. Its streets and squares were so impressed
upon her brain that invariably they formed the background of her
dreams, often after a highly incongruous fashion, and she volunteered
an amount of miscellaneous information which surprised and amused
Max. In this house O'Connell had once lived; in that other, on the
left side of the road, the Duke of Wellington had been born; up that
dull-looking street, near an archway, one of the informers who had
betrayed the Fenians had been shot. Here, on the gateway of the
Castle, was the figure of Justice,--her face to the Castle, as an
Irish patriot had once remarked, and her back to the city and the
Irish people. There was a curious story, too, about the scales which
were balanced in her hand: during the Fenian trials the scales had
fallen to the ground.

"That must be one of your Irish legends," said Max, sceptically.

"No, not at all; it is strictly true, I assure you," replied Doreen,
and to her lover's amusement she appealed to a gray-headed official,
who confirmed her story; whereupon she carried off Max in triumph to
see the tower whence Red Hugh escaped, and to hear all manner of
stories about his thrilling adventures among the Wicklow Mountains.

Of Irish history, Max, like most Englishmen, was supremely ignorant,
and Doreen's talk and the close study of the people they met during
their tour served to make him growingly conscious that he was a
foreigner of a totally different race, one who could only hope to
understand the true state of the case by making an effort of the
imagination and reversing the position of the two countries.

"'Put yourself in his place,' seems to me the motto which every
Englishman should adopt before trying to study the Irish," he said
once to Doreen, when the frightful misery of the people on the Galtees
had given him some little insight into the crying evils of the present
system.

"That is what most of your countrymen are so utterly unable to do,"
she replied sadly. "England is my mother's own country, and I have
good reason to love it well; but I must say that, though the English
at heart love justice, and will often go out of their way to champion
those whom other people oppress, yet they have a great tendency to
bully the weak who belong to them. Their attitude to Ireland always
makes me think of that philanthropist at whose meeting you spoke last
week; he will plead most movingly for the miserable people in the
sweaters' dens at the East End, but I know from personal observation
that he tyrannizes over his own wife, and will hardly let her think,
much less speak, for herself."

Max resolved to come over again to Ireland alone, and to try to get a
more intimate knowledge of the great problems which have so long
baffled every effort at solution. It was impossible, while travelling
with his mother, to remain long in that desolate region; the
accommodation was too rough; and they were obliged to move on to
Killarney, where the exquisite beauty of the scenery charmed them back
for a while into their lovers' paradise of hope and joy, and entire
confidence in the good time coming.

"It seems strange that I, an Irish girl, should never have seen
Killarney before," said Doreen, "and that you saw it years ago, and
will be able to lionize me. But, you see, when we lived here there was
never any money to spare. I remember delightful summer holidays at
Bray and among the Wicklow Mountains; but such a long journey as this
would have been out of the question. And then when I was seven, father
was sent to prison, and all the money was needed to take us over to
England for those disappointing visits which the authorities allowed
every now and then."

"Were they disappointing?"

"Yes," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "I wonder how you would
have felt if, after months of separation, the Irish government allowed
you to come over from England to Ireland, and then when you were just
longing for a talk with your father, you were stood up behind a
grating opposite a sort of iron cage, into which they presently put a
prisoner, cropped and shaved, and dressed in frightful garments marked
with the broad arrow. But oh, dear," she said, laughing, "what fun my
father did make of those clothes! How well I remember his making a
most grim-looking warder shake with laughter as he joked with us
about the old-fashioned knee-breeches and hose worthy of a fancy
ball."

"Then a warder was always present?" asked Max, calling up a vivid
picture of the little Doreen he had known years ago, and thinking what
a sunbeam she must have been behind that grating in Portland Prison.

"Yes; the warder was always in the space between us and the cage. It
was that which made it so disappointing; the time went so fast, and
all the while one felt far away. At first, too, the warders were very
brutal men, and they loved to treat the Fenian prisoners with every
sort of insult; but as time went on, all that was changed, and during
the last year they had the kindest warders and were treated leniently.
I believe the last time we went the warder really was sorry that he
had to say no when Michael begged so hard to come into his little
inclosure, so that he might kiss father through the bars."

"I often wonder that you are not more bitter against the English,"
said Max, glancing at her.

"That would be against all the traditions in which I was brought up,"
she replied. "Never was there a more gentle-hearted man than my
father. It is the fashion to think of the Irish as bloodthirsty
ruffians, who delight in shooting people from behind a hedge; but
though, of course, we have some bad people over here, just as you have
criminals in England, the bulk of the people are exceptionally
sweet-natured and kindly and gentle, ready, of course, to fight for
their rights like any other brave race, and naturally hating to be
tyrannized over by another nation whose religious views clash with
their own."

The two were driving, as they talked, towards the entrance to the Gap
of Dunloe, and their driver now interrupted them.

"They'll be upon you in a minute, sir, wanting you to take ponies for
the Pass."

And sure enough, a regular cavalcade bore down upon them, and trotted
along by the side of the car, shouting and gesticulating, each man
urging the claims of his own steed, and declaring it to be the best,
the most sure-footed, and the prettiest pony in all Ireland.

"Such a sorry-looking set of nags I never saw," said Max, laughing.
"Do they always attack travellers like this?"

"Oh yes, sir," said the driver; "but don't you be too yielding to
them. We're not nearly come to the Pass yet."

So the twelve horses galloped along in attendance, their owners
laughing and talking, making desperate offers which gradually grew
lower and lower, and taking the whole affair as a sort of joke.

"I never drove before with a mounted escort in attendance," said Max,
while Doreen laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks, so absurd was
the whole scene, so inexpressibly funny the faces of the bargaining
guides. At last, for the sake of peace, they selected two ponies from
the twelve, Max choosing the best-looking nag, and Doreen picking out
the most merry-looking guide; and so, somewhat plagued by the buglers,
the blind fiddlers, the stocking-knitters, and all the other tourist
paraphernalia, they made their way through that wonderful mountain
pass, skirting desolate lakes, and shadowed on the one side by the
dark crags of the well-named "Purple Mountain," on the other by the
beautiful Macgillycuddy Reeks, whose grand outlines were clearly
defined against the soft blue of the sky, which seemed all the more
lovely after the heavy rain of the previous day. Descending again into
the valley, they walked down to the Upper Lake, where Mrs. Hereford,
who had come from the hotel in a boat, was to meet them; and, after a
merry picnic on the shore, they set off for that exquisite round of
the three lakes, which in its endless variety is nowhere to be
surpassed. Doreen sang softly for very happiness. The Gap of Dunloe
had been slightly spoilt by the importunate tourist-hunters, but the
lakes were perfect, and all the legends and songs which she had learnt
in her childhood seemed full of new meaning to her as the boat glided
past Eagle's Nest and Old Weir Bridge, shooting the rapids, passing
the lovely little nook on Dinish Island, catching beautiful glimpses
of Ross Castle and of the ruins of Inisfallen, and ever with the
thought that this was her own country, the land for which her father
had laid down his life, the country which had been the Holy Island in
the past, and for which bright days were, she hoped, in store.

"I should much like to see Castle Karey once more," said Mrs.
Hereford. "How would it be if we spent a few days at the hotel near
the church there? They tell me it is a very comfortable one." Max
glanced a little anxiously at Doreen.

"Should you like it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said truthfully; "with you I should like it very much."

So once more they journeyed to the well-known place, and since the
Castle was, as usual, empty, they were able to visit it once more; to
walk down the avenue under the very trees which had sheltered them on
that wet afternoon ten years ago; to wander through the deserted
rooms, recalling the day when they had tried their fortunes over the
fire; and to roam through the wood to the fernery where the Keep still
stood, looking only a trifle damper and more dreary than it had done
on that summer day in the far past.

Doreen's face was unusually grave as once more they sat together on
the rustic bench, where years before she had taken that solemn oath of
secrecy.

"What are you thinking of?" asked Max, trying to read the expression
in her intent blue eyes.

"I was wondering what had become of those others who share our
secret," she replied; "wondering where Mr. Desmond is, and what has
become of old Larry and his wife."

"I have a great mind to go over to Lough Lee and find out if they are
all right."

Doreen turned pale.

"Then I too must come," she said. "After all, though, I shall hate to
see the lough again; yet it seems but right to find out what became of
the old people. What could we take them?"

"You know best what your country folk would like," said Max. "I might
understand the cottagers at Monkton Verney."

"The Irish are not so different as all that," said Doreen, laughing.
"There is nothing that old Larry would enjoy more than a shilling's
worth of tobacco, and Norah had better have a packet of tea."

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin," said Max, with a
smile, as they left the fernery, and passing out through the first of
the gates found themselves on the high-road. "Here, by the bye, is the
exact spot where you and I first met; you were standing just over
there by the hedge with Michael tucked away behind you, and the
agent's dog had a bit of your red cloak between his teeth."

"How frightened we were, and how poor Michael cried!" said Doreen.

"While you, with a white face, kept bravely assuring him that it was
only the dog's fun, and that he wouldn't hurt," said Max.

"And oh, what a relief it was to look up and see you, and Mr. Desmond,
and Miss Hereford," said Doreen. "I think I never was so glad to see
any one before."

"Or since?" said Max, teasingly.

"Well, I can't say that," she said, laughing. "Where was it that we
met next? Wasn't it in the wood near the waterfall?"

"To be sure," said Max. "We thought the angels must have come down to
the world again, but suddenly discovered that it was our little
Colleen Bawn."

"Colleen Dhuv," corrected Doreen. "My hair was as dark then as it is
now."

"Yes; but we called you after the red cloak which Miriam told us went
by the name of a 'Colleen Bawn.' We saw the glimpse of red through the
trees, and the song, we found, was too plaintive for an angel's song.
It was, 'I wish I were on yonder hill.'"

"Ah, to be sure, a lovely air, but a very doleful ditty"; and Doreen,
with that unconventionality and freedom from self-consciousness which
characterized her, sang as they walked along the country road the
sweet old Irish song:--


    "'I would I were on yonder hill,
     'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
     Till ev'ry tear should turn a mill,
     Is go d-teidh tu, a mhirnin! stan.
     Since my lover ceased to woo,
     I have roamed the wide world thro'
     To heal the heart he broke in two,
     Is go d-teidh tu, a mhirnin! stan.'"


"You have spoilt me for singing pathetic ballads!" she exclaimed,
breaking off with a smile. "I am far, far too happy to make a good
artiste."

The next day, leaving Mrs. Hereford to pay a duty call at the Manse,
and to enjoy the lovely grounds of the hotel, Max and Doreen set off,
on an outside car, for Lough Lee. The day was not unlike that
memorable day in the past,--somewhat gray and misty, but with fitful
gleams of sunshine. They dispensed with a driver, having no mind for a
third person; and Max, though he professed to long for an honest
English dog-cart, was glad enough to have the reins, and, in his
heart, rather liked the motion of the jaunting-car. They were merry
enough at starting, but as they drove through the narrow pass among
the mountains, and gradually approached the too-familiar place, a
silence fell between them. Doreen, at every abrupt turn in the road,
feared to catch sight of the lough, and as they gradually descended,
gaining nearer and nearer views of the mountains which surrounded it,
her heart sank. At last the cold gleam of steely gray flashed into
sight. She softly touched her lover's arm.

"There it is, Max," she said with a shudder.

He glanced at her a little anxiously.

"I don't believe I ought to have brought you here," he said. "Yet I
fancied it might be a sort of relief to see it once more all these
years after. How deserted it all looks! Ah! there is the little place
where we hired the car. We will put up the horse there, and then walk
along the shore. That is, unless you would rather go in the boat."

"No, no; let us walk!" said Doreen, a sort of horror seizing upon her
at the idea of gliding over that cold, gray sheet of water, beneath
which lay the body of the dead agent.

Max helped her to alight; it relieved her to hear him ordering tea to
be ready in an hour. Something in his matter-of-fact tone reassured
her, and she began to look forward to gladdening the hearts of old
Larry and his wife with the presents they had brought. To reach the
little cabin, it would be necessary to walk the whole length of the
lake and round to the extreme corner. She tried to forget the horrible
scene in the past, and the wild grandeur of the mountains in advance
of them appealed to her and for a time diverted her thoughts. She
began to talk of other things, and to gather a bunch of the beautiful
London pride, or Erin's pride, as she said it should be called, which
grew in great abundance. Suddenly an exclamation from Max roused her.

"The cabin is gone!" he cried, looking across to the head of the lake.
And there, sure enough, on the little plateau above the steep, rocky
shore, Doreen saw that sight which is so painfully familiar in
Ireland,--the rude outline of a stone cabin, deserted, roofless,
telling its piteous tale of unwilling emigrants, or of harshly evicted
tenants.

"Let us ask whether they have emigrated," she said. "See! there are
three men over to the left, cutting turf in the bog. I dare say they
will know all about it."

Turning away from the lake, they made their way towards the
turf-cutters, who all paused to watch them as they approached, leaning
on their curiously shaped spades, and evidently not sorry to be
interrupted in their dull, monotonous work.

"Can you tell me what has become of old Larry Cassidy, who used to
live here some years ago?" asked Max, addressing a pleasant-looking
man of about thirty.

"It would be ould Larry that lived in the cabin by the lough that you
are manin'," he replied, crossing the deep trench at which he had been
working and coming towards them. "He's dead, yer honour; both of them
are dead and buried these many years."

"Both dead!" said Doreen, with a little shiver. "But why is their
house roofless and deserted?"

The man gave her a curiously cautious look, and apparently debated
within himself what answer he should make.

"I'm thinking may be that the lady is Irish herself?" he said, eying
Max somewhat more doubtfully.

"To be sure I am," said Doreen. "You'll have heard of Patrick O'Ryan
that was so long imprisoned? I am his daughter."

"Sure then you're as welcome as the flowers in May," said the
turf-cutter, his whole face lighting up and his manner altogether
changing. "And proud is it that I am to be spakin' with ye. As for
ould Larry and Norah, it was a cruel, hard case. Most of the land
about here belongs to Colonel Mostyn, a rale good landlord, the best
in the country. But as luck would have it, the bit down yonder
belonged to Lord Byfield, and he, why, he niver comes near the place,
and his agents have iver been a rascally crew. There was Mr. Foxell,
who disappeared ten years ago,--the people they just hated him, and
many think he was put out of the way. Then afterwards there was
another, just as bad, named Stuart, and 'twas he that ruined ould
Larry. 'Twas all for the laist little bit o' ground he'd made with his
own two hands out of an ould stone quarry. Many's the time I've seen
the crathur carryin' soil on his back to the place, and it took him
years to do it. Then by and bye comes the agent and wants rint for
this small little piece of land; but Larry he had sinse and spirit,
and he stuck to it, that he'd made the land himself, and that 'twas
his and not Lord Byfield's. The magistrates they agreed with him, and
said 'twould be a cruel, hard thing to make him pay for his own work.
But the agent he made Lord Byfield carry the case up to Dublin to the
courts, and they said the law was against Larry, and so after all the
crathur had to pay the rint. But by that time he'd fallen ill with the
worry of it all, and the ould wife died, and Larry he lost spirit and
said 'twas no use to work."

"And then," said Doreen, "the English tell us that we Irish are a lazy
lot, and that all the distress is our own fault."

"When did this happen?" asked Max, with a pang of remorse for having
neglected to come before and see how the sharer of his secret was
prospering.

"Sure thin, yer honour, it must be many years ago now that he died. We
did what we could for him, but there was no rousin' him up. He would
sit by the hour together, spakin' niver a word, and at last after many
threats there came the day when he was to be evicted; and thin it was
that a bit of the ould spirit stirred again in him, and he barred the
door and resisted to the last. Thin the agent gave orders to break
open the door, and they dragged out the ould man and threw out his bed
and his bits of goods. 'Twas little enough he had, the crathur, and we
did what we could to hearten him up, and told him he should come home
with us. But it was niver a word he was spakin', being past himself
entirely. It was a cowld day in March, but there was no gettin' him
away from the place; he stood yonder, all of a tremble, starin' at the
men as they tore down the roof that he'd thatched himself nate enough
in past times, and it wasn't till the agent had taken his cruel face
out of sight that we could coax him back with us. My wife, she made
him warm himself by the fire, and I gave him a drink of potheen; but
still he niver spake a word; only once late that evenin' as we sat
round the hearth we saw him stare across with a kind o' wonderin'
look at my wife as she sat there with little Dennis on her knee. He
was a twelvemonth then, and sat up straight and strong on his mother's
lap and stritched out both his hands to the ould man, for he was iver
a friendly hearted child. And Larry he stared and stared and seemed
pleased like, but still said niver a word; only we saw him cross
himself, and his lips moved as if he was sayin' a prayer, and it's my
belief that he thought he'd seen the Blissed Virgin and her Son. After
that he fell asleep peaceful enough in the chair by the hearth, and my
wife and I went to bed, but in the mornin', when we looked round,
Larry was gone.

"'He's back to the ould home, you may be sure,' I said to my wife, and
went out to find him; for we thought the cruel cowld wind would make
him ill. But I'd not gone many steps when it came to my mind that I'd
niver said any prayers that mornin', and I jist turned aside to St.
Patrick's Cross before walking to the other end of the lough in search
of Larry. Well, bein' in a hurry, I said my _Pater Noster_ as I went,
to save time, and was jist at the end of it, and about to kneel at the
steps and say an _Ave_, when I saw that some one was there before me.
It was Larry. He was with his two knees on the lowest step, and his
head restin' against the foot of the cross. I let him be for a while,
niver noticin' that he was too still by half; for the wind it blew his
white hair and a ragged cloak he had to and fro. But by and bye, when
it came to me that he was sayin' his prayers too long, I touched him,
and he was as cowld as a stone. Then I took him up and carried him
back to our cabin,--he was no great weight; but he was dead, yer
honour, God rest his soul,--stone dead."

Doreen moved away, unable to keep back her tears. She heard the
turf-cutter telling of the wake they had given him, and of how people
came from far and near to it; but her mind had gone back to the past,
and she was thinking of the kindly old face of the "Potato man," as
Michael used to call him, and of the piteous desolation which had
befallen him towards the close of his hard, monotonous life.

Max looked very grave when he rejoined her.

"I have told that fellow that we will just walk on to the cabin," he
said; "and I gave him the things we brought. What a miserable thing it
is to come back to a place too late!"

"It was through no fault of yours," she replied, ever ready to make
excuses for him. "The eviction had nothing to do with that past time.
The same thing about the ground made out of the disused quarry struck
the new agent; poor old Larry's eviction was but hindered for a time
by Foxell's death."

"Oh, if I had but been a few years older then!" exclaimed Max. "If I
had only had the sense to induce John Desmond to speak the whole
truth! The affair would have been a shock to my mother, and his idea
of silence was honourably meant; but how much better it would have
been to have had the whole thing above board from the first!"

"Yes," said Doreen, musingly; "a man in Mr. Desmond's
position--practically an Englishman--would have had justice done him.
They could scarcely have called it murder. I wish so much that we had
not lost sight of poor old Larry and his wife. We ought to have
thought of helping them."

"I ought to have thought," said Max. "You were a mere child; and after
all, inquiry might possibly have roused suspicion at a time when the
authorities were trying to discover the truth about Foxell's death.
Yet I might have helped him quietly."

"How strange it is to think that we two alone in the whole world know
about it," said Doreen. "It almost frightens me to think that. My old
childish fear of telling it in my sleep comes back now and then. Ah,
this is the place," she added, shrinking closer to him. "Just here
they fought together, and here is the overhanging rock from which he
fell."

But to Max that scene in the far past seemed less tragic, less
terrible, than the tale they had just heard of the poor, ruined,
miserable old man, ruthlessly dragged from the home that was dear to
him, and dying broken-hearted at the foot of the wayside cross. More
and more he began to feel that he was partly to blame for Larry's
eviction and death. He might easily have managed to send money to the
old man. It had simply not occurred to him. He had contented himself
with hoping that Lord Byfield's new agent might be kind-hearted, and a
great contrast to Foxell, and then he had done his best to dismiss as
far as possible from his memory the whole of that disagreeable
incident in the past.

Max, in common with most people of a sanguine temperament, sometimes
fell into the mistake of too easily banishing uncomfortable topics
from his mind. He was lacking, too, in that strong sense of
responsibility which would have suggested that to all time Desmond and
Doreen, and those other two who shared in the secret, had a special
claim on him. That habit of putting away unpleasant thoughts was at
once his strength and his weakness. It made him full of buoyant trust
in the present; it fitted him for his work as an ardent reformer,
enabling him to kindle enthusiasm and hope in a thousand hearts; but
it also occasionally led him into error, as in the case of old Larry,
making him neglectful of plain duties which many a less noble nature
would not have left undone, and at times blinding him to the truth in
a way that sorely puzzled those who loved him. This sad story had
startled him now into a perception of things as they really were. He
stood at the threshold of the roofless cabin, conscious of his own
shortcoming, saddened and humbled by all that he had heard. The very
stones seemed to cry out to him to rise and do his part in helping
those to right who suffered wrong. Indignation and strong sympathy
replaced the sort of vague, hesitating pity with which he had hitherto
regarded Irish grievances and Irish hopes. He drew Doreen closer to
him.

"Dearest," he said, "I promised long ago on Kilrourk to speak for
Ireland, and I renew the promise. But there is much I might have done
that has been left undone. It is you who must help me in the future,
you who must keep me true to my best desires. Do you promise?"

"I do," she said, with the same grave strength of simplicity with
which she had taken her confirmation vow.

He pressed her to his breast. It seemed to her that the kiss that
passed between them was the kiss of her life. Surely no other could
ever be like it.

Slowly they retraced their steps, paused to speak a few words to the
turf-cutter, and stood for a minute by St. Patrick's Cross, Doreen
instinctively saying a prayer for Larry and his wife, Max too entirely
wrapt in sad thoughts of the old man's hard fate to dream of any such
thing. Then, after a silent tea at the rough little inn, they drove
back again, Doreen, at the last moment, putting a gold coin into the
hand of the child Dennis, who stood beside the jaunting-car, looking
at the travellers with those friendly blue eyes of his, which to old
Larry had seemed indeed divine.




CHAPTER XX.


    "Sweet Wicklow Mountains! the sunlight sleeping
       On your green banks is a picture rare.
     You crowd around me, like young girls peeping,
       And puzzling me to say which is most fair,
     As tho' you'd see your own sweet faces
       Reflected in that smooth and silver sea.
     Oh! my blessing on those lonely places,
       Tho' no one cares how dear they are to me."

                                     LADY DUFFERIN.


"Doreen looks to me a little sad and depressed," said Mrs. Hereford,
as that evening she walked with her son in the pretty gardens of the
hotel.

"She is tired," said Max, "and this place is rather relaxing,--it
makes me even lazier than usual," and he yawned comfortably with the
same expression of relief and satisfaction as a dog.

"I don't like to hear you call yourself lazy," said his mother,
glancing with pardonable pride at the well-knit muscular frame and at
the fresh, glowing face that was so dear to her.

"It is a melancholy truth, though," said Max, smiling. "Had I not had
you beside me, mother, I should have been the idlest vagabond in all
creation. If I do any work in the world at all, why, it is nurture,
not nature, that is to be thanked for it. I am lazy enough to be
heartily glad now that Firdale is represented by a Conservative, and
that John Steele is at this moment grilling in the House of Commons,
while I walk in this garden of Eden with you."

"Well, I, too, am glad we are all here together," said Mrs. Hereford,
smiling. "Doreen does not look as strong as I could wish, though, and
I can't help thinking that she is fretting over old memories. No doubt
this place makes her think of the days when she was here with her
mother, and I well know that there is no time when a girl so longs for
her mother as when she is just engaged."

"How well you understand her," said Max, touched by the words. "I
think probably the place is a little trying for her; what do you say
to moving on elsewhere?"

"Let us go to County Wicklow," said Mrs. Hereford. "I know she longs
to see the Valley of the Seven Churches, where she was born. Perhaps,
among her native mountains, she will get back her strength; when one
comes to think of it all, the hard work and the anxiety and sorrow and
then this sudden reaction of feeling has been a great strain upon
her."

"Yes," assented Max, and he wondered to himself what his mother would
have said could she have known all that Doreen had been called upon to
bear.

It was arranged that they should go to Glendalough in two days' time,
and Doreen seemed delighted at the prospect. They were fated, however,
to come across yet another sad story as they drove to Kilbeggan
Station. The driver, who had quickly discerned that there was no risk
in talking openly to them, told them many details with regard to the
various estates they passed.

Donal Moore had estimated the evictions throughout Ireland during the
last six months at one thousand, and they questioned their coachman as
to the state of things in the neighbourhood.

"There's one eviction case ye can see with yer own eyes," said the
man. "I know the farmer meself, and he was a good, hard-working man;
but there were over-many children, and then for three years the
harvests were bad, and to pay the rent was just as difficult as to
fill a sieve with water. Doheny would have paid, though, if his
landlord would have given him time, but he showed no mercy at all."

"Was he one of the Castle Karey tenants?" asked Max.

"No, yer honour. Mr. Pethrick was his landlord, and it's true enough
that he himself was pressed for money; but still he keeps up his
carriage and pair, and his town house and country house, and has his
guests and his amusements and a grand display. Such things can be
afforded, but time for a tenant half ruined by the failure of the
crops,--that he couldn't afford. They evicted Doheny two months since,
and pulled down his well-built house that had cost him two hundred
pounds, and now he's forced to shelter in a miserable shanty that we
shall pass in a few minutes. There, miss, to the right, on that bit of
waste ground; that's what he's come down to, and he a respectable
farmer."

"You don't mean that wretched shed!" said Doreen, glancing at a
miserable collection of loose planks, and furze, roughly put together
so as to bear some distant resemblance to a hut. "Why, no pig in
England would be allowed to sleep in such a place. Look! there are
some children playing outside. Poor little things, what a fate for
them!"

"Stop!" cried Mrs. Hereford; "let us get out for a minute. We can, at
least, give them our lunch."

And so the three travellers got out of the carriage, and to the no
small delight of the evicted people, climbed up the bank to the door
of the wretched shed, where a turf fire blazed in one corner, and the
blue smoke wreathed its way out through the many yawning crevices
which, on cold and wet nights, proved equally convenient apertures for
incoming wind and rain. An extemporized bed, a few ragged shawls, a
table, and some pots, pans, and crockery completed the furniture of
this miserable shanty in which lived the ruined farmer, his wife, and
eleven children. Doheny himself was away at work; he had obtained
summer employment in the neighbourhood, and earned ten shillings a
week. This kept them from starving, but it could not be expected to
last, after which all that stood between them and that dreaded
institution, the workhouse,--a place even more detested by the Irish
than by the English poor,--was the kindness of the neighbours, who,
one and all, sympathized with Doheny and execrated the landlord's
cruelty. As Doreen talked to the mother,--a comely, blue-eyed,
well-mannered woman,--a sort of fury of pity filled her heart; the
sight of the little wan children, just as pretty and innocent and
helpless as Mollie and Bride, made her eyes fill with tears. She
remembered, with a shudder, that this eviction case was only one of a
thousand. What was to set right this terrible wrong? How was the
injustice of centuries to be remedied? Who would free her countrymen
from the intolerable state of bondage under which they groaned? Who
would deliver them from "Castle" rule, and give them a national
Parliament, and remove those bitter grievances which had rankled so
long in their hearts? Was it wonderful that from time to time there
should be kindled, even in a naturally quiet and patient people, a
blind wrath which threatened to break out into a revolution as
overwhelming and terrible as that of the French peasantry when,
maddened by long ages of tyranny, they rose and swept their foes from
the land? She emptied her purse in that forlorn shanty, all the time
miserably conscious that no temporary almsgiving could heal the sores
of her country, that no tinkering legislation would suffice, but that
before misery and distress and hatred could cease, the injustice
itself must be removed, and Ireland, self-governed and self-respecting,
must work out her own salvation.

Max was not sorry to get away from the south to a region where the
distress was less severe, and where the relations between landlord and
tenant were less strained. It was on a singularly beautiful summer's
evening that they were set down at Rathdrum, and the beautiful valley
of Clara, with its winding river, its verdant woods, its gorse-covered
hills, seemed to Doreen even more lovely than in her childish
recollections. If, perhaps, the mountains were not quite so high as
she had imagined, there was yet all the time that indescribable charm
of recognition, and happy memories seemed to flood the landscape with
a glory which no Alpine scene could have possessed for her. Max
enjoyed her pleasure unfeignedly; even the trivial little huts of the
poor--the house with a stable door in the form of a horseshoe, the
curious rhyme on the Rest House, the cottage where the old woman lived
who had cried herself blind at the death of her husband--interested
him, just because they brought into Doreen's face such a glow of
excitement and happy recognition.

"And now look to your left," she cried; "there is the first of the
seven churches, that tiny ruin down below us; and there is the round
tower of Glendalough; and there the little lake; and on beyond,
nestling among the mountains, you just catch a glimpse of the larger
lake. Oh, how homelike it feels! How glad I am we came here!"

"What are all those cars?" asked Mrs. Hereford. "Why, look; there are
dozens of them waiting outside the hotel."

"A funeral, I think," said Doreen. "There is a little graveyard close
by, I remember."

Max having ordered dinner at once, the ladies went to their rooms to
dress; but on coming down at the appointed time, found no dinner
ready, only a worried-looking old waiter, who came up to them with
many apologies. "You'll excuse us being a little late, ma'am," he said
to Mrs. Hereford. "Dinner shall be ready in a few minutes, but we are
all in a bustle. You see, ma'am, we didn't like to refuse the
funeral."

"Oh, we are in no hurry," said Mrs. Hereford, pleasantly. "Was it some
one from the neighbourhood who had died?"

"No, ma'am; from a great distance," replied the waiter. "'Tis a sacred
place, you see,--Glendalough; people come here from all parts of the
country to be buried."

The notion of people "coming to be buried" upset Max's gravity; he
went out into the garden, shaking with laughter.

"That's a nice, cheerful remark to make to tired travellers who have
come here to regain their health," said Doreen, gaily. "He might at
any rate have waited till we had had dinner and were feeling a little
better."

There still remained a week before they need return to London. The
weather was perfect, and the two lovers enjoyed to their hearts'
content the lovely shady walks by the lake; while Mrs. Hereford, who
was something of an antiquarian, delighted in St. Kevin's chapel and
kitchen, and made friends with the talkative old man, who loved to
show off all the quaint relics that had been discovered. On the Monday
they drove through the lovely vale of Avoca, and Max and Doreen spent
one long day right in the heart of the mountains, driving by that
magnificent road made in the time of the rebellion, and revelling in
the keen, fresh air which blew through and through them as they
climbed higher into a wild region of bog and mountain lake, while all
about them rose a perfect sea of hilltops, stretching as far as the
eye could reach in wave upon wave of gray and purple.

Doreen was full of anecdotes of the country; she remembered her
father's stories about Holt and brave Susy Toole of Annamoe, and knew
precisely the right path to take for a walk down to Lough Dan, where
they borrowed a boat, and rowed slowly past the exquisitely wooded
heights, grieving to think that they had only one more day left for
County Wicklow, and making many plans for a return next year, possibly
on their wedding journey.

The last morning proved gray and cloudy; but after a sharp shower, the
sun came out, and Mrs. Hereford proposed that they should take a car.

"We ought to pay another visit to the Upper Lake," she said. "Let us
take advantage of the sunshine. Surely a day that clears at eleven is
promising even in Ireland."

So they set off together in excellent spirits, planning a drive in the
afternoon to the Devil's glen if the weather should permit.

"You must certainly go there either to-day or on our way to the train
to-morrow," said Doreen; "for unless my memory plays me false, it is
one of the loveliest places in the whole county. Our waiter made
another good remark yesterday when we asked about it. 'Oh, the Devil's
glen,' he said, 'is well worth visiting; but the proprietor is in
England, so you can't drive through, but must go on foot.'"

Max laughed. "I see you love to dispose of the devil and of the snakes
in my country. But we will walk through the glen. What is the origin
of the name, by the bye?"

"Oh!" said Doreen, with a smile that rippled over her whole face; "it
is rather a nice old legend. St. Kevin, you know, was the greatest of
saints; but he had one human weakness: he loved gadding about, and was
not content always to remain in Glendalough, but would visit now one
part of the country, now another. People wondered at this, and one day
the saint's niece found out the reason. St. Kevin was bathing in the
lake, and she kept watch at a little distance by his clothes to see
that no one ran off with them. What was her surprise when she caught
sight of two little devils sitting in his brogues. She called her
uncle's attention to them, and he threatened to send them down to the
bottom of the lake. 'Don't send us there,' implored the devils; ''tis
no great harm, after all, that we have done to your riverence; we only
made you somewhat too fond of travelling.' Then St. Kevin felt sorry
for the poor devils, and he said he would not send them into the lake,
but instead he banished them to a certain wild and beautiful glen at a
little distance; and ever after the good saint remained at
Glendalough, nor desired to roam as before."

"I like those old legends about the human weaknesses of the saints,"
said Mrs. Hereford. "Stop the car, Max, for a minute; we shall get a
good view of St. Kevin's bed across the lake just here."

There was a little break of about a hundred yards in a plantation of
firs growing on the shore; the bank went sheer down on to a tiny strip
of rocky beach, and across the calm lake they had a lovely view of the
rugged Purple Mountains, and of the entrance to the cave known as St.
Kevin's bed.

"I think Moore has been hard on Glendalough," said Mrs. Hereford.
"This is not at all my idea of--


    'That lake whose gloomy shore
     Skylark never warbles o'er.'


Anything more peaceful and lovely I have never seen."

Max, who was driving as usual, felt just then a sudden strain upon the
reins in his hand, and in another instant the horse was kicking and
plunging desperately. A poor, half-witted man, in a white suit and
outlandish straw hat wreathed with ferns, had suddenly emerged round
the corner, and the horse, startled by the stealthy movements of this
strange apparition, gibbed violently. A dreadful moment of uncertainty
followed. They were within a hair's breadth of the little cliff above
the lake, when suddenly the poor, half-witted creature settled the
question. Seeing the great peril, yet powerless to help, he uttered a
piercing cry, and threw his arms above his head. The horse, in spite
of all that Max could do, gibbed again more frantically, and in an
instant the car and its occupants were precipitated over the edge of
the rock. Doreen was flung far out, but before there was time for more
than the reflection, 'It is all over with us,' her dress had caught in
a thorn-bush and she was thrown violently upon the bank.

She felt bruised and shaken, unable to think clearly, and when a
bicyclist, who had chanced to pass by just at the time of the
accident, came to her help, she scarcely realized for a minute that it
was not Max who asked her whether she were hurt, and helped her to
disentangle herself from the bush, which had probably saved her life.

"You are sure you are not hurt?" asked the traveller,--a
pleasant-looking Trinity College student in bicycling dress.

"Not at all, thank you," she said half dreamily. Then with a sudden
agony of recollection, "Where is Max? Is he hurt?"

"Your friend is over there by the car," said the student; "he is not
hurt, but the lady is, I fear, injured. Don't go just this minute;
they--they are trying to reach her."

But Doreen was not to be hindered; she struggled to her feet, and
grasping the stranger's arm, made him help her over the rocks to the
place where Max and two other men were lifting away the car from Mrs.
Hereford's prostrate form. She pressed forward, and it was upon her
knee that they placed the deathly white face. The only sign of injury
was upon the left temple, but Max at the first glance knew that his
mother was dead.

Perhaps it was owing to his own fall that he, as yet, felt nothing; he
stood silently gazing down at the inanimate form; but Doreen, to whom
the dread truth had also been revealed, scarcely gathered as she
glanced up into his face whether he knew or not. She turned to the
student who had helped her, and asked him to ride quickly to the
hotel, and bid them to send help and to order the doctor as promptly
as possible.

Meanwhile, the poor, half-witted man who had been the cause of the
disaster had clambered down to the lake, and now he came shambling
forward with his hat full of water, talking incoherently, but
evidently imploring Doreen to bathe the deathly white face on her
knee. She was touched by the poor fellow's thoughtfulness, and though
she knew too well that all endeavours to restore life were vain, she
took out her handkerchief and dipped it in the water, softly bathing
that one dark spot on the left temple which had caused instant death.
Perhaps she hoped that by doing so she might keep Max yet a little
longer from realizing what had happened, or it might have been only
her innate courtesy towards the poor Irishman, who stood watching them
with the frightened gravity of a child. The next person to arrive was
the old guide who had so greatly delighted in Mrs. Hereford's love of
antiquities.

"Ah, poor lady!" he cried, his eyes filling with tears; "I little
thought when we were all laughing yesterday at St. Kevin's chair that
this would have been the end of it. 'Twas she herself said she didn't
wish a long life, when she found that she could not span the cross
down yonder, and fine and pleased she was that you young ones could
span it, for she said she would like you to be spared this long while.
How did it happen, thin, at all, at all?"

"The horse shied when that poor, half-witted fellow came suddenly
round the corner," said Doreen, "and gibbed till the car went right
over the bank on to the rocks."

"Poor mad Connor!" said the guide, shaking his head; "he's but a
harmless fellow, and wouldn't hurt a soul for all the world. He
doesn't belong to these parts, but has lived here since they evicted
him from his home in Donegal. And it's mad he's been ever since the
day they pulled down his house."

Max made no comment on the words, but he sighed heavily. It seemed to
him impossible to stir at that time in Ireland without being
confronted by the results of the bad land laws, and the bad harvests,
and by the evicting landlord, who, like the servant in the parable,
seized his fellow-servant by the throat, saying, "Pay me that thou
owest," disregarding the entreaty, "Have patience with me, and I will
pay thee all."

What was likely to be the end of it? He perceived, with the sort of
dull pain which was all he was capable of feeling, that this accident
which had robbed him of his mother was indirectly caused by the wrongs
and sufferings of Ireland.

How long they waited there on the rocks by the side of the lake, he
never knew; he had lost all sense of time, but the scene stamped
itself indelibly on his brain. He could always see that little group
of sympathetic strangers, and his mother's pallid face, contrasting so
strangely, in its perfect peace, with the white, anxious, sorrowful
face of Doreen. The girl was bare-headed, and the fall had loosened
her hair, which hung in disordered curls about her face, making her
look curiously like the child Doreen who had steered the boat on
Lough Lee. Something, too, of the same expression of strong
resolution, holding horror and dismay in check, could be traced in her
firmly closed lips and earnest eyes. Beyond her stood poor, mad
Connor, in his outlandish garments, still full of pathetic belief in
the power of fresh water from the lake to restore life; and, in the
background, one of the bicyclists talked with the old guide in a
hushed voice, speculating as to when his companion would return with
help from the hotel.

Alas! as Max knew too well, the help could do but little. When, at
length, the landlord and several others came to their assistance, and
the last painful journey had been effected, he needed no words from
the doctor to make him understand that his mother was dead.

"There can have been no pain; nothing but the horror of the fall which
you yourself passed through; then instantaneous death," said the
doctor, turning away from the bedside.

Max tried to speak, but his voice failed him. For some minutes there
was utter silence in the room, save for the subdued sobs of the
faithful old Harding, who had been Mrs. Hereford's maid ever since her
marriage. Then Doreen put her hand into her lover's, and drew him
gently aside.

"You had better let the doctor look at your wrist," she said, leading
the way to the next room. "I think it must have been sprained in the
fall."

How she had noticed what he himself had been unconscious of, amazed
Max; but there was relief in being guided like a child,--relief in the
physical pain of the doctor's examination, and even in the pang of
fear that shot through his heart as, for the first time, he realized
the peril she had been exposed to.

"Are you sure you are not hurt, darling?" he said.

"Quite," she replied, disregarding the presence of the doctor, and
bending over him with a caress which conveyed to him, better than any
words could have done, her perfect sympathy and love.

"If there is anything I can do for you," said the doctor, "pray tell
me. I am driving now to Annamoe and could send any telegrams you
please."

"Will you send for General Hereford?" asked Doreen, gently.

Max groaned.

"I suppose I ought to ask him to come, and I am afraid he is in London
again by this time."

He shrank inexpressibly from the thought of meeting any one; and his
uncle, though kindly enough in his own way, was a man who would be
likely to jar upon one who was in great trouble. Then he realized that
for Doreen's sake it was necessary that some third person should come
over at once, and with that thought came a more miserable
consciousness of his loss than he had yet gained.

"Leave it to us," said Doreen. "We will see to everything"; and she
left the room with the doctor, and going downstairs to the comfortable
little private sitting-room, prepared to write the sad news, thankful
to be able to spare Max in any way, but breaking down sadly as she
drew towards her Mrs. Hereford's own writing-case to search for
telegram forms, and noticed all about the room the signs and tokens of
the one who had been so suddenly snatched away from them.

The doctor was glad to see her tears blistering the paper as she
wrote. He knew that it was the natural and healthy relief in trouble,
and that whereas her calmness and presence of mind had hitherto been
an inestimable help to her lover, she might do even more for him now
by that natural emotion which he would be little likely to yield to if
left alone.

When the kindly Irishman had taken leave, and all the necessary
arrangements had been seen to, Doreen sought out Harding the maid,
knowing well how much the faithful old servant would feel the death of
her mistress. But Harding, who had broken down at first, became calmer
directly she saw another in need of help and comfort, and Doreen found
great consolation in her homely wisdom.

She looked through fast-falling tears at the peaceful, smiling face of
the dead, and Harding, drying her own eyes, was glad to open her heart
to one so thoroughly sympathetic.

"I never saw one that looked more happy, spite of the sad and sudden
ending it has been," said the maid. "I have not seen my dear lady look
so content since her marriage day. And I take it her whole life here
has just been one long waiting,--her months of happiness were but few.
And oh, miss!" she said, replacing the sheet once more over the
beautiful face, "I think it would have broken her heart if the Lord
had ordered it otherwise and you or the master had been killed when
the car fell."

"But what can we do for him now, Harding?" sobbed the girl. "Oh, what
can we do?"

Harding's advice was simple and practical.

"Let me come to your room with you, miss, and do up your hair," she
suggested, "and we will ring and order tea to be taken in to the
sitting-room, and then I'll persuade the master to come down and have
some with you. He'll do anything for your sake, miss."

And so, shielded and helped in every way by these two, Max passed
through the first terrible hours of his bereavement. In some ways they
were far less painful than many of the hours he had to endure later
on. He was partially stunned by the shock, and had not altogether
realized what life without his mother would be to him. Doreen, too,
had been able to silence his agony of questioning whether, if he had
acted differently, the accident could possibly have been averted. For
the time her childlike faith had soothed him, and worse doubts, which
were to haunt him later on, had not as yet found place in his heart.
He had heard of Harding's words about his mother, and as the evening
wore on, he more and more realized the great danger through which
Doreen had been kept unharmed, and her devotion and perfect
understanding made him thank God that he was spared to a life which,
without her, would have been blank indeed.

The next day dawned sadly enough for them, and Max, who was a novice
in suffering of any sort, shrank inexpressibly from talking with any
one; his sole comfort lay in wandering among the woods near the lake
with Doreen beside him, and it tried him infinitely less to come
within sight of the scene of the accident than to meet the sympathetic
looks, still worse to hear the sympathetic words, of those at the
hotel.

They kept on the further side of the lough, and presently found a
little, sheltered nook beside a tiny waterfall, where they rested for
hours, sometimes silent, sometimes talking a little, but always with
that sense of perfect unity and rest in each other's company, which
was their best comfort in this time of sorrow. On returning to the
hotel, they found a telegram from General Hereford, who had reached
Dublin early that morning and might be expected at Glendalough that
very afternoon. Max sighed heavily and handed the paper to Doreen.

"He must have taken the night mail," she said, trying hard to feel
grateful for his promptitude, yet shrinking inexpressibly from meeting
one of whose dislike and disapproval she was too sensitive not to be
perfectly well aware.

If Max had welcomed his uncle's advent, she would have been delighted
to think that he would so soon be with them, but it was quite clear
that he dreaded it above all things.

"I will leave you to meet him alone?" she suggested, thinking that
probably this would make it less painful for him. But Max would not
hear of such a plan.

"Don't go," he cried, snatching her hand in his, as they heard the
arrival of the car, and the well-known hearty voice outside. "For
Heaven's sake, stay and talk to him, for I can't!"

He threw open the door of the private sitting-room, and with an effort
went out to greet General Hereford.

"My dear fellow, I'm so glad you sent for me!" said the old man, with
a kindly greeting; "this is a terrible affair, terrible! I can hardly
yet realize it."

"It is good of you to have come," said Max, struggling hard to control
his voice. "If you will just go into this room for a minute, I will
see that your things are taken up."

And hurrying away upon this pretext, he left the General face to face
with Doreen, who swiftly crossed the room to greet him, with the
spontaneous warmth and hospitality which naturally came to her aid. He
started a little on perceiving her, and his handshake was stiff and
frigid.

"I was not aware that you were here, Miss O'Ryan," he said gravely.

Although, of course, he did not add the words, "And I am extremely
sorry that you should be," his tone implied them. At any other time
Doreen would have been half angry, half amused, but to-day the
disapproval pained her.

"I was travelling with Max and his mother," she said, her voice
trembling a little.

"Oh, indeed," he said, dropping into an armchair; "I was not aware of
that. A most sad ending to your tour; you must, I am sure, regret
having planned it."

Doreen was silent. The tour had been entirely planned by Mrs.
Hereford, but she could not bring herself to say this; indeed, it was
a moment or two before she could trust herself to speak at all, and
the tears were still in her eyes when at last she said:--

"As you say, it was a most sad ending, and a terrible shock to Max.
The only comfort is that he was not more hurt. His wrist will be well,
they think, in a few days."

"It all comes of these abominable Irish cars," said the General,
irascibly; "if you had been travelling in a civilized country it would
never have happened. But what can you expect, when you have to deal
with a lazy, unenterprising people, who rest content with
old-fashioned vehicles of that sort?"

Doreen felt her blood grow hot, but she was not going to be betrayed
into a quarrel with General Hereford while the dead body of his
sister-in-law lay in the room above, and though trembling with
suppressed anger, she forced herself to get up in silence and ring the
bell.

"I will order tea," she said, after a brief, uncomfortable pause; "you
must, I am sure, be very tired, after travelling all night."

The General, who was indeed both tired and sad, was obliged to
recognize that this Irish girl, of whom he so strongly disapproved,
could, on occasions, show a dignified courtesy which many a duchess
might have envied.

"You must not think I meant anything personal," he said, with awkward
anxiety, to make up for his unfortunate speech. "I look upon you, of
course, as practically English."

He did not at all see that by this well-intentioned remark he had
reached the very acme of rudeness, and Doreen could not resist the
temptation of giving him a little thrust in return.

"You can't expect a descendant of the O'Ryans to take that as a
compliment," she said, with a smile which somehow made him feel
uncomfortable.

A knock at the door relieved him from the necessity of replying, but
his brow clouded when he perceived a burly priest entering the room,
holding in his hand a great bunch of arum lilies.

"Oh, Father Monahan, is it you?" cried Doreen, starting up to greet
him.

"Forgive me for intruding," said the priest. "I saw Mr. Hereford
outside, and thought I should find you alone. Will you use these
lilies for the coffin? There was a hedge of them growing round a
little cabin a few miles from here, and I thought you would like
them."

"How very good of you!" said Doreen.

"Nay," said Father Monahan; "'tis the poor woman's gift entirely, for
she would not hear of taking payment when she learnt what I wanted
them for. You'll never find truer sympathy than the sympathy you get
among the Irish poor."

General Hereford stalked across the room, and Doreen, rashly
concluding that he meant civilly to admire the flowers, introduced
the priest; but the General, with the stiffest of bows, passed in dead
silence out of the room.

"Oh!" cried Doreen, with an impatient gesture, "isn't it a miserable
thing that even at such a time as this he must parade his contempt for
the Irish!"

Father Monahan's kindly, weather-beaten face bore a look of
perplexity. He well understood the needs and characters of his own
flock. All his life he had been toiling among them, shepherding them
with that wonderful individual care which perhaps reaches its highest
development among the best and most conscientious of the parish
priests in rural Ireland. But before this man of the world, this
English officer bristling with the prejudices of his class and race
and religion, the old priest stood fairly bewildered.

"I have observed," he said in his mild voice, "that there is a certain
sort of Englishman upon whom the sight of a priest acts as a red rag
acts upon a bull. I am sorry I happened to come in at so inopportune a
moment."

Doreen could only comfort herself with the reflection that Max did not
share in his uncle's prejudices, but she went upstairs to weave the
arums into a wreath, with a very sore heart.

Sitting beside the open window in her bedroom, however, the
peacefulness of the summer afternoon gradually stole into her heart.
She was glad that the room had no view of the lake, only a distant
view of the mountains towards Laragh, looking higher than they were,
in reality, through the soft, luminous haze. Down below she could see
the cows wandering into the yard to be milked, and pausing to drink at
the round stone fountain in the centre. The cowherd crossed over to
one of the sheds with his stool and milk-pail clattering cheerfully,
while the beautiful air which he whistled, "Billy Byrne of
Ballymanus," took her right back to the days of her childhood, and
made her realize how true in many ways is the poet's saying, that
"memory is possession."

It was a comfort, too, that she had much to do for Max, and his look
of relief, when she appeared again at dinner-time and contrived to
keep General Hereford talking serenely about his visit to the Riviera,
repaid her again and again for the effort it cost her. Later in the
evening, when the General was dozing over his newspaper, the two
lovers wandered out in the summer twilight, past the little stream,
and into the old churchyard close by. The ruins looked dim and ghostly
in the dusk, and the old round tower stood out solemnly against the
pale sky. There was something comforting to Doreen in its mere
strength and its great age. She loved to think of the old times when
free Ireland had held an honoured place amongst the nations, and when
this quiet little Glendalough had been the school to which youths from
all parts of Europe had been sent for education. Then she sighed as
she remembered that the place so especially dear to her must ever have
for Max the most sad associations.

"Our last night here," she said softly. "I am afraid you will never
wish to see this place again."

"Don't say that," said Max, quickly. "The place where my mother spent
her last happy days can never be spoilt for me. I shall certainly want
to see it again. You and I will come together."

She gave him a mute caress. Then, after a few minutes, resumed once
more, with much more brightness in her tone:--

"I had been half afraid that this must give you a distaste for
Ireland. I am so glad it has not done that."

"I think it is quite the other way," said Max. "It has made me more
than ever anxious to serve your country, darling."

She looked up into his face, and something in its expression of pure
and noble purpose made her heart throb with eager joy, and with all
her being she thanked God that it had been given to her to love a
good, true-hearted man, who was ready, cost what it might, to take up
a cause that was likely to win him infinite disapproval.




CHAPTER XXI.


    "Earth, air, and sun, and skies combine
       To promise all that's kind and fair;--
     But thou, O human heart of mine,
       Be still, contain thyself, and bear."

                                A. H. CLOUGH.


It seemed to Doreen, when afterwards she looked back, that the evening
talk in the churchyard at Glendalough marked a turning-point in her
life. It was the high tide, so to speak, of her perfect content with
her betrothal. The very sadness of the moment only threw into stronger
relief the rapture of the consciousness that Max was hers, that she
was his. And even the remembrance of General Hereford's hostility only
raised in her mind a triumphant sense that Max was the one Englishman
she could possibly have married, and that he, at any rate, loved and
understood her country.

But no sooner had they left Ireland, and after the night journey found
themselves, early in the morning, on the desolate platform at Euston,
than the miserable incompleteness of their present position forced
itself upon her. It was terrible to her to be sent away with Harding
in a cab, and to be forced to leave Max, with the General fussing at
his elbow, to superintend all the painful arrangements for the funeral
at Monkton Verney. Her heart cried out to be with him through it all,
and it was with an intolerable effort that she turned back to her
public life and to the weary fulfilment of those July engagements
which could not be shirked, however distasteful to her in her present
mood. Happily there were the children with their eager welcome and
their delight at her return to cheer her failing heart. Chubby-cheeked
Bride, with her air of guileless simplicity; blue-eyed Mollie, with
her clinging caresses; dreamy, tender-hearted Dermot; and chivalrous
Michael,--made a goodly quartette. She tried to forget how soon she
would have to leave them again for that dreaded American tour, and
lived as much as possible in the present.

The first meeting with Lady Rachel and Miriam took place on the day of
Mrs. Hereford's funeral. Max, who had gone straight down to Monkton
Verney with his uncle, had written to say that a special carriage
would be reserved for them in the ten o'clock express on the day of
the funeral, and had specially asked his aunt to call at the house in
Bernard Street for Doreen. His _fiance_ would have preferred going
alone, but acquiesced in his arrangements as being no doubt the right
thing; and, though Lady Rachel grumbled at the task assigned her, she
could not well decline it.

"I wish Max had never come across this Irish girl," she murmured, as
they drove in the direction of Bloomsbury; "nothing but evil has come
of the connection. It was a sad day when your aunt first took it into
her head to spend a summer at Castle Karey. I remember it was all in
order that Max might read better before he went to Oxford. Poor woman!
she little thought what a train of disasters were to follow on that
apparently sensible scheme."

"Auntie was very fond of Doreen," said Miriam, "and indeed, mamma, I
think she and Max suit each other splendidly. It is great nonsense to
pretend that he is making a _msalliance_, for, as a matter of fact,
the O'Ryans are just as good as we are. If the father and the
grandfather had been cringing office-seekers, they would have been
rich enough by this time; but they were too honest for that, and
preferred to be outspoken Nationalists."

"My dear, don't speak of it," said Lady Rachel, with an impatient
wave of the hand; "the girl has the most disgraceful pedigree I ever
heard of: a great-grandfather killed in the Rebellion; a grandfather
forced to fly for his life in '48, and dying of privation among the
mountains; a father who began his career as a follower of Smith
O'Brien, was afterwards a Fenian, and ended up with being a
Home-ruler. What can you conceive worse than that?"

Miriam laughed.

"I detest politics," she said, with a little shrug of the shoulders;
"but really, speaking as an unprejudiced neutral, I should say it
looked as if the O'Ryans had the courage of their opinions."

"My dear," said Lady Rachel, plaintively, "I do hope you will not get
into the way of using phrases like that; they are all very well for an
article in the 'Times,' but upon your lips they have a very unwomanly
sound."

"Here we are in Bernard Street," observed Miriam, serenely. "I am
curious to see whether Doreen will sacrifice her own prepossessions or
yours in the way of mourning."

"I do trust you will not catch any of these foolish notions about
reform," said Lady Rachel, looking down complacently at her gruesome
crape-bedecked raiment, over which the luckless dressmaker's employes
had been ruining their health and their eyesight all the previous
night.

"Doreen says that two hundred years ago it was thought absolutely
necessary to put even one's bed into black," said Miriam, with a
mischievous smile; "perhaps the generations to come will think our
mourning clothes just as foolish. Ah, here she comes, in a black serge
travelling dress she had ordered for the voyage to America, and with
the coloured flowers taken out of her Sunday bonnet. That is a
compromise out of regard to your feelings, mamma."

Doreen was pale and subdued; there was no crape on her attire, but in
her face there were tokens of a genuine grief which touched Miriam's
kindly heart. Curiously enough, though Lady Rachel approved so
strongly of grief expressed in millinery, she condemned every other
expression of grief as "bad taste," and after a few formal inquiries,
she left the two girls to themselves, relapsing, as soon as they were
settled in the railway carriage, into a comfortable nap. Miriam had
always regarded Doreen with a good deal of admiration, and now she was
grateful to her for having saved her from the necessity of marrying
Max. She talked kindly of the engagement, and asked many questions
about Castle Karey and the last days at Glendalough, learning from
Doreen much that she had not gathered from her father's letters.
Indeed, the General had been so fussily full of funeral arrangements,
that he had told them scarcely anything.

"Papa is in his element at such a function as this," said Miriam,
irreverently. "He will, no doubt, have been a great help to Max;
though as the one is all for simplicity and quiet, and the other all
for pomp and ceremony, there must have been a contest of wills. But
papa is a very useful man at a wedding or at a funeral; he always
manages things without any hitch. Here is the list of the carriages,"
and she handed to Doreen a black-bordered card with the order of the
guests.

The girl with a little shudder of distaste glanced down it, observing
that in the first carriage Max and General Hereford drove alone, and
that in the last the names were: Miss Hereford, Colonel Hanbury, Miss
O'Ryan, Mr. Claude Magnay.

"Is that Mr. Magnay the artist?" she inquired.

"Yes; he is a second cousin of ours, and not unlike Max in some ways,
though a little older, of course. I shall have to walk with Colonel
Hanbury, and I detest him; he was auntie's first cousin. Mamma ought
to have had him by rights, but I see she is put down to Sir Henry
Worthington."

The name brought a momentary relief to Doreen.

"I am glad he will be there," she said. "Ah, there is Rooksbury just
coming into sight!" And through fast-gathering tears she looked across
the meadows to the firclad hill, the outline of which would always
recall so many happy memories.

At Firdale Station they were met by the General, and during the drive
to Monkton Verney, Doreen suffered many things at his hands; for
Dermot's "Mr. Worldly Wiseman" was full of sore-hearted vexation as he
realized that, before long, this girl with no money, and no special
beauty, dowered only with a rebel ancestry and obnoxious opinions,
would be the mistress of the very house he had so coveted for his own
daughter. That Miriam sat contentedly beside her on the best of terms,
only increased his annoyance; and though Doreen was too true an
Irishwoman ever to be at a loss, and had an enviable gift of turning
her antagonist's weapons against himself, yet his utter lack of
courtesy and kindness tried her grievously, rousing a storm of
indignant protest within her.

It was a relief to turn from his undisguised hostility to the
chivalrous sympathy of Sir Henry Worthington,--one of those
old-fashioned Tories that the most progressive of mortals would regret
to lose from public life. He evidently realized that it was hard upon
the two lovers to have to meet formally in the drawing-room, and to
shake hands conventionally under the gaze of the assembled guests; but
General Hereford seemed bent on keeping them from having even a
moment's privacy, and though at lunch Doreen found herself beside Max,
they did not derive much comfort from that.

At the funeral she was not even beside him, and afterwards the ladies
of the party had tea in the drawing-room, while the gentlemen spent
what seemed an unconscionable time in the library over the reading of
the will.

Lady Rachel and Miriam intended to sleep that night at Monkton Verney;
but Doreen, much against her will, was obliged to return to town for
an engagement. As the time approached when it was absolutely necessary
for her to leave, she grew more and more restless, and when at length
she heard the library door opened and a sound of footsteps in the
hall, she sprang up, and with a murmured apology to Miriam, who was in
the midst of a description of Henley, went out in the hope of finding
Max disengaged.

The time left would be short indeed, but her heart leapt up joyously
at sight of the well-known figure standing near the window at the
further end of the hall, trying to look out a train in the railway
guide.

"At last we are alone!" she exclaimed, coming quickly towards him. "I
thought General Hereford meant to keep us apart for ever."

"I beg your pardon," said Claude Magnay, turning round with an
apologetic, kindly glance. "It is not the first time that I have been
mistaken for my cousin. I suppose at a little distance there must be a
good deal of likeness."

"Yes," said Doreen, startled and a little dismayed; "I was quite
deceived. Have they nearly done in the library?"

"Very nearly," said Claude, quick to discern the weariness and
impatience which a less keen observer would have failed to notice. "It
must have been a dreadful day for you two. Max must be longing to get
rid of us all."

"I am obliged to leave for London by the five o'clock train," said
Doreen. "Unluckily I have to sing in Farquhar's new Oratorio. No other
soprano could be found to learn the music at such short notice."

"You will be very tired," said Claude. "But let us at any rate
circumvent the General's plan of campaign," and with a smile which
cheered Doreen's forlorn heart, he strolled across the hall to the
library, and opening the door, put in his head.

"Max," he said, "just one word with you here. I'll not keep you a
minute." Then as his cousin stepped out of the library, glad enough to
escape from the weary talk of the lawyer and General Hereford, Claude
added in an undertone, "As one side of the family seems bent on
keeping you and your _fiance_ apart, I thought the other side had
better pull in the opposite direction. Miss O'Ryan has to leave by the
5.5, and so have I. Can't you drive down to the station with us?"

"Yes," said Max. "And for goodness' sake, do go and keep Uncle
Hereford at bay for a few minutes, while I speak to Doreen."

Claude nodded assent; and while the lovers retreated into the oak
parlour, thankful to snatch even a few minutes of peace out of the
miserable day, he contrived to make Sir Henry Worthington understand
the situation, and to pacify the General with assurances that Max
would return almost immediately. Nor was this his only piece of
kindness; for after the General had seen him safely into the closed
carriage with Max and Doreen, he discovered the moment they had passed
the gates that he had a headache, and that nothing but a cigar on the
box would cure it; so that once more the two were left to themselves.

"How good he is!" said Doreen. "We owe this to his management. Oh,
Max! I wish I need not run away and leave you like this. If Madame De
Berg had been on good terms with me, she could have taken my place
to-night; but of course she wouldn't stir a finger to help a rival,
and no one else knew the music."

"Have you many more engagements?" asked Max. "I hate to think of your
going back to-night to sing that trying part, when already you are
tired out."

"I have no engagements in London after the 25th, and little enough
after that until we go to America, except an occasional concert in the
provinces."

"An idea has just come to me," said Max. "Why should you not bring the
children down here for the rest of the summer? I will get some cousin
or aunt to see to the house and satisfy the proprieties."

"Not Lady Rachel!" pleaded Doreen. "I am sure she hates me, and indeed
I am afraid none of your relations are likely to approve of me,
specially just now."

"There is one who already likes you," said Max, "and that is Claude
Magnay. If we could persuade him to come down and paint in the
neighbourhood, and could induce his little French wife to take charge
of things at Monkton Verney, nothing could be better."

"Should I get on with her?" asked Doreen, doubtfully.

"With Esprance? Why, of course you would. She has been through so
much herself, poor little woman, that you may be quite sure she will
sympathize with you. There are two children who would fit in well with
Mollie and Bride."

They became quite cheerful in talking over this plan, and discussed it
anew with Claude at the Firdale station. He fell in with the idea
readily enough, and secretly enjoyed thwarting the General's unamiable
scheme. But he knew that Uncle Hereford was an old campaigner, and was
thoroughly convinced that the lovers would find it no easy task
entirely to baffle him.

August proved as happy as any month could be which lay between the
tragedy at Glendalough and the dark shadow of the coming separation.
It was at any rate peaceful, and there were no jarring elements in the
house. Esprance, with her tact and sympathy, her little, gracious,
foreign manner, and her quick understanding of the two lovers, proved
an ideal mistress of the ceremonies. She and Doreen became firm
friends, while little Noel and Aime adopted the O'Ryan children from
the first, and kept the saddened household bright with their laughter
and play.

With what a grievous struggle Doreen left all this behind and joined
the concert party at Liverpool to keep that American engagement, from
which there was no escaping, can well be imagined. Max would have
travelled down with her and seen the last of the steamer, but, knowing
how trying this would be to him in every way, she had persuaded him to
remain at Monkton Verney, where the party was not to break up for
another week.

"It is better for me," she urged, "to get all my good-byes over at
once, and I shall like to think that I leave the children with you. To
see people off in a steamer is always a mistake. Nothing accentuates
the parting so much."

So Max was forced to content himself with putting her into the train
at Euston, his blank depression being for a time relieved by the
pretty sight of little Una Kingston's happiness.

The child stood waiting for Doreen on the platform, her violin-case in
her hand, and a smart French maid keeping guard over her luggage.
There was something forlorn-looking about this fragile little prodigy
about to be launched on that long, wearing tour, for which her
strength seemed wholly inadequate. But there was no mistaking the
intense delight with which she greeted Doreen, or the shy sympathy
with which she regarded the lovers in the last hard moments of
farewell.

"You see I abdicate in my rival's favour," said Max, glad to relieve
his pain by jesting with the child.

Una's pretty face lighted up with an expression he had never seen on
it before.

"Oh, I will take such care of her," she said fervently, as the engine
slowly steamed out of the station; and the words rang consolingly in
Max Hereford's ears, as he glanced for the last time at the blue eyes,
and at the lips which smiled for his sake but could not speak.




CHAPTER XXII.


    "Like morning, or the early buds in spring,
     Or voice of children laughing in dark streets,
     Or that quick leap with which the spirit greets
     The old, revisited mountains,--some such thing
     She seemed in her bright home. Joy and delight
     And full-eyed Innocence with folded wing
     Sat in her face....
     What needed pain to purge a spirit so pure?
     Like fire it came,--what less than fire can be
     The cleansing Spirit of God?"

                           WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.


It would have been well for Max if he had been forced at this time to
work for his living, but unfortunately there was no necessity for him
to do anything. He could not even do very much at Monkton Verney. The
house was so big and desolate that he could not face the thought of
spending the autumn there, and it was impossible for him to entertain
so soon after his mother's death. The plans for the new scheme about
the Priory ruins lost their interest now that Doreen was no longer
there to discuss them, and the General, who disapproved of the idea
with his whole heart, threw every obstacle in the way. Ultimately, it
was arranged that Monkton Verney should be let for a year, and Max
took up his quarters in the house in Grosvenor Square, which seemed
less dreary. Then began that worst of all stages, when people thought
it was time that he forgot his sorrow, though in truth it was just
beginning to overwhelm him, to cloud his mind with bitter
questionings, to eclipse his faith, and to affect him physically in a
way which not one of his friends understood. The Herefords made much
of him. He escorted Miriam that winter to one place and another,
proving himself just the convenient cavalier that he had done in the
old times, and dropping naturally into the habit of going to the house
in Wilton Crescent every day; but there seemed no life in him. He
drifted aimlessly on, waking each morning with a resentful remembrance
that he was called upon to live somehow through another day, and idly
wishing that it were ended.

The only things which stirred him a little were Doreen's letters. They
were hastily written in the cars, with a stylographic pen, and were
hard to read; but nevertheless they were like waters to a thirsty
soul, and their graphic, unconventional descriptions of the life in
the travelling company for the time stimulated him into a sort of
semblance of returning energy. Something of Doreen's breezy, sunshiny,
open-air nature seemed to pass into him through those love letters,
and generally after receiving one he used to walk round to Bernard
Street and see Mrs. Garth and the children. He hated seeing the house
without Doreen, but the children refreshed him, and their delighted
welcome always pleased him. They seemed to regard him as one who
belonged to them. Yet children are quick to discern changes, and
Mollie and Dermot puzzled their small heads not a little over the
change in their future brother-in-law.

"Is it losing his mother that makes Max never seem to care much for
things?" asked Mollie one day at nursery tea.

"He never seems to speak in public now," said Dermot, "and he told
Michael he was sick to death of coffee taverns and temperance, and the
sort of things, you know, that used to be his hobbies."

"Has he given up all his work?" asked Hagar Muchmore, in her brisk
voice. "I thought he looked kinder down-hearted. I guess he's taken
offence with the Almighty."

The phrase lingered in Bride's mind. She puzzled much over it, and on
Sunday afternoon, when Max happened to find her alone in the nursery
with a bad cold, she waxed confidential in the twilight.

"The others will be home soon, from church; then we shall have tea,"
she said, climbing on to his knee and begging his ring to make seals
on her fat little wrist. "I want to know, Max," she added, after an
interval, "what people do when they take offence?"

"They don't come to your house and have tea with you," said Max,
smiling; "so, you see, I have not taken offence with you."

"What else don't they do?" asked Bride, her inscrutable, childlike
eyes gazing far down into his.

"Well, they don't talk to you; they try not to meet you."

"What makes them take offence?"

"I suppose, generally, they fancy that people have treated them
unkindly or unjustly."

"But Doreen told me God never could leave off being kind and good to
anybody, and of course I know my own self He never could," said the
baby theologian, with a depth of conviction in her tone which might
have silenced a whole bench of bishops; "and yet Hagar says she
guesses you've taken offence with the Almighty."

Max started as though some one had stabbed him; then the humour of the
words struck him, and he laughed.

"Mrs. Muchmore is a very shrewd woman," he said. "But you are quite
right, Bride, and Doreen--why of course Doreen is right; and now let
us have no more theology, but jump on my back, and I will give you a
ride."

Instantly the puzzled little face relaxed into the broadest smile of
content, and with a vigorous war-whoop of delight, Bride urged on her
willing steed, who good-naturedly leapt chairs and foot-stools with an
energy which surprised himself.

"I don't know what has come to Max," said Miriam one January day as
they lingered round the breakfast-table; "I can't stir him up at all.
He is as dull as a dormouse, and does nothing all day long but sit in
an armchair and smoke."

"Well, my dear," said Lady Rachel, with a touch of bitterness in her
tone, "in the old times you used to complain of all his philanthropic
hobbies; you are really rather difficult to please."

"I want him to be like other men," said Miriam, impatiently. "Max
never can do anything by halves; if he works, he must work like a
galley-slave; and if he idles, he must idle with all his might."

"My theory is that he begins to realize the mistake he has made," said
the General. "I have once or twice seen him much moved by the accounts
of these dastardly Irish outrages. Think what it must be for a man,
brought up as he has been, to find himself tied to a girl who is hand
and glove with these Home-rulers,--these dastardly outrage-mongers and
moonlighters, these cowardly brutes who torture cattle, and for whom
hanging is too good."

"Doreen is the last person to approve of outrages," said Miriam, with
the aggravating coolness of one not greatly interested in the subject.

"Oh, depend upon it she does approve in her heart, whatever she may
say," replied the General, angrily. "I only wish the whole of Ireland
could be dipped beneath the Atlantic for four-and-twenty hours. We
need a second flood to exterminate the Irish race; then, maybe, there
would be peace and quiet."

"Well, papa," said Miriam, laughing, "you are really worse than the
moonlighters, who, at any rate, don't go in for such sweeping measures
as that. Why, here comes Max! What can make him so early? And he
really looks more alive than he has done for many months."

Even his knock at the door seemed a trifle more energetic than usual,
and when he entered the room, the General observed that the dull,
listless look in his eyes had utterly gone.

"I just looked in to say that I can't ride with you to-day as we
arranged," he said, glancing at Miriam. "I have heard that Doreen's
steamer will reach Liverpool this afternoon, and I am going to meet
her."

"Tell her," said Miriam, mischievously, "I had just been complaining
that you were as dull as ditch-water, and that we all welcome her back
with delight, in the hope that she will make you less of a bear."

"Have you read this shocking account of cattle-maiming in Kerry?" said
the General, gloomily, holding out the newspaper to his nephew.

But Max evaded it with a murmured excuse that it would keep for the
journey. As far as possible, he avoided talking of Irish matters with
the General, partly because he disliked quarrelling with his uncle;
partly because, in common with many other Radicals, he was honestly
puzzled about the whole Irish question; and partly from sheer lazy
disinclination for the trouble discussion would have involved.

What did it all matter to him as he travelled down to Liverpool,
knowing that before long he should once more see Doreen? The whole
miserable wrangle became only infinitely tiresome to think about, and
faded utterly from his mind in the passionate enjoyment of his reunion
with the one woman in the world who had the power of really touching
his heart.

Nearly five months had passed since the lovers had parted, and the
time which Max had spent in listless, idle existence, had by Doreen
been filled to the brim with arduous work; the tour had been in every
way a success, and on the whole the party had been a congenial one.
There had been occasional rubs caused by Doreen's hot Keltic
temperament, and Madame St. Pierre's somewhat stiff and conventional
theories of life; but Ferrier was always a delightful man to work
with, and he usually managed to smooth down those storms which will
occasionally rise when seven people of different nationalities and
tastes travel together for many weeks. Doreen's sunshiny brightness
aided him not a little. She had always been popular in the
profession, and there was something about her fearless simplicity, her
absolute purity of life, that invariably won her respect. To Una
Kingston her life and character were a sort of revelation; to the
child who had been dragged up anyhow, forced from her very babyhood to
mix with all sorts and conditions of men, and tossed out at the age of
eleven to fight her way through public life as best she might, with
only the axioms of a bad and unscrupulous woman like her cousin to
guide her, the friendship of the Irish _prima donna_ was just
salvation. Unluckily, however, the long railway journeys, and the
incessant round of concerts, told severely on the child's physical
powers, and it went to Doreen's heart to see how grievous a strain the
thoughtless public were allowing her to undergo. All she could do was
to take the utmost care of the little violinist, to protect her from
the plague of interviewers, to make her rest whenever it was
practicable, and to help her to fight against those nervous terrors
which generally trouble delicate children, blessed or cursed with the
artistic temperament. Her own vivid remembrance of the nightly agonies
she had endured after any specially exciting time during her youth
gave her the clue to Una's air of weary exhaustion when she came down
to breakfast; and, being convinced that the child must be spared as
much as possible, she took the forlorn little violinist into her own
bedroom, after which her nights improved in a wonderful way, though
even with company her terrors would sometimes overmaster her, and
Doreen would be roused by a shivering little white figure who, with
many apologies, would explain that she really could not endure the
horrid feeling of sinking through the bed any longer, and would Doreen
hold her and not let her die? At other times it would be a haunting
fancy that the room was full of eyes,--eyes of every sort and
size,--all staring their hardest at her; or, very frequently, a face
which she had seen during the day would haunt her with an intolerable
persistence. Doreen being one of those who understood,--being,
moreover, a woman in whom the motherly instinct was supreme,--was
never impatient with her.

"It makes me laugh," said Una once, "to hear the critics talk of the
beautiful tenderness of your voice. What do they know about it? They
have never heard it, as I have heard it, in the middle of the night,
in the dreadful stillness."

"Indeed," said Doreen, smiling, "I think most women speak tenderly to
a child in the night. 'Tis second nature to them."

"But no one ever spoke so tenderly as you do," said Una. "No one ever
spoke as if I belonged to them."

It was a good proof of the advance the little girl had made during the
American tour, that she greeted Max with cheerful friendliness. If she
felt any jealous pang, she kept it to herself, discreetly reading "The
Gayworthys" all the way to London at the far end of the railway
carriage, and doing her best to smile when, as they drew near to the
end of their journey, Max and Doreen began to talk to her, and to make
plans as to their next meeting.

"Poor little child!" said Doreen, with a sigh, when Una, and her
violin, and her maid had been safely put into a hansom; "she is going
back to a hard life and a miserable home. It makes me feel selfish to
have so bright a life in contrast."

"Life must always be bright to you, who go about the world cheering
other people. But, oh, my dear Daystar," said Max, using one of his
favourite names for her, "it has been black as pitch to me while you
have been away."

"There shall be no more American tours," she said gaily. "I feel like
the Peri at the gate of paradise; my task is nearly done."

"And then, in the summer," said Max, "we will have our wedding tour in
Ireland, and come back to Monkton Verney in October, when the present
tenants have turned out, and you shall lay the first stone of the new
building."

"And with it, lay the ghost," said Doreen, merrily. "You will see he
will go when 'the land is freed from stain,' as old Goody told us."

The happy greetings of the children and of Aunt Garth were over, and
they were gathered round the drawing-room fire, lingering lazily over
afternoon tea, and all laughing and talking together, as only Irish
people can talk, when the servant announced "Mr. Moore." With a glad
cry of "Donal! Donal's come!" the three children launched themselves
joyously upon the newcomer, whose bush of grizzled hair always struck
one as contrasting so curiously with his young face.

"I just looked in to see you," he said, "and to welcome you back; for
Michael told me you were expected; and as it's my maxim to 'take the
good the gods provide you' while you can get it, I lost no time in
calling."

"And acting on the same maxim, you must have tea, and potato cakes,
and your favourite chair," said Doreen, gaily. "Who can tell when you
may not be in prison again?"

"Who indeed!" said Donal Moore, tranquilly, as he stroked little
Bride's round, rosy cheek. "I am going this evening to Dublin. The
Irish party will fight this Coercion Bill tooth and nail, but, for all
that, it is certain to pass, and I go back to work while it is
possible. The night is coming, when I shall only be able to chafe in
prison at the knowledge that our land is given over to the tender
mercies of the Chief Secretary, and the misdirected zeal of those who
will be maddened by his repression."

"They will surely not imprison you?" said Max, glancing at the
kindly-faced Kelt. He was sitting with Dermot and little Bride, one on
each knee, and the firelight played on his broad, intellectual
forehead, and lighted up his quiet, thoughtful eyes.

"Well, I don't see how they can do it yet," he replied, with a smile.
"But when once the Coercion Bill is passed, I fancy most of the Irish
leaders will be furnished with a cell, rent free, in Kilmainham. You
see, the Chief Secretary considers me one of the worst of 'those
bloodthirsty Land Leaguers' who lead the Irish tenants astray, and
poison the love which they naturally feel towards their landlords."
His tone was so full of humour, that there was a general laugh. "It is
all very fine," he continued gravely; "we are amused now at the fancy
sketch he draws, but it will be no laughing matter by and bye. If he
imprisons the leaders of the Irish people, there will be the devil to
pay; for the leaders guide and restrain; they do their very utmost to
discourage violence."

"Of course one can understand," said Doreen, musingly, "that if
captain and crew are struck down, the people, more likely than not,
will run the good ship upon rocks or quicksands."

"Just so," replied Donal Moore; "if the leaders are imprisoned, and
open agitation against grievances be made impossible, the secret
societies which are the curse of all oppressed countries will
inevitably spring up in a night, like mushrooms."

Max felt stimulated by the Irishman's words, by the entire sincerity
of his manner, by the quiet conviction of his tone. This man was no
noisy demagogue, no self-seeking agitator, but a patriot, with the
courage and devotion which Englishmen so greatly admired in Garibaldi.

"And what is the truth of this new cattle-maiming story?" he asked,
with a remembrance of General Hereford's gloomy face over that
morning's paper.

"It is correctly reported, I am afraid," said Donal Moore. "It was a
dastardly outrage, and one which we all strongly condemn. But turn for
a moment from a harrowing and detailed newspaper description to dry
statistics, and let us see if the English are justified in the outcry
made, or the abusive words used as to Irish barbarity. During ten
months in Ireland--ten troubled months--there were forty-seven cases
of killing and maiming cattle. Whereas, during twelve months in
England there were three thousand five hundred and thirty-three
convictions for cruelty to animals. We don't dub you fiends, or
propose to destroy the liberties of a nation because a certain
percentage of Englishmen are blackguards. There has been enormous
exaggeration of the outrages in Ireland, and that was clearly proved
by one of your own countrymen the other night in the House."

"There are a few Englishmen, then, who will stand by us?" asked
Doreen. "I have, of course, missed the papers for some days."

"A few Radicals," said Donal Moore; "but you may count them on the
fingers of one hand."

"Donovan Farrant is among them," said Max. "He is the sort of man who
is not likely to be swept away with the general wave of indignation
which has passed over the country. Maybe the slight strain of Irish
blood in him gives him the power to understand you better than
others."

"You are thoroughly English, and yet you have the power," said Doreen,
with a glance of loving confidence. But Max shook his head.

"No; I am more and more convinced every day that my sole hope of
understanding the Irish problem is through you. While you have been
away I have been altogether out of touch with the subject. It is a
good thing, after all, that I lost that election, or you might have
lived to see me voting for the Coercion Bill."

"Oh no, no!" protested Doreen; "I think you would surely have taken
the line Mr. Farrant has taken."

"And lost my seat at the next election in consequence."

"Perhaps; but that would have been glorious, and you would have been
secure of a seat in Ireland."

"Be very sure of this, Mr. Hereford," said Donal Moore, gravely, "the
more repressive the Chief Secretary becomes, the more stubborn will be
the resistance made by the Irish. Already he has interfered with the
right of public meeting. The new year began ominously with the
forcible dispersion of a meeting by one of his emissaries, who, not
content with a huge body of police with fixed bayonets, threatened to
have the people shot down. Now, I ask you candidly, would Englishmen
endure this even from their fellow-countrymen? Of course they would
not endure it for a moment. Yet you expect us to put up with this sort
of thing from people of an entirely different race, who understand us
as little as the Russians understand the Poles."

At this moment Mollie's coaxing little voice intervened. "Donal,
dear," she said, "your head is so hot that I really think your feet
must be cold. Bride's and mine are just dreadfully cold. Do let us
dance and get warm. You know we always do every night. Sunday's the
only night when we have to go to bed with cold feet."

Doreen, with a merry laugh at this practical interruption, went to the
piano. The furniture was pushed aside, and soon, to the inspiriting
strains of "Garry Owen," the children were dancing to their heart's
content; Mollie claiming the patriot for her partner, and whirling
round and round on her tallest tiptoe with fairylike lightness, while
Dermot lumbered good-naturedly in their wake, dragging the far more
solidly built Bride in a somewhat laboured, straight galop. Max,
comfortably installed in the shady nook close to the piano, watched
the scene with amusement, and Aunt Garth, as she sat by the fire with
her knitting, noticed with satisfaction that the clouded look his face
had borne for so many months vanished entirely when he glanced from
the children to Doreen's happy, smiling lips and radiant eyes.
Presently, when the dancers were tired, Doreen sang to them, and the
sweet air of "Kathleen Mavourneen" lured Uncle Garth from the
deciphering of mummy curl-papers in the study, and brought Michael
upstairs, three steps at a time, on his return from Bermondsey; and to
please the one she sang "Hope, the Hermit," and to please the other,
"Savourneen Deelish." Finally, the children clamoured for "God save
Ireland," and joined with such vigour in the chorus that Uncle Garth
stole back to his congenial work, leaving the kindred spirits to enjoy
to the utmost Doreen's wonderful rendering of the national song.

At last Donal Moore was obliged to take leave.

"If I am to dine with Flannery, and to catch the night mail at
Euston," he exclaimed, "I must tear myself away from this paradise."

"And I am afraid you will have a rough time," said Doreen. "The sea
was anything but pleasant."

"If Irishmen had only rough seas to grumble about, they would not be
so badly off," said Donal Moore, laughing. "It's the rough times on
the land that we find hard to take philosophically."

He knew that he was little likely to see his wards again for some time
to come, and there was a wistfulness in his face which did not escape
Max Hereford's notice; yet he responded brightly enough to the
children's fervent farewells, and stood chatting till the last
available moment with Doreen, receiving her messages to his wife, and
determined to cast no shadow of a cloud on this happy evening of her
return.




CHAPTER XXIII.


          "Certain classes of persons in England have always
          maintained that successive Irish leaders and
          patriots were mere mischief-makers, the cause, and
          not the exponents, of the prevailing discontent.
          If their mouths could be stopped, they imagined
          there would be no more disaffection in Ireland, or
          such as would be easily repressed. This was their
          manner of judging of Flood, of Grattan, of Curran,
          of O'Connell. They could not learn, and are as far
          from learning to-day as ever, that you cannot heal
          the broken heart of Ireland by gagging those whom
          she sends over here to plead for her. They were
          relieved when the prison doors closed upon one
          after another of Ireland's patriotic but unhappy
          sons."--JOSEPHINE E. BUTLER.


The shadow came all too quickly. The happy return to those she loved
was sadly marred for Doreen by the events of the next few days. The
public excitement over the Irish question rose to fever heat, and
unable entirely to approve of the methods of her own party, yet wholly
sympathizing with their strenuous resistance, she found life far from
easy. When, on the third evening after Donal Moore's departure, Max
again found himself in the familiar drawing-room at Bernard Street,
about six o'clock, he found her looking pale and harassed. He himself
seemed agitated; and if Doreen had not been preoccupied, she would
have noticed the anxious air with which he scanned her face as though
to read there how much she knew.

"You are tired, my darling," he said. "I hear you had a grand
reception at the Ballad concert last night. Why, what invalid have you
got on the sofa? Dermot?"

The boy sprang up and began to swathe himself in a plaid.

"It's nothing but a cold," he said, pausing for a frightful fit of
coughing, from which he emerged breathless, but still smiling with his
habitual quiet good-humour. "I think I'll go up to Mollie; for three's
trumpery, you know."

"Well, keep the plaid over your mouth on the stairs," said Doreen,
with a sigh. "I wish we had the American system of warming houses
throughout."

"Has he had one of his bad turns?" asked Max.

"Yes, we had a dreadful night with him. Brian Osmond overhauled him
thoroughly this morning, and his report was anything but cheering. All
the three younger ones are delicate, but Dermot has come off the
worst. He was the first one born after my father came out of penal
servitude, you see. They say there is no actual disease, only a
consumptive tendency; but I can see that Brian Osmond thinks it
doubtful whether he will grow up. He is a man of very few words, but
there was such a kind look in his face as he said to me, 'You must
reckon him among Ireland's unknown patriots.'"

"Poor little fellow!" said Max, with a sigh. "Yet I remember my mother
always spoke hopefully about him, and said she had known far more
delicate children who yet struggled through. Have you any engagement
this evening?"

"Yes, unluckily," she replied. "It is that long-talked-of performance
of 'St. Paul' given in aid of poor Ciseri's widow and children. The
tickets have gone like wildfire; for Carlo Donati is coming over on
purpose to sing, and everyone is curious to hear him, particularly as
it will be his first appearance in oratorio."

Max seemed to consider for a moment; she noticed his lack of response,
and glancing into his face read there a trouble and hesitation which
alarmed her.

"Max!" she cried. "Something has gone wrong? Oh, tell me quickly!"

He put his arm round her tenderly, but no longer attempted to delay
the evil tidings he had brought.

"Donal Moore was arrested to-day in Dublin," he said gravely.

There was a dead silence. Doreen seemed like one stunned. When at
length she spoke, her voice had a strange tone in it.

"How can he be arrested?" she said, with a bewildered look; "the
Coercion Bill is not yet passed. Surely there is some mistake. It is
just a false report. The street boys will call out anything to sell
their papers."

"Dearest, there is no mistake," he said. "Would to God there were! I
was with Donovan Farrant this afternoon, and he had heard a rumour of
the arrest. He took me down to the House with him, and at question
time the truth transpired. They said that his conduct was not in
accordance with the conditions of his ticket of leave, and that he was
remitted to penal servitude again."

As he spoke those last words, Doreen's bewildered expression changed;
a look of horror and indignation swept across her face. Then, with an
impulsive gesture, she tore herself away from him, and, with her face
buried in the sofa cushions, sobbed as if her heart would break.

Max, who had heard the exultant cheers of his own countrymen as he
waited in the lobby, and had learnt from Donovan Farrant that their
jubilation was caused by the news of this same arrest, felt each of
these sobs like a sword thrust. As he recalled Donal Moore's kindly
face and the merry scene with the children in that very room only a
few evenings ago, he fully understood Doreen's indignant grief; nor
did even a thought of jealousy cross his mind. Only twice before had
he seen her utterly broken down, and the remembrance of those former
times stirred him now strangely, bringing back the surroundings of the
scene, the wooded banks of Glendalough, and the round tower away in
the distance on the day after his mother's death; and that long-past
time in the grotto at Castle Karey, when the horror of the secret
which she had sworn to keep had pressed so sorely on the child's
mind. There was no one now for whose sake she must make an effort to
control herself, but a remembrance of her work came to help her.

"What is the time?" she asked, choking back her sobs resolutely, and
drying her eyes.

"It is just seven," he said.

"And in an hour I must be in the Albert Hall before an audience of
eight thousand people," she exclaimed. "There is no time for tears
nowadays."

"But time for love," he said, drawing her towards him once more, and
raining kisses on her face.

"Yes; oh, thank God!" she said. "Love is among the timeless, eternal
things,--else how could one bear to think now of Donal's wife and
child? Seven o'clock, did you say? He will just be leaving Dublin, no
doubt,--coming back to the life that killed my father. Oh, Max! when
will you English understand us?"

"Not until we are strictly just, I fancy," said Max, musingly; "and
have made amends for what Lecky calls 'a crime of the deepest
turpitude,'--the robbing Ireland of her parliament at the beginning of
the century."

It was arranged that Max should dine with Mr. and Mrs. Garth; and
Doreen having hastily dressed, settled her invalid in bed and left him
in charge of Mrs. Muchmore, setting out for Kensington under her
lover's escort, and with Michael to play propriety. The boy could talk
of nothing but the great news of the evening, and was still vehemently
discussing the all-absorbing topic when they entered the Albert Hall,
and made their way to the regions at the back of the orchestra, where
Doreen was greeted by Madame St. Pierre.

"Come!" exclaimed the great lady, in the tone of gentle raillery with
which she was wont to touch on Doreen's views; "Melville will be quite
relieved; we were afraid this Irish _coup d'tat_ would perhaps hinder
your coming; I thought you would be quite broken down."

"Irish people are not so easily crushed," said Doreen, with a proud
smile. There was, nevertheless, a slight quiver of her lip which did
not escape the notice of one of the bystanders,--a slightly built
Italian, whose dark liquid eyes had a way of observing those about him
with a sympathy which gave him extraordinary insight, and a quietness
which never allowed people to feel that they were being observed. He
turned a little aside now with a question to the tenor Sardoni, a
singer who after quitting the operatic stage had, during the autumn
and winter, sprung into sudden popularity as a concert singer and
composer of ballads.

"I want you to introduce me to the Irish _prima donna_, Jack," he said
in Italian. "And by the bye, who is that Englishman who came in with
her? I never saw a face so full of possibilities."

"That," replied Sardoni, "is her _fianc_. Handsome fellow, isn't he?
They say he is a rattling good speaker; but he was thrashed at the
last election, and since then has done nothing but loaf about. Miss
O'Ryan," he added, approaching her, "my friend, Signor Donati, wishes
to have the honour of an introduction to you. I have been telling him
how much you did to prepare the way for me in England by singing that
song about the eviction."

"He will not soon equal the pathos of that song, to my mind," said
Donati.

"And yet, so bitter is the feeling just now in England," said Doreen,
"that when last night I sang it as an encore at the Ballad concert, I
heard one or two hisses, which from a kindly and particularly
appreciative audience showed plainly enough which way the wind blows."

"It must be a sad time for you to return to England," said Donati,
thoughtfully. "And it is strange that you and I should meet on this
night. There is a link between us, I believe, for our fathers both
laid down their lives in an apparently useless struggle for entire
national liberty."

"Was your father a political prisoner?" asked Doreen, eagerly. "Mine
fell a victim to five years of penal servitude, though he was spared
to us for a while after his release."

"And mine," said Donati, "died a few weeks after Aspromonte, from a
wound which he received there. It is very strange to me that the
English, who sympathized so strongly with the Italian struggle years
ago, should be so extraordinarily slow to understand the aspirations
of the Irish."

"Oh," said Doreen, bitterly, "they are ready enough to see the mote in
their brother's eye, but they conveniently ignore the beam in their
own until self-interest and discomfort force them to remove it."

"I can understand that you must feel angry and indignant," said
Donati; "yet I venture to think that speech a little harsh. I love
England and the English. They may be slow to see an unpalatable truth,
but when once they do see it, you may trust them to do the right, cost
what it may."

"I think that is true," said Doreen, thoughtfully; "yet sometimes
their slowness is almost maddening, their obtuseness and want of
imaginative power really extraordinary. But after all, sweeping
phrases about a whole nation are very unfair, and come with an ill
grace from one who is to marry the best Englishman in the land. May I
introduce Mr. Hereford to you?"

The three stood talking together for some few minutes, while through
the swing door close at hand there floated the wild medley of sounds
from the orchestra in the process of tuning up, and the subdued hum of
conversation from the vast assembly. Doreen liked Donati all the more
when, glancing from one face to the other, she observed the curious
similarity of feature which would have made his likeness to Max
remarkable had not the colouring been so utterly different. The
Italian was a typical Italian, small, slightly made, extraordinarily
graceful; but spite of certain tokens that he had passed through no
easy apprenticeship, his face, with its rich, warm Southern colouring,
was singularly happy in expression. He gave one the impression of a
man who had fought and had conquered. The Englishman, taller and more
muscular, with square shoulders and fair Northern colouring, had
features cast in the same mould, but his clear, light hazel eyes,
though frank and true as ever, had in their depths something of
disappointment and perplexity, of pain not rightly understood. He bore
the expression of one who had not fought very energetically,--one who
was now watching the battle from afar, loath to turn his back upon it
altogether, yet with none of the zeal which will carry men to death or
victory. It was, however, as Donati had been quick to observe, a face
full of noble possibilities. The talk naturally turned upon Donal
Moore,--his was the name upon all lips that night,--and Donati
listened with interest to what Doreen told him of the Irishman's
story. All too soon came the summons to go into the concert hall, and
Doreen was led forward by Sardoni.

"I wish I could turn myself into a _bona fide_ Italian," he said,
"just for to-night. I am sure you are vowing vengeance on all of us
Englishmen."

She laughingly protested against such a notion.

"If you only knew how grateful I am to you for saving me from having
to sit next Madame St. Pierre," said Sardoni, with a wicked twinkle in
his eye. "That worthy woman takes all the starch out of me. There's
something really awful in the feeling when she fixes you with her cold
gray eye."

"If you tried with all your might for a year, you would never make
Madame St. Pierre see a joke," said Doreen, smiling; "but she is
really kind hearted, though she certainly can administer snubs with
deadly effect."

Sardoni, glancing to the other side of the conductor's desk, shook
with suppressed merriment.

"Good heavens!" he said, under cover of the tumultuous applause; "'tis
a sight to make the angels laugh. She is patronizing Donati in the
most exquisite way, and he hangs upon her words as deferentially as if
he were a raw novice."

"Well, so he is in oratorio singing," said Doreen; "and Madame St.
Pierre has had enormous experience. Perhaps, after all, he may fail
to please as much as he does in opera."

"You have never yet heard him sing?" asked Sardoni. "Ah, then you just
wait"; he rubbed his hands with satisfaction; "you'll think yourself
in heaven presently."

"Very well, so much the better," she replied, with a smile and a
slight gesture of the shoulders; "at present I am very conscious of
being in hostile England, with many of my countrymen in disgrace, and
with the best of them a prisoner."

The overture now began, and Doreen's sad heart took comfort; for
Mendelssohn's music always had on her something of the same effect as
the Psalms, appealing to whatever mood she happened to be in. In the
first of the noble old chorales she joined heart and soul, not as she
sometimes did for the sake of trying her voice, but because her whole
being seemed to respond to both words and music,--


    "To God on high be thanks and praise,
       Who deigns our bonds to sever;
     His cares our drooping souls upraise,
       And harm shall reach us never.
     On him we rest with faith assured,
     Of all that live, the mighty Lord,
       For ever and for ever."


When, later on, her voice rang through the great hall in the most
pathetic of all songs, "Jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets,"
Max realized that something was giving her power to sing as she had
never sung before. Was pain a necessary part of an artist's training?
Could it be that the arrest of Donal Moore at Dublin in the nineteenth
century would, through the instrumentality of a singer, give all these
thousands of people a clearer insight into the mystery of pain, the
true spirit of martyrdom, the hatefulness of persecution?

Donati's first solo was perhaps a disappointment to everyone; it did
not suit him, and though magnificently declaimed, it failed to touch
the audience. Not until his second great aria, "Oh God, have mercy,"
did people at all realize that a new exponent of sacred music had
arisen who eclipsed all others of his generation. To Doreen it was
like living through some great spiritual experience. Sardoni's playful
words, "You will think you are in heaven," seemed to her no
exaggeration; all the aspirations of her life seemed to be summed up
in his wonderful rendering of the climax of the song, "Then open Thou
my lips, O Lord! and my mouth shall show forth Thy glorious praise."

It was not, perhaps, of Saul of Tarsus that she thought as,
immediately after, she stood up to sing her brief recitative, the
message to Ananias; and there was a ring of joyfulness and triumph in
her tone, which strangely stirred the hearts of all present, when
later on she sang, "Straightway he preached Jesus in the synagogues
and said, 'I thank God, who hath made me free through Christ.'"

In the interval between the parts, as she sat in the passage at the
back of the orchestra, with Max and Michael beside her, discussing the
performance, Donati again joined them. He had been much struck by
Doreen's singing, and he knew now, what he had instinctively felt at
first sight of her, that between them there existed links far closer
than that similarity of which he had spoken in the life story of their
fathers.

"I am going to ask you a favour," he said. "My wife and I hope to be
in London early in April for four months; we have just taken a small
house in Avenue Road, and if you would be so kind as to call on us,
should you ever have time in your busy life, it will give us great
pleasure."

"I have heard much of you from Signor Marioni," said Doreen, smiling;
"so much, that you seem almost like an old friend to me. You know
after the break up of Merlino's company, Marioni went out to the
States with us as pianist. I am afraid he didn't much like it; he was
always sighing for his orchestra again. And the dreadful sameness of
the concerts drove him almost distracted."

"But he always was distracted," said Donati, smiling; "he grumbled
just as much in the old times. He is one of those who cannot patiently
bear the restrictions and limitations of life down here."

"He has many to keep him company in that," said Doreen, with a sigh.
"Are we meant to endure them patiently?"

"We don't gain anything by knocking our heads against a stone wall,"
said Donati, smiling. "Isn't it Ruskin who says that the limitations
of life are the guidance of choice?"

At this moment he was interrupted by a touch on his shoulder. "Val,"
said Sardoni, "if you love me, come here. I have put my foot into it
awfully with the St. Pierres, and they will certainly be uncivil to
Domenica next time they meet her, unless you patch up the quarrel for
us."

"The limitations of time are the hardest of all to put up with," said
Carlo, glancing at Doreen with a smile as he turned away.

Max, strongly drawn to the Italian, though hardly able to explain
wherein his great fascination lay, followed him with his eyes, and
watched with keen interest the little drama that was enacted, by the
swing door. Slowly and gradually he saw Madame St. Pierre change from
haughty gravity to gracious interest, and, at length, wonderful to
relate, both she and her husband laughed, Sardoni joined in, and the
most amicable relations were apparently established between them.

"I wonder how he did it," said Doreen, in a low voice; "a genuine
laugh in that quarter is as rare as snow in June. If I get through 'I
will sing of Thy great mercies' to-night with the right spirit, it
will all be owing to Signor Donati."

Max thought of the words later on, when, having gone with Michael to a
distant seat in the great building, he watched the slim, white-robed
figure rise after the chorus, "How lovely are the messengers," and
with the few bars of recitative as introduction break forth into the
song of thanksgiving, which, in its devotion and simplicity, is,
perhaps, the most beautiful in the whole oratorio. That song, and the
pathos of Donati's last solo, "I am ready not only to be bound, but
also to die," lingered with him for the rest of the night, haunting
him strangely, when, having left Doreen and Michael in Bernard Street,
he wandered southward, with no very settled purpose, but utterly
disinclined to go home. Strolling by and bye into his club, he there
learnt that great things had been happening in the House of Commons
while he had been listening to "St. Paul"; and the news disquieted him
so much that he promptly made his way to Westminster, and there, from
the member for Greyshot, heard a full account of all that had passed.
The two paced home together to Donovan Farrant's house in Connaught
Square, talking long over the crisis which had arisen; and when he had
parted with his companion, Max felt less inclination than ever for
sleep. In the dead quiet, which falls upon London between four and six
in the morning, he tramped restlessly about the deserted squares and
streets of Bloomsbury, more shaken out of his dreamy indifference than
he had been for months past, more troubled than he had been all his
life long over the griefs and wrongs of others. Many times he passed
the silent, dark, somewhat grim-looking house in Bernard Street, and,
looking up to the top windows, knew that the faint light he could just
discern came from the little hanging lamp beneath the crucifix which
he had given to Doreen in her childhood. He was glad to know that, as
yet, she was unconscious of the fresh troubles that had fallen upon
Ireland; glad to believe that after her arduous work she slept as
tranquilly as little Mollie, and that her face still retained that
serene look of peace and happiness which it had borne as she sang her
great solo.

Wandering on, lost in thought, he presently found himself in Oxford
Street. De Quincey's "Stony-hearted Stepmother" seemed well-nigh
deserted. It was now nearly six, but the February morning was still
dark; the stars shone clearly in the frosty atmosphere. He paused for
a minute before turning down James Street, and was surprised to hear
in the distance the sound of an approaching cavalcade. "Surely they do
not make any unlucky soldiers take exercise at this hour in the
winter!" he thought to himself. But as the horsemen drew near he saw
that they were mounted police, and instantly it flashed into his mind
that Donal Moore had been brought over from Ireland by the night mail.
Straining his eyes in the dim lamplight he was just able to discern,
for a moment, the well-known features of the Irishman, as the cab,
surrounded by the mounted police, passed swiftly by. The prisoner was
looking pale and worn, and there were signs of exhaustion about the
strong, patient face, which at all times was stamped too visibly with
the marks of the previous term of penal servitude.

Max, with a feeling of shame and wrath such as he had never before
experienced, realized that these things were being done in his name,
by his own country, and all with the best intentions in the world.
Until the procession had passed out of sight and hearing, he stood
absolutely still; then turned homewards, full of a sore-hearted sense
of coming retribution, and a wretched perception that untold sorrow
awaited Doreen.




CHAPTER XXIV.


    "'Tis delight to the earth when your little feet press it;
     'Tis delight to the earth when your sweet singings bless it;
     'Tis delight to the earth when you lie, Love, upon it;
      But, oh, his delight who your heart, Love, has won it!"

                          --(From the Irish) DR. GEORGE SIGERSON.


The lovers had arranged that their marriage should take place at the
end of July, when Doreen's work in town would be finished; then they
were to spend two months in Ireland, returning to Monkton Verney in
October, when the present tenants would have left. The spring and
summer were not happy to either of them. Max, it is true, had, upon
Doreen's return from America, recovered the energy which for a time
had seemed crushed out of him. It was scarcely possible for him to be
daily under the influence of her eager, enthusiastic nature without
regaining something of his former zeal; contact with her fresh, ardent
nature made it impossible for him to vegetate as he had done through
the autumn and winter. But neither of them realized how greatly the
shock of his mother's sudden death was still affecting him, or how
much of his physical inertia and irritability of temper was due to
this cause. Doreen, on the other hand, was also suffering a little
from the effect of her American tour. The weary journeys, the
excitement, the flattery and homage she had received, all told upon
her; and to come straight back from such a life to the strain of her
professional work in England, and to the thousand and one
disagreeables which Home-rulers had to put up with at that time, was
a severe test. She was very human, and did not come out quite
unscathed. When goaded beyond endurance she would occasionally
astonish people by an indignant and passionate protest, which startled
them all the more because it contrasted so curiously with her usual
patience, and genial, happily-expressed courtesy.

Nor was the outer world any more harmonious than their small inner
circle. A fearful dynamite outrage in another country had shocked all
Europe; in England itself there had been four attempts to wreck public
buildings; a bitter religious controversy was convulsing the nation
and drawing forth piteous exhibitions of narrowness and bigotry, and
as for poor Ireland, it was daily falling into deeper slavery; its
leaders one by one being arrested and thrown into Kilmainham, while,
to the great chagrin of the Chief Secretary, this process did not in
the least tend to quiet the country, but rather the reverse.

It was, however, a very different matter that caused that first
"little rift within the lute," which was gradually to spread and
spread with such disastrous results to Max and Doreen. Shortly before
the American tour Doreen had received a call one day from a certain
Mr. Hawke, who purported to be arranging a charity concert, and had
solicited her services. A little annoyed that he had called in person
instead of writing to her agent, she had refused to sing, and had
bowed her unwelcome visitor out. But she had by no means seen the last
of him. No sooner had she returned from America than he began to haunt
her wherever she went, until the very sight of his sleek beard and
trim moustache became hateful to her. It was in vain that she ignored
him, cut him, avoided him; the infatuated man was not to be got rid
of.

"That fellow is actually skulking on the door-step," said Max,
wrathfully, one day, when at his usual hour he had called to see her.
"I had all the mind in the world to kick him."

"Don't do that," said Doreen, laughing; "it would get into the papers,
and that would be dreadful."

"It all comes of your being a public singer," said Max, irritably; "I
wish you would consent to retire."

"Come, come," she said gaily, "we settled that question long ago. You
know that I should be only half myself without my vocation, and this
troublesome man has nothing to do with my singing. Why, only the other
day the papers were full of that case where a girl in private life was
badgered in precisely the same way, until she was actually forced to
prosecute her tormentor."

"I hate to think that by paying a few shillings he can stare at you
through an opera glass," said Max, "and when we are married, I don't
see how you can expect me to allow it."

Doreen winced at the word "allow." It displeased her, but on second
thoughts it struck her in a ludicrous sense.

"I am sure," she said, heaving a mock sigh, "I don't see how I can
possibly allow you to go into Parliament, dearest. Without paying
anything at all, the ladies in the gallery will be able, behind that
comfortable lattice, to level their opera glasses at you. And as to
the public meetings,--I really don't think I can allow you to speak in
public any more when we are married!"

Max was obliged to laugh.

"You know, dear," she said coaxingly, "in the average man there is
still a dreadful amount of Eastern feeling with regard to women; but I
don't think there is really much in you."

"I am not so sure," said Max, thoughtfully. "You see, men have for so
many generations been in the habit of regarding their wives as
Petruchio did, and asserting, 'I will be master of what is mine own;
she is my goods, my chattels,' that it is not so easy for them to hold
fast to the high ideal of unity which is really involved in the
parable of Christ, and his Bride the Church. Good heavens! how sick it
makes one to hear those words read at the marriage of some brute of a
fellow who has no earthly right to marry an innocent girl, and who is
certain to turn into a selfish, hectoring tyrant."

They fell to talking of other things, and no more was said as to the
obnoxious admirer, who still continued to haunt Bernard Street, until,
one day, Uncle Garth was moved to remonstrate with him, after which,
for some time, he was no more seen. It was rumoured that when quiet
Mr. Garth did lose his temper, he lost it right royally, and that the
result was terrible.

All this time poor Una had been struggling through the arduous work of
the season, still spending her Sundays with the O'Ryans, and then
going back to the weary round of practice, lessons, concerts,
scoldings from her cousin, and restless nights disturbed by tormenting
fears and nervous imaginings. At last the crisis came; quite suddenly,
as it seemed to the world, Una broke down. It was early in July, and a
wave of intense heat was passing over the land; in London, there
seemed absolutely no air, and the child's look of exhaustion struck
Doreen at once when she entered the artistes' room at St. James' Hall
for a benefit concert at which they were both to perform.

"What is the matter, darling? Is this hot weather too much for you?"
she asked. "Your eyes are only half an hour high, as we say in
Ireland, and you look as if you ought to be in bed instead of being
decked out in this pretty Liberty silk."

"Do you like it?" said Una, with momentary pleasure, as she looked
down at the soft, sheeny folds of her little short-skirted frock
strewn with a delicate pattern of forget-me-nots. "Cousin Flora said
it was no use getting me pretty frocks if my face was to be the colour
of tallow. She wanted to rouge me to-night, but I wouldn't let her
because you don't use rouge, and I want to be like you. I wish, oh, so
much, that I were in bed! I have got to play the Kreutzer Sonata with
Marioni, and he frightens me."

"He is much less severe than he looks," said Doreen. "And I shall
tell him that you are not well. What have you been doing with yourself
since Sunday?"

"I have practised rather longer than usual; but it doesn't seem any
good; I can't get it as it ought to be," said Una, despairingly. "And
often now I get such a horrid pain in my chest, and when I tell Cousin
Flora, she says I eat too much, though you know at every meal-time she
scolds me for being dainty and eating too little."

Doreen could not help smiling, and yet her heart burnt within her at
the thought of the cruel way in which this child was being worked to
death. It was with deep anxiety that she watched the fragile little
face as the sonata proceeded; not even Madame De Berg could have
complained that Una was colourless now. A vivid flush had mounted to
her cheeks; her expression, as usual, when she was playing, was
perfectly tranquil and absorbed; people remarked how naturally it all
came to her, how entirely at ease she seemed, how beautifully
unconscious and childlike she was, little knowing of the anxious
thoughts that were at that moment passing through the child's mind, or
of the weary effort it cost her to get through her task. But at last
it was over, and Doreen's strong arm was round her once more, guiding
her through the narrow little waiting-room out on to the cool, stone
staircase, where Sardoni kindly brought them chairs, and Ferrier came
out in his fatherly fashion and insisted on fetching her some iced
lemonade.

"I will leave you to look after her, and Mrs. Muchmore to
superintend," said Doreen, as the stern-looking Norwegian attendant
came to tell her that it was time for her song.

Something in the man's face made her look at him a second time. She
liked him, and had long felt sorry for him.

"You, too, look ill to-night," she said pleasantly. "This heat must be
a contrast to your climate in Norway."

"It is a great contrast in every way," he said, his sternness melting
a little beneath her sunshiny smile. He held open the swing door for
her, and, with a word to the accompanist, she was led up the steps on
to the platform. At the close of her song, a little boy stepped
forward and presented her with a bouquet; and, as she rejoined Una on
the stairs, she found, deftly fastened to the stem of a white rose, a
small envelope sealed with green wax. Handing the flowers to Una, she
slowly mounted the stairs to the dressing-room, reading the little
note with astonishment and dismay. It ran as follows:--


          "You have faithfully kept the promise, made many
          years ago in the fernery. I, for whose sake you
          then swore to keep silence, beg that you will come
          to see me this evening immediately after the
          concert. It will be my sole chance of speaking
          with you, and of enabling you to help M. H. in a
          danger which appears to be threatening him. Say
          nothing to any other person, but come alone to the
          Caf mentioned above, and inquire at the private
          door for Dr. Duval. I know that I am asking you no
          light thing, but, for the sake of helping your
          _fianc_, feel sure you will be willing to risk
          much."
                                                   "J. D."


To hear from one who seems utterly to have passed out of our life,
suddenly to be drawn back to the remembrance of a past that one would
fain forget, must at all times be painful. Doreen's heart beat
uneasily. What was the meaning of it all? Why had Desmond so
unexpectedly and so mysteriously summoned her? And what could be the
danger that threatened her lover?

"I must be imagining all this--it can't be real," she thought to
herself, looking up from the unwelcome little note and glancing round
the room. But there was the well-known looking-glass, at which for
years she had put the last touches to her toilette before going down
to sing. There was her red "Colleen Bawn" thrown across the chair, and
Una's blue opera cloak, and Mrs. Muchmore's familiar Paisley shawl.
She was in her own every-day world, and into it there had fallen
suddenly this startling letter, this summons to go alone at night to
meet the man who had caused James Foxell's death.

It was characteristic of Doreen that she never hesitated for a moment
as to obeying the summons. Of course, if a danger threatened Max, and
his old tutor could enable her to avert it, it was to one of her
character the most natural thing in the world to go without
hesitation. She vaguely disliked her errand. It flashed through her
mind that if by any chance Madame De Berg, her pitiless enemy, were to
become aware of what she was doing, she would probably put a false
construction upon it. But Patrick O'Ryan's daughter was not likely to
be daunted by the dread of consequences. A disagreeable duty lay
before her, and, as was her habit, she walked up to it like a Trojan.

"I must explain to Hagar Muchmore as we drive home that I have to call
at this place," she thought to herself; "and she can wait outside in
the brougham. She is a sensible woman, and I can make her understand
that nothing is to be said."

But this arrangement was frustrated; in fact, everything was driven
for a time out of Doreen's mind by Una's sudden collapse. The little
violinist just got through her last solo. To satisfy the _exigeant_
public, and perhaps to save herself the weary effort of again and
again mounting the platform to bow her acknowledgments, she even gave
them an _encore_, playing a bright little Irish jig, which was a
favourite at Bernard Street. The people liked to beat their feet in
time; it pleased them to be stirred into a longing to dance, and it
pleased them to fancy that the child was only wishing to dance
herself,--that she was just a light-hearted, careless little soul,
whose happy playtime of youth was rendered brighter by the great
genius which had been bestowed on her.

But Una, as she went down the platform steps, vaguely knew that it was
all over; she had endured the long strain for many months, but at last
the end had come, and she could bear no more. While the audience still
applauded her Irish air, she was making her way back to Doreen,
blinded by tears; she would have fallen had not the Norwegian
attendant caught her in his strong arms, and, at Ferrier's suggestion,
carried her straight out on to the staircase, where what little air
there was could be had. Though very faint, she was still partly
conscious, and begged piteously to be taken home; in her wretchedness,
the one comforting thought in the world was of the little
white-curtained bed, in which she now thought she should like to lie
forever.

"Hagar," said Doreen, "you must take her at once to Madame De Berg's.
It will be another quarter of an hour before I am free, and you know I
promised that we would see her safely home to-night. Take her back in
the brougham, and if possible stay and see her into bed. You might
leave a message asking Mr. Brian Osmond to call and see her as you go
home."

"You are a bold person to take the law into your hands like that,"
said Ferrier, smiling. "You may be quite sure Madame De Berg won't
approve of paying for the doctor."

"I can't help it," said Doreen, her eyes flashing. "I am not going to
sit still any longer and watch the massacre of the innocents. Madame
De Berg is dining to-night at Richmond, and can't possibly be home
till midnight, and in the mean time something must be done for Una.
You had better stay there, Hagar, as long as you are needed."

Here the Norseman interrupted the discussion.

"Your carriage is waiting in Piccadilly," he said. "Perhaps I had
better carry little Miss Kingston; she is hardly fit to walk."

"Well, thank you," said Doreen, "if she is not too heavy."

For the first time she saw the grave, downcast face lighted by an
irrepressible smile.

"Scarcely that, I think," he said, lifting her up as if she had been a
mere feather's weight. Doreen stooped to kiss the little tear-stained
face, then stood watching the drooping golden head as it lay back on
the arm of the tall Norseman, while close behind Hagar Muchmore, in
her Paisley shawl, followed, talking in her usual brisk,
business-like fashion.

Doreen's last solo came very late in the programme. She was thankful
when at last it was over, and hurrying up to the dressing-room she
threw on her cloak, and catching up her music and her bouquet, ran
swiftly down the stone stairs, hearing strains of a quartette from "Il
Barbiere" as she passed the door, and at the foot of the stairs
encountering Frithiof Falck, the attendant.

"Can I call you a cab?" he said. "Your carriage has not come back
yet."

"It will not come back," she said. "I will have a cab, please. No, not
a four-wheeler; it is far too hot." Then, as he returned to put her
into the hansom, "Did little Miss Kingston get off all right?"

"I think she was unconscious by the time we reached the carriage," he
replied. "This heat is enough to affect any one."

"Thank you for all your help," said Doreen, pleasantly. "We have given
you a great deal of trouble to-night."

Frithiof Falck's polite rejoinder a little startled her, for the
Norseman had the character of being extremely taciturn and proud.

"What address shall I give the driver?" he asked as he closed the
doors of the hansom.

"I will speak to him myself," said Doreen, her face changing a little
at the recollection of what lay before her. "Good evening."

Frithiof Falck bowed and withdrew, while Doreen through the door in
the roof bade the driver go to a certain Caf in the neighbourhood of
Leicester Square.

The cool night air was refreshing. She picked up her bouquet and let
the soft night breeze blow through the fragrant roses and heliotrope.
There was one specially beautiful _Niphetos_ which took her back to
the time of the Firdale election, when Max had been delighted to find
a similar rose for her to wear in one of the greenhouses at Monkton
Verney. She wished she could give him this one to-night, when sultry
London was so much in need of everything that could make it sweet and
pure. And then she remembered that this uncomfortable errand, which
she so little liked, was all for his sake, and a great anxiety as to
the danger that was threatening him drove out every other thought.
Before long the hansom drew up in what seemed a sufficiently quiet and
orderly street. She sprang out, leaving her bouquet behind her, and
rang the bell in the manner of one who does not wish to be kept
waiting. A feeling of vague discomfort stole over her as she stood on
the doorstep. She watched the steady approach of another hansom, and
was conscious of an inexplicable desire to be safely sheltered within
the house before it passed by. Her wish was gratified, but barely
gratified. She breathed more freely when the door was closed behind
her, and she found herself in a dingy passage confronting a smart
maid-servant whose looks she did not like.

"Dr. Duval is expecting you, lady. Will you step this way?"

She led her upstairs into a small sitting-room, where, to her relief,
she at once recognized in the haggard, dark-eyed man who greeted her,
Max Hereford's former tutor.

"I should have known you again, Mr. Desmond," she said, taking his
hand; "though in some ways you are much altered."

"I might make the same remark," said Desmond, drawing forward a chair
for her. "We have both of us lived through much since the days at
Castle Karey. I am afraid you feel this room warm."

"Yes," said Doreen, throwing off her red cloak; "it is stifling. Can
we not have the window open?"

"I am afraid the conversation you and I must have together is not
altogether consistent with open windows. Believe me, I would not have
asked you to come here to-night could I possibly have avoided it. But
I am in the greatest danger of being arrested. When a man has public
and private foes, and both of them set their bloodhounds on his
track--well, he has to walk warily. I hope to leave London in two or
three hours, but I didn't dare to risk coming to your house, or
meeting you anywhere but here. A house of this sort is the last they
would expect me to be in. You were a brave child, and I made sure you
would prove a brave woman, and would come."

"A woman must be a coward indeed who would not risk much for the man
she loves," said Doreen, quietly. Her eyes grew soft and tender, a
delicate colour stole over her face and neck. Desmond sighed, and
began to pace the room restlessly.

"I will tell you what it is that threatens him," he said. "It has come
to my knowledge--how, I am not able to tell you--that our secret has
been discovered, or in part discovered. You remember the French valet
at Castle Karey? It seems that he, from certain words I let fall
during my illness while I was delirious, guessed that I and my pupil
had been present at Foxell's death; the man knew much more English
than he allowed. Years afterwards, having ferreted out a little more,
apparently by eavesdropping, he was dismissed by Max in sudden anger,
and to revenge himself he went to Ireland and industriously tried to
find out further details of Foxell's death. He got to know the widow,
who eagerly caught at his scraps of information on the subject, and
the two of them are now taking active steps to hunt me up, and they
are keeping a very sharp watch on Max also. They threaten to have
Lough Lee dragged, but that's an expensive affair, and it may not come
off; if it should be done, I think Max might find himself in
difficulties. This valet can swear to his having been at the lough on
the day of Foxell's disappearance, and Max is fettered by his oath of
secrecy, which I am quite certain he would never break. I shall be
safely out of the country and difficult to trace; but they can lay
their hands on Max at any time, and he would find himself in an
awkward enough position. Now I want you, if anything of this sort
happens, and Max finds himself falsely accused, to step forward at
the right moment and say that you met me here on this 5th of July, and
that I released him wholly from his oath of secrecy, and desired that
in that case everything should be revealed to the authorities."

Doreen had listened with breathless attention; she interposed now with
a hasty question.

"Why could you not have told all this to Max himself? It would surely
be far better for him to know that he is in some danger."

"On the contrary," said Desmond, "that is the very thing to be
avoided. Let him go about the world unsuspiciously; it is by far his
best chance. But there are other reasons. I could not consent to his
knowing that I am or have recently been in London. It might greatly
injure his whole career, if it became known that he was mixed up in
any way with me. I will neither see him, nor write to him, nor
communicate with him in any way. Neither can I authorize you to speak
to him about this release from his oath, unless the danger I spoke of
should arise. Until that time comes you are both bound as before. And
I trust to your silence now as I have trusted to your word all these
years."

"I do not understand why I may not tell Max now. I have no secrets
from my future husband; you have no right to expect me to keep silence
as to this interview."

"It is not a question of rights. It is a question of absolute
necessity," said Desmond, smiling a little at her vehemence. "It might
be, as I told you, the shipwreck of your _fianc's_ political career,
if he knew the whole truth about me. It is for his sake that you must
keep silence."

"I will not promise until you have clearly made me understand how it
could harm him to know the truth," said Doreen, resolutely.

"Very well," said Desmond; "I will tell you. And by telling you I put
my life in your hands; but your hands, I am well assured, are strong
to save, and would not willingly destroy. You are aware that there
have within the last few months been four attempts to wreck public
buildings in England with dynamite; already the police have got hold
of some of the lesser members of our society, but they have not yet
got the member who was mainly responsible for the four attempts. I am
that member. At present we have failed. But by and bye you will see we
shall succeed very well."

Doreen sprang to her feet.

"You are a dynamiter!" she gasped, in mingled wrath and horror to
think that this man, for whose sake she and Max had endured so much,
should have fallen to such a depth.

Voice, manner, look, were so expressive that Desmond faltered a
little.

"As I said just now," he remarked quietly, "I put my life and liberty
in your hands by telling you the whole truth at your express desire."

"Do you think I would betray you?" said Doreen, indignantly. "Your
life and liberty are perfectly safe as far as I am concerned. As you
said just now, my hands are, I hope, strong to save; certainly God did
not make them to be instruments of destruction. And yours too, they
ought to save, not to destroy. Oh, Mr. Desmond, by all you most
reverence, I do beg you to give up this awful work!"

Her voice had grown soft and pleading again, tears gathered in her
eyes and slowly fell. John Desmond looked at her in surprise, but he
was visibly moved by her appeal.

"I don't understand you," he said at last. "You, a Fenian's daughter,
ought to realize that there are other ways of effecting reform besides
constitutional agitation."

Doreen dashed away her tears.

"The Fenian rising," she said indignantly, "whatever its faults, was
an honest attempt at revolution; it was ill-conducted, ill-timed, and,
as I think, altogether mistaken. My father himself lived to think that
constitutional methods would do more to help Ireland; but the Fenians
were just as honest as the English Revolutionists who fought against
the Stuarts: they fought with the recognized weapons of war, not with
a devilish thing like dynamite."

"You are no more logical than the rest of your sex, Miss O'Ryan," said
Desmond. "I defy you to prove that the weapon of dynamite is one bit
more immoral than any other weapon of warfare."

"I don't care a rush for logical proof," said Doreen, scornfully. "But
I know that where most brave and honourable men would consent to fight
with sword or gun, no man I could respect would stoop to use such a
horrible thing as dynamite."

"You hit hard," said Desmond, "and yet you should be grateful to me,
for believe me I have sacrificed much for your country."

"Do you call this sort of work sacrificing yourself for Ireland? Alas,
poor Ireland! Many people are anxious to serve her, but it seems to me
their efforts generally end in riveting her chains yet more firmly.
How can you be so mad as to think you are really serving Ireland by
attempting to blow up public buildings in England?"

"Ever since Queen Elizabeth's, time," said Desmond, "there has been an
English proverb which says, 'Look to Ireland, if you would have peace
in England.' We who play upon the English imagination--the stolid
imagination of John Bull--by dynamite scares, endeavour only to act
that proverb in dramatic fashion. We put an end to peace in England,
and thus compel them to look to Ireland. It is just what you
constitutional agitators do in tamer fashion."

"In honourable fashion, you should say," said Doreen; "while you stoop
to dishonourable efforts, which can only make Ireland and the Irish
hateful in the eyes of honest men. Why don't you turn back while yet
there is time? You might help the cause in a thousand ways."

But Desmond shook his head. "I am pledged," he said; "and I have a
strong conviction that I shall lay down my life in this work. By the
bye, in case anything does happen to me, you had better know the
various names under which I pass. Dr. Duval, you see, heads the
list." He handed her a paper, on which he had scrawled a number, a
German name, and an English name. "Shall you remember them?" he asked,
thrusting the paper into the gas till it was consumed.

"Yes; I shall remember," she said, with a shudder; and turning away,
she took up her cloak from the back of the chair.

"The 'Colleen Bawn' has grown taller, like its owner," said Desmond,
with a smile, as he helped her to put it on. "By the bye, tell me, how
is Miss Hereford? And is she still unmarried?"

"She is unmarried, and still living with her father and mother in
Wilton Crescent," said Doreen. "She is very little altered, and as
pretty and light-hearted as ever."

Then Desmond told her of the set he had fallen in with in America, and
of the man who had specially influenced him.

"I have your promise of entire secrecy?" he added, with a stifled
sigh. "You will swear not to mention to any one that you have seen me
here to-night? You will keep absolute silence with regard to all that
has passed, unless this valet and Mrs. Foxell get Max into
difficulties?"

"I swear it, so help me God," said Doreen, giving him her hand. "And
if, at any time, I should need to write to you, where are you to be
found?"

Desmond slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"I have no home, no headquarters even," he said with a melancholy
smile; "in a couple of hours I hope to be on my way to America. But
there is nothing more I could do for you and Max save to avoid all
communication with you. I am far from being a desirable acquaintance,
and have brought you nothing but annoyance since that unlucky day at
Lough Lee, when Foxell went to his account."

"Would to God we had never chanced to go near the lough that day!"
said Doreen.

And Desmond, who had learnt to contemplate callously enough the
thought of the sufferings he might cause to hundreds of innocent
people in the course of his dynamite campaign, felt a pang as he saw
the burdened expression on the face of this one Irish girl, who for
years had been forced to bear the consequences of his deed.

"Think of me kindly when you can," he said; "and remember that I, too,
have suffered much."

She once more gave him her hand.

"I will remember," she said. "Good-bye."

He went down the stairs with her, and opened the door. Doreen gathered
up her white dress more closely, rapidly crossed the pavement, and had
her foot on the step of the hansom, when suddenly the horse began to
kick and plunge. Desmond hastened out to her assistance, and put her
safely into the cab; then noticing that from the further end of the
street rapid steps were approaching, he beat a retreat into the house,
and promptly closed the door.

Doreen leant back in the hansom, utterly spent with the excitement and
fatigue, and sick with anxiety, as she thought of the trouble that
threatened to shadow her lover's career. And yet, after all, was it
not much that she herself had been entrusted with the power to save
him? It could be but a passing trouble, a brief annoyance; she was
half inclined to think that it might really in the end be better if
the whole truth should transpire. Unpleasant as all the publicity
would be, neither she nor Max had done anything to be ashamed of; and
as for Desmond, it was little likely that they would be able to track
him.

"How late you are," said Michael, opening the door for her, when she
arrived in Bernard Street. "Mrs. Muchmore has come back, and from her
account she seems to have got the better of Madame De Berg. At any
rate, Una is safe in Brian Osmond's hands, which is some comfort."

Doreen was relieved to find that the boy was so much taken up with
Una's story that he asked no awkward questions as to the reason of her
late return; and gradually she, too, became absorbed in thoughts of
the poor little infant prodigy, and the painful recollection of her
talk with John Desmond faded from her mind. Early the next morning
Brian Osmond called to see her. She and her aunt were still at the
breakfast table, but Mr. Garth and Michael had already set out for
their day's work, and the children had dispersed to their lessons.

"I have come to make a very bold request," said the young doctor. "You
are, I know, the best friend in the world to little Una Kingston. I am
very anxious about her. She has utterly broken down, as one might have
foretold, after all she has been subjected to."

"What is wrong with her?" asked Doreen, anxiously.

"She has a sharp attack of pericarditis. The great risk is that the
heart itself should become affected, and her only hope is absolute
quiet and the greatest care. She will never get those from Madame De
Berg, who has no idea of nursing, or even of speaking to a sick person
in the right way. If she has a sick-nurse to take the night work, do
you think it would be possible for you to take charge of her?"

"There is nothing I should like better," said Doreen, eagerly.

"Let the poor child be moved here at once," said Mrs. Garth, kindly.
"The visitor's room is empty, and we should like to have her."

"But how about Madame De Berg," said Doreen, doubtfully. "She
cordially detests me, and is hardly likely to consent to such a plan."

"I think we must lay a little plot. I am going round to see her now.
Can you not manage to call and inquire after her while I am there?
Then, between us, with your gift of blarney and my stern medical
verdict, we may surely contrive to induce such a selfish woman to part
with a patient who will certainly give a good deal of trouble."

Doreen laughed. "I will be round in good time," she said; "and we will
be ready to receive her here this afternoon."




CHAPTER XXV.


    "O perfect love that 'dureth long!
       Dear growth that, shaded by the palms,
     And breathed on by the angels' song,
       Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms!

    "How great the task to guard thee here,
       Where wind is rough and frost is keen,
     And all the ground with doubt and fear
       Is chequered, birth and death between!

    "Space is against thee--it can part;
       Time is against thee--it can chill;
     Words--they but render half the heart;
       Deeds--they are poor to our rich will."

                                 JEAN INGELOW.


At this very moment Max was sitting over his solitary breakfast in
Grosvenor Square. The morning was not his best time. He had never been
one of those people who rise with a glad sense of life and energy; but
to-day an unusually heavy cloud brooded over his face. He had scarcely
slept at all, and whenever he had sunk for a few minutes into an
uneasy doze, he had been haunted by wretched dreams about Doreen.
Though apt at times to be somewhat over-nervous about his health, he
did not at all realize to-day that he was physically ill, but put down
all his wretchedness to the disturbing thoughts which had been preying
upon him ever since the previous evening. Finding himself unexpectedly
released from an engagement, he had most unfortunately strayed into
St. James' Hall, about half way through Ferrier's benefit concert.
Immediately after Doreen's last song, he had left, with the intention
of going round to the small side door in Piccadilly Place used by the
artistes, that he might have the pleasure of seeing her home. But
there was a little delay in getting out of the Regent Street door, and
he had not got further than Piccadilly Circus when, chancing to look
up, he saw, to his astonishment, Doreen quite alone in a hansom. He
observed that the bouquet, which he had seen presented to her, was
raised to her face; and, acting on an impulse which he did not pause
to analyze, he sprang into a passing cab and bade the driver to follow
her. To his amazement, instead of driving to Bernard Street, her cab
drew up at the private door of a disreputable Caf near Leicester
Square. Surely he must have made a mistake; but even as he wondered,
the well-known red cloak passed swiftly across the pavement, and in a
moment Doreen had disappeared within the house. For a minute he
thought he must be going out of his mind, and that the whole thing was
but a phantom of his disordered imagination. He let his man drive on
for some distance. Then, suddenly dismissing him, he walked slowly
back, half expecting to find that the affair had been a dream; but
there stood the hansom at the door of the house, and as he paced by he
saw lying upon the seat, not only the bouquet, but Doreen's
music-case, a perfectly unmistakable music-case of green plush, worked
by Una with a pattern of shamrock leaves. Miserable thoughts rushed to
his mind. What had she done with Mrs. Muchmore? How came it that
Doreen, who was fastidiously particular,--or had professed to
be,--should come alone at such an hour to such a place? He never knew
how many times he walked the length of that street, but at last, when
he was at the extreme end, a sound of kicking hoofs made him hastily
turn and retrace his steps. He was just in time to see Doreen helped
into the hansom by a man whose features he could not at that distance
distinguish. By the time he had reached the house the door was
closed, and the cab had turned the corner and disappeared. The
incident looked much worse after a restless night. Max felt in a fever
to hear her explanation, and as the clock struck eleven, he rang the
bell of the house in Bernard Street, only to learn that Doreen was
out.

"Inquire at what time I can see her," he said shortly, and the servant
returned with a message from Mrs. Garth. Doreen was expected every
moment; she hoped Mr. Hereford could come in and wait. So he went in
and waited alone in the drawing-room, chafing impatiently at the
delay. The room faced south, and in spite of open windows it was
intensely hot; the smell of mignonette from the balcony made him feel
sick. He paced restlessly about, looking at two or three of the
wedding presents which Doreen had received, turning over the songs
which lay on the piano, finally picking up John Mitchel's "Jail
Journal" from the table, and reading fitfully a few lines here and
there. There were pencil marks in the margin, and he knew that they
were Doreen's. He read first one marked passage, then another. The
first occurred just when Mitchel had received a sentence of
transportation for fourteen years, and was about to leave Ireland:--

"No doubt he thought me an amazingly cool character, but God knoweth
the heart. There was a huge lump in my throat all the time of this
bald chat.... At Claremont Bridge, in Dublin, this evening there is a
desolate house,--my mother and sisters, who came up to town to see me
'for the last time in case of the worst,'--five little children, very
dear to me; none of them old enough to understand the cruel blow that
has fallen on them this day, and above all--above all--my wife. What
will they do? What is to become of them? By this time, undoubtedly, my
office, my newspaper, types, books, all that I had, are seized on by
the government burglars.... And did I not know all this? And knowing
it, did I not run all the risk? Yes, and I did well. The possible
sacrifice, indeed, was terrible, but the enterprise was great and was
needful."

"But be my prison where it will, I suppose there is a heaven above
that place."

"We must, in short, make final protest against this same law,--deny
that it is law; deny that there is any power in the London Parliament
to make laws for us, and declare that as a just God ruleth in the
earth, we will obey such laws no longer."

Max moved to the window and looked out; there were no signs yet of
Doreen. At the further end of the street he could see the trees in
Russell Square, looking temptingly green and cool. With an impatient
sigh he threw himself back in a chair, and turned over the pages till
he came to the description of John Mitchel's first introduction to the
hulks at Bermuda.

"In the very centre of the ship, opening from a dark passage, appeared
a sort of cavern, just a little higher and a little wider than a
dog-house. It is, in fact, the very hole through which the main mast
formerly ran down into the ship, and would be quite dark but for two
very small and dim bull's-eyes that are set into the deck above. I
cannot stand quite erect under the great beams, but half of my floor
is raised nine inches, and on that part I cannot stand at all. The
whole area is about six feet square. 'Here's your place,' said the
mate.

    *    *    *    *    *

"A hammock was brought into my dog-hutch, and in order to make room
for it, they had to swing it diagonally. A cup of milkless tea and a
lump of bread were then brought to me, and when I had despatched
these, a piece of candle was left upon a narrow board or shelf, and my
door was locked. The light of the candle showed me a great many big
brown cockroaches nearly two inches long, running with incredible
speed over the walls and floor, the sight of which almost turned me
sick. I sat down upon my bench and deliberately reviewed my position.
They have not taken my books from me nor my portmanteau. They have not
taken this scribbling book away, nor put me in company with the
convicts. As for my dog-hutch, the mate muttered something, before he
left me, about another and a better place being made ready for me in a
few days. And for these huge brown beasts crawling here, I presume
they don't bite; other people sleep among them, and why not I?...Here
goes then for my first swing in a hammock, and I feel myself a freer
man to-night than any Irishman living at large, tranquilly in his
native land, making believe that he feels himself a respectable member
of society.

    *    *    *    *    *

"I do whatever I am bidden at once, and without remark, which seems to
surprise my keepers a little. They did not expect me to be so quiet;
ascribing my conduct in Ireland, of course, to mere turbulence of
disposition, and general insubordination of character."

Max had become interested in spite of himself, so much interested that
he had not heard Doreen's return; it was not till she actually came
into the room that he looked up. Her entrance was thoroughly
characteristic,--swift and eager, and suggesting, as usual, a fresh,
invigorating breeze.

"How delightful to find you here already!" she cried, utterly
disarming him for a moment by her kiss and by the gladness of her
greeting. "Why, you are actually reading John Mitchel! That is quite
right and proper, for you ought to take a special interest in him. Was
I not enacting John Mitchel heavily ironed, when you made your first
call on us long ago?"

"To be sure you were," said Max, smiling, as he contrasted that memory
of the past with the sweet oval face and the laughing blue eyes which
confronted him.

At that moment his eye happened to fall upon the lovely hothouse
flowers in a great china bowl close by; they were evidently just
released from a bouquet, and there had hardly been any attempt to
rearrange them.

"Who gave you those?" he asked.

"They were given me at Ferrier's concert, last night," she said,
leaning back rather wearily in a chair just opposite him, and slowly
drawing off her gloves, and tossing her hat on to the sofa.

"I thought I recognized them," he said gravely.

"Were you there?" she said, in surprise. He watched her intently, and
was certain that he saw her colour rise a little; his anger increased
when she launched out into a long account of Una's illness, for he
fancied that she was trying to lead him away from a dangerous topic.

"I have had the greatest difficulty," she continued, "in persuading
Madame De Berg to let me have the poor child here. But at last, by
Brian Osmond's help, she has been brought to consent. A more selfish,
hard-hearted woman I never met."

"Never mind Madame De Berg's character," said Max, with some
impatience. "There is much that I want you to explain to me. What had
you done with Mrs. Muchmore last night?"

"I sent her home with Una," said Doreen; "the poor child was almost
fainting, and we had undertaken to see her safely home. I could not,
of course, keep her till my work was done. My song was the last but
one on the programme."

"And you were probably not sorry to be without Mrs. Muchmore?" said
Max.

"I was glad that she should be with Una."

"And you were also particularly glad to be alone," he said, in a tone
which stung and irritated her. She made an effort, however, to control
her rising temper.

"Max," she said, crossing over to him, "if you sit facing me like that
and examining me as if I were in a witness-box, I shall certainly get
cross. Come, dear, it is much too hot to quarrel. Let us sit in our
usual nook on the ottoman. And you mustn't be of the opposite opinion
to-day, for I am so tired of arguing, and Madame De Berg rubs one
entirely the wrong way."

Her appeal touched him for a moment; he put his arm round her
tenderly, as they moved to the ottoman and established themselves in
their customary place.

"I will not argue, darling," he said; "but there is one thing I want
to ask you. Years ago you once said to me, 'I have no secrets--at
least, none from you.' Can you say that still?"

He felt her heart throb violently as he spoke. The colour rose to her
face in a sudden, vivid blush.

"Max," she said hesitatingly, "I can't say that now--but--"

He interrupted her.

"Don't begin to make excuses," he said angrily. "Just tell me the
plain truth. What were you doing last night? I saw you in Piccadilly
Circus with those flowers pressed to your lips. Who gave them to you,
and what were you doing?"

Doreen, in spite of herself, could not help laughing.

"May one not smell a rose in a stifling London street?" she said. "As
a matter of fact, I was, at that very moment, thinking about you."

The tears started to her eyes; she began to see that a great ordeal
lay before her.

"Who gave you the flowers?" said Max, once more.

"I cannot tell you," she said quietly.

"Then you force me to assume that they were given you by the man you
visited immediately after the concert. Doreen, I insist on knowing the
truth. What took you, between eleven and twelve at night, to a
disreputable street in the purlieus of Leicester Square, to a place
where no woman who respected herself would think of being seen?"

He was standing now, confronting her once more in that way which had
suggested the witness-box. She grew deadly pale; but the words "I
insist" had roused her Keltic nature into angry resistance. A Kelt may
be led, but never driven.

"You followed me, then!" she exclaimed, in a low voice in which there
were strange vibrations. "You followed me like a spy?"

Had she then risked her reputation for a man who did not trust her,--a
man who stooped to the most petty jealousy?

"I followed you," said Max, "as your guardian angel probably followed
you."

"Don't blaspheme my guardian angel," she cried. "If angels can weep, I
am sure mine wept at the sight of your faithless heart."

He shrank a little at these words.

"I followed you because I loved you," he said.

"No," she replied quickly. "Say rather because you were jealous and
suspicious."

A gleam of hope crossed his troubled face.

"Doreen," he cried, "perhaps you went to see some old political friend
of your father's; that, of course, would explain all."

"I did not," she said in a low voice, swiftly dashing his hopes to the
ground.

"Then who was the man that I myself saw in the distance, when he put
you into the hansom? You must tell me, Doreen. I have a right to
know."

"I cannot tell you, Max," she said, breaking down at last, and
shedding the most bitter tears of her life. "Oh, why cannot you trust
me?"

He turned away, and paced angrily to and fro.

"She has been false to me," he thought. "And now thinks to set all
right by a scene and a few tears. But I shall insist on knowing the
truth. It is my right, my undoubted right. I will not be made a fool
of in this way."

"Can't you see," he said indignantly, "how your mere position as a
public singer made such conduct doubly rash, doubly wrong?"

Doreen dried her eyes. Her grief was fast changing to wrath.

"I will beg you to leave my profession alone," she said angrily. "And
I will tell you this: not one man in all the profession would have
been so distrustful of me as you are. They would know that it was
impossible for Doreen O'Ryan to compromise herself. Good God!" she
continued, as her own words made her realize a little what his
distrust meant, "of what do you suspect me? Speak! Of what do you
suspect me?"

All at once she had broken forth into one of those storms of violent
indignation which, in the Italian and Irish temperaments, occur with
such appalling suddenness and contrast so strangely with the sunny
brightness, the unselfish courtesy, usually manifested.

As for Max, he was just as angry, but in a cold fashion. His voice was
hard and cruel as he replied to her indignant question.

"Do you suppose," he said, "that any jury in the land would acquit a
woman who confessed that at that hour and in that place she had had a
private interview with a man whose name she refused to reveal?"

A wave of burning heat seemed to scorch Doreen's whole frame.

"Am I to put _you_ on a par with a British jury?" she cried. "You, to
whom I have pledged my whole life? You, who professed to love me? But
you do not love me. What sort of marriage would ours have been, do you
think? Why, a mere mockery, if your faith is so lightly overcome."

"You are right," said Max, hastily. "I should certainly expect my wife
to be more careful of appearances. I might even expect her to treat me
with entire confidence."

"And you would jealously suspect her on the smallest provocation,"
said Doreen. "But we are not married, and you are quite at liberty to
go if you like. We can mutually consent to end our engagement."

For a moment her vehement words startled him, but he was far too angry
to realize the madness of acting upon a wrathful impulse in the heat
of the first quarrel that had ever arisen between them.

"Under the circumstances we had certainly better do so," he said
icily.

He turned away without attempting any sort of farewell; and Doreen,
after the first wild desire to call him back as the door closed behind
him, sank down once more on the ottoman, trembling from head to foot.
She had spoken quite truly when she said that not a single man in the
profession would have dared to suspect her; for she had won for
herself, by virtue of her absolute purity, her transparent sincerity,
a position that was almost unique. She knew perfectly well that if
Ferrier or Sardoni or the St. Pierres had seen her, they would have
known that her errand must be for the sake of helping some one in
distress; for there is, happily, a certain sort of character which
protects its owner from some suspicions more effectually than convent
walls. It was the indignant feeling that Max of all men ought to have
known this that had moved her to such a storm of anger. She was
utterly incapable of making the smallest allowance for him; she forgot
that his cold manner only meant that he, too, was a prey to that same
distorting anger, nor did she in the least imagine that he was
physically ill, and liable to take a morbid view even of the merest
trifle. He had outraged all that was most sacred to her, and her wrath
and indignation overpowered every other feeling; it drove all before
it, making her for the time another being.

How long she endured this hell of fury and hatred she never knew, but
by and bye the door opened, and in trotted Mollie, with her pinafore
full of buttercups.

"Only think, Doreen," cried the child, running up to her, "Bride and
me have been picking all these flowers in Signor Donati's garden, and
the new baby was out there,--the sweetest little baby you ever did
see."

"Go away!" cried Doreen; "I can't listen now."

The child looked up in astonishment, for never before had she been
spoken to in such a tone. She went to the other end of the room and
began to arrange her buttercups in bunches, and before long forgot the
rebuff and sang to herself in a soft little voice,--


    "So as I grew from boy to man,
       I bent me to that bidding--
     My spirit of each selfish plan
       And cruel passion ridding;
     For thus I hoped some day to aid--
       Oh can such hope be vain?
     When my dear country shall be made
       A Nation once again."


"Don't sing!" said Doreen, peremptorily; for the sweet voice, and
Thomas Davis' noble words, and the thought of Ireland's needs, all
tended to draw her back to love and life, while her outraged heart
longed to stay for awhile in the deathly stage of wrath and hatred.

Mollie was instantly silenced, but presently she came timidly across
the room and slipped a bunch of buttercups into her sister's hand,
looking up wistfully, through wet eyelashes, into the face which had
never before frowned upon her.

Beneath that wounded, bewildered look Doreen's pride broke down. She
caught the child up in her arms and kissed her.

"Don't look like that, Mollie mavourneen," she said. "I love to hear
your voice. You shall come with me and help me to make Una's room
ready. Poor Una is ill, and we must nurse her."

"Will she like some flowers?" said the child.

"Yes, yes; bring the flowers," said Doreen, "and let us make haste and
prepare for her."

With relief she threw herself into the busy preparations, and Una's
arrival in the afternoon helped her to banish other thoughts, though
still her cheeks burned with that miserable scorching heat, which had
never cooled since Max had made her realize his lack of trust.




CHAPTER XXVI.


    "The love that fed on daily kisses dieth:
     The love kept warm by nearness lieth
     Wounded and wan:
     The love hope nourished bitter tears distils,
     And faints with nought to feed upon.
     Only there stirreth very deep below
     The hidden beating slow,
     And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath
     Of the love that conquers death."

                                         JEAN INGELOW.


"My dear," said Aunt Garth that afternoon, "I begin to be afraid that
we have not done wisely in offering to house poor little Una. You look
to me tired already. In such heat as this I am really a little anxious
for you. It would be a serious thing if you were to knock up within a
month of your marriage."

Doreen's colour deepened.

"You need not be afraid, auntie," she said. "All that is at an end. I
meant to have told you before, but could not speak while the children
were here. Max Hereford and I have mutually agreed that our engagement
had better be ended."

"My dear child," said Mrs. Garth, in great consternation, "after all
this time have you allowed a lovers' quarrel to part you so suddenly?"

"I cannot explain it to you, auntie, and I cannot talk," said Doreen,
desperately. "To-night I have to sing at Clinton Cleve's benefit. I
must save up for that. Please tell Uncle Garth and Michael and the
children, and let no one say a word to me about it. It is all over;
and ten years hence we shall be thankful, I suppose, that we found out
our mistake in time. What does one do with wedding presents under
these circumstances?"

She went away without waiting for an answer, perhaps fearing lest Aunt
Garth should again refer to the folly of letting a lovers' quarrel end
the betrothal. But it was impossible to avoid the subject, and she had
not been five minutes in the artistes' room that evening when Ferrier
approached her with a kindly greeting.

"Well, and when is the wedding to be?" he asked.

"When Kelt and Saxon learn to be of one mind in a house," she said.
"Or, in other words,--never."

Ferrier raised his eyebrows. Though he had not altogether approved of
Doreen's engagement, this unexpected news gave him a slight shock.
"You have quarrelled?" he said, much as though he had been talking to
his own daughter.

"We have agreed to separate," said Doreen, a vivid blush suffusing her
face, "and you will be a very good friend to me if you will make it
generally known."

"I will do just what you wish," he said kindly.

"Then see Freen for me," she begged, "and tell him that after all, I
shall be able to go on tour this autumn; and please make people
understand that Mr. Hereford is not to blame, that we have mutually
agreed to end our engagement."

"Very well; I will do all I can for you; here comes the Norseman to
summon you. What are you singing to-night?"

"This, by way of mockery," she said, with a slight quiver in her
voice, which did not escape Ferrier's notice. "It was down in the
programme."

The song was Blumenthal's "Love, the Pilgrim."

"You had better substitute something else," said Ferrier, fearing lest
she should break down.

"No, that I will not," she said resolutely; "you mustn't tempt me to
be a coward. Don't you know that a soprano is bound to sing about
love, as much as a baritone is bound to sing about the sea?"

With a little laugh that made Ferrier's heart ache, she picked up the
music and made her way down the stairs, through the little anteroom
and up to the platform, pausing only to nod her greetings as she
passed the other singers, and glad to think that she had deputed some
one else to tell them the news. Ferrier managed the task discreetly
enough, and then stood listening to the close of her song, with its
pathetic repetitions of "Love is passing!"

"It is all very well for her to say her _fianc_ is not to be blamed,"
he reflected, gnawing the ends of his moustache savagely; "the man
must be a fool to let such a prize as Doreen slip from him, and he
must be a brute to give her so much suffering. I could horsewhip him
with pleasure!"

When the concert was over, Doreen drove home, wondering to find
herself so little tired. In truth, she was as yet too much excited to
be conscious of the great strain to which she had been subjected. She
had sung better that night than she had ever sung in her life before,
and something of the triumph of success lingered still with her,
buoying her up strangely, half leading her to think that her artist
life in itself was enough to satisfy her. She was glad to be alone;
for Mrs. Muchmore had been obliged to stay with Una, as no sick-nurse
could be had until the following day. It had been arranged that Doreen
should sit up for part of the night with the child; and having made a
hasty supper, she bade good-night to her uncle and aunt, and went out
into the hall, where Michael was lighting her candle.

"Here is something for you," he said, producing a packet from a
particularly obscure corner, where he had of purpose stowed it away,
determined that Doreen should have her supper in peace. She glanced at
it, saw that the direction was in her lover's handwriting, and knew in
an instant that it contained her own letters, and that Michael had
guessed as much, and had, with his usual tact, kept it well in the
background.

"Good night, dear lad," she said; "don't worry about me. It is all
right. 'Least said soonest mended' applies to hearts, you know." She
smiled, but it was one of those forlorn smiles that are sadder than
tears, and Michael turned away, reflecting even more wrathfully than
Ferrier had done, that Max Hereford was clearly to blame.

"He is in a great hurry to get the whole thing wound up. He is glad to
be free," thought Doreen, angrily. "He doesn't care how much he makes
me suffer!"

Her mind was so full of this crisis in her own life that for the
moment all else was forgotten, and it was with a shock of surprise
that, on opening her door, she found herself in a dimly lighted room,
and heard a pitiful, moaning little voice from the bed.

"How can I go to sleep till Doreen comes? No one else understands";
then catching sight of the face she had been hungering for, Una gave a
cry of joy.

"And now perhaps you will settle off," said Mrs. Muchmore. "She has
been fretting sadly for you, Miss Doreen; I guess she's kinder
frightened and upset like. I'll come in again to you at six o'clock,
and if you want anything in the night, you will be sure and call me."

And having left Doreen comfortably installed in the sick-room, Hagar
Muchmore went to bed with a sigh of relief.

"Guess I feel more tired than I should 'a done with a whole day's
scrubbing," she reflected. "What with that child's ideas that there
was spirits in the room and burglars in the cupboard, and that she was
goin' to die every other moment, 'twas enough to turn one's brain. But
I reckon Miss Doreen, who has got an accommodating way with her, will
understand that infant prodigy better than a plain New England woman
can do."

The sight of the little, shadowy face on the pillow, and the clasp of
the hands that felt like little live coals, had utterly banished from
Doreen's mind all thought of her own trouble; her sweet, soft voice
seemed to act upon Una like magic, and she had, as Mrs. Muchmore said,
a most accommodating way with her. She seemed to assume that to be ill
was at that time the best thing in the world for Una. There was an air
of matter-of-fact ease about her very movements which was most
refreshing. Una watched in dreamy content as she laid aside her pale
pink silk dress and donned a cool white dressing-gown, thinking how
different this was to Madame De Berg's scolding fussiness, and Hagar
Muchmore's well-meant but distressing anxiety and perpetual questions.

"I don't feel afraid now you have come," she said. "I think I should
not be so very much afraid even to die, if you were here."

Doreen came and sat beside the bed, softly stroking the slender hand
with its long, skilful fingers which had known so little rest.

"There is One who loves you much better than I do, and who is never
obliged to go away," she said.

"I am afraid He is angry with me for not loving Him much."

"Sorry, perhaps, but not angry any more than your father or mother
would have been. His love for you is not measured by yours to
Him,--and nothing can alter it."

"I wish you would light your little lamp under the crucifix," said
Una. "I have never seen it lighted, and you said you burnt it every
night."

Doreen crossed the room; her hands trembled a little when she lit the
lamp, as she had done every night for the last eleven years. Her own
words rang persistently in her mind: "Nothing can alter it--nothing
can alter it." Had she not truly told Una that love--ideal love--might
be grieved, but never angry with personal anger? Out of her own mouth
she now stood condemned.

"Does the light shine in your eyes?" she asked.

"No; it just lights up the cross, and I like to see that;" said Una.
"I like to think that the evil spirits hate the sight of the cross and
stop their ears when they hear the church bells, like Mephistopheles
in Faust. But I can't at all understand why Christ died, and all the
sermons seem to make it more complicated."

"You can understand the verse about 'God so loved the world,' and that
is better than all the sermons," said Doreen. "And now I want you to
sleep, and not to talk any more. Lie quite still, and I will say you
some of St. Patrick's hymn, which the Irish people have said at
bedtime for more than a thousand years."

Una lay peacefully watching the crucifix on the opposite wall, while
Doreen's hand softly stroked her tired head, and the clear, mellow
voice she loved so well repeated the old Irish invocation,--more
beautiful in its grand simplicity than prayers of a later date.

"'I bind to myself to-day the Power of God to guide me, the Might of
God to uphold me, the Wisdom of God to teach me, the Eye of God to
watch over me, the Ear of God to hear me, the Word of God to give me
speech, the Hand of God to protect me, the Way of God to prevent me,
the Shield of God to shelter me, the Host of God to defend me.

"'Against the snares of demons, against the temptation of vices,
against the lusts of nature, against every man who meditates injury to
me, whether far or near, with few or with many. Christ protect me
to-day. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ
within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ at my right,
Christ at my left. Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me.
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks to me. Christ in every eye
that sees me. Christ in every ear that hears me.

"'I bind to myself to-day the strong power of an invocation of the
Trinity, the Faith of the Trinity in Unity, the Creator of the
Elements.'"

By and bye, when the tired child was sleeping soundly, Doreen stole
quietly across the room and sat down beside the little lamp, and
unfastened the packet which Max had directed to her. Her anger with
him had all died away. It was impossible to be angry in the solemn
stillness of the night. She had soothed herself as well as Una by the
grand old words of St. Patrick. Had Max been in the house, she would
have gone to him, and frankly confessed that she regretted her angry
words, and her impulsive suggestion that they should part, and a hope
darted through her mind that he, too, might have become conscious of
the great wrong he had done her by his faithlessness. Surely the
packet would contain some letter from him? But no; there was
absolutely nothing, save her own letters, a ring, a pencil-case, and a
little book of Irish love-songs, which she had given him. She sat
looking at them in a dazed way, slowly realizing what it is to be
taken "at our own rash word." Then she glanced at one letter after
another. They were chiefly written during her American tour. She read
a sentence here and there. Her mind went back to those weary months
when she had been parted from him. She remembered the desolate,
hurrying life, the eager counting of the days until their reunion, the
relief it had been to open her whole heart to him in these letters as
they travelled wearily on through the States.

And now she had cut herself off from it all!

A sort of terror crept over her. What frightful mistake had she been
betrayed into by her impulsive nature? Had she ruined not only her own
life, but his? And all, as Aunt Garth said, for the sake of a lovers'
quarrel,--the first that had ever risen between them? Her eye fell on
a sentence in one of her letters, which seemed to stab her to the
heart:--

"I like you to say that it is through me that you understand the Irish
problem. To think that in any way I can help you to work for Ireland
makes me more proud and happy than all the applause I have had in my
whole career. The interviewers torment me terribly, but I comfort
myself by thinking that when once we are married, I will have no more
of them. We shall no longer be working as wretched units, but
together, and I will be--


    "Faithful to Ireland, to God, and to you."


"O God!" she cried in her heart, "what am I to do? What can I do? For
his sake I cannot tell him the truth, and I have sworn to keep
silence: I can't prove my innocence, and there is no means of tracing
John Desmond. If I saw Max, I could only tell him that I was sorry for
losing my temper. And he did wrong me most cruelly; he distrusted my
very honour! It is he who should seek first to be reconciled. No, I
won't write to him. I can't. It was his fault, and I had tried to
serve him--had risked much for him. He ought to have guessed--an
Irishman would have had the wit to guess in a moment. I suppose I must
send him back his letters, and this--" She slowly drew off her
betrothal ring. "And yet what a farce it is! the outward sign may go;
but just as long as he is in the world am I not, after all, in heart
betrothed to him? People who have been genuinely mistaken, and made a
wrong choice, can surely never feel like this when they break their
engagement. Why, the mere thought of being betrothed to any other man
while Max is in the world is intolerable. I love him. Nothing can
alter that; but he must first come to me to apologize."

A breath of cool night air stole in just then through the open window;
the lamp beneath the crucifix flickered a little. Doreen glanced up.
Through many times of fear and anxiety, through the age-long hours of
bereavement and grief, through perilous hours of artistic success and
the world's praise, she had looked, as she looked now, at Max
Hereford's first gift to her. With all the fervour and devotion of her
Irish nature, she believed in the victory of the cross; and yet here
she was, hotly declaring in her indignation: "He must first come to me
and apologize."

Was this a true thing that she had said? Was it right that she should
wait in offended silence until he sought to be reconciled? Was she to
maintain her attitude of injured innocence, and allow their lives to
be shipwrecked for the lack of a word she was too proud and indignant
to speak? If it were indeed right for the wronged one to wait in
absolute silence for the return of the injurer, why then the whole
foundation of Christianity was gone, and there was no such thing as
divine forgiveness, no call to imitate it,--in which case she must
range herself as a follower of the world's wisdom, and no longer
delude herself with the idea that she was a follower of Christ.

When Doreen had once clearly seen the light, she was always ready to
follow it; yet the following now was hard. The night passed on, and
still she lay back in her chair, rigidly still for the sake of the
sick child, but inwardly fighting a desperate battle, her love
struggling with her pride, her heart torn by the strife.

The room was absolutely quiet; Una scarcely stirred; a faint gray
light began to show itself round the edges of the window blinds; the
lamp beneath the cross still burned brightly. Presently the first
sparrow wakened and began to chirp; then, after an interval, a second
answered, until gradually, all the bird life of the neighbourhood
roused itself for the work and praise of another day, and the gray sky
changed to rosy dawn.

Again there rang through Doreen's mind the familiar words:--

"I bind to myself to-day the Power of God to guide me, the Might of
God to uphold me, the Wisdom of God to teach me."

And a sudden, glad realization that the battle she had fought so long
was not too hard for her, that she had all the love and all the
strength in the universe at her disposal, if she would but use it, to
kill her own false pride and selfishness, filled her with a rapturous
relief. Covering her face with her hands, she prayed with her whole
being.

Then she softly crossed the room to her writing-table, lit a candle
from the little hanging lamp, shaded it carefully from Una, and wrote
swiftly the following letter:--


          "MY DEAR MAX:--I have received your packet, and
          return your letters and presents to me. All this
          can be done, but I find there is much that I
          cannot do. I cannot cease to love you, or to
          believe that we still belong to each other. Max, I
          was wrong--very wrong--yesterday. I must have said
          many things in anger that never ought to have been
          said. Forgive me if you can. If I had been more
          patient, perhaps I could have made you understand
          how possible it often is to be deceived by
          appearances. I could not have explained the reason
          of my visit to that Caf, I could not have told
          you the name of the man I met there, because for
          the sake of others I am sworn to secrecy. But
          surely, surely you can trust me? I will try to
          believe that you meant the harsh things you said
          yesterday as little as I meant whatever I said in
          that storm of anger; my blood was on fire; I
          cannot tell now what I did say. If I had seen you
          entering a disreputable place, do you think I
          should have dreamt that you went with any evil
          purpose? Why, of course I should have known that
          you went to serve or help some one else. You ought
          to have known perfectly well that this was the
          sole reason I went.

          "I was the one who in anger proposed to end our
          engagement, but, Max, when you believe in me once
          more, then come back and let us talk things over
          quietly; do not let us wreck our lives in this
          miserable dispute. If you neither come nor write,
          I will understand that your faith in me is gone
          past recall.

                                                 "DOREEN."




CHAPTER XXVII.


    "Far, far from each other
       Our spirits have grown;
     And what heart knows another?
       Ah, who knows its own?"

                   MATTHEW ARNOLD.


The shock of his interview with Doreen had startled Max into a sort of
unnatural energy; he felt that he must plunge straight into hard work
of some sort, and having hastily put together all the things connected
with his betrothal, and committed to the post that packet which Doreen
had opened late in the evening with such a miserable pang of
realization, he sought out a certain well-known philanthropist who was
usually glad to secure his services.

"You are the very man I wanted," was the hearty greeting he received.
"Here is a telegram just arrived to say that John Whitaker is ill and
unable to speak to-morrow at Manchester. Can you possibly go down?"

"I should like nothing better," said Max.

"Perhaps you can also take his place at Brighton on Saturday," said
the philanthropist, who never lost anything for want of asking.

Max willingly consented to step into the breach, and going home, began
to prepare his speeches. It was not until the next morning that he
wrote to General Hereford announcing that his engagement was broken
off, and he took good care that the letter should not be posted till
he had left for Manchester. His hansom was at the door, and he was
actually on the point of starting, when the old butler brought in the
packet in which Doreen had placed the jewels he had given her, his
letters, and the letter which she had written to him during the night
watches. He held it for a moment in his hand, a curious pain stirring
at his heart as he looked at the well-known writing; then, with
compressed lips, he turned back into his study, thrust the packet,
unopened as it was, into an old despatch box which he seldom used, and
unlocking the safe which stood in a cunningly contrived cupboard
beneath his bookcase, stowed away the box with the reflection that he
had done his duty in securing the family diamonds, and that at some
other time he could destroy his letters. The excitement of the
Manchester meeting did him good, but there was an appalling dulness
about London when he returned. The solitude of his home seemed
unbearable to him; he even welcomed a visit from the General.

The old man with more tact than usual alluded very slightly to Doreen;
he kept his overwhelming satisfaction within bounds, and sat talking
in an easy, pleasant fashion of family matters, and of Lady Rachel's
hay fever, which had necessitated her going to Brighton.

"Miriam and I go down to-morrow to join her," he explained; "why
shouldn't you come with us? We can put you up there well enough."

And so it happened that on Saturday, Max found himself _vis--vis_
with his cousin in the far corner of a first-class carriage at
Victoria, while in the corner near the door, the General, with the
roseate hue of the "Globe" reflected on his contented face, sat
reading the account of a wedding in high life, which seemed to afford
him the keenest satisfaction. The train was signalled to start, when
some one came running up the platform; the guard flung open the
carriage door, and, to the amazement of the travellers, helped in
Doreen as the wheels began to move.

"Pay at the other end, miss," cried the guard, and Doreen sank
breathless into the seat opposite the General. Then came the dreadful
moment when she suddenly realized that the man who had formally raised
his hat to her, in the far corner, was Max; the General greeted her in
his usual fashion.

"Never run for a train, Miss O'Ryan," he said in his patronizing
manner; "it is the surest way you can take to shorten your life."

"I have an afternoon concert at Brighton," she said, feeling as if
every word she spoke must choke her, and remembering, with a horrible
pang, that this train did not even stop at Croydon, that there was no
release for her for a whole hour. Miriam, taking pity on her burning
cheeks, moved to the vacant place beside her, and shook hands with her
pleasantly.

"I am quite sure it was those children that delayed you," she said,
laughing.

"No," said Doreen, with a bewildered feeling that she must learn to
adapt herself to a new order of things, in which Miriam would be her
kindly shield and helper, and Max her foe. "It was poor little Una
Kingston. She is lying very ill at our house and was so much worse
this morning, that I was in doubt whether I could leave her; but they
seem to think her out of danger for the present. I shall try to catch
the five o'clock train back."

"I believe you have been up all night with her," said Miriam, glancing
curiously into the girl's careworn face.

"Only since three o'clock. The sick-nurse called me then, thinking
that she was dying. Perhaps, after all, that would be the happiest
thing for her; she is so utterly alone in the world, poor child, that
one dreads the future for her."

"Why do you not get a sleep?" said Miriam; "I will wake you before we
get to Brighton."

Doreen blessed her inwardly for the suggestion, feeling that to lean
back with closed eyes in her corner, was the only tolerable way of
getting through this dreadful hour. As for Max, he remained to all
appearance absorbed in his "Daily News" until they were close to
Preston Park, then he gave one swift glance at Doreen, and at sight of
her sad, weary face, a pang shot through his heart, and her own words
about Una returned to him, "One dreads the future for her."

As the train stopped at the Brighton station, there were hasty general
farewells, and Doreen swiftly disappeared in search of her luggage;
Max, following in the same direction a moment later with the General,
suddenly perceived the ever-persistent Mr. Hawke hovering on the
outskirts of the crowd round the luggage van, with the evident
intention of addressing Doreen who, as yet unconscious of her
persecutor's presence, was giving directions to a porter. Affected,
however, at last by his persistent stare, she glanced round, visibly
annoyed and disconcerted when she saw the predicament she was in.
Raising his hat, Mr. Hawke approached her with smiling deference; but
Doreen, ignoring him altogether, walked deliberately up to Max
Hereford.

"Will you get a fly for me, please?" she said, as though they still
belonged to each other; and together they walked down the platform, to
the great chagrin of the baffled Hawke.

"I am sorry to have been obliged to trouble you," she said
falteringly. "It is the first time that wretched man has tormented me
out of London. I never dreamt of having trouble elsewhere. When once I
am out of the station, it will be all right. My friend, Mrs. Moore, is
staying here, and she will go with me to the concert."

Max, who had been curiously pleased by the fearless way in which she
had claimed his protection as her right, was, nevertheless,
uncomfortably conscious of the awkwardness of their present situation.
He was perfectly courteous, but his answers were monosyllabic, and his
nervousness made them sound cold and distant. His politeness was a
degree less genial than it would have been to a casual acquaintance.
Poor Doreen talked bravely on; no stiff English self-consciousness
shackled her tongue, but she could very truly have echoed the words
of John Mitchel: "There was a huge lump in my throat all the time of
this bald chat."

She talked of Una, of Brian Osmond's last report, of the changes in
the Brighton station, of the capture of a certain murderer, and of the
latest bulletin about the President of the United States. But all the
time she was thinking--"It was on Thursday morning that he had my
letter; he might have come to see me; he might have written; his faith
in me is gone--quite gone."

At this moment the porter came up with the valise containing her
concert dress. Max held out his hand in farewell.

"They gave you my packet that Mrs. Muchmore left at your house?" she
asked, a vivid blush dyeing her pale cheeks.

"Yes, thank you; I received it all right," said Max, stiffly.
"Good-bye!" He raised his hat, gave the address to the driver, and
turned away.

Doreen wrung her hands. The parting in hot anger had been nothing
compared to the agony of this calm, deliberate, parting as mere
acquaintances. But she dared not let herself break down. However much
her own heart ached, it was imperatively necessary that in an hour's
time she should be singing ballads before a critical audience. Driving
down West Street, she received the one gleam of comfort, however,
which she could receive that day: her eye caught the announcement of a
meeting at the Dome that evening, on the Better Housing of the Poor,
and beneath it the words, "Unavoidable absence of Mr. John Whitaker.
Address by Mr. Max Hereford."

He was not going to fall back into the listless idleness which she
knew too well had beset him during her absence in America. He had
instantly turned to work as a refuge; he was trying to redress the
grievances of others. Into her mind there flashed the glad remembrance
that Max, though no paragon of perfection, was absolutely honest and
good; that his suspicious jealousy sprang, probably, in part, from
the low view which he, in common with most of his class, held of the
musical profession, and from the distorted notion of the Irish
character which Englishmen, after oppressing Ireland for centuries,
inevitably hold. She recollected how, long ago, when Miriam had asked
her what she regarded as the essentials for a husband, she had replied
that for her there were only two essentials: he must be radically
good, and a good Radical. And with desperate resolution she clung to
this thought of his goodness as the one thing left her. The light
sea-breeze fanned her hot cheeks soothingly; the broad, green stretch
of rippling water, as it sparkled in the sunshine, seemed to fill her
with hope and courage. Max had failed her, but she felt that he would
not fail the world,--the world that waited for the work which his pure
heart, and his winning persuasiveness, and his broad sympathies could
so well supply.

How far the faith of one spirit can influence another, or in what
subtle manner the law of prayer fulfils itself, no one can positively
say. But it somehow happened that Max, who had gone down to Brighton
not in the least knowing what his next step should be, woke on the
Sunday morning with a perfectly clear perception that he must go to
Ireland. It was the last country he desired to go to; he shuddered at
the thought of visiting alone the places he had intended to visit with
Doreen, and the memory of their last tour, and of his mother's sudden
death, made him shrink from the idea of revisiting the same scenes.
And yet it was borne in upon him that his work lay there, and, turning
a deaf ear to General Hereford's suggestions of a summer on the
continent, he set off by the mail train on Monday evening; and, with
his usual ardour, plunged straight into that close study of Irish
difficulties which he had long talked of attempting. Happily, he found
in an Irish friend of Donovan Farrant's a guide who very speedily put
him in touch with the life of the people. Moreover, Dick McGlynn was
the best of companions; the ten days during which they worked together
were by no means dull, and, for the time, Max held his trouble at
arm's length. But one evening, after speaking at McGlynn's request at
a Land League meeting, in the neighbourhood of Dublin, he suddenly
realized that something was wrong with him. As they got out of the
train at Harcourt Street, his legs seemed to double up beneath him,
and he would have fallen headlong down the stairs if McGlynn had not
gripped him by the arm.

"Are you faint?" asked his companion. "You had better drive home."

"No, no," he replied, with a vivid consciousness that the people
passing by thought him drunk. "That place was hot enough to upset one.
I shall be all right; it is only a few minutes' walk."

But it seemed the longest ten minutes of his life. Along the dreary
length of Harcourt Street, past the little house in which Doreen had
spent her childhood, along two of the sides of Stephen's Green, until
at last the friendly portals of the Shelbourne were reached. He
dragged himself across the entrance-hall to the lift, and bade McGlynn
good-night.

"Good Heavens, my dear fellow!" said the Irishman. "Your hand is on
fire; I believe you are in a raging fever. Well, I shall look you up
to-morrow, and, after all, it may only be this confounded heat that
has knocked you up."

But the next morning Max found himself in the doctor's hands, fast
bound with an attack of rheumatic fever, forbidden to move hand or
foot, not even allowed to feed himself, and with the prospect of a
long illness before him. Shut up for the whole of that summer in one
of the large, airy rooms at the Shelbourne, he endured with much
fortitude and patience the weary tedium of the long days and the
dreary nights. His somewhat taciturn red-cross nurse wrote letters at
his dictation to General Hereford and to Claude Magnay. It was well,
he thought, that they should know he was laid up with an illness which
might possibly end fatally; but he gave strict orders that no one was
to come to him unless he grew worse, for he dreaded seeing any one who
might talk to him of his trouble about Doreen, and was always fearful
lest he should let fall, during his restless, feverish nights, any
word that could harm her, or betray to others the cause that had
parted them. He was far too ill to think out calmly and reasonably the
unlikelihood of Doreen's infidelity to him; and, although now and then
the craving for her presence became intense, he was, as a rule, too
physically weak to do more than endure his wretchedness with a sort of
sad resignation.

McGlynn was kindness itself to him, and he had the best of doctors;
numbers of hospitable Irish people sent him gifts of flowers and fruit
and books, while, as to the hotel staff, there was nothing they would
not have done for him.

At length his eager craving to be able to work once more seemed about
to be gratified. For there came a morning when the fever left him,
when his nurse looked into his changed face with professional
satisfaction, and his doctor allowed him to sit for an hour in an
armchair by the window. It was rapture to him just to be able to look
at the trees in Stephen's Green, at the long line of old brick
mansions, and at the blue Dublin mountains away in the distance. He
felt that morning that he should get well, and spite of all that had
passed, he was far too young not to look forward eagerly to going
forth once more into the world.

Anxious that he should be out as much as possible, his doctor sent
him, as soon as he was fit to travel, to the neighbourhood of Castle
Karey, and here, in the still autumnal days, he quickly regained his
strength. It was here, too, that gentler thoughts of Doreen returned
to him; her brave, sweet face haunted him as he drove among the
familiar mountains, or as he paced slowly to and fro in the hotel
garden, where, but sixteen months before, in the first bright days of
their betrothal, they had walked together. Had he not, after all,
misjudged her? Surely there was some possible explanation of her
strange conduct on that summer night? The whole place seemed full of
memories of Doreen--the very mountains seemed to plead with him to
reconsider his harsh judgment. Again and again her indignant words,
during their interview at Bernard Street, recurred to his mind--"Don't
blaspheme my guardian angel. If angels can weep, I am sure mine wept
at the sight of your faithless heart."

One day he drove over to Lough Lee, and, hiring a boat, was rowed to
the further end. There stood the roofless cabin, while the bit of land
which old Larry had made with such infinite pains had relapsed into a
desolate wilderness once more. Deep down at the bottom of the lake lay
the bones of James Foxell; his successor, the agent who had evicted
Larry, still flourished and evicted other people from their homes,
while Lord Byfield enjoyed himself in England, only troubling himself
to put in an appearance in the House of Lords, now and then, to vote
against such measures as the Compensation for Disturbance Bill, or to
help in mangling and mutilating the Land Bill.

"But sure, yer honour," said the boatman, as they discussed the latest
contest, "I don't blame the House of Lords, at all, at all. Yer see
they're born imbeciles,--they can't help themselves!"

Max laughed aloud; there was something irresistible in the humorous
look and the fine contempt of this blue-eyed Kelt.


    "O would some fay the giftie gie 'em
     To see themselves as others see 'em,"


he muttered to himself, as they glided once more over the calm gray
waters of the lough. And then that haunting vision of Doreen as a
child steering that very boat with a white resolute face, drove all
other thoughts from his mind.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


    "O what a thing is man! how far from power,
       From settled peace and rest!
     He is some twenty, several men at least,
       Each several hour.
     Now he will fight it out, and to the wars;
       Now eat his bread in peace,
     And snudge in quiet; now he scorns increase;
       Now all day spares."

                                  GEORGE HERBERT.


Max soon grew weary of the quiet country place, and one morning,
happening to see an announcement in the "Freeman's Journal" to the
effect that Miss Doreen O'Ryan had joined Madame St. Pierre's concert
party, and was making a tour in England, and that she would also sing
in Belfast, Dublin, Cork, and Waterford during the third week in
October, he suddenly resolved to return once more to his old quarters
at the Shelbourne. He did not exactly own to himself that he meant to
see her; he blinded himself with an ingenious pretext of wishing to be
present at a Land League meeting which was to take place towards the
middle of the month; a political meeting in the second week could have
no remotest bearing upon a concert in the third week! If it should
chance that he stayed on in Dublin, why, it was of course purely
accidental.

His doctor was astonished to see him looking so much better; for how
should he know of the secret hope that had begun to dawn in his
patient's heart? McGlynn, too, gave him hearty congratulations, when,
on the night of the meeting, Max joined him at the office in Upper
Sackville Street. He even persuaded him to speak, and Max, partly from
a wish to try how far his powers had been impaired, and partly from
his growing sympathy with a people struggling against such desperate
odds, made a short speech.

The effort tired him greatly, and it was not until noon on the
following day that he rose, and feeling more inclined for a
comfortable sofa than for food, strolled into the drawing-room at the
Shelbourne. A widow sat writing letters at one of the tables, in an
armchair by the fire sat a careworn and peevish-looking old lady, who
was accounted the greatest adept in the art of grumbling to be found
in all Ireland, while with his back to the hearth stood a
weather-beaten old gentleman who was vehemently abusing the Irish
people.

"Thieves, ma'am, thieves, every one of them; that's what they are.
They would take the very teeth from your head, if they could get them,
and if they were worth anything."

The old lady, conscious of possessing a valuable set of what the
Americans call "store teeth," looked uncomfortable.

"I'm sure it's a great providence that these dreadful land-leaguers
are in prison," she exclaimed. "Have all of them been taken, did you
say?"

"The leaders, ma'am, Fitzhugh and O'Carroll and the rest of the vile
agitators who lead astray the ignorant peasantry. There's not been
such a _coup d'tat_ in my recollection. The Chief Secretary has done
his duty at last."

Max was struck dumb with astonishment and dismay. He thought no more
of his fatigue, but hurried off in search of McGlynn, and remained
with him till late that evening, far too much excited to remember
anything but the sudden blow which had fallen upon the Irish people.
What would Doreen think, he wondered, when she read of the
imprisonment of all the leading men of her party, many of whom were
her personal friends? She would hear of it, too, in the midst of her
concert tour, when she was travelling, perhaps, with people who could
not in the least sympathize with her. And soon a wild desire to go to
her there and then seemed to overpower every other consideration. Had
she not claimed his protection that day at Brighton? The conviction
that had gradually come to him with his returning health, that Doreen
was perfectly innocent, that it was his approaching illness which had
so blinded him to the truth, became now a certainty. Doubtless it was
some rash political errand that had taken her that night to so strange
a place; some hare-brained and thoughtless compatriot had bound her
over to secrecy, and she was too generous to betray him. He would go
straight back to England and beg her forgiveness for his unworthy
suspicions.

"McGlynn," he exclaimed, "come back with me to England. You run great
risk of being arrested over here. Come back with me to-morrow."

"And desert a sinking ship?" said McGlynn, his bright, humorous face
clouded with care.

"It's not a question of deserting. You can serve Ireland far better if
you are at large. It won't do for every Nationalist to be under lock
and key."

"I will walk back with you to the Shelbourne, and we can talk it
over," said McGlynn. "Anyhow, you must get out of this, or the
excitement will be making you ill again."

The two friends had no sooner left McGlynn's lodgings and stepped out
on to the pavement, than they became aware that the city was far from
quiet. The sound of a great multitude made itself heard, that strange,
hoarse roar, indescribable, but more stirring than anything on earth.
They pressed on until they found themselves in Sackville Street. Here
women rushed past them, shrieking with terror, and the whole broad
thoroughfare presented a scene of the greatest confusion; for, on the
pretext that they feared there might be a riot, the police, in large
bodies, were charging furiously into the people, showing no mercy to
age or sex, but, with drawn batons and clenched fists, striking all
who came in their way.

"Hell let loose," said Max, his blood boiling as he saw an unfortunate
postal-telegraph messenger felled to the ground and brutally kicked by
a huge constable. They drew the poor fellow aside and helped him up,
and his first thought on recovering from his bewilderment was of the
telegram he had been carrying. McGlynn began to feel anxious for his
companion. It was no place for a man who had so lately recovered from
a dangerous illness, and when once they had crossed O'Connell Bridge,
he drew him aside into quieter regions.

"Good God!" exclaimed Max, with a shudder, as he thought of the faces
he had seen covered with blood, and of the sight of Sackville Street
literally strewn with the bodies of unoffending men, women, and
children, beaten down by the blows of the police in their headlong
charge. "I wonder, McGlynn, that you are willing to walk with an
Englishman. How you must loathe us all!"

"Well, there are exceptions," said McGlynn, with a humorous look. "And
you are one of them, for you neither patronize us benevolently, nor
tyrannize over us."

After talking things over, McGlynn was persuaded to go to England the
next morning, with his friend, and promised to join him at the
Shelbourne in time for the 6.45 train at Westland Row. After he had
left, Max, not in the least inclined to sleep, made his preparations
for departure. Then, taking out his writing-case, filled up a telegram
form with the following words: "Boniface, Regent Street, London.
Telegraph Miss Doreen O'Ryan's addresses during this week to M.
Hereford, North Western Hotel, Holyhead." Then for the rest of the
night, half asleep, half awake, he thought out his plans for meeting
Doreen once more, and wondered where and how their interview would
take place, and felt that he could no longer endure the wretchedness
of being utterly ignorant of her whereabouts. When they met, when they
talked things calmly over, when he had asked forgiveness for his
jealous and unworthy thoughts, there would be something, he was
convinced, which she could explain, and their quarrel would be at an
end. They might even be ready to call


    "Blessings on the falling out
     That all the more endears."


So he fondly hoped, and when the man waked him at six o'clock, he
sprang up eagerly to begin this new day from which he hoped so much,
not pausing to realize that the excitement of the previous evening had
told severely on his strength, and that he was anything but fit for
the work he had mapped out.

McGlynn made an exclamation of dismay when he saw his flushed face.

"I don't know what your doctor would say to your going off in a hurry
at this time in the morning."

"Oh, I shall be all right when once I am in England," said Max.
"Dublin always feels to me relaxing. Help me to get this portmanteau
shut; there's a good fellow."

At this moment there was a loud knock, and before Max could reply, the
door was thrown open by one of the waiters who had always been
specially good to him during his illness.

"Sir," said the man, "you have only a moment to save yourself; the
Superintendent of Police is in the entrance hall, asking for you and
Mr. McGlynn. He will be on the stairs by now. Come to the lift, sir,
and I will see that you get out of the place safely."

"You go," said Max to his friend; "I will wait; they can't do much to
me."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," said McGlynn, warmly; "down with the
paper Union, and three cheers for the Union of hearts! We will go
together."

Before any more could be said, two officials appeared at the door, and
the superintendent, a particularly quiet, courteous man, whose keen,
sad eyes had a curiously wistful expression, came forward and
presented a warrant first to Max Hereford and then to his companion.
McGlynn at once accepted the situation and knew all that it meant, but
Max looked bewildered and indignant.

"It is a warrant for your arrest, sir, under the Coercion Act,"
explained the superintendent, respectfully. "I must trouble you to
come with me as quickly as you can."

"There must be some mistake," said McGlynn. "Of what can Mr. Hereford
possibly be guilty? You can hardly accuse him of leading the people
astray or pretend that he is a dangerous agitator."

The other official, who was of a different type, answered him.

"We are quite aware of all Mr. Hereford's movements, sir; and his
interest in Irish matters began years before he knew you, when he was
staying in the neighbourhood of Lough Lee."

Max felt an extraordinary sensation at his heart as the man, with a
keen glance at him, uttered these words. He knew that he changed
colour and that the detective had observed it. He was about to make an
angry reply, when the superintendent touched him on the arm.

"Sir," he said, courteously, "let me advise you to say nothing, but to
come without delay."

With an impatient shrug of the shoulders, Max adopted the friendly
counsel, and drew on his light overcoat; but a sudden exclamation of
wrath escaped him when he saw the detective take up the telegram form
from the table, coolly read it, and with a significant glance hand it
to the superintendent.

"What are you about?" he cried, forgetting that he was a prisoner, and
in no position to command. "Give that form to me."

"Sir," said the superintendent, "you are not going to Holyhead now,
and the form can be of no use to you. I am sorry it is my duty to keep
it."

With that he folded it neatly and put it in his pocket-book, while Max
inwardly raged to think that Doreen's name in full should have been on
the paper, and that he should thus have dragged her down with him. As
this thought flashed through his mind, however, a sudden qualm of
agonizing doubt seized him, a fear so horrible that it was half
paralyzing. As in a dream, he bade farewell to the friendly waiter,
and walked beside the superintendent, along the corridor, down the
broad staircase, across the tiled entrance hall, and out into the
damp, misty October air. The cab that was to have taken them to
Westland Row was still in waiting; they all four got into it and drove
off in the direction of Kilmainham.

As they rattled over the paving-stones in Stephen's Green, the
horrible fear that had clutched at his heart changed to grim
conviction. This was the explanation of Doreen's strange conduct, this
the reason of her sudden, angry suggestion that their betrothal should
be ended. John Desmond's words long ago had fulfilled themselves.
Sooner or later, as he had prophesied, the secret of that disastrous
day on Lough Lee had leaked out, and it had been through her. Led on,
no doubt, by some misplaced confidence in an Irish friend, she had
been duped into betraying that her lover had been present at Foxell's
death, and the detectives had been set upon his track. That something
was known by them of that day on Lough Lee, he was certain from the
words that had passed, and he was convinced that no living being but
Doreen could have supplied the information. Had not the man, moreover,
seized on the telegram form with the eagerness and satisfaction of a
vulture pouncing on his prey? The request for Doreen O'Ryan's address
was to form some link in the evidence that was being got up against
him. That was perfectly clear, and his arrest under the Coercion Act,
which enabled him to be imprisoned without any trial whatever, was, no
doubt, highly convenient to those who were unravelling the Foxell
mystery. He cursed his folly in having taken part in those two Land
League meetings, for thus, as he clearly saw, he had put himself into
their power.

By this time they had passed down Grafton Street, and had reached
College Green. He caught sight of Grattan's statue, and there came to
his mind a story which Doreen had told him of the great patriot, as
she showed him that same statue eighteen months before, and the very
poem which she had quoted as they looked across to the old Parliament
House, rang now in his ears:--


    "She's not a dull or cold land,
     No! she's a warm and bold land
     Oh! she's a true and old land--
       This native land of mine.
     No men than hers are braver,
     Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
     I'd freely die to save her,
       And think my lot divine."


A vehement struggle began in his heart: his better nature striving
hard to draw him back to faith in Doreen, his proud, stubborn temper
urging him not to yield, while devils' voices filled his mind with
every attack conceivable on the Irish character. Were not the people
of Ireland, after all, mere pleasant acquaintances, but radically
unsound; smooth-tongued, but false-hearted; headstrong, mendacious,
given up to secret plotting, vain, garrulous, and quarrelsome? Here
was he, with his whole career blighted by the idle talk of the very
woman who should have been his best helper. She had sworn to keep
silence in the past, and she had plighted her troth to him, and now
was doubly forsworn. It was all in vain that his conscience brought
before him a clear perception of his own anger and bitterness, and
harsh, unjust judgment; he deliberately yielded to those other blind
guides who bade him think of what the world would say to his
imprisonment: how some would laugh and some shrug their shoulders, and
how his name would be bandied about contemptuously, while General
Hereford would be careful to add that it all came through his foolish
attachment to that Fenian's daughter.

"And, after all, the old man is right!" he reflected bitterly, as they
turned from Dame Street into Parliament Street; "it has come from
that. If I had never seen Doreen, how different all would have been!
But I will see her no more, will think of her no more. I have been
fooling myself all this time, have dreamt that she was the very ideal
of all that was noble, and she is, after all, not even a trustworthy
woman. Yes, I _will_ judge, I _will_ condemn. If I can't go where I
please, I will at least think what I please."

While Max had given place to the spirit of injustice, and wrath, and
hatred, McGlynn was chatting away in an easy, unconcerned fashion to
the superintendent. The prospect of imprisonment did not in the least
daunt him; he regarded it as a necessary part in the career of a
patriotic Irishman, and rejoiced in the thought that, by enduring a
slight amount of discomfort for a time, he was helping to purchase his
country's freedom. As they drove along the quays, Max listened to his
cheery talk and marvelled at it. It was difficult to maintain his
contempt for what he was pleased to consider the typical Irish
character when in the presence of this blithe, brave-hearted
Land-Leaguer, with his high ideals, and his readiness to take whatever
came in the way of personal inconvenience and restriction.

At last they drew up before the grim portals of Kilmainham, and Max,
feeling like one in a dream, speedily found himself installed in a
cell, and learnt the sort of treatment he was to receive. He might
wear his own clothes; he could have what books or writing-materials he
pleased; he could order in a bed if he wished to do so; and could
provide his own food. Also, he was permitted to associate for several
hours in the day, if he liked, with the other prisoners under the
Coercion Act.

It was some relief to him the next day to see McGlynn's bright face
and feel his hearty grip of the hand. The Kelt was in excellent
spirits, and seemed ready to make fun of everything, but he readily
understood that the imprisonment which to an Irishman was an honour,
must seem to the Englishman in every way a disgrace. It was not so
easy to endure a punishment at the hands of one's own countrymen, and
in a cause that as yet found, in England, scarcely any supporters.

"Beyond the loss of freedom and the annoyance of having one's letters
looked at, I don't see that we have much to complain of," said
McGlynn. "Think what it would be to endure penal servitude like Donal
Moore, to be classed with criminals, and forced--as many political
prisoners here have been--to wear prison dress, the badge of crime!"

"You make light of the discomforts," said Max, hotly; "but do you know
that I can't see a doctor without having a warder all the time in the
cell? It's abominable!"

"Oh yes, I know some of them chafe against that rule," said the young
Irishman. "They say Fitzhugh raged like a lion when the warder
insisted on staying, while O'Carroll said nothing whatever, but
courteously handed the man a chair. It was just like him. Here he
comes! By the bye, let me introduce you. Mr. Hereford," he said,
laughing, as the two prisoners greeted each other, "does not think
Kilmainham a bed of roses."

"Oh, you will grow very much accustomed to it," said O'Carroll, his
quiet, melancholy eyes keenly scrutinizing the young Englishman's face
for a moment, and reading in it something which told him that Max was
passing through a difficult stage of his life and had not come out
conqueror. "It is wonderful how soon you can adapt yourself to
entirely different conditions if you try."

Max thought O'Carroll had succeeded admirably as regarded his mind,
but his physical frame told a very different tale.

"You go on the philosophic principle of taking things as you find
them," he replied.

"Well, yes, we must _take_ things as we find them," said O'Carroll,
smiling; "but we must leave them better. I see you think that's an
impossibility for a prisoner; but if ever you spend as much time in
prison as I have done (which Heaven forefend), you will understand
what I mean. Anyhow, this is grand training for a future legislator."

"To me it seems like the utter shipwreck of my career," said Max,
gloomily. "Imagine the Firdale electors having me as their candidate
after this!"

"Well, I can't judge how it may affect you over there," said
O'Carroll, "but you will find that the Irish are not ungrateful to one
who has suffered in their cause."

Max did not reply; he fell into despondent musing over that strange
web of fate which had gradually coiled about him since the time of old
Larry's threatened eviction. It was the Foxell mystery which had
really led to his imprisonment, he fancied,--not the few vehement
words he had spoken at the Land League meetings in defence of the
rights of free speech, and in condemnation of land-grabbers.




CHAPTER XXIX.


    "Brave eyes! brave eyes, and trustful too, as brave,
     In which thought follows thought as wave on wave;
     True mirrors clear, reflecting ev'ry feeling,
     Now bright, now blank, now full of soft appealing.

    "Yet there is one phase which they do not show,
     A shy reserve beneath the light and glow,
     A dim, soft veil, with a sweet, subtle art,
     Keeps hidden still some chambers of the heart.

    "Brave eyes! brave eyes, 'tis not your form or hue,
     That wins our love, that draws all hearts to you;
     It is the radiance of pure womanhood,
     Shining so clear with ever-changing mood."

                                         ELLEN O'LEARY.


"MY dear, nothing you can say will make me like Madame Sardoni; and
the ridiculous fuss the Hastings people made over her last night was
really pitiable. Very bad taste, too, on her part, to sing that song
as an _encore_; she might have known that I have sung it for years and
have made it my own."

So spake Madame St. Pierre as, with a ruffled and displeased air, she
took her place in the saloon carriage specially retained for Ferrier's
company. Doreen, in a very becoming ulster and dainty little
travelling-hat, sat beside her.

"Well, you know," she replied, "Domenica has not long been in England,
and I am quite sure she would not have chosen that song had she known
that it had almost become your special property. It is a mistake that
any one who has been for years in America might make. I made the very
same mistake at that city dinner years ago, and you have been very
kind to me, you know."

There was something in the winsome smile and in the half coaxing tone
that proved irresistible. Madame St. Pierre gave her hand a little
friendly pat.

"No one could have the heart to be unkind to you, I should think," she
said. "And as to that song, why it was, after all, one of your own
Irish melodies. Ah, here comes that woman! To think that this is only
the second week in October, and that we are to travel together till
the middle of November!"

"I always notice," said Doreen, laughing, "that for the first week we
are all so good and polite to each other, but after that the little
rubs begin."

The rubs had begun for her on the previous evening, when the startling
news of the wholesale arrests in Dublin had set Ferrier's concert
party talking vehemently on political matters; and to hear people
talking of the Irish when they had never taken the trouble really to
study the history of Ireland always severely tried Doreen's temper. It
was maddening to have the slight smattering gained from some hostile
English newspaper hurled at her in argument as Gospel truth, and at
dinner on the previous day something very like a quarrel had come
about.

"I can't conceive," said Stainforth, the violinist, a somewhat
cynical-looking Englishman, "how you can allow yourself to be carried
away by sentiment, when you must be aware that not a single educated
person is in favour of Home Rule."

"I would rather be 'carried away,' as you call it, by honest national
feeling," retorted Doreen, angrily, "than be stuck in a bog of crass
ignorance as you are."

Naturally, the violinist did not like this frank repayment in his own
coin, and the war of words had raged more hotly.

"You can't maintain that the upper classes are in favour of it."

"The upper classes are chiefly English and Scotch settlers, and no
more Irish than you are. They think of themselves and of their own
interests, with some few noble exceptions. There, as here, all reform
is brought about by the people."

The violinist's reply to this had been so fiery that Ferrier had
intervened.

"It's all very well for you, my dear fellow, who don't keep your shop
in your throat, but we shall be as hoarse as ravens if we have any
more politics now. A truce to hostilities. Fitzhugh is safely in
Kilmainham, and there let him rest."

The little unpleasantness which had arisen between Madame Sardoni and
Madame St. Pierre during the concert had diverted the thoughts of
everyone from the Irish _coup d'tat_, and Doreen, who was a born
peacemaker, had done her best to smooth things down, and had been
confided in by both ladies. But Stainforth had not quite forgiven her
for having presumed to speak of his "crass ignorance." It was quite
true that he knew no more of Irish history than a child of seven, and
had not the smallest intention of troubling himself to study it; but
still, to be ruthlessly told by a woman--and still worse by an
Irishwoman--that he was "stuck in a bog of crass ignorance" was more
than he could patiently endure. He was so much accustomed to sneering
at Irish patriotism, and dismissing it from serious consideration with
the contemptuous epithet "mere sentiment," that he hardly realized how
rude and how irritating his speech had seemed to Doreen. Nor did he
pause to consider that if an Irishman had dared to call his national
feeling mere English "sentiment," he would have been furious at the
insult.

That afternoon, at the Hastings station, he caught sight of a line on
the newspaper posters which assured him of revenge upon the Irish
_prima donna_. Sardoni and Ferrier had apparently noticed the same
thing, for they stood talking together in low tones beside the
bookstall. The violinist purchased two papers and made his way to the
saloon carriage, where Doreen, with a certain amused look lurking
about the corners of her mouth, was trying to beguile her two
companions out of their stiff and uncompromising mood. He offered the
"Graphic" to Madame St. Pierre, who thanked him graciously.

"I don't know if you care to see this, Miss O'Ryan," he said, smiling,
as he handed her an evening paper of Radical proclivities. "I am
afraid none of them are exactly of your way of thinking."

"Thank you," said Doreen, pleasantly. "I take that as an _amende
honorable_ for last night. This paper is, at any rate, less unjust to
Ireland than the others; as the children say of their lessons, it is
the 'least worst.'"

She settled herself at the further end of the carriage, opened the
paper, and almost immediately saw the large type announcement,--"WHOLESALE
ARRESTS IN DUBLIN. IMPRISONMENT OF MR. MAX HEREFORD." After that for a
few moments everything swam before her eyes, though, with an instinct
of self-preservation, she still held up the paper as a shield between
herself and the rest of the world. She was vaguely conscious that the
other men of the party got in,--she heard them talking, in a confused
way; heard the guard's shout of "Eastbourne train! All for Eastbourne,
Bexhill, and Pevensey!" was dimly aware that they were slowly moving
out of the station. Then she felt a touch on her hand, and glancing
up, saw that Ferrier was bending over her. His broad shoulders
sheltered her from the observation of the others, and Sardoni had
dexterously contrived to set them all laughing over one of the
practical jokes in which he was an adept.

"My dear," said Ferrier, "we had hoped you would not notice this."

She looked up at him in a dazed way.

"I do not understand it," she said. "I did not even know he was in
Ireland. Think of it, oh, just think of it! He was over there in my
own country, and I never knew! Oh, what am I to do? What can I do?"

Ferrier, touched by her distress, racked his brain for some word of
comfort, and in a moment of inspiration recollected the way in which
she had told him that her betrothal was at an end.

"Perhaps," he said, in an undertone, "Kelt and Saxon are nearer to
understanding each other than you thought."

She gave him a grateful look, then once more caught up the paper.

"Let me read all that it says before we get to that tunnel!" she
exclaimed, and Ferrier read with her the following lines:--

"At an early hour on Friday morning, Mr. Richard McGlynn and Mr. Max
Hereford were arrested at the Shelbourne Hotel, and conveyed to
Kilmainham. Both gentlemen were about to leave for England. Mr.
Hereford unsuccessfully contested Firdale at the General Election, and
is well known on Radical platforms, and as a temperance advocate. Some
surprise has been felt as to his arrest under the Coercion Act, but it
appears that on Wednesday last he spoke at one of the Land League
meetings, and denounced land-grabbers in no measured terms, while at a
meeting in July he used equally strong language as to the Irishman's
right to free speech. Considerable indignation has been expressed in
Dublin, where, during a long and dangerous illness this summer, Mr.
Hereford has made for himself many friends."

He had been ill, then, and she had never known it. And now, only just
recovered, they had thrust him into that hateful Kilmainham, the
gloomy jail she remembered so well visiting as a child, while her
father had been awaiting his trial. If he had been through a long
illness, he must have been taken ill almost directly after she last
saw him,--must, at the very time of their quarrel, have been affected
by the coming trouble. In a moment it became clear to her that this
illness must have been coming on for months, that it was probably
accounted for by the terrible shock of his mother's sudden death, and
that all that listless idleness, that tendency to be irritated by
trifles, had been fully accounted for. Why, oh, why, had she not
realized this in time?

Ferrier said a kindly word or two, and then rejoined the others, while
Doreen mechanically turned over the pages of the newspaper, scarcely
seeing the words that her eye travelled over, because her thoughts
were far away with Max. But suddenly a paragraph in quite another part
of the paper startled her into strained attention.

"A French gentleman--M. Baptiste Charpentier--forwards us the
following extraordinary anecdote. It seems that he and a companion,
while fishing in Lough Lee, caught a remarkably fine trout which they
bade the cook at their hotel to dress for supper. On opening the fish,
a gold watch-key was discovered bearing upon the seal the initials J.
F. The anglers very rightly placed the key at once in the hands of the
police."

The face of Baptiste, the valet, flashed back into Doreen's memory,
and with it the recollection of that same face which had perplexed her
at the Firdale election. Instantly her quick Keltic perception had
grasped the truth of the case; this valet who had helped to nurse
Desmond through his illness, must have gained some sort of clue to
what had happened on Lough Lee while the tutor had been delirious. She
remembered, too, with a horrible pang, that she herself had been
speaking to Max about that disastrous day years ago during her first
visit to Monkton Verney, and that the French servant had suddenly
emerged from the shrubbery with a message for his master. Max had
assured her that he would not, in any case, have understood, but not
long after he had caught the man reading his letters and had angrily
dismissed him. Surely, it was only too clear that Baptiste had been a
spy, eagerly trying to win the reward offered by Mr. Foxell's widow
for the discovery of the murderer, and that he had been Max Hereford's
bitter enemy ever since his angry dismissal. In a sort of despair she
looked out at the flat, desolate shore, with its dreary martello
towers. If Max were in difficulty or danger, Desmond had bade her set
him free from his oath. And here he was in prison, possibly on account
of this very discovery of Foxell's watch-key, and of Baptiste's
revelations; yet she dared not open her lips to any one else, lest,
after all, Foxell's murder had nothing whatever to do with his present
imprisonment, and he had really been arrested only for his speeches.
Well, she would write to him, and tell him that it was John Desmond
she had met in London on that summer evening. That mystery at least
might be done away with, and she would say that he was free to tell
the whole truth. Taking out her pocket-book, she rapidly scribbled the
outline of a letter to him, and found relief in unburdening her heart.
Then suddenly, with a bitter sense of disappointment and baffled hope,
she remembered that all the letters he would receive would most
certainly be read by the authorities. It was no use to write,--no use
at all,--and as they reached their destination, she tore the pencilled
lines to pieces, and watched them drift away in the stormy autumn
wind.

"Come," said Ferrier, kindly; "let me take your bag for you. The train
is behind time, and our dinner will be waiting for us."

But the very thought of eating was intolerable to her. Like one in a
dream, she took her place in the long hotel omnibus, and heard the
others praise the picturesque streets, with their golden and russet
elm trees, and felt a momentary sense of companionship as she caught a
glimpse of the stormy sea with its white-crested waves.

"It's no good, Domenica," she said presently, as Madame Sardoni came
to her bedroom to urge her to come down to the four o'clock dinner,
which had been prepared for Ferrier's company. "The only chance of my
being fit to sing to-night is to keep quiet. If I went down, I
couldn't eat, so where is the use? I'm going out by the sea. I must
have time to think."

Domenica Sardoni was one of those delightful people who seldom argue.
She only looked musingly into the girl's haggard face and sad eyes.

"Well, don't take cold," she said. "These autumn afternoons are
treacherous. If you will go, then take your fur cape."

Doreen, with a forlorn smile, unstrapped her wraps, and obediently
took out the fur, then, with a sudden impulse, turned and kissed her
companion warmly.

"You are a very good friend to me," she said in a broken voice.

"I wish Carlo Donati were here," said Domenica, as they went
downstairs together.

But Doreen, as she went out alone into the fresh autumnal air, thought
to herself, "Carlo Donati is the best man in the world, but I don't
want him, for all that. I want Max--and no one but Max! Max is mine,
and I am his, whatever may happen."

And then, with an awful revulsion, she remembered that Max must be
wholly indifferent to her, or he would surely have answered her letter
in the summer,--that letter which it had cost her so much to write,
and which she knew from his own lips he had received "quite safely."
The irony of his utter lack of comment struck her now even more
bitterly than it had done at the time. Perhaps he had thought her
"unwomanly" to write it. Perhaps she had only offended him more deeply
by seeking to set things right. The strong west wind blew through and
through her. The salt spray beat in her face. The tide was high, and
every now and then a wave would break right over the deserted parade
on which she was walking. There was nothing to be seen save the bold
outline of Beachy Head, with its white cliffs and smooth green slopes,
while on one side of the bricked walk rose a high bank, planted with
tamarisk, and on the other stretched the great, heaving expanse of
stormy sea. She started back a little as a wave dashed up almost to
her feet. What if she were swept away relentlessly? If she, too,
sank, as she had seen her father's lifeless body sink into that great
unknown region, where below the troubled surface all would be calm and
still? Why, that would never do when with her rested the means of
rescuing Max from Kilmainham.

She drew from her pocket-book the little calendar of Ferrier's tour,
and read over the engagements of the next few days. "Saturday,
Eastbourne; Monday, Edinburgh; Tuesday, Glasgow; Wednesday, Belfast;
Thursday, Dublin; Friday, Cork; Saturday morning, Waterford; Monday,
Birmingham." She had heard much grumbling among her companions at this
hard and ill-arranged week. They detested crossing the Irish Sea; they
protested vehemently that Freen's thoughtless plan of a morning
concert at Waterford on the Saturday, would expose them to the horrors
of a longer sea-passage, and all for the sake of the objectionable
Irish, who at that time were in great disfavour,--the "sentimental
people encircled by the melancholy ocean."

"Since I cannot write to Max," thought Doreen, "I must go to see him.
When I have told him all, why, then he will be safe, whatever happens,
and I am surely now justified in telling him. Mr. Desmond, I am sure,
would say so. He warned me that Baptiste was on the track, and that
paragraph shows that he has secured one strong piece of evidence. Oh,
God! to think of all the misery and trouble that might have been
spared, had the agent shown the least humanity to poor Larry! Trace to
its source almost every crime or sorrow in Ireland, and it seems to me
that you will find a heartless and unjust eviction as its originator.
And, oh, while I walk here at large, Max is in that hateful place! and
of all men he is the one to feel imprisonment most keenly. He who has
lived all his life in free England! how will he bear the discomforts
and restrictions, the comments, too, that his case will give rise to?
And just now when he is only recovering from dangerous illness. He
will never stand it! O'Carroll and Donal Moore and Fitzhugh, they are
made of different stuff,--they are Irish, and can and will bear gladly
whatever comes to them, for the sake of Ireland. But Max is only
beginning to understand things, and he is English to the core, and has
not been through the long, long discipline which goes to make a
patriot. Oh, how can I be patient till Thursday; how am I to get
through my work?"

"My dear child," said a hearty voice behind her, "why are you playing
the _rle_ of a 'Bride of Venice,' 'by the sad sea waves?' Don't you
know that the sun is setting, and that the sea air will play all
manner of tricks with your throat?"

She looked round, and there was Ferrier, with real anxiety in his
kindly face, while Sardoni, at a little distance, appeared to be
absorbed in making ducks and drakes with such pebbles as he could lay
hands on. Doreen knew perfectly well that the two kindly, chivalrous
men had come out on purpose to find her.

"It was very good of you to come," she said gratefully, "and before we
turn back, there is just one thing I want to ask you. How long shall
we be in Dublin?"

"Only the one night," said Ferrier, "and off pretty early the next
morning to Cork."

"I am going to ask to follow you then to Cork by the afternoon train;
there is something I must do while we are in Dublin. If hundreds of
your countrymen had been thrust into prison by the Irish, and if all
your popular political leaders were locked up in Millbank and Newgate,
you would want a few hours' grace, if you were passing through
London."

She did not look at him as she spoke, because tears had started to her
eyes at the thought of the deplorable state of things which she was
describing. Ferrier was touched with pity as he looked at the white,
pathetic face struggling bravely to hold emotion in check. He glanced
away to the west. A soft, blue shade was gradually enveloping Beachy
Head, contrasting vividly with a stormy gleam of crimson in the
sunset sky above it. In the silence that fell between them, they both
noticed the rolling thunder of the sea, as it surged over the rocky
shore.

"By all means, take whatever extra time is necessary," said Ferrier,
at length. "I am not interested in politics, as you know, and your
schemes of reform seem to me utterly impracticable, and even
undesirable. But, at the same time, I can understand that you Irish
folk look on things from a different standpoint, and it may be that
you are right and we are wrong. But now, my dear, come home and rest,
or you will certainly break down before the tour is over."

"I am glad to hear you preaching on the text 'Take it easy,'" said
Sardoni, with a laugh, joining them as they turned back towards the
hotel. "It is the great secret of success in life, Miss O'Ryan, as I
am always trying to persuade Donati. Why should you wear yourself out
in a cause that won't even be capable of expressing its gratitude?"

"But to be worn out in a good cause is an ideal death," said Doreen.
"What better could one wish? However, you see, I'm obediently going
home to eat and rest, as my chief bids me."

Sardoni fell to talking of some of the adventures that had befallen
him while travelling with Merlino's operatic company, and Doreen, as
she walked home under the shelter of the tamarisk bank, knew that the
two men were trying to come between her and her trouble, just as their
sturdy forms came between her and the stormy, troubled sea.
Nevertheless, their efforts were not altogether successful; for, as
she was singing that evening at the Devonshire Park, a sort of spasm
seized her throat, and her voice broke discordantly on a high note.

"It is the sea air," said Domenica, kindly. "It always affects the
throat more or less."

"It was the torture of singing that merry song when I am so miserably
unhappy," thought Doreen.

"It is this confounded Irish business, and the strong emotion she has
been through," said Ferrier, as he went down the steps for his duet
with Sardoni.

"To my mind," replied the tenor, "that lover is the cause of it all. I
should like to kick him."




CHAPTER XXX.


    "And now
     A word, but one, one little kindly word.
     Not one to spare her: out upon you, flint!"

                                 _The Princess_.


It was with very mingled feelings that Doreen alighted at the
Shelbourne about six o'clock in the afternoon on the following
Thursday. It seemed to her that ages had passed by since that Saturday
when she walked by the shore at Eastbourne, and the weary journeys by
land and sea, the fatigue of singing the same songs each night, and,
above all, the sickening anxiety about Max, had told upon her
severely. The friendly housekeeper who had known her for years
scarcely recognized her at first. She discreetly asked no questions,
however, when she had given her cordial greeting, for a certain amount
of Doreen's story was, of course, public property, and most people had
heard that "the marriage shortly to take place between Miss Doreen
O'Ryan and Mr. Hereford" had been given up.

"Let me show you to your room, Miss O'Ryan," she said pleasantly. "I
have put you in the front of the house, for I know you are fond of the
view."

"That is good of you," said Doreen, crossing to one of the windows and
looking over the chestnut trees in Stephen's Green to the campanile on
the further side, and the dark outline of the Dublin mountains beyond.
"Why, you have given me a most palatial bedroom."

"It has not been used since poor Mr. Hereford was here," said the
housekeeper. "For weeks and weeks he lay here in the summer, and no
one thought he would pull through. Of course it was nothing
infectious, or we couldn't have kept him. It was just rheumatism
affecting the heart, and they wouldn't let him stir a finger. Then,
when at last they allowed him to move, he went down to recover in the
South, near Castle Karey, and scarcely had he got back here again last
week when, to every one's astonishment, he was arrested early one
morning in this very room, and taken off to Kilmainham."

"And since then," said Doreen, eagerly, "have you heard nothing?"

"Nothing at all," said the housekeeper. "Everyone thinks it very hard
measure that he should be arrested just for a couple of speeches. Oh,
the feeling was very strong indeed about it. Have you everything you
wish, Miss O'Ryan?"

"Everything, thank you," said poor Doreen, dropping into the nearest
chair the moment she was alone.

In this very room, then, he had lain for weeks and weeks at death's
door, and she had never known it! She, whose right it might have been
to nurse him, had been far away, and he had been left to the care of
hired attendants. He had come to her country to study the Irish
problem, to try if possible to help in this desperate crisis, and for
reward he had been thrust into Kilmainham. How she lived through that
night's concert, and the long, long hours during which she lay in
restless wakefulness in the room where Max had passed through so much,
she never knew. But at length Friday morning dawned, and with the dawn
a great hope rose in her heart. She was to see Max and at last, at
last, she should disburden her mind of that secret she had been so
loath to have entrusted to her. Surely now he would understand her,
and believe in her once more? Her spirits rose as she said good-bye to
Ferrier, and to Sardoni and his wife. They were all starting for Cork
by the morning express, and Doreen was to follow by the three o'clock
train.

"And whatever happens, don't miss that," said Ferrier, "or the Cork
people will never forgive you. As it is, we shall have to alter the
programme, for the train isn't due till 8.25, and there is no saying
how late it may be."

"I will not miss it," said Doreen, "You may trust me. And I shall take
a carriage to myself, and perform my toilet _en route_. Don't be
afraid. I shall turn up all right, you will see."

"Now what plan has she got in her head?" said Sardoni, as they drove
away from the Shelbourne. "Is she going to pour forth the vials of her
wrath on the head of the Chief Secretary?"

"Or does she mean to join the Ladies' Land League?" said Ferrier.
"That wouldn't at all surprise me."

"Why, how dull you two men are," said Domenica, with a smile. "Do you
think either of those plans would make her eyes shine, and light up
her whole face with hope? Depend upon it she has some scheme for
setting Mr. Hereford free."

Ferrier made an ejaculation of dismay. Sardoni gave a long whistle.
"Oh, perverse sex!" he said. "How much better to be free from such a
lover than to set him free."

"I think," said Domenica, quietly, "that you are somewhat hard on Mr.
Hereford. Remember that you have never heard his side of the story."

Meanwhile Doreen, in a state of feverish anxiety, packed her concert
dress into a small valise, made all her preparations, took leave of
the kindly housekeeper, and, as the hour approached when her order
permitted her to go to Kilmainham, drove from the Shelbourne, bidding
the man to stop at a flower shop in Grafton Street. In old times, she
remembered that it used to please her father that they should wear
flowers when they came to see him in prison. It was strictly against
regulations to give them to the prisoners, but no one could object to
what a visitor actually wore. The spray of white chrysanthemums and
green Killarney fern pleased her; and, as she fastened it in her dark
travelling-dress, it took her back to the green and white badges at
the Firdale election. Her spirits rose as they drove along the quays,
past the shabby old houses, which so visibly deplored the loss of the
Irish Parliament, past the familiar river; then to the left, on and
on, until the grim, gray boundary wall of the prison came into sight.
But her heart sank somehow, and a great oppression seized her as the
cab drew up beside the gaunt iron railings and outer gate. She sprang
out quickly, bade the driver to wait for her, and, walking up to the
main door, rang for admittance. The same two dragons, which she
remembered as a little child, were still writhing together in the
stone-work above the doorway. A friendly-looking warder appeared in
answer to her summons, and bade her wait for a minute in the
vestibule. There was something horribly depressing in the place, with
its dreary flagstones and its comfortless walls, which somehow looked
only the worse for a frightful blue dado, with a niggling, mean little
pattern bordering it by way of ornament. On the floor lay a most
uninviting heap of prisoners' clothes and boots. At desks by the wall
large, business-like books lay open. Above an inner door, leading into
the jail, there was a clock, at which Doreen looked several times as
she waited, to make sure that its hands really moved. The waiting
seemed endless. At last, however, a warder appeared, and, through
fifteen doors, all of which had to be solemnly unlocked, she was
escorted to the visitors' room. Here she had to wait for another five
minutes, while Max was informed that she had come to see him.

It happened that day that Max was more than usually depressed. He had
received a particularly kind letter from Miriam. She had written in
her good-natured, cousinly way to cheer him up, and to amuse him with
the remarks of the rest of the family with regard to his imprisonment.
They all seemed convinced that it must have been a mistaken arrest,
and confidently expected him to be soon at large again. Miriam
reminded him that they were to winter at Biarritz, and the General
sent a cordial invitation to him to join them there. To one in his
position the sense of kinship appealed very strongly, and the thought
of the free foreign life contrasted miserably enough with the gloom of
his present surroundings. He sat at his table, writing an answer to
Miriam's letter, chafing at the thought that it would be read by the
governor of Kilmainham, and miserably reflecting that he had only been
a week in jail, though each day seemed like a month. And the more he
brooded over his misery, the more bitter became his thoughts of
Doreen, by whose ill-timed words he must have been betrayed. A sort of
fury rose within him as he vividly recalled her look and tone and
touch, as she drew him on that last morning to the ottoman, and tried,
with all the skill she possessed, to turn his thoughts from the
subject she wished to avoid. The noisy opening of his door made him
start.

"Miss O'Ryan is waiting to see you in the visitors' room," said the
warder.

The pen dropped from Max Hereford's hand. "Miss O'Ryan!" he repeated,
as if unable to believe that he heard rightly.

"Miss Doreen O'Ryan it will be. The public singer," said the warder.

In a moment Max felt himself torn by conflicting emotions. Wild desire
to see Doreen and speak to her once more, wrath at her betrayal,
amazement at her temerity in coming thus to see him, a conviction that
she wanted to make some vain explanation,--in some way to excuse
herself,--a quick perception that any allusion to the Lough Lee
disaster might do him untold harm, falling, as it must fall, on other
ears, and a thoroughly English horror of going through any scene with
the girl who had once been betrothed to him, while other eyes were
looking on. What could either of them say while that insolent warder
stood by? And yet? And yet? How could he refuse when his heart cried
out to see her? It was so exactly like his brave, impetuous, rash
Doreen to come thus unheralded, risking everything in a generous,
large-hearted way. He could no longer doubt that she loved him, and
her love drew him strongly, almost irresistibly. But as O'Carroll had
shrewdly discovered, Max, on his way to Kilmainham, had taken a
decided step downwards, and now the fiends' voices which he had
listened to and encouraged and fostered all the week, rose to combat
that thought of Doreen's love.

"You fool!" they cried; "you weak fool! You are going, after all, to
be hoodwinked again by a woman! You are going to listen to the voice
that has caused all your misfortunes, and to be coaxed by a smooth
Irish tongue into bondage once more."

"Come along!" said the warder, roughly. "I can't be kept here all day.
I'm not a family butler to be dancing attendance on you. Are you
coming, or are you not coming?"

"I am not coming," said Max, with a haughty disdain in his tone which
abashed and yet angered the man.

"Am I to say that to the lady?" asked the warder.

"Say that I am sorry Miss O'Ryan has had the trouble of coming, but
that I must decline to have an interview with her."

With that he took up his pen and began to write again. The man looked
at him for a few moments in dead silence, as if musing on some problem
that entirely baffled him.

"What are you waiting for?" said Max, looking up sharply. "I thought
you were in haste to be gone."

At that the warder turned on his heel, clanging the door noisily after
him. And Max, once more alone, flung down his pen and began to walk to
and fro like a caged lion, until at last, worn out by excitement and
fatigue, deadly faintness stole over him, and all he could do was to
grope his way to the bed, feeling as if his last hour had come.

The warder returned to the visitors' room, and as the door opened,
Doreen started up eagerly. Her blank look when she saw that the man
was alone appealed to him, but it also stimulated his curiosity.

"Mr. Hereford says he is sorry you troubled to come, miss," he
repeated, "but that he must decline to have an interview with you."

"I think you cannot have made him understand," she said. "Tell him it
is Doreen O'Ryan."

"Oh, I told him, miss. He understands fast enough. Of course, I knew
your face well enough from the pictures, and I told him it was Miss
Doreen O'Ryan, the public singer. He'll not see you, miss. He takes a
very high tone. Some of the suspects they're pleasant enough, but he
takes a haughty line that don't at all pay in prison."

The room swam before Doreen's eyes, the floor seemed to heave beneath
her feet, but a consciousness that the warder was keenly scrutinizing
her made her struggle to keep up appearances for the sake of the man
she loved.

"Then let me out, please," she said, steadying her voice by an effort,
which gave a curious dignity to her manner. "As Mr. Hereford is unable
to speak to me this morning, there is nothing to wait for."

"You're a plucked one," thought the warder to himself, as he escorted
her back to the vestibule, and replied respectfully enough to her
farewell. But when the kindly-looking doorkeeper had called her
driver, who was engaged in an animated discussion with a friend at the
corner, Doreen suddenly felt her knees double up beneath her, and was
forced to clutch for support at his arm.

"Sure and it will be faint that you are feeling, miss," he said, with
ready sympathy. "Wait and let me get you some water."

"The fresh air will be enough," faltered Doreen, determined not to
yield before she was out of Kilmainham. "If you would just help me to
the cab. The prison seemed so--airless." She struggled pathetically to
the last to throw dust in the eyes of all who might gossip about Max.
"Tell the man to drive to Kingsbridge station. Thank you for your
help."

"God save you, kindly," said the doorkeeper, in response to her
farewell, and the sweet old Irish phrase fell comfortingly on her ears
as the cab moved off. But when they arrived at Kingsbridge, Doreen did
not stir. She knew nothing at all for the next half-hour, and when she
struggled back to consciousness and found herself lying at full length
on one of the waiting-room benches, she imagined for a moment that
some railway accident must have happened.

"Sure thin, sir, there's no need to be sending for the doctor at all,
at all, for the lady is coming to herself intirely," said a woman's
voice with a rich Dublin brogue.

Doreen quickly realized where she was, and a remembrance of her
promise to Ferrier darted back into her mind.

"Am I too late for the three o'clock train to Cork?" she asked,
looking up at the little group surrounding her.

It was some comfort to be in the midst of her own people, and their
keen interest and active sympathy touched her. It appeared that there
was plenty of time to spare before the train started, and one saw to
her luggage, and another took her ticket, and a third brought tea, and
cakes, and fruit, and the porters quarrelled for the privilege of
waiting on her.

She would gladly have concealed her identity, greatly dreading lest a
paragraph alluding to her visit to Kilmainham might get into the
papers, but her face was too well known and she was too much loved in
Ireland to escape detection; and, after all, the kindly attentions
staved off for a time the full realization of her misery, which broke
upon her overwhelmingly when, later on, she found herself alone in a
railway carriage, with a long, weary journey before her and with
nothing to distract her thoughts.

At first she was too utterly broken down by her lover's want of trust
to have room for any other thought. Max must, indeed, think the very
worst of her, if he could so cruelly refuse to see her at such a time.
His love must, indeed, be dead if he could inflict upon her a wound so
deep, an insult so intolerable. And here she broke down hopelessly,
sobbing as though her heart would break. She had hoped so much from
the interview, had longed so terribly to see him once more; and they
had actually been under the same roof, and he had merely sent her that
stiff, formal refusal.

At last a gleam of light broke in upon her darkness. She had not
realized before that in all probability the warder would have been
present throughout their interview. The suspects were treated
leniently enough, and she had assumed that she would see Max alone;
but now she realized that this was hardly probable. Perhaps he had
refused to see her on that account; and as she remembered the
inquisitive eyes of the warder, and recollected how trying their
meeting must in any case have been, she began to comfort herself with
this solution of the matter.

The train stopped just then at Portarlington. She hastily dried her
eyes, composed herself, and even tried heroically to eat; for was it
not four o'clock, and how could she hope to have any voice that night
if she reached the concert hall faint and famished?

Then she began bravely to consider what was to be done next. She could
not write to Max, and he refused to see her. How was she to avail
herself of Desmond's permission to reveal the truth when any
difficulty or danger arose? To her fancy the engine seemed grimly to
respond to the question by ceaselessly thumping the refrain of an old
satirical ballad about one of the "hanging judges," which her father
used to sing:--


    "Hark, forward, Kilmainham! Hark, forward,
     Kilmainham! We'll hang 'em, we'll hang 'em, before
     we arraign 'em!"


Well, it was impossible to reach her lover, and therefore she herself
must speak out plainly to those in authority. Should she write to the
Chief Secretary? A letter might be thrown on one side, or might be
opened by other hands. Should she go to see him? She shuddered at the
idea; for, not unnaturally, he was a man she detested, seeing him not
as he really was,--an honest, good man, struggling conscientiously to
do what seemed to him right, meaning well by Ireland, but blinded by
the atmosphere of officialism surrounding him, and unable to get a
true view of the heart of the Irish nation. She saw him inevitably as
the tyrant who had thrown into prison hundreds and hundreds of her
fellow-countrymen without any trial whatever, and who had re-consigned
her father's best friend, Donal Moore, to all the horrors of penal
servitude. To go to him would, she thought, be useless. To whom, then,
should she turn?

A saying of her father's returned to her mind. "'When in doubt,
consult the best authorities' is as true a rule of life as the old
rule at whist, 'When in doubt, play trumps.'"

She would go straight to the very highest quarter: she would see the
Prime Minister. He was a man she deeply reverenced for his personal
goodness, and she did not cherish towards him that feeling of bitter
resentment which she felt towards the Chief Secretary. She saw that
the only day on which it would be possible for her to go on such an
errand would be the following Sunday; and, as Doreen never let the
grass grow under her feet, she promptly opened her travelling-bag, and
began then and there to fill up a telegram form, laughing to herself a
little even then, in spite of all her troubles. "I am a bold sort of
girl to dare to send a telegram, asking for an interview with the
Prime Minister! I could not do it for the sake of any one but Max.
What shall I do if he refuses to grant me a hearing? I believe I would
go to the Queen herself. I must send this off from Thurles, and prepay
the answer to the Midland Hotel, Birmingham. What will they think of
my 'matter of great importance'? Will they imagine I have discovered
some conspiracy at Thurles? (they'll pronounce that as if it rhymed
with _curls_, over in England). Will it be a matter of but secondary
importance to them--this releasing of one unjustly imprisoned
Englishman? No, if only I can tell the whole story as it happened, I
think they will see it as I do, and will forgive my audacity." The
little excitement of sending off the telegram revived her; and between
Thurles and Limerick Junction, she whiled away the time by dressing
for the evening. It was a cheerless proceeding to don rose-coloured
silken robes in a railway carriage by the fading October light; but
something in the novelty and absurdity of the arrangement amused her a
little, and it was not until darkness had fallen on the landscape that
blank depression fell upon her once more. She leant back wearily in
her corner, her train carefully pinned up, her long fur cloak wrapped
closely about her, and her thoughts once more dwelling on the cruel
shock she had received at Kilmainham. Each little station they stopped
at looked more dreary than the last, and the Cork station the worst of
all, as she stepped, shivering with cold and fatigue, from the warm
railway carriage on to the dingy platform. She could have cried with
joy when she caught sight of two old friends who had known her since
her childhood. To be warmly greeted and made much of, not because of
her voice, but because she was Patrick O'Ryan's daughter, cheered her
as nothing else could have done; and she got through her songs better
than might have been expected.




CHAPTER XXXI.


    "So let him wait God's instant men call years.
     Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul.
     Do out the duty."

                                        R. BROWNING.


"You don't look much rested, my dear," observed Domenica Sardoni, when
Doreen appeared the next morning, in time for the train to Waterford.

"Indeed," she replied, laughing, "I am like the man who said he had
passed a wretched night, for he 'couldn't slape for draiming.' By the
bye, Ferrier tells me that most of you have decided to sleep to-night
at Milford, but I have made up my mind to go straight through to
Birmingham; I want to go further still, if possible. Don't tell the
rest of the world; but it was no manner of use my waiting behind you
in Dublin yesterday, and now my only hope of doing the work I want to
do, is to get an interview with the one Englishman who might help me."

"Who is that?" said Domenica.

"Well, tell it not in Gath, but it is the Prime Minister."

"Why, my friend, you will have to go all across England to reach him,
and already you look tired out. Reflect what is before you: the
journey to Waterford, the concert at two o'clock, a scramble to get
off by the five o'clock steamer, a long passage to Milford, where we
don't arrive till an hour and a half after midnight, and then a most
wearisome journey through the night to Birmingham, and on much
further afterwards,--why, you will not get there till late in the
afternoon."

"And if I had to walk there barefoot, I would go," said Doreen, with
that touch of sturdy resolution which reminded one from time to time
that beneath all the light-hearted sweetness of her nature lay the
unfaltering courage which had led her progenitors to face
imprisonment, exile, and torture.

"If the crossing is not very bad, I have a good mind to come on with
you to Birmingham," said Domenica, reflectively; "the St. Pierres, I
know, will spend the night at New Milford, and I don't quite like your
travelling all through the night alone. Besides, to tell the truth, I
should much like to go to the Oratory. I must see if I can persuade my
husband."

Doreen was very grateful to the kindly Maltese singer, and Sardoni's
unfailing good spirits cheered her not a little, when, worn and weary
after the all-night journey and the miserably bad crossing, they
arrived on Sunday morning at Birmingham. She inquired promptly for her
telegram, and opened it with trembling fingers. The Prime Minister
would see her that afternoon. Her breath came quickly, her face
flushed; she began to realize what an ordeal lay before her, and the
prospect did not look any less terrible when Sardoni had seen her off
at the station, and she was left alone for another tedious journey.
How was she to tell that strange story of long ago, how explain it all
briefly and yet lucidly, to one whose time was so precious?

As she drove up to the stately country house, she felt positively ill
with nervous anxiety, and nothing but the habit of self-control she
had acquired during her public life could have enabled her to walk
composedly across the entrance hall into the great drawing-room to
which she was ushered. Then suddenly, all her fears vanished, for the
most homelike scene greeted her; beside the hearth a lady with a
sweet, motherly face presided at an afternoon-tea-table, while the
Prime Minister--of whom she had sometimes thought hard things--was
playing with a little fair-haired grandchild, who chatted to him with
the loving freedom of perfect trust.

He came forward to greet her with beautiful old-world courtesy, making
her feel at once perfectly at ease, alluding to the last Handel
Festival at which he had heard her sing, and passing from that to a
discussion of the differences between the Italian and German schools
of music, until she thought that never until now had she known what
conversation really meant. And the little child waited on her,
bringing her tea, and scones, and cakes, and the firelight played on
the old family portraits, and on the restful, harmonious room, which
was so unlike the hotels she had been living in of late, while her
heart, which had been starving for Mollie and Bride all through the
tour, and her mind which had longed impatiently for something a little
more intellectual than the barren, profitless talk of Ferrier's
company, felt wonderfully stimulated and refreshed.

"And now," said the Prime Minister, "I will ask you to come to my
study that we may talk over quietly the matter you alluded to in your
telegram. Most fortunately, it happens that the Chief Secretary is
staying with us for two days; and if, as I presume, your business is
connected with Irish matters, I think we shall do well to call him to
our counsels."

Doreen started and blushed. A dismayed look passed over her expressive
face.

"Is it--" she faltered, "is it indeed necessary?"

The Prime Minister read her thoughts.

"Believe me," he said, "you will find him very ready to give a fair
hearing to everything connected with your country. He is not the ogre
that some of your countrymen paint him."

"I know that many of us have said bitter things of him," said Doreen.
"But"--and here her eyes filled with tears--"it is not easy to feel
quite friendly towards those who have cast hundreds of one's
countrymen into prison. Many of the suspects are my personal friends;
to one of them I was for some time betrothed; it is with regard to his
case that I have something of importance to tell you."

The Prime Minister had listened with courteous and sympathetic
attention to her words.

"I can well understand that your feeling towards us is somewhat
bitter," he said quietly. "I think I have been told that your family
suffered very grievously in the past."

"My great-grandfather was a Wicklow blacksmith," said Doreen. "I am
very proud of him;--had he been on the Black List and won a Peerage by
a bribed vote for the Union, I should have despised him. He was just a
blacksmith; and though your soldiers gave him five hundred lashes, and
that horrible torture they invented of the pitched cap, he would not
reveal the names of those customers for whom he had made pikes. Later
on, my grandfather, after being hunted like a wild animal among the
mountains, died of cold and privation; that was in the rising of '48.
My father died five years ago from the effects of penal servitude. He
had been concerned in the Fenian rising. And now it seems that my turn
has come, and you have thrust the man I love into prison."

Her voice trembled as she spoke that last sentence, but there was a
flash of exultation in her blue eyes. Her love might help Max now, and
she proclaimed it frankly and fearlessly.

The little fair-haired child, attracted by the musical voice with its
varying tones, came now and leant against her knee; she turned to it
at once with the look of loving comprehension and tender sweetness
which characterizes a true child-lover. The Prime Minister watched
them for a moment or two in silence. His powerful face would have
formed a grand subject for a painter; but Doreen was watching the
little child, and did not see how grave thoughts and brighter hopes
for the future revealed themselves on the well-known features, like
cloud and sunshine on an April landscape.

"If you will excuse me for a moment, I will speak with the Chief
Secretary," he said, disappearing into the adjoining room, and
returning shortly with a request that Doreen would accompany him.
"Believe me, it is best that we should both hear what you have to
say," he remarked kindly, as without any further demur she followed
him. "It will be best for Mr. Hereford, whose case is known to the
Chief Secretary."

Doreen was glad he had let her perceive that he knew Max Hereford was
the man she had referred to. His chivalrous manner touched her.
However much she disapproved of his present Irish policy, it was
impossible to harbour against him any sort of enmity. He led her into
a lamplit study, lined with books, where a gray-haired, careworn man
rose at their entrance. Here, then, was the Chief Secretary, the man
she had hated with all the strength of her Keltic nature; here was the
man who, by his own confession, was ruling Ireland as despotically as
the Czar ruled Russia; the man who, by a mere stroke of his pen, had
proclaimed the Land League to be an illegal association; the man whose
word was sufficient to cast into prison any one suspected of
furthering the people's cause, without trial of any description.

"I am glad to meet you, Miss O'Ryan," he said, greeting her pleasantly
enough. "I understand that you have something to tell us with regard
to the case of Mr. Max Hereford. I learn that you visited him last
Friday, at Kilmainham, but that he declined to see you. Is that a
fact?"

"Yes," she replied, taking the chair which the Prime Minister drew
closer to the hearth for her, "he refused to see me."

Her voice quivered a little, but her eyes were clear as they looked
straight up at the Chief Secretary. She was comforted greatly to find
that this ferocious tyrant, this brutal oppressor, as she had been
accustomed to regard him, was evidently the most honest and
straightforward of men; one who would spare himself no pains in
unravelling the case in hand.

"May I ask whether there was any special motive in your visit?" said
the Prime Minister.

"I had permission to set Mr. Hereford free from an oath which had
bound us both to keep silence with regard to the fate of Mr. James
Foxell, Lord Byfield's agent, who disappeared many years ago."

For a moment there was dead silence in the room. Doreen could hear
only the beating of her own heart, and the soft flickering of the
flames on the hearth.

"Who exacted such an oath from you, and who set you free?" said the
Chief Secretary, his keen eyes earnestly searching her face.

"The man who was responsible for Mr. Foxell's death," she replied.

"Then he was murdered?"

"I think it would not be considered murder, but manslaughter. May I
tell you the whole story as briefly as I can?"

"I shall be greatly obliged if you would do so; but, pardon me, you
must have been very young at the time, Miss O'Ryan."

"I was twelve years old," she replied. "But I can remember every
tiniest detail of that day,--that horrible day." She shuddered, even
now, at the remembrance. "Max Hereford was a boy of eighteen, and his
mother had taken Castle Karey, that summer, for two months. We were
staying close by; it was just before my father was released from
Portland Prison, and the Herefords were very kind to us, taking me in
their boat, and, on this particular day, bringing a pony for me, that
we might cross the mountains to Lough Lee. Generally, Miriam Hereford
was with us, but on this day I went alone with Max and his tutor, Mr.
John Desmond. Perhaps you do not know Lough Lee,--it is a most wild
and dreary lake; but, at the far end of it, there used to be a little
cabin in which lived an old man named Larry Cassidy."

"I have all the particulars with regard to old Cassidy," said the
Chief Secretary, referring to a note-book. "He was very harshly
evicted. It was a particularly cruel case; but all that happened in
the time of Mr. Foxell's successor."

"Yes," said Doreen, "we learnt about that afterwards. But what the new
agent performed, Foxell threatened. It was all, you remember, about a
potato patch that the old man had made himself, with the greatest
pains, out of a disused stone quarry. We were close by the cabin, in
the boat, and heard the agent cruelly abusing poor Larry; he was a
very old, infirm man, and he cried most piteously. It makes my blood
boil now to think of it. Mr. Desmond sprang on shore and began to
remonstrate with Mr. Foxell; Max Hereford, too, landed, but told me to
wait in the boat because the agent was in such a violent temper. I
could see from where I was all that happened. Max went to speak to the
old woman by the cabin door. I could not hear what he said, but he was
evidently trying to console her; but all that passed between the agent
and Mr. Desmond and Larry I heard distinctly,--the poor old man
beseeching that the house might not be pulled down and the land he had
made snatched from him, and Foxell brutally abusing and threatening
him, and John Desmond angrily declaring that he would expose the case
in the English papers. Their voices got louder and louder, and the
agent at last, losing all control over himself, seized old Larry by
the collar and seemed about to strike him, when Mr. Desmond sprang at
him like a tiger, and the agent turned from Larry and fought with the
tutor. It was a horrible sight. They seemed not like men, but like
wild beasts: I am sure that for the time Mr. Desmond was out of his
mind. Max Hereford came hurrying down from the cabin door and
remonstrated with his tutor. I can't remember the exact words, but I
know that he begged him to leave Foxell and to help Larry in some
other way. But the two men seemed not to hear him, and every moment
they drew nearer to the edge of the overhanging rock. At last I saw
the agent's hand drop suddenly from the tutor's throat, and he fell
backwards; his face was dark, almost purple; he splashed straight down
into the lough. I sat there in the boat, almost stupefied by the
horrible sight; but Max came plunging down between the arbutus trees
and leaped in and snatched up the oars, saying, 'Steer to the place
where he sank!' I had hardly taken my eyes from the spot, and the
being forced to move and to do something seemed to bring back my
senses; and then"--she turned pale at the remembrance--"as we looked
down steadily at the water I saw that awful, distorted face rise once
more. Max leaned over the boat and tried desperately to grip hold of
the body, but the hair was short and slippery with the water; it slid
through his fingers, and though we waited, the body never rose again.
When Max said, 'It would have been no use; he was quite dead,' I began
to think that Mr. Desmond would be sent to prison, or perhaps hung for
murder, and we both agreed that he had looked for the time quite mad.
There had been a most strange, wild gleam in his eyes which we had
both noticed. Then we landed and talked things over in the little
cabin; Mr. Desmond seemed half stupefied. I remember that old Larry
burnt the agent's stick, saying that it was the only thing left to
tell tales, and then he and his wife, of their own accord, swore by
the cross of Christ, crossing their forefingers in the old Irish
fashion, that they would never speak a word of what had passed that
day. Later on Max Hereford and I made the same vow. That evening the
tutor was seized with a sharp attack of brain fever. Max nursed him
through it, but he was helped by his valet, a Frenchman named Baptiste
Charpentier, who professed to understand hardly any English. This man
remained in Mr. Hereford's service for several years, and was
dismissed at a moment's notice because he was found reading his
master's private letters. We kept our oath of secrecy with absolute
fidelity, but once when I was staying with the Herefords at Monkton
Verney, Max and I spoke together of what had passed that day, and I
was alarmed to find the French valet in the shrubbery, and fear that
he may have overheard a few words."

"What had become of Mr. Desmond all this time?" asked the Chief
Secretary.

"We had lost sight of him altogether, when one evening last June,
while singing in St. James' Hall, a child handed me a bouquet in which
I found this note." She paused for a moment while her two auditors
read Desmond's brief lines.

"Perhaps," she said, colouring vividly, "you will blame me for going
to such a place at such a time, but I was betrothed to Mr. Hereford,
and it seemed to me simply a thing that had to be done. From Mr.
Desmond I learnt that private detectives were watching every movement
my _fianc_ took, and that they were also trying their very best to
discover his own whereabouts. The widow of James Foxell found the
money, and Baptiste, the French valet, was her tool. Mr. Desmond was
leaving England that night; he had some fears that Max might get into
difficulties over this affair, and find himself hampered by his oath
of secrecy; in case this should happen he authorized us both to speak.
I asked him why he could not have seen Max, and why I might not tell
him all this at once. And then it transpired that while in America Mr.
Desmond had adopted the most extreme opinions, and that he was mixed
up with the recent dynamite outrages. To have any connection with him
would, he thought, be fatal to Mr. Hereford's public career. So, you
see, I was allowed to be free from my original oath if danger should
arise, but I was to promise to say nothing whatever to my lover unless
he found himself suspected of complicity in the Lough Lee affair. Just
after this meeting with John Desmond my engagement was broken off, and
when at Kilmainham I found that it was impossible to release Mr.
Hereford from his oath and explain the matter to him, I thought I was
justified in appealing to those who had imprisoned him. I had seen in
the newspapers the account of the watch-key, found inside a fish
caught in Lough Lee, with Mr. Foxell's initials on it, and seeing that
Baptiste Charpentier had found so extraordinary a bit of evidence, and
that almost immediately afterwards Max Hereford was imprisoned, I
naturally thought there was some connection between the two events. I
am of course aware that he was nominally arrested for speaking at two
of the Land League meetings."

"Are you prepared to swear to the absolute truth of all you have told
us?" said the Chief Secretary.

"Certainly," she replied; "I swear that it is the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth."

Again a silence reigned in the room. Doreen, now that her work was
done, became suddenly conscious of weary limbs and an aching heart;
there was something, too, which appealed very painfully to her in the
realization of the immense power which rested with these two
statesmen. If they could but see the justice of Ireland's cry for Home
Rule! If they could but view things from the point of the true
Irishman, the tiller of the ground, who, spite of centuries of
oppression, spite of rack rents and famine and pestilence and sword,
had refused to be driven from his native land by the conquerors who
love to sweep all before them!

Was it, after all, so hopeless that they might learn to trust her
people? The whole basis of their power in England lay in that trust of
the workers of the nation, in utter refusal to be guided by
considerations of rank or wealth. When would they learn that men like
Fitzhugh and O'Carroll and Donal Moore were the true leaders of the
Irish, and that they understood the people as no prejudiced, selfish
landlord was capable of understanding them!

She glanced up at the two powerful faces, and there stole into her
heart a comforting perception of the strong desire that lay with each
of them to do what was just. These were not the sort of statesmen to
seek what was expedient for the moment, but what was morally right.
They would not, as had been the case with so many English ministers,
use Ireland to serve the interests of their own party, and then leave
her in the lurch. They would act up to their lights, would do what
they believed to be right even though it were to their own hindrance.

"I leave for Dublin to-morrow night," said the Chief Secretary, "and
you may rest assured that I shall give the most impartial
consideration to Mr. Hereford's case. He will probably be at large
again very shortly."

Doreen rose to take leave, the great relief of unburdening her heart,
the rapture of knowing that Max would soon be free and that she had
freed him, mingled with the painful thought of his utter
misunderstanding, and threatened to prove too much for her powers of
endurance. The Prime Minister noted her look of exhaustion, and as
they returned to the drawing-room, he talked to her with the greatest
kindness of the suffering which the deeds of others had forced her to
endure for so many years. His wife was full of offers of hospitality;
but Doreen, though she was touched and pleased by all the kindly
attentions shown her, excused herself on the ground that she must
rejoin Ferrier's concert party.

"Is there nothing more that we can do for you?" said the Prime
Minister.

A sudden thought darted into Doreen's mind.

"There is one thing," she said eagerly: "Donal Moore, my father's old
friend, was left as co-guardian with me of my younger brothers and
sisters. I applied once at Portland Prison to see him in the ordinary
way, but was refused. But you are all-powerful; you could give us
permission to visit him."

"You must have a special order from the Home Secretary," said the
Prime Minister; "I will myself see to it for you." And then with a few
gracious, courtly words he bade her farewell. And Doreen drove from
the house feeling as if she had been blessed by a patriarch.




CHAPTER XXXII.


    "Ah, if their hearts were callous, and if their souls were mean,
     If selfish thoughts could sway them, not such their fate had been:
     They felt their country's sorrow, and dreamed that dream of light,
     To change her grief to gladness, her gloom to glory bright;
     They saw their people stricken in suffering sad and low,
     And offered all their life-blood to raise them from their woe.

    "Oh, ye for whom they suffer, for whom they thought and strove,
     Let not their memories vanish from out your hearts of love!
     Pray for the hapless captives midst all your joy or grief,
     That Christ, once bound and tortured, may send them sweet relief,
     May visit them in prison, may touch them with His hand,
     And give them peace who perish to right their native land."

                                                      T. D. SULLIVAN.


To be endowed with a hopeful temperament and a vivid imagination is
generally considered to be one of the greatest privileges. People
seldom realize that, like a two-edged sword, such a disposition is a
perilous one to deal with. After a good night's rest Doreen began to
take a most roseate view of life in general, and of her own affairs in
particular. When Max knew all, when he was free once more, why then
surely he would write to her. She could not and would not believe that
the love of years was finally to be killed by a hasty lovers' quarrel
and a brief misunderstanding. The thing was ridiculous, impossible.
Directly Max knew all, he would come to her.

As the week drew to a close, she looked eagerly for letters, and there
was hardly a moment of the day in which she did not expect him to
arrive; yet when nothing happened, she consoled herself by reflecting
that the Chief Secretary had only reached Dublin on Tuesday morning,
and that doubtless other cases might have to be considered first. On
the Monday morning when she came down to breakfast, in their private
sitting-room at the Spread Eagle in Rilchester, she found that no one
but Ferrier was yet down. He was deep in his newspaper, and started a
little as she greeted him.

"There is something here, my dear, which you had better read," he
said, "before the rest of the party arrive."

She caught the newspaper eagerly from his hand and read the following
lines:--

"Mr. Max Hereford, whose arrest as a suspect caused some little
surprise, was released from Kilmainham on Friday, and proceeded at
once to one of the North Wall boats bound for Liverpool. We understand
that he intends to go immediately to Madeira for the sake of his
health."

Doreen said not a word, but she felt as if the end of all things had
come. He had gone abroad without writing to her, without trying to see
her. Well, then his love must be dead. And her love for him? It could
never die; it would live, but only to torture her. Surely it had been
prophetic that his first gift to her should have been a crucifix. With
that thought, however, a fresh idea darted into her mind. There must,
after all, be some purpose in it. It was not for nothing that she was
called on to bear this bitter pain and shame. There remained for her,
at least, the comfort of knowing that she had set him free, and
perhaps saved his future career.

"Don't go away without any breakfast," said Ferrier. "The butter is
abominable, and the bacon hard as leather; but the eggs may be safely
recommended, and the coffee is passable."

She sat down to please him, and made a pretence of eating; then,
hearing voices outside, hurriedly rose.

"Don't tell the others just to-day," she said. "I want to get used to
it. I am going now to the cathedral."

And finding great relief in rapid motion, she hurried along the
quaint, old-fashioned street leading to the Close, and made her way
into a quiet nook in the great church. Morning service was over, but
the choir were practising Wesley's anthem, "The wilderness and the
solitary place shall be glad for them," and the music soothed her as
nothing else could have done. She thought of Ireland, and tried to
believe that in some unknown way this pain of hers would serve the
national cause, and that at last there should indeed come the time
when "sorrow and sighing shall flee away." Why was she to be more
favoured than others of her family? They had all died for love of
their land, and now it had come to her turn; and her country's wrongs,
and the failure of her own temper and patience, had made it necessary
that she should endure this death in life. But then her strong faith
in Max once more brought comfort to her. Surely it was impossible that
he had heard the whole truth! Was it likely that he would himself have
seen the Chief Secretary, a man who was worked almost to death?
Probably he had merely received an order for his release, and had
never learnt how it had been procured. Perhaps some day he might
learn; perhaps some day he would trust in her again. But for the
present she could do no more; could only wait and throw herself
vigorously into her professional life, and into trying to relieve the
dire distress which was caused in Ireland by the arrest of so many
bread-winners.

Passing through London on the following day, she was cheered by a
brief talk with Michael, who came to meet her at King's Cross. The boy
was shy of speaking about Max, and perhaps it was as well, for she
could have told him nothing of the events of the past three weeks.

"I brought you this, aroon," he said, colouring a little. "It's only
an Algerian thing, but I thought it might come in usefully."

They were in a hansom, driving to Waterloo station, and Doreen,
opening the little box he put in her hands, found a quaint and very
effective necklace, which must certainly have cost every penny he
possessed. She knew in a moment that he had spent on her the money he
had won in two or three tennis tournaments that summer, and that he
had realized that the separation from Max had left her without a
single ornament.

"You are very good to me, dear boy," she said, with tears in her eyes,
as she slipped her hand into his, with a little tender, grateful
caress. "And I have good news for you," she added, with forced
cheerfulness. "I have a special order to go and see Donal Moore. Can't
you manage to get two or three days' holiday in the third week of
November? Then we will go down to Portland together."

"That would be splendid," said the boy, eagerly. "I wonder whether it
is much changed since the old days when we used to see father."

Doreen sighed. It seemed to her that she had lived through a whole age
of sorrow and trouble since the days when, as a little, eager, hopeful
girl, she had visited the jail with her mother.

"I think I must take Mollie for a treat. Sunbeams are needed in that
dreary place."

"And couldn't you take poor old Dermot?" said Michael. "He has had
rather a rough time of it at school lately. The day after the arrests,
when I came home in the evening, I found him dreadfully mauled, and it
turned out that he had been fighting a boy ever so much bigger. Father
Farrell had come in with me, and he took him to task about it; said
the love of fighting was the root of all evil, and so on.

"'I don't love fighting, father,' said Dermot, 'and truly I always
stand their chaff and let them call me "Doormat," but you can't expect
a fellow to stand by and hear Donal Moore and O'Carroll and Fitzhugh
called thieves and murderers. I guess if you'd been a schoolboy you'd
have fought yourself, father.'"

Doreen laughed.

"And what did Father Farrell say to him?"

"Why," said Michael, "he just turned away and walked up the room,
laughing to himself, and then when he came back he told us about when
he was a boy, and was as jolly as could be, and told Dermot that he
thought he was cut out to be a hero of the pen rather than a hero of
the sword. Dermot was awfully pleased, and he told how for years he
had meant to be a newspaper correspondent when he was old enough, and
Father Farrell stayed so long talking with us that I believe Uncle
Garth thought we were hatching a diabolical popish plot."

"Don't abuse Uncle Garth," said Doreen, brightly. "He is learning
that, after all, whatever their differences, Roman Catholics and
English churchmen say precisely the same creed every Sunday. If there
were no worse bigots than Uncle Garth, we should all get on peaceably
enough together."

"Oh yes, thank Heaven! he is not like General Hereford," said Michael,
"who firmly believes that all Catholics lie when they find it
convenient, and would torture and burn all Protestants if they had a
chance. You might talk yourself to death while showing him that
self-government in Italy has meant the very opposite to priestly
domination. He would still insist that Home Rule meant Rome rule.
That's just one of those catchpenny phrases that stick fast in the
heads of pig-headed idiots."

"Is Dermot all right again?" said Doreen. "I wish I had been at home
to look after him."

"Oh, he is right enough now, though his face is still all the colours
of the rainbow. Brian Osmond saw to him, and Aunt Garth was awfully
good. But it's beastly at home now we are so few. When is Una coming
back, and the children?"

"I think they had better stay on with Mrs. Muchmore at Bournemouth
till after we have been to Portland. We can take Mollie on our way
down. I am just longing for home. This tour seems the longest I have
ever taken. If it were not that I am really fond of Madame St. Pierre,
and of Sardoni and his wife, and of dear old Ferrier, who is kindness
itself, I don't think I could endure it. Stainforth, the violinist, is
an insufferable man, and the pianist drinks, and the baritone has a
bad temper. And they all talk against the Irish, and not one of them
has taken the trouble to study Irish history,--not one!"

"Doreen looks so dreadfully tired," thought Michael, as he walked back
from Paddington after seeing her safely into the train. "I am afraid
she has been fretting over Max Hereford's imprisonment and the news of
his illness. How I wish she had never met him! There was trouble
enough in her life already without his making any more."

But Doreen would certainly have disagreed with this sentiment, and she
struggled on with the buoyant courage of her race, not losing, even in
the midst of her trouble, the happy sense of humour, which did much to
keep her companions in good spirits during the tour. It was always
Doreen who overheard the comments of the front row and regaled the
others with them afterwards. People seemed happily oblivious to the
fact that sound rises and that the performers were not deaf. In a
pause after the pianist's brilliant staccato mazurka, Doreen, waiting
on the platform behind a screen, ready for her next song, overheard a
lady remark, "How singular it seems that he never alights on the wrong
note!" The delicious _navet_ of this faint praise as the reward for
years of hard work and considerable talent tickled them all so much
that poor old D'Albiac never heard the last of it. Then there were the
frank and outspoken personal remarks, the criticisms on the dresses,
sometimes a hot discussion in penetrating whispers as to whether the
violinist did or did not wear a wig!

It was not until the last evening of the tour that Doreen summoned up
her courage to speak to Ferrier about a matter which had long filled
her thoughts. Madame St. Pierre was singing, Sardoni and his wife were
talking on the stairs to some friends, and the rest were gossiping
round the door leading on to the platform. These two found themselves
quite alone in the artistes' room; for even Madame St. Pierre's
French maid had put down her work and was waiting with her mistress's
shawl down below.

"Oh, my dear, how thankful I am that we are at the end of this
pilgrimage," said Ferrier, dropping wearily into a chair. "I am almost
ready to register a vow that I will never again go on tour."

"Don't do that," said Doreen. "It would be very hard on the rest of
the profession. I wish before the others come back you would give me
your advice."

He looked into the sweet, winsome face, and noted the somewhat anxious
expression of the blue eyes.

"My dear Doreen, I am as ready to advise you as if you were one of my
own daughters. Don't work so hard, don't sing so often, raise your
terms, and take a good holiday."

"I do not mean to sing quite so much," she said hesitatingly; "in
fact, I am thinking of going to Ireland after Christmas. I want to
know whether you think my joining the Ladies' Land League will very
much affect my position as a singer."

"It is hard to say," he replied. "You are very popular, but people
would certainly resent your taking such a step. I think it is a great
mistake for an artiste to be mixed up with such matters. A singer
should have no politics."

"Now come!" said Doreen, laughing. "That is all very well; but have
you eschewed politics while we have been on tour?"

"I mean in public," he replied.

"And have you not sung in public every night for the last six weeks
that aggressively English song which lauds all English virtues to the
skies? And didn't you invariably give 'Hearts of Oak' for an
_encore?_"

"Pshaw! I sang the song because it was set to a popular and taking
air. But do you think I would sing it if the words would give offence?
Not for all the silver in Peru! An artiste has no business to meddle
with politics."

"In the words of Madame Viadot Garcia," said Doreen, '_D'abord je suis
femme, et puis je suis artiste._' I think you forget that I was
Patrick O'Ryan's orphan daughter before I was a public singer."

"Well, well," he said kindly, "you must do what you think right. You
never have pandered to the public, or hidden your convictions under a
bushel, and I don't suppose you're likely to begin now. And, entirely
to please the most wilful of Irishwomen, I will not sing 'Hearts of
Oak' for an _encore_ to-night, but will give them 'Molly Carew'
instead."

Doreen's heart felt lighter than it had done for some time when,
having parted with her friends, she set off the next morning for
Bournemouth. The two children were waiting for her on the platform,
and threw themselves upon her with a welcome that seemed doubly
delightful after her long absence. They found Una in her bath chair in
the public gardens, and the sight of the wonderful improvement in the
little girl's whole aspect sent a thrill of pleasure to Doreen's
heart. It seemed to her that she had failed with all else, but had
succeeded fairly well with the little violinist, whose happy freedom
from care and renewed health were plainly visible in the pretty and
now childlike face. They spent a merry day together, and the next
morning, being joined by Michael and Dermot, Doreen set out for
Portland, having carefully arrayed Mollie in her very prettiest
costume, "taking as much pains over it," Mrs. Muchmore observed, "as
if the child were going to see Royalty."

It was impossible not to be infected by the high spirits of the two
boys and by Mollie's delicious air of importance.

"It will be the first time I've ever seen a prison," she announced
gleefully, "and Bride and me are always playing prisoners, you know."

"Just as we used to do," said Doreen, glancing at Michael; "many's the
quarrel we have had in disputing which should have the honour of being
the prisoner, and which should take the hated _rle_ of Englishman."

"Yes; don't you remember when we argued for an hour one night in bed,
because you always would play the part of Wolfe Tone, and make me act
the man who betrayed him? And when words failed me, I solemnly rose
and bit your arm."

"Poor Mick! I was a terrible tease," said Doreen, penitently; "and it
was hard on you, for I could show the mark of your teeth, and you
couldn't show the effect of my biting words. I can see now the
struggle in mother's face to keep grave and to look shocked when we
explained that we were wrangling over Wolfe Tone. And after that, I
always had to take my turn at Sir George Hill."

Having reached Weymouth, they took a carriage and drove straight to
the prison, Michael eagerly recognizing the most curiously trivial
objects, which are often the ones to dwell longest in a child's
memory; Doreen, somewhat grave and sad as she recalled their last
visit. She held Mollie's hand in hers as they dismounted at the grim,
forbidding entrance, and followed their guide into the Governor's
office, where the Governor himself received them pleasantly enough,
explaining to her that she should see Donal Moore in his presence and
in his office, instead of in the usual way, in the presence of a
warder, and with iron bars between them.

She was grateful for the concession, and then it suddenly struck her
what a strange thing it was that, towards the end of the nineteenth
century, an Irishwoman should have to be grateful to an Englishman for
permission to see for twenty minutes one of her own countrymen, on the
understanding that politics must be excluded from their conversation.
When in a few minutes the convict was brought into the room, her first
feeling was one of hot indignation, as her eyes caught the familiar
and hideous prison dress, and the closely cut, grizzled hair. But the
face, though thinner and paler, was as gentle as ever, and the quiet
blue eyes lighted up with pleasure, as he caught sight of the little
group waiting to see him.

"What, four of you!" he exclaimed; "that is more than I had expected.
Why, Mollie mavourneen, who would have thought of seeing you in
prison!"

The child sprang into his arms, and clung round his neck, hugging and
kissing him with all her heart, while the Governor thought he had
never before realized how fast Irish tongues could fly, and in what a
bewildering fashion five people could talk at one and the same moment.
It was difficult to distinguish exactly what did pass, but presently
Mollie's childish tones rang out clearly in a momentary pause. "Dear
Donal! why do they put this thing on your arm, just as if you were a
cabman? Is it your age? Oh no! I see it's something in hundreds, and
you're not so very very old yet. And what are these spiked things all
over the clothes?"

"Those, mavourneen, are broad arrows."

"Oh yes, now I see," said Mollie; "that's why you made me think of the
picture of St. Sebastian in Dermot's book, where he is tied to the
tree, and arrows are sticking all into him; but they were rather
longer arrows than yours. I do wish when you come out, you would let
us have these lovely clothes for acting."

"You must run and ask the Governor," said Donal Moore, laughing. Then,
drawing Doreen a little aside, he began to ask whether she had seen
his wife in Dublin.

"She was here in August and told me the last news of you," he added.
"I am grieved about it, but it is hardly a matter we can touch on
now."

"No," said Doreen, "and there is little enough I could tell you. It is
all at an end, but I think--I hope--he still cares for Ireland. Our
time in Dublin was terribly short, but I did get a little talk with
Mrs. Moore. She was very good to me; I was in dreadful trouble just
then. But, Donal, the time is slipping by cruelly fast, and I want
very much to ask you whether you think it would be unwise for me to go
to Ireland after Christmas. I want to help. I can't bear to be any
longer what my father would have called a botheen."

"Do you mean work at number 39?" he asked.

"Yes; I don't care how dull it is as long as it is practical work of
some sort."

"It is what I should have expected of Patrick O'Ryan's daughter," he
said. "If you ask my advice, I should certainly say--'Go, and God be
with you!'"

"And how about the children? Shall I take them over there with Mrs.
Muchmore, or would you think it better for them to be left with her in
London?"

"I should let them stay on at home if Mrs. Garth makes no objection.
You will have little free time out there, and would worry about them
less if they were all together at Bernard Street with Brian Osmond at
hand in case anything should go wrong."

She sighed, hating the prospect of the parting, yet forced to agree
that there was much to be said for his point of view.

"You had better stay with my wife," he said; "she would be only too
delighted to have you. Did you stay there when you were in Dublin?"

"No; our time was so short. We were at the Shelbourne, and the next
morning I tried to see Max in Kilmainham, but couldn't."

"Mr. Hereford in Kilmainham?" said Donal Moore, in astonishment.

"He is out again now, but they arrested him the day after Mr. Fitzhugh
and Dennis O'Carroll and so many others were arrested;" then, catching
herself up, she turned to the Governor, with an apology. "I beg your
pardon, I am afraid we are trenching on dangerous ground; it is a
little hard to know where the affairs of personal friends end and
politics begin."

"Mr. Moore finds it a great privation to be cut off from all
newspapers," said the Governor; "but rules must be observed. By the
bye, may I ask the meaning of the word 'botheen'?"

Doreen laughed. "I don't think that is a political term," she said.
"It is just an Irish term for one who prays rather than works. But
about reading, Donal," she continued, turning to him again. "Are you
cut off from all books as well as from all newspapers?"

"From all, save the books in the prison library," he said, "and they
leave much to be desired. People don't realize how much might be done
through a really well-stocked prison library; good, wholesome novels,
and lives of great men would do more to repress crime than all the
direct religious teaching you can supply."

They fell to talking of family matters, and of certain arrangements
about the children's education, and then, all too soon, the twenty
minutes ended.

"It surely cannot be for long," said Doreen, as she bade him farewell
with tears in her eyes.

"They will let you out for Christmas, Donal, won't they?" said Mollie,
in her sweet treble, as she kissed him again and again.

"Well Mollie," he said, with a sigh, "we are short of most things in
prison save hope, but we always have plenty of that. I once knew a
convict who lived in daily hope of release for years. And now I shall
have the comfort of knowing that Dermot is always ready to act as my
champion, and to be knocked black and blue rather than hear me called
a thief and a murderer."

"I wish I could go to prison instead of you," said Dermot, his dreamy
eyes lighting up with a vision of sacrifice.

And that was the last word that passed between them. Donal Moore went
back to his dreary cell, to endure as best he might the horrible
craving for freedom, which seized him as he contrasted its blank
solitariness with the life that should by right have been his. And the
O'Ryans drove back to Weymouth sadly enough, Michael waxing eloquent
over the daily increasing number of arrests.

"The Prime Minister ought to be hung!" he protested vehemently.

But Doreen roused up at this, and called him somewhat sharply to
order.

"How can you talk so foolishly before the younger ones?" she said.
"You know quite well that the Prime Minister hates the whole policy of
Coercion, and only consents to it from a stern sense of duty. He is
trying to do what he thinks best for Ireland; one day he will learn
his mistake, and will nobly and fearlessly own that the time has come
when a different policy must be tried."




CHAPTER XXXIII.


          "Oh, before it be too late, before more blood
          shall stain the pages of our present history,
          before we exasperate and arouse bitter
          animosities, let us try and do justice to our
          sister land. Abolish once and for all the land
          laws, which in their iniquitous operation have
          ruined her peasantry. Let a commission of the best
          and wisest among Irishmen, with some of our
          highest English judges added, sit solemnly to hear
          all complaints, and then let us honestly
          legislate, not for the punishment of the
          discontented, but to remove the causes of the
          discontent."--CHARLES BRADLAUGH, _A Plea for
          Ireland_, 20 October, 1867.


The autumn proved a terribly sad one, for Donal Moore's prophecy, made
just before his arrest in the previous winter, was literally
fulfilled. Ireland, as he had said, was given over to the tender
mercies of the Chief Secretary, and to those maddened by his
repression. Open agitation had been forbidden, and in consequence
secret societies formed of wild and desperate men began to spring up,
and many a ghastly murder was reported, casting a gloom indescribable
over the hearts of those who truly loved Ireland.

The people were as sheep without a shepherd; all the true leaders who,
spite of the vile accusations of their opponents, had done their
utmost to repress agrarian crime, were in prison. The Land League,
which had sought by legitimate methods to destroy the infamous land
system which was at the root of all Irish distress, had been
suppressed by the Chief Secretary; constitutional action had become
impossible; and the more turbulent and hot-headed section naturally
seized their opportunity.

Doreen, in all her troubled life, had never perhaps suffered more
acutely than now. Black darkness seemed to hem her in on every side,
and it was not easy to endure the taunts and the ignorant discussions
with which she was assailed on all sides. Ferrier was the only man who
would give even a fair hearing to any sort of defence of her
countrymen.

"They go talking in their idiotic way about the infamous Land
Leaguers," she said one day when at one of Boniface's concerts the
talk in the artistes' room had waxed unusually hot, "and I don't
believe one of them has so much as learnt the objects of the Land
League,--that what it strives for is the reduction of rack rents, that
all it wishes is the abolition of the present system of landlordism,
so that as in old times there should be no intermediate ownership
between the State and the man who cultivates the land."

"That, in fact, you object to the harsh treatment of peasants, but
approve of the harsh treatment of landlords!" said Ferrier.

"Not at all. I don't wish a hair of their heads to be hurt. We don't
propose to rob them, but that they should be amply compensated."

"And in the meantime your countrymen have started the 'No rent'
system."

"That has only been the case within the last three months," said
Doreen. "It was the retaliation for having all our leaders thrust into
jail. You have imprisoned the only men who could keep any sort of
order, and now behold the consequences! You say the Land League
leaders are thieves and murderers, but read their instructions to
their organizers and officers only last year, and see if anything
could be more moderate. See what stress they lay on quiet, systematic
action, on restraint of all feelings of revenge, on making just
demands in a legal, intelligent way, free from violence. See how they
condemn all outrages, whether upon man or beast. What would you have
more noble than this sentence: 'To effect our object demands no
sacrifice from any man in our ranks but that of temper and passion,'
Oh, you English pride yourselves on your love of justice, and will
spend millions in defending some ill-treated tribe thousands of miles
away, but to us Irish, your nearest neighbours, you have been
systematically unjust for seven hundred years."

"May be," said Ferrier. "But that doesn't justify your countrymen in
plotting and contriving murders. Not only the Chief Secretary, but the
Prime Minister and the Home Secretary, have to be constantly under
police protection, lest they should be shot by one of your friends. Do
you approve of that sort of patriotism?"

"Approve!" she said, her eyes ablaze with indignation. "_Approve!_ You
go too far--too far! It is the knowledge that all this is going on
that is breaking my heart. This Violence is the hateful offspring of
your Tyranny and Injustice. Don't lay the blame on Ireland, which has
been trampled under your feet for centuries!"

He was touched by the keen pain expressed both in look and tone.

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Of course I might have known how you felt
in the matter. Come, let us change the subject, or you will hardly be
in trim for singing anything so cheerful as 'Twickenham Ferry.'"

She turned away with a passionate sigh, and took the songs out of her
music-case. She began to long for the time to come when she could go
to her own country and throw herself into active work.

"They that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they
that wasted us required of us mirth," she said as they went together
down the staircase.

And Ferrier watched somewhat sadly the effort it evidently cost her to
sing with due spirit and humour the sprightly little ballad.

It happened on a bright frosty morning after Christmas that Doreen,
who had been singing in a performance of "The Messiah" in the North of
England, was returning with Mrs. Muchmore to Ashborough, where she had
that evening another engagement. In order to effect the cross-country
journey, they had to change trains and wait for an hour at
Mardentown--a proceeding which sorely tried Doreen's patience. She was
both unhappy and restless that day, and the newspaper she had read
during the first part of the journey had contained nothing to comfort
her. The news from Ireland was far from reassuring, and a long report
of a speech by the Chief Secretary, who had come over to England for a
few days, had irritated and angered her almost beyond bearing. It was
at this very place, Mardentown, that he had spoken, and as she paced
up and down the platform, trying to get warm and to take that amount
of exercise which is so necessary to all artistes, yet so difficult to
fit into their busy lives, his name constantly confronted her on the
posters at the bookstall. It kept breaking in upon her reverie, which,
as usual, had turned in the direction of Max Hereford; it seemed as
though something forced her continually back from thoughts of her
lover to the recollection of that stern, strong man who held in his
hands the destiny of her people. The platform had been tolerably clear
when she first began to pace to and fro, but by and bye she noticed
that it was becoming inconveniently crowded. She paused at the
bookstall, bought a copy of Howells' "Lady of the Aroostook," and
asked what was attracting so many people to the station.

"The Chief Secretary is leaving by the 12.30, miss," said the
librarian; "there was a great demonstration here last night."

She turned away without any remark, but had hardly walked a hundred
yards, when, with a shock of surprise, she recognized in the crowd an
Irishman who had been living at New York when they had first made
their home there, years ago. He was a man who belonged to the extreme
set into whose hands John Desmond had fallen,--a man utterly
unscrupulous, and capable of using any means, however hateful, which
would carry out the end he had in view. She had only seen him twice
before in her life, but her father's intense dislike of him had
strongly impressed his face upon her mind, though it was in no way
remarkable. Moreover, as she often laughingly said, her
great-grandfather, the Wicklow blacksmith, had somehow bequeathed her
one royal gift,--the power of remembering those she had met.

A horrible fear took possession of her mind. Was it for nothing that
this notorious man mingled with the crowd that awaited the Chief
Secretary? Was it not a known fact that plots to assassinate him were
rife at that time? There again! a second face that she had seen before
flashed upon her. This time she could not put a name to it, but she
knew when and where she had seen it. It was at a political meeting
which she had attended in Dublin, on the evening of her arrival in
Ireland with Max and his mother. What could she do? What ought she to
do? Of course, there were policemen here, and, no doubt, detectives
shadowing the Chief Secretary wherever he went, but a life might be
lost in spite of the most careful precautions. Had not the Czar
perished, though surrounded by those who would have protected him? She
hurriedly looked at her watch. There was not a moment to be lost. In
twenty minutes' time the express would leave, and she thought it very
probable that the Chief Secretary would be her very opposite, and
instead of rushing up to the station barely in time, would arrive a
good ten minutes too soon.

"Hagar," she said breathlessly, looking in at the waiting-room where
Mrs. Muchmore sat knitting, "I shall be back before long. I have an
errand in the town. Wait for me here."

She was gone before the astonished Mrs. Muchmore could frame a reply,
and springing into a cab, she bade the man drive as fast as possible
to the house of Mr. Everest, the member for Mardentown, at which she
had learnt from the newspaper that the Chief Secretary was staying as
a guest.

The cabman, impressed by her tone, drove at a great pace, and scarcely
waiting for the cab to draw up, Doreen sprang out and ran up the
steps to the open door, where a servant, with a portmanteau, and a
particularly stolid-looking old butler stood staring at this strange
arrival.

"Has the Chief Secretary left?" she inquired, in great excitement.

"He is just leaving, ma'am, and is unable to see any one."

"I must see him," she said emphatically.

"He is at this moment starting, ma'am, to catch the express,"
remonstrated the butler.

But Doreen thrust her card into his hand.

"Say that Miss Doreen O'Ryan must see him for a moment," she
reiterated, her clear, mellow voice sounding plainly through the
entrance hall.

At that moment, to her relief, the Chief Secretary himself appeared,
accompanied by two gentlemen. The musical voice and the familiar name
had struck upon his ear. He shook hands with her pleasantly.

"Another suspect to be released, Miss O'Ryan?" he said, with a smile.
"I must ask you to make the story short, or we shall lose our train."

He led her into the room he had just quitted.

"I have come to entreat you not to go by that train at all," she said
eagerly. "In the crowd, waiting to see you off, I have just recognized
two of my countrymen, who, I greatly fear, are dogging your steps. One
of them is a notorious advocate of dynamite and a man who justifies
political assassinations; whether his face is known to the police
here, I do not know, but I have known him by sight since I was a
child, and I could not mistake him."

The Chief Secretary's stern and harassed face softened.

"It is very good of you to come thus and warn me," he said; "but I am
something of a fatalist, and when my time comes I am ready to go. It
may very probably be as you think that these men are lying in wait for
me. I have had two or three somewhat narrow escapes; but I must go to
London for all that, for I have work to do there."

"Why not drive to the other station?" said his host; "it would surely
be wiser, and the other line will get you up almost as soon."

The Chief Secretary, who had a horror of any personal fuss, seemed
unwilling to consent to this change of plans; but Doreen, quickly
reading his expression and anticipating his refusal, broke in eagerly.

"If you will not avoid the risk for your own sake, then, at least
avoid it for the sake of Ireland!" she cried.

"What?" he exclaimed, "you approve, then, of my work? You have changed
your views?"

"No, no," she cried vehemently; "I don't approve indeed, but I would
not see my country disgraced by an atrocious murder, or have one I
respect killed by a fanatic."

There was silence for a moment or two. Doreen noticed how very much
the last few months had aged the Chief Secretary. His hair was almost
white, his deeply furrowed face struck her as being far more sad and
careworn than when she had seen him in the Prime Minister's library.
Strong, stern, unyielding as granite, she was yet certain that this
man had a very tender heart; he had coerced her countrymen, had
treated them in a most high-handed way, but it had been because he
believed himself to be doing right, just as a hundred years ago loving
parents would most severely beat their children, though it pained them
grievously to do it.

"For your wife's sake," said Doreen, with a vibration in her voice
that strangely moved the listeners, "do not run this risk."

The Chief Secretary took her hand in his.

"It shall be as you wish," he said, a rare and beautiful smile
lighting up his careworn face, "And believe me, I shall always
remember with gratitude and pleasure that there was one Irishwoman who
took kindly thought for me."

Ten minutes later Doreen re-entered the waiting-room, where Hagar
Muchmore still sat in solitary state with her knitting.

"For the land's sake!" exclaimed the good woman, startled out of her
self-possession. "Where have you been? Why, you look ready to drop."

"I am cold," said Doreen, taking the chair which Mrs. Muchmore drew up
to the fire for her, and trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

"Why, your hands are all of a tremble," said Hagar, "and your face as
white as a sheet. One would think you had been face to face with
death. I'll go and fetch you a cup of coffee; the cold has just got
into you, that's what it is."

She trotted off briskly to the refreshment room, and Doreen crouched
over the fire, feeling as though she needed all the warmth in the
world. "Hagar is right," she said. "I have been brought face to face
with the true death, not our good friend, the Death-angel, but the
death of hatred and revenge and murder. Oh, thank God, that this time,
at least, its ghastly hand is stayed!"

At this moment the express steamed into the station; there was much
bustle and confusion on the crowded platform. Doreen went to the
window and looked out over the blind. She could see the surprised and
disappointed look on the people's faces as the minutes passed by and
the Chief Secretary did not appear. She also saw the two conspirators.
One of them stood near the door from the booking-office, through
which, presumably, the Chief Secretary would pass; the other seemed to
be moving slowly along the entire length of the train, looking into
every carriage. But they watched and waited in vain; the bell rang,
the whistle sounded, and at last the express moved off. Doreen
returned to her place by the fire. A sense of joyous triumph began to
take possession of her; the crime which would have plunged her country
into yet another and more galling era of repression, which would have
alienated the sympathies of those who were beginning to say that there
had been too much coercion, had been checked. The Chief Secretary was,
for the time at any rate, saved.

"I am sorry to have kept you so long waiting," said Hagar, returning
with the coffee, "but the place was that crowded there was no getting
through. The silly folk had all come to stare at some one who never
came, after all. Why, you're quite a different colour now."

"You look exactly like old Mother Hubbard, Hagar. I believe you are
almost disappointed to come back and find me hale and hearty," said
Doreen, with her irresistible laugh. "But I assure you I want the
coffee badly enough."

"Oh yes," said Hagar; "it's nothing but a flush from the fire; I can
see that. And I am really glad, Miss Doreen, that in a few days you'll
be having a quiet time in Ireland, and a holiday from singing; for I
do think you are overworking yourself. Rushing from one side of
England to the other, and singing in oratorios two nights running, is
more than you ought to do."

Doreen let the words pass without contradiction, but she knew well
enough that it was grief, and not work, that was beginning to tell
upon her.

When, the next day, she reached home late in the afternoon, she found,
however, that at last her long weary waiting for news of Max was at an
end. Mollie came flying downstairs to meet her, with a cry of joy.

"Oh, Doreen," she said, "I'm so glad you have come; for Mrs. Magnay is
here, and she has asked us to a party, and she wants us to help in the
acting; Bride to be the Dormouse, and Dermot the Hatter, and me to be
Alice. You will say 'yes,' won't you?"

A glow of happiness and relief filled Doreen's heart. For not one of
Max Hereford's friends or relations had vouchsafed a word to her since
the summer; and though she had more than once encountered Miriam since
that miserable day in the Brighton train, only the most cold and
formal recognition had passed between them.

But Esprance behaved precisely as if nothing had happened. Her warm,
French greeting, her eager discussion of the children's party which
was absorbing her thoughts, and afterwards her long amusing account of
their six months in Auvergne, really interested Doreen; and later on,
when the children had run off in search of sundry theatrical
properties which might, they thought, come in usefully for "Alice in
Wonderland," Esprance skilfully turned the talk on to the subject she
knew Doreen longed to approach.

"We tried hard to persuade Max to come to us when he left Madeira, and
to see what a real French country-house was like. But he was too lazy
to take the journey. He is with the Herefords now at Biarritz."

"Is he any the worse for his imprisonment?" said Doreen.

"He said very little about himself in his letter," said Esprance;
"only that he was convalescing, that he intended to stay on at
Biarritz till April, and that the Firdale people still retain him as
the Liberal candidate after a good deal of talk and fuss about his
mistaken arrest."

"I had heard nothing since he was released," said Doreen, "except that
he was going straight to Madeira."

"He was in Madeira for some weeks, then in Spain for a time; now he
seems to have settled in at Biarritz with the Herefords, who will, at
any rate, take good care of him. Claude has an idea that his illness
must have been coming on for a long time; he says he has never looked
the same since the day of Mrs. Hereford's funeral. I can't help hoping
that this long rest and change will set him up again, and that we
shall find he is his old self when he returns. Doreen, is it really
true that you have joined the Ladies' Land League?"

"Yes," said Doreen, glad that her companion turned to an entirely new
subject without waiting for a response. "It is quite true. Who told
you?"

"Lady Worthington had seen a paragraph somewhere about it. Of course
you know she is of the other persuasion, and was very much
shocked--couldn't understand it at all."

"I daresay she thinks we are all like the fifty flighty young ladies
from America depicted in 'Punch,'" said Doreen, smiling. "As a matter
of fact, the chief work is just the business-like distribution of
relief to those in distress, and the supplying huts to evicted people.
As I do not want my country-folk to be forced from Ireland, or turned
into paupers in the workhouse, or left to die of cold and hunger on
the road, which is their only other alternative if they are evicted, I
naturally join the League and do the little I can do for them."

"But," said Esprance, doubtfully, "people over here are so fond of
you, and this will be such a very unpopular step. Is it not almost a
pity, just when your reputation is made, to risk offending every one?"

"Are we then only to give what will cost us nothing?" said Doreen,
with a light in her eyes that startled Esprance. "I have not rushed
into this without thought. It may very probably injure my position,
and popularity is, of course, dear to the heart of every artiste; but
it must stand second to duty. Let justice be done though the heavens
fall."

Esprance looked troubled.

"Of course," she said, "as yet I have heard only the landlords' side
of the story, and Lady Worthington has kept me well plied with tales
of outrage and crime."

"Come over to Ireland with me next Wednesday, and see things from the
other side," she replied with a smile. "Lady Worthington is charming
as a friend; but she believes in the feudal system, and understands
the needs of the people about as well as the inhabitant of some other
planet might do."

"Do you really go to Ireland next week?"

"Yes," said Doreen. "And I have a special favour to beg of you. See
something of Mollie and Bride while I am away. They will be well taken
care of here by Aunt Garth and Mrs. Muchmore, but they will be rather
dull. Leaving them behind is my greatest trial. But their other
guardian thought it a pity to take them away at this time of year, and
I doubt if Dublin would suit them."

Esprance promised to see as much of them as possible, and as she
drove home, began to revolve kindly schemes for bringing the O'Ryans
into closer friendship with her own children.

"But, after all," she reflected, "it is Doreen herself who looks as if
she needed mothering. I should dearly like to know what it was that
caused those two to break off their engagement. I wonder whether there
is no chance of setting things right again."




CHAPTER XXXIV.


    "We look into the heart of flowers
       And wonder whence their bloom can rise;
     The secret hope of human hours
       Is hidden deeper from our eyes.
     In helpless tracts of wind and rain
       The work goes on without a sound;
     And while you weep your weak 'In vain,'
       The flower is growing underground."

                                M. B. SMEDLEY.


The time which had been so dark for Doreen had been daily brightening
for little Una Kingston. It was delightful to watch the glow of health
returning to her face, and she looked younger and rounder and more
childlike than she had ever looked since her father's death. It had
been arranged that as in the spring she would be free from the agent
who had nearly killed her with work, Brian Osmond should order her to
go abroad from February till the end of April, and that she should
then be put into the hands of the trustworthy Freen to begin work
again by degrees, with the option of refusing whatever her doctor
objected to. Madame De Berg was not sorry to avail herself of Doreen's
kindly offices; and though the two had as little in common as before,
they were on better terms with each other. Doreen, for Una's sake,
endeavoured to keep the peace; and Madame de Berg was somewhat
mollified by the kindness to her little ward, which proved so
convenient to herself. Moreover, she was gratified to learn that her
young rival was to be in Ireland till the season began, and that she
should step into her vacant place at Boniface's concerts.

It happened that Doreen's last engagement in England was a concert at
Guildford early in January. The day following was Mrs. Hereford's
birthday, and she had long intended to drive over from Guildford to
Monkton Verney, and to put a wreath on the grave, not liking to think
that the day should pass without any recognition. The thought of
losing so much of her last day with the children did not, however,
please her, and to their great delight, she took Una, Mollie, and
Bride with her, enjoying the little sisters' immense appreciation of a
night at a real hotel, and glad to have them with her when she drove
to Monkton Verney.

It was one of those mild winter days, when, for the first time, spring
seems not far off, and a sense of growth and hope rises in the heart.
The sight of the old familiar places made Doreen sad; but the
children's happiness soothed her, and the kindly greetings of one or
two of the cottagers who recognized her as she passed, gave her
genuine pleasure. The house was let to strangers, but the children did
not care about that. They had eaten a picnic lunch in the carriage,
and Doreen knew that old Goody would give them tea if they walked
across the park to her cottage while the horse was resting.

Having visited the churchyard, and seen the ruins of the Priory, they
proceeded to the old woman's cottage, and received from her a hearty
welcome. For, though the rich may change, or move altogether from the
neighbourhood, the poor are generally to be found, and they are always
ready to give of their best. Goody dusted the chairs for them, admired
the children, showed them a faded old photograph of Max, as a small
boy, mounted on a Shetland pony, and did the honours of her house in
the most charming way imaginable. Nor did she once say a word that
could pain Doreen, though her keen old eyes read much of the truth in
the girl's sad face. She bustled about, and prepared tea for them,
and kept them all amused with her quaint old stories.

"And now, Goody, it is my turn," said Doreen. "I must sing you your
favourite song. Which shall it be?"

"Well, miss, since you're so obliging, I should like the 'Last Rose'
only to the other words you always used to put to it."

Doreen smiled, and sitting there beside the hearth, she sang them,
"Oh, Bay of Dublin," after which they naturally fell to talking of her
visit to Ireland, until she started up in some dismay, to see how late
it was growing.

Goody, too, seemed distressed as she opened the door, and looked
across the park.

"I'm thinkin' you had better be goin' round by the road," she said.
"It's over-late for you to be goin' yonder."

"Why, Goody, 'the moon is shining as bright as day,' as the children
sing," said Doreen, with a laugh, "and the road is more than a mile
further. Oh? we shall do very well. Come--


    "'Una of the golden hair,
     White-necked Una 'og machree.'--


Wrap this shawl well round you, and don't open your mouth till we
reach the carriage. It will never do for you to take cold just before
you leave England."

Goody looked uncomfortable and perturbed; but she made no more
remonstrances, and bade them good-night, standing for some minutes at
the door, to watch them as they made their way towards the Priory.

It was not until they were nearly half-way there that Doreen suddenly
remembered why Goody had disliked the idea of their crossing the park
so late. She recollected that it was always on moonlight nights that
the ghost appeared, and she would hardly have been a true Kelt if her
heart had not beaten a little faster at the thought. Mercifully, the
children were quite unsuspicious, for she had taken good care that
they should hear nothing of the story. Mollie and Bride were laughing
and talking together. She joined in the talk, but kept her eyes ever
in the direction of the grim old ruin.

"Tell Una one of the Irish legends; they would please her," she said.

And Mollie began obediently to tell the tale of how the good Countess
Kathleen gave up houses and land and all her wealth, to save the poor
from selling their souls to the Evil One.

Doreen had schooled herself into thinking that, after all, the Monkton
Verney ghost was probably a vain imagination of the country folk, when
suddenly her heart seemed to stand still; for, looking toward the
ruin, she clearly saw the very figure Goody had described to her long
ago,--old Lord Royle, with his Elizabethan ruff, his peaked beard, his
cloak, just like the picture that hung in the Hall. Her extreme fear
lest Una should be alarmed made her walk resolutely on until a group
of trees hid the figure from sight, but, as she walked, a feeling grew
upon her that she must go and see for herself what this spirit wanted,
and for what reason it still continued to haunt the Priory. Was not
this, perhaps, her last chance of doing anything for Max? The thought
nerved her for an effort which, to one of her temperament, was no
slight struggle.

"I will catch you up, children," she said. "Keep straight on to the
gate, and get into the carriage."

Una nodded assent, and Mollie, who was deep in her story, did not
break off for a moment. Doreen, as she walked towards the ruin, heard
the clear little voice saying, "But Kathleen had now no more to give,
and there were still eight days before food for the people could come
in ships from the West. So, at last, to save the poor from selling
their souls, she sold her own soul for a great price, and the money
lasted the Irish till the corn came. But the Lord would not let the
Evil One keep the soul of Kathleen who had so loved the people."

The voice died away in the distance, and Doreen, emerging from behind
the group of trees, once more distinctly saw the ghost. Her breath
came fast, but she thought of Max, and walked steadily on. And now she
stood actually within the ruin, and she could see that the soft
evening breeze lightly stirred the folds of the cloak; her knees
trembled beneath her, but she walked bravely right up to the kneeling
figure; she even put out her hand to touch it, and could hardly
believe it when she found that there was absolutely nothing
there,--nothing but a shadow upon the wall. Looking round in her
relief and surprise to see what object could cast such a shadow, she
found that it was an old gargoyle, that a broken fragment of stonework
formed the Elizabethan ruff, and that the cloak was nothing whatever
but the ivy hanging upon the wall. She picked two or three leaves as a
memorial of her visit, praying as she had so often prayed before, that
the wrongs of the past might be set right as far as was possible, and
that Max might be the man to do the work.

"Old Goody will be glad to hear that her prophecy has come true, and
that I was the one to lay the ghost," she thought to herself, with a
smile, as she turned to leave the building, and then a remembrance of
that past time, when her lover had stood beside her in the bright
spring morning, when all the world had seemed full of bliss, brought
the tears to her eyes; and as she crossed the park, she cried quietly
but very bitterly as she thought of the hopeless gulf that now
stretched between them.

The children told legends most of the way back to Guildford, and
neither Mollie nor little Bride guessed her trouble; but Una knew all
about it in spite of the dim light, and she clung to her friend with
that pathetic, loverlike devotion which amused and yet deeply touched
Doreen.

"She is thinking of Max Hereford," thought the child to herself.
"There is very little I can do for her, but I will be to her what
Siebel was to Marghrita"; and all through the drive a phrase from
Siebel's song rang in her ears,--


    "Io ti saro fedel' amico onor."


The next day the separation took place. Una, in charge of a homely and
sensible German nurse, and with her violin master in attendance, was
despatched to Rapallo until May; and Doreen, feeling like anything but
a "strong-minded woman," took leave of the children and started for
Ireland by the night mail.

But her spirits rose when, after a night of woe on the Irish Sea, she
stepped on shore at Kingstown just as the day was breaking. Many other
things had failed her, but her dream of working for Ireland was to
come true; and, indeed, before many hours had passed, she found
herself established at a desk in the office of the Land League in
Upper Sackville Street, laboriously entering upon a sheet of white
ruled foolscap certain entries under the following heads:--


    "County. Parish. Landlord. Disburser of Grants. Observations."


The observations came as a sort of _bonne bouche_ at the
end, and were sometimes interesting. They consisted chiefly
of the amount of relief given to the tenants, the name of
the person who could best supply information, details of how
to reach out-of-the-way places by rail, boat, and car, and
now and then a remark that such and such a tenant had been
considered unworthy of relief, and that the case should be
closely inquired into.

After about a week of office work, she was allowed, to her great
delight, to travel into a remote part of Donegal, where they succeeded
in supplying huts to some of the miserable people who had been
evicted. She had never before witnessed anything like the deplorable
condition of these poor fellow-countrymen of hers, their indescribable
rags, their half-starved look. As far as she could make out, they
lived principally in the hard times upon seaweed, Indian meal being
accounted a luxury for festivals. Surely help was urgently demanded
for people in such extremity! Their patient endurance astonished her.
Visiting one of the miserable cabins, from which the tenants were
expecting shortly to be evicted, she saw that the bedclothes for a
family of six children consisted only of a couple of old sacks.

"How do they keep warm these bitter, cold nights?" she asked,
pityingly.

"Och! thin, lady, ye see there's a dale o' warmth in children," said
the mother, with a patient smile on her thin face.

There might be a "dale o' warmth," but there was not much strength in
the children, as Doreen speedily discovered. She had sung a bright,
cheery song to them, to the huge delight of all.

"Now you sing to me," she said. "Let me hear you sing 'God save
Ireland.'"

And they tried obediently, but the poor little half-starved children
could not manage even one song, and Doreen went away with tears in her
eyes, reflecting that even Jenny Lind on a diet of sea-weed might
chance to lose her voice.

Still, bitterly as she felt the cruel sufferings of the people under
the present system of landlordism, she could not always agree with all
that was said at the various indignation meetings got up by the
Ladies' Land League, nor could they ever induce her to speak.

"I have not come to talk," she always replied, when urged to take part
in denouncing the Government. "I have come to see and to help the
people."

And her practical help proved so prompt and satisfactory and careful
that they were obliged to take her at her word and believe that she
had no gift for public speaking.

One evening, when she was talking by the fireside to Donal Moore's
wife, while his little son sat on her knee making impressions on his
plump arm with that same seal which she had played with at the time of
her father's arrest, the door opened and one of the secretaries of the
League entered.

"Miss O'Ryan," she said when the greetings were over, "I have come to
ask if you will go down to the south with me this evening. I have just
received news that some most harsh evictions are to take place
to-morrow morning on Mr. Haman's estate, and the only chance of
preventing them is to go off at once by the 7.45. I think you can do
good service. Will you come with me?"

Doreen gave a ready consent, and it was arranged that she should meet
the secretary at Kingsbridge, in time for the train. Although she
could not speak in public, she was a very practical and useful
assistant, being well used to travelling, understanding the ways of
the country, and possessing that cheerful buoyancy of nature that
tells so much in a campaign.

"You look as pleased as though you had received high promotion," said
Mrs. Moore, when they were once more left alone.

"It is exactly what I like best," said Doreen, "and coming at the end
of several days of desk work, it is all the more delightful. One pays
for it afterwards, though, in the dreadful memories stamped on one's
brain. There are scenes in Donegal that I can never forget as long as
I live,--the hopeless misery of the people, the way in which, for
years and years, it has been made simply impossible for them to
struggle on to better things. I don't wonder that there has been
disorder and crime; the only marvel is that so many have been found to
endure bravely. They couldn't have done it but for the unconquerable
hope that one day this horrible system of landlordism shall be
abolished. They couldn't have struggled on with such desperate
patience had it not been for their strong faith that there is a God
who will, somehow, bring good out of all these centuries of evil."

As she spoke, she had been softly caressing the little child's shining
curls. He drew her hand down, and pressed it to his lips, with a
pretty, gracious little gesture.

"Dear hand!" he said, in a tone which made them both smile.

"That child is just like a lover to you," said Mrs. Moore.

"Bridget dot a lover what walks on Sundays," said the little boy.
"Have 'oo dot a lover?"

She shook her head.

"I buy 'oo one on 'oo next birfday," he said generously.

She laughed, and carried him off with her while she got ready for the
train, and Mrs. Moore heard her singing to him, as she packed her
bag:--


    "Far he wandered, far he wandered,
       But his spirit found no rest;
     For his thoughts were ever turning
       To the green Isle in the West.

    "All his travels, all his travels,
       Over land and over sea,
     Made his heart more soft and tender
       To Ireland and to me."




CHAPTER XXXV.


    "We must not fail, we must not fail,
    However fraud or force assail;
    By honour, pride, and policy,
    By Heaven itself!--we must be free.

    "We took the starving peasant's mite
    To aid in winning back his right,
    We took the priceless trust of youth;
    Their freedom must redeem our truth.

    "We promised loud, and boasted high,
    'To break our country's chains or die';
    And, should we quail, that country's name
    Will be the synonym of shame.

    "But--calm, my soul!--we promised true
    Her destined work our land shall do;
    Thought, courage, patience will prevail!
    We shall not fail--we shall not fail!"

                               THOMAS DAVIS.




Curled up in the corner of a railway carriage, with her fur cloak
closely wrapped about her, Doreen fell asleep that night, and dreamt
comforting dreams of Max. It was somewhat dreary to wake in a badly
lighted station, to stumble out sleepily in the small hours, and to
have to superintend the conveyance of the huts, which, all ready for
erection, were being brought to these forlorn people in the south.
There was little hope that the evictions could be prevented, but they
hoped, by making a very early start in the morning, to get to the
place before the sub-sheriff, and warn the people. Unluckily, at the
last moment, there was some little delay in getting a car, and, to
their great annoyance, when, in the faint morning light, they set out
on their bleak drive of thirteen miles, they found that the
sub-sheriff had got the start of them, accompanied by his bailiffs,
and attended by a force of sixty police.

The country, with its low stone walls and dreary stretches of bog,
looked desolate indeed, and the piercing wind made Doreen shiver from
head to foot. The thought of whole families being turned out of their
homes in such bitter weather raised a storm of indignation in her
heart. If only they could manage to resist; but it was little likely
that the people would be prepared, and, through the unfortunate delay
in starting, they seemed to have lost their golden opportunity.

"If ye could but go as the crow flies, ma'am," said their
jolly-looking car-man, "'twould be foine and aisy to bate the
sub-shiriff; but ye can't drive an outside car through a river."

"Is there then a short cut in that direction?" asked the elder lady,
looking down at the river which flowed lazily along to the right of
the road.

"Sure, thin, and it is but a mile through yonder fields till ye come
to Maurice Mooney's farm, but by the road 'tis five miles round
intirely."

"Maybe there is a ford," said Doreen, eagerly. "Stop, and let us ask
that man who is coming along."

The man, a red-haired, hungry-looking fellow, whose gaunt shoulders
were plainly visible through the great holes in his ragged shirt and
coat, replied that there certainly was a ford where a man might cross
the river well enough.

"Could you carry a lady across?" said the secretary.

The man looked dubiously at his rags. He replied that he could do it
easily enough if the lady desired it.

"Let me go, pray, let me go," said Doreen, springing down; and her
companion reflecting that she was lighter, and likely also to walk
more briskly, gave permission, and bade the car-man to drive on. As
for Doreen, she scrambled over the stone wall, ran down the grassy
bank and, fervently hoping that the red-haired knight-errant was
sure-footed, began to consider how she was to mount his back.

He stooped gallantly, and shaking with laughter she scrambled up as
best she could; then with a horrible lurch, her bearer rose and
stepped cautiously down into the river.

"You are like St. Christopher," she said. "He spent a great part of
his life, you know, in carrying travellers over a river. I want to
reach Maurice Mooney's farm to warn him that the sub-sheriff is
coming."

"God and Mary bless you, for the kind heart that gave you the
thought," said her bearer, splashing knee-deep through the icy water.
"It's meself that will show you the shortest way across the fields.
They'll be evicting Dan Mooney, too, I'm thinking; that's his brother
that shares the farm."

As he spoke he stepped on to _terra firma_, to Doreen's great relief.
She thanked him heartily and rewarded him for his services; he seemed
half reluctant to accept the money, and in the end, Doreen plainly saw
that it was a case of "My poverty, but not my will, consents."

She was glad enough to have his guidance over the intervening fields,
and as they hurried along, she learned from him that in all four
families had been visited by the process-server, and were liable to be
evicted. The Mooneys lived in separate houses adjoining each other,
and their farm consisted of sixty acres. They had lived on it for
generations, and had fallen into great poverty of late owing to the
bad harvests. The fairly comfortable stone house which Doreen could
now plainly see had been built entirely by themselves, and she learned
that to add to their troubles the old bed-ridden grandmother had been
more than usually ailing, and that Maurice Mooney's wife had an infant
of barely three weeks.

"Ye'll bate the eviction party yet, lady," said the redhaired knight,
with a broad smile of satisfaction on his thin face, "and if you'll
tell the news to the Mooneys, I'll run on to Tim Magee's and the
Murphys'."

With somewhat breathless thanks, for they had been going at full speed
over the rough ground, Doreen parted with her trusty helper and
knocked at the door of the little farm.

"God save all here!" she said, as a child appeared to bid her enter.
The pretty old Irish greeting appealed at once to the occupants of the
room.

"God save you kindly!" they replied courteously.

It was piteous to see the consternation in all faces when she told
them that in a few minutes the sub-sheriff and his bailiffs and sixty
police would be upon them. There was an instantaneous rush to bolt and
bar the door, and to barricade the window; and Doreen, who had orders
to encourage them to resist, but to restrain all useless and
irritating attacks on the police, left this work to their hands, and
crossing to the comfortless-looking bed in the corner, bent down to
speak to the aged woman whose painful agitation was sad to see.

"It'll be the death of me, lady," she said, in a high, quavering old
voice, "and if I could but have seen the praist, God knows I'd be
willing enough to go."

"Let us send one of the children to fetch the priest," said Doreen;
and Maurice Mooney readily consented to the plan, and despatched his
eldest son, a lad of twelve, to ask the priest to come at once and
administer the last Sacraments. Then they waited in hushed suspense,
listening for the dreaded sounds of the evicting party. There was
nothing else to be done. The place was bare and comfortless, the
furniture so scanty that it was easy to guess how all that could be
spared had gone for food; the only cheering thing was the fire round
which sat six pretty little children, their faces full of wonder and
interest, for they did not in the least understand why the lady had
visited them or why the shutters were closed at such an hour in the
morning. In the dim light Doreen could see the outline of Maurice
Mooney's face. It bore an expression of bitter resentment, of strong
indignation. What had he done that such hopeless ruin should have
overtaken him? Was it his fault that his fathers before him had been
ground down by rack rents? Was it his fault that the harvests had
failed? And who was this landlord who demanded rent when the land
could not possibly do more than support those who tilled it? He was a
man who could afford to keep his hunters in excellent stables, but who
protested that he could not afford to allow the Mooneys to remain upon
the farm, though economic rent had practically disappeared, and it was
difficult for the two brothers to keep themselves and their families
in the bare necessaries of life.

Doreen, hopeful to the last, thought that no landlord could be so
brutal as to turn out upon such a day the poor sickly-looking wife,
the new-born infant, and the old bed-ridden mother, to whom exposure
to the bitter cold must mean cruel suffering if not death. With
fast-beating heart she listened to the sound of the approaching cars
and to the hum of voices and the tramp of many feet. Then the
sub-sheriff gave a thundering knock at the door, demanding possession.

Within the house dead silence reigned. Maurice Mooney's face darkened;
he made no response whatever. There was a second summons, and Doreen,
seeing that the ex-baby, a little fellow of two, was on the point of
bursting into a terrified roar, took him in her arms, and began to
play with him to divert his attention. A consultation seemed going on
outside. Then a crash at the window startled them all and made the
children turn pale with terror. The glass was shivered to bits, and a
second crash broke down the shutters. Maurice Mooney stepped forward;
the stormy wind rushed round the room, making the poor old grandmother
cough and shiver. Doreen took off her cloak and wrapt it about the
invalid; then she picked up the child again and listened for the
response that should be made to the poor farmer's piteous appeal to
his landlord to give him yet a little longer.

"Oh, you'll not get the better of me with that story of your dying
mother," said a comfortable, rich-toned voice; "she's been dying any
time in the last three years."

Doreen moved towards the window and glanced at the crowd of men's
faces; the police in the background looked as though they hated the
work they were called upon to do, and she fancied that the
sub-sheriff's face looked troubled. She instantly appealed to him.

"May they not at least wait until the priest has come? They have
already sent for him to administer the last Sacraments," she said.
"Come and see for yourself how ill the poor woman is."

The sub-sheriff came forward and looked into the room; he was visibly
touched by the distress which he witnessed. He went back and spoke a
few words to the landlord, but there was no yielding in that quarter.

"What!" he said, "are six dozen good Protestants to be kept waiting
out here in the cold until it pleases the priest to come and perform
his superstitious mummeries? Let them get to work quickly, and move on
to the next place."

Doreen's face was a study. To hear all that was most sacred to the
Irish people thus spoken of outraged her sense of justice and of
reverence as nothing else could have done. The landlord saw her
indignant glance, and was stung by it. Turning aside, he spoke to his
servant, who promptly moved away to the road where the cars were in
waiting, and drove off at a rapid pace.

And now the work of eviction began. One of the bailiffs made his way
through the window; the door was unbolted and flung open, and the
other men, hastening in, began to carry out the poor, shabby
furniture. Doreen, still with the child in her arms, sat to the last
beside the dying woman, trying, as far as might be, to divert her
attention from the stripping of the home that was so dear to her.

"God bless your sweet face," said the poor old soul, as the tears
coursed down her wrinkled cheeks. "I'll niver cease to pray for you.
But ochone! ochone! to think that they'll pull down the good house my
Thady built!"

"Don't fret," said Doreen, as tenderly as though she had been speaking
to a child. "He is waiting for you now in a far better home."

"Eh," said the grandmother, her face lighting up through her tears.
"And I'll soon be with him in heaven, where there's niver a landlord
at all, at all, but jist the one Lord and Father."

The tears rushed to Doreen's eyes. She hastily rose and began to
arrange her cloak and the blanket and a tattered coverlet in the way
which would best protect the poor old woman. She could see that the
rain was now falling heavily, and her heart sank at the forlorn plight
of these poor people.

One of the policemen came and spoke to her respectfully enough.

"I'm sorry for it, lady, but our orders are to move the old woman at
once. We'll do it as gently as we can."

"I know you hate the work," said Doreen. "Where can she be taken to, I
wonder?"

At this moment, to her great relief, her companion, the secretary,
appeared upon the scene.

"Mrs. Mooney can be carried to John Foley's cabin down the road," she
said. "I have made all the arrangements, and her daughter-in-law and
the baby can go there too. The rest of the children must shelter as
well as they can until we can provide for them. I will see to the
removal of those who are going to the Foleys."

She drew Doreen aside and gave her instructions in an undertone. The
girl gave a cheerful assent; it was a relief in the midst of this
horrible scene to be told of work that could be promptly done. The
dying woman was carried out of the house, and the secretary led away
the poor delicate-looking mother with her tiny infant, Maurice Mooney
following to help in the work which the secretary had already set on
foot in a little lane or boreen not far off. Here on a bit of waste
ground one of the Land League huts was already in course of erection.

Doreen had orders to wait with the children and the Dan Mooneys, who
were also being turned out, until the police should have finished
their work.

The most pitiful part of the scene was yet to come. The children,
through all the confusion, had still sat huddled round the fire, and
doleful were the sobs and lamentations when the men, gently enough,
drew them away and bade them turn out into the rain and cold. Their
astonished blue eyes seemed hardly able to credit such a state of
things, and Doreen, thinking of her little sisters at home, felt the
blood boil in her veins at the thought of the suffering that lay in
store for these poor little victims of an unrighteous system. Luckily
she knew the way to children's hearts, and as they were brought out of
the house she stilled their wailing voices with that wonderful
panacea, "Come, let us make believe!"

The sub-sheriff, though of course he theoretically disapproved of the
Ladies' Land League, could have found it in his heart to bless these
two women who had made his distasteful work a little less cruel.

"We will pretend it's a shipwreck," he heard the mellow, cheerful
voice say as Doreen led the six shivering little mortals under the
shelter of the nearest hedge. Then he saw her drag across a table,
under which she ensconced the ex-baby while she went in search of food
for the little ones, returning presently with some sandwiches from her
bag and a great hunch of bread which a good-natured car-man had given
her.

Meanwhile the landlord had ordered the work of unroofing to begin, and
the air resounded with the clang of the crowbars as the double house,
which had sheltered Maurice and Dan Mooney and their families, was
rendered unfit for habitation. When all was made desolate, the
evicting party moved on to another farm about a mile off, and Doreen,
leaving Mrs. Dan in charge of the shivering little mortals under the
hedge, made her way to the by-lane where the hut was being erected.
All the helpers who could be mustered were busy at the work, and
Doreen, who had more than once superintended this sort of thing,
stayed to direct matters, setting free her companion, who was glad to
go on to see what help was needed by the other families whose homes
were to be destroyed.

The wintry wind still blew pitilessly, and from time to time there
were heavy showers of rain, but Doreen was too busy in giving orders
and encouraging her band of workers to heed the weather. For hours she
stood directing the willing hands of the kindly neighbours who had
come to see the evictions and had been pressed into active service by
the secretary, and a glad perception that the work was almost
completed and that she should soon have the children in shelter,
filled her with happiness.

Suddenly amid the deafening noise of busy hammers she heard a shrill
boy's voice, and looking round, saw Maurice Mooney's gossoon, who had
been sent for the priest.

"Stop!" he cried, "there's a jauntin'-car comin' up the boreen with
the police. They'll be sendin' ye to jail."

Doreen knew that this was likely enough. She turned to her helpers.

"Run off into the woods," she cried, "every man of you; for all who
have helped stand in danger."

"Bedad, and we'll not be lavin' you," protested Maurice Mooney. "It's
yourself that has bin the savin' of us."

"If you want to please me, hurry back to your children. There is no
need for us all to suffer for this, and I can be best spared. Go, go
before it is too late!"

Her eager words and persuasive manner were not to be resisted. The men
rapidly dispersed; only the boy concealed himself among the bushes
close by, curious to see what passed.

Doreen had the satisfaction of looking round the hut and seeing that,
although not absolutely finished, it needed a very few touches to
make it weather-tight. She could hear the wheels of the car in the
little lane, but to the last she kept to her work, taking real
pleasure in finishing the hammering down of a board upon which Dan
Mooney had been engaged. She looked up as the wheels of the car
stopped, and saw, through the doorway, that two constables were
dismounting. Putting down the hammer, she rose to meet them, standing
in the doorway, and quietly awaiting their approach in a manner that
made them feel uncomfortable.

"What is this?" she inquired as one of the men handed her a paper.

"It is a warrant for your arrest, madam, as a 'suspect.' It was issued
after your visit to Donegal, where it is believed you were guilty of
erecting, or causing to be erected, Land League huts similar to this
one."

"Very well. What do you propose to do with me?" she said quietly.

"I must trouble you, madam, to come to the house of the nearest
magistrate," said the man, leading the way to the car.

Doreen promptly followed him, and, as they drove off, inquired the
magistrate's name. The reply told her pretty plainly what she had to
expect, and by the time they had reached the great man's house, with
its imposing faade and showy entrance hall, she had had leisure to
look her position fairly in the face.

The magistrate glanced at her curiously; he had heard of her doings
from Mr. Haman's messenger. She looked to him now exactly as he had
often seen her look while waiting on a concert platform before
beginning to sing. That indefinable air of dignity and goodness made
his work particularly unpleasant to him.

"I am told, Miss O'Ryan," he said, "that you have been fording rivers,
out-running the sub-sheriff, encouraging those who were to be evicted
to barricade their doors and windows, and generally espousing the
cause of the disaffected. Is this true?"

"I have espoused the cause of my own people," she replied quietly,
"and have tried to help the poor."

"Do you belong to the Ladies' Land League?"

"Yes; I do."

"And are you responsible for the erection of this hut for Mr. Haman's
evicted tenants?"

"Yes; I am responsible."

"Are you not aware that the erection of these huts is a punishable
offence? that it is 'intimidation'?"

A little smile rippled over Doreen's face.

"I entirely fail to see who it can intimidate," she said. "I put it up
to shelter the two large families who, for the best part of to-day,
have been forced to shiver in the cold and the rain."

"However amiable your intentions, you must, I think, have been aware
that you were breaking the law."

"Yes," said Doreen, her eyes flashing; "I was aware that you had raked
up some old statute, made in Plantagenet times, against tramps and
prostitutes, and that you dared to apply it to us. Happily, there are
still older documents on which one can fall back, and I would rather
try to obey God's command to deal my bread to the hungry, and to bring
the poor that are cast out to my house."

"I have not the slightest wish to imprison you," said the magistrate,
shifting a little uneasily in his chair. "If you will undertake to
keep the peace, and will provide the necessary sureties, you need not
go to jail; the matter rests entirely in your own hands; it is not I
who cruelly imprison you."

"What do you mean exactly by keeping the peace?" asked Doreen, her
blue eyes looking full into his.

"Of course I mean promising not to build these huts," he said, with
annoyance in his voice.

"Then I have no option but to refuse," said Doreen, quietly; "for I
came to Ireland on purpose to help the distressed people."

"Very well, Miss O'Ryan," said the magistrate. "You give me no option
but to imprison you. I will make it a three months' sentence."

Doreen knew that some of her fellow-workers had been sentenced to
terms of three months, some to six months. The length of time just
then made little difference to her. She had got out of the region of
temporalities, and a great joy was filling her heart,--her turn had
come to tread in the steps of her progenitors and to suffer for her
country.

Some little discussion ensued about the time of trains at the nearest
station and the possibility of reaching the county prison that
evening. Then, at a word from one of the policemen, she bowed
courteously to the magistrate, took her place on the car, and was
driven swiftly down the avenue. As for the magistrate, he stood at his
door, watching them, musing over the scene in which he had just taken
part, and sorely puzzled that a girl who was so emphatically on what
he deemed "the wrong side" should, by the mere expression of her face,
have startled him into a sudden perception that human nature is
divine.

It was not until the car had disappeared from view and the heavy rain
had once more begun to descend that it occurred to him that the girl's
graceful, willowy figure had been very slightly clad for such a drive.

"She sat on the car like one to the manner born," he reflected, "but
it's little she can know of the Irish climate! Here, you boy!" he
exclaimed, catching sight of a small figure scurrying past him like a
frightened hare, "where do you belong to?"

"I'm Maurice Mooney's gossoon, yer honour," said the boy.

"Did that lady leave her wraps by mistake in the hut?" asked the
magistrate.

"Sure thin, yer honour, she did be givin' her cloak to my grandmother,
and it's her rug I'm thinkin' that'll be wrapt about the childern
that's bin settin' under the ould table all this blissed day."

The magistrate made an exclamation which was not quite intelligible,
but by this time the car was out of sight, and only a very distant
sound of horse hoofs was to be heard. The whole landscape seemed
blotted out by the sheets of rain, and with a muttered malediction on
the bad climate and the headstrong people, the magistrate returned to
his comfortable fireside. Meanwhile Maurice Mooney's gossoon hurried
off to his family and gave a graphic account of all that had passed.

Doreen would have been touched if she could have seen the indignation,
the sorrow, and the gratitude which his recital called forth. But the
boy somehow knew in his heart that Doreen was not the one who needed
pity.

"Bedad, and it's sorra a bit that ye should be grievin' your hearts,"
he maintained stoutly; "for I could see the face of her win she got up
on the car agin, and sure 'twas like the face of an angel in heaven."

"Och, thin, an' it's an angel they'll be makin' of her in prison,"
said Mrs. Dan, her tears flowing fast. "God bless her sweet sowl, an'
may the landlord sup sorrow for this!"




CHAPTER XXXVI.


    "Haply no more music and mirth and love,
     And glorious things of old and younger art,
     Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
     But, when these bright companions all depart,
     Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
     Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above."

                                     FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.


"Something must be said to Max," said the General, irritably. "I will
endure this state of things no longer. You must make him understand,
my dear, that we cannot allow Miriam to be the talk of the place."

"My dear," said Lady Rachel, soothingly, "I think you are
unreasonable. The two have been like brother and sister together all
their lives, and if Biarritz will gossip about them, I don't see that
we can help it."

"Do you realize," said the General, "that twice over I have been
congratulated about the engagement? And that talk of brother and
sister is all very well, but Miriam does not treat him as a brother.
Surely, with your tact, and your fondness for Max, you can contrive to
bring him to the point. He is wretched now, and will be wretched until
he is married and settled. His whole life has been spoilt by that
unlucky affair with Miss O'Ryan, and Miriam is the only woman he seems
to care to speak to. She will make him, as you know, a most excellent
wife; but unless some one helps on matters, I don't see what is to
happen."

"There is nothing I desire more for Miriam than such a marriage,"
said Lady Rachel. "I will do my best with Max; but it is a very
delicate matter, and I don't at all like interfering."

"Very naturally," said the General, in a suave voice; "but then, my
dear, if we only did what we liked doing, the world would come to an
end."

Lady Rachel sighed; her husband generally left her the disagreeable
duties to perform. She did not murmur at this, but it sometimes tried
her when at the same time he made moral reflections.

Her chance of a talk with Max occurred that very evening; for Miriam
was taking part in some private theatricals got up by the English in
aid of a local charity, and Max, at the last moment, decided that the
prospect of the crowded room and the noise and heat outweighed his
desire to see Miriam play the part of the heroine in "Uncle's Will."
He stayed at home, and Lady Rachel pleaded a slight cold and stayed
with him. They had a comfortable private sitting-room in the hotel,
and, when coffee had been served, Lady Rachel began her campaign.

"I am sorry not to see dear Miriam act," she said; "but, after all, we
shall have other opportunities, and it is just as well, perhaps, that
you should not be there; it might have been a little unpleasant for
you both. Biarritz is, I fear, a very gossipy little place; but, after
all, it's the same everywhere. These English colonies, with so many
idle people, must gossip. It's the only thing to be done."

Max, who had been leaning back listlessly in an armchair, with a bored
expression on his face, pulled himself together, with a feeling that
something unpleasant was coming.

"What have they been saying about me now?" he asked.

"Well, I really hardly know whether to tell you or not," said Lady
Rachel. "But I think some one must speak, and the General is so much
annoyed about it, that perhaps it would come better from me. I have
been like a mother to you this winter, Max, and you must not mind
plain speaking."

Poor Max winced at this.

"You have been very kind," he said politely. "What is it that has
annoyed my uncle? Have people been talking about my fortnight in
Kilmainham?"

"Oh no, nothing of that sort," said Lady Rachel, hastily. "All that
has quite blown over, and every one knows that you have ceased to take
any sort of interest in politics. No; the fact is, that people will
assume that you are engaged to dear Miriam. Now my husband, of course,
desires to see her settled in life, and, of course, anything of this
sort tells very much against a girl's chances. There is Lord
Stoughton, for instance, who certainly admires her very much, but he
will not come forward if he thinks that she is engaged, or as good as
engaged, to you."

"Lord Stoughton!" exclaimed Max. "Surely, aunt, you will never permit
her to marry such a blackguard as that? Why, I would rather see her
dead, than tied to that man for life."

"Indeed, it is not at all what I wish for her," said Lady Rachel, with
tears in her eyes. "But what can I do? Her father insists that she
must marry well. I am sure the way things are managed in England is
less satisfactory than the pure business settlements carried out in
France. What agony and sorrow it would save me if my husband could
simply arrange a marriage for Miriam with you, in a matter-of-fact
way. Why, here among the French it would be the most natural thing in
the world."

"Well," said Max, with a short laugh in which there lurked a good deal
of bitterness, "'When you are at Rome do as Rome does,' is a good old
proverb. But I don't for a moment think that Miriam would consent."

"Ah, you are very much mistaken," said Lady Rachel, shaking her head
sadly. "Think from what a fate you would be saving her."

Some interruption occurred just then, and nothing more was said; but
when Miriam returned, flushed and excited by her success, and looking
particularly lovely in a Spanish mantilla and a pretty evening cloak,
a sort of horror sprang up in her cousin's heart at the bare idea of
such a woman being married to Lord Stoughton. She was evidently quite
unconscious that any trouble was in store for her; no rumour had as
yet reached her that people were beginning to gossip about her
possible engagement, for her manner was frankness itself as they
parted that night.

"Did you order the horses for to-morrow?" she asked.

"Yes, for half-past twelve; is that right?"

"I wish you would make it twelve," she said; "I want so much to ride
to Cambo; they say it's the prettiest place in the neighbourhood, but
it is rather a long round. We could have _djener_ up here half an
hour earlier."

"Very well," said Max, "I will see to it," and he went off to his room
feeling just a little less like a man who has lost all interest in
life than he had done since quitting Ireland.

His convalescence had been slow and unutterably tedious. The order for
his release had been supposed to be given on account of his state of
health; he made no inquiries, but simply left for Madeira as quickly
as possible, fancying that the authorities had found it impossible to
establish a chain of evidence with regard to Foxell's death, and that
Doreen's betrayal had simply caused his arrest, but had been powerless
to do any more mischief. Had she come to Kilmainham in a fit of
penitence, he wondered, to confess to him that she had broken her
oath? At times he almost wished he had seen her and heard the whole
story; but the months passed by, and he became more and more absorbed
in himself, and, enfeebled by the lazy, luxurious life, he thought of
her less and less, willingly excluding from his mind all that
interfered with his peace. The Herefords had been very good to him,
and he had certainly found in his cousin's companionship something as
nearly approaching pleasure as he was capable at that time of feeling.
The shock of hearing that there was any notion of marrying her to a
man who would assuredly make her miserable, had stirred into life his
better nature, and it seemed to him that, after all, perhaps the
arrangement which his uncle and aunt had long desired might be the
best solution of the difficulty. His life was ruined; he had no heart
left at all, but he could at any rate save Miriam from much misery.

When they met at _djener_ the next morning, he saw at once that she
was in trouble; she was extremely silent, and he even fancied that she
had been crying. The General, too, had a ruffled look, as though he
had been arguing hotly, and Lady Rachel did not appear at all: she was
in bed with a bad headache.

The cousins started together on their ride with scarcely a word; but
the sunshine and the delicious air were exhilarating, and they were
both young enough to be refreshed by the lovely sense of spring in
winter which comes to one in the south. Away in the distance was the
long, snowy chain of sharply serrated Pyrenees,--La Rhune, the
nearest, looking lofty and majestic in its snowy mantle. In the
foreground the mossy banks were covered with violets and primroses,
and the quaint little town of Isturitz, with its fern-covered walls,
delighted them.

"What makes uncle so worried this morning?" asked Max, as they rode
leisurely through the lovely woods of birch and chestnut.

"Oh, the usual miserable story," said Miriam, with a sound of tears in
her voice. "He wants me to marry. Wants me to be specially civil to
that hateful Lord Stoughton. I have been forced at last to promise
that I will accept some suitable offer before the end of the season.
You see, Max, you and I are getting terribly old. We are twenty-nine.
Think of that! We shall be thirty in the summer; and papa considers no
woman any good after she is thirty. Really sometimes when I hear him
talk like that, I feel inclined to go and bury myself in a convent
like those Bernardines we saw at Anglet. Or I think I would be a _Soeur
de Marie_, because they are allowed to talk, and they keep the rabbits
and the flowers, and are on the whole tolerably lively. At any rate,
one would be spared that feeling of degradation, and would not be
classed among the useless before one had reached middle age."

"It is only men of a certain stamp who would agree with Uncle
Hereford's verdict," said Max, drily.

"Maybe," said Miriam, with a sigh. "But I have told you my fate. I
don't want to marry at all; but if it must be, why then I must put up
with it, and perhaps Lord Stoughton would do as well as most people."

They were riding now up-hill. The road overhanging the river Nive was
lovely in the extreme. Max felt strangely stirred by his cousin's
speech.

"Miriam," he said eagerly, "you must not, you shall not, marry that
man without knowing the truth about him,--he is not fit to touch the
hem of your garment; life with him would be hell on earth."

She turned pale. "Very well, Max," she said; "but you must remember I
have promised to be off my father's hands somehow by the time we leave
London in July."

"I have not much to offer you," said Max. "You know my story, and that
I have little faith in love, and protestations, and vows of eternal
devotion. But I would try to make you happy, Miriam, if you would
marry me."

Miriam hesitated. She looked into his cold, passionless eyes, and knew
that this was not the same Max at all who had once loved Doreen.

An amused and yet a rather pathetic look came into her face.

"I am very fond of you, Max," she said frankly. "But I don't know
whether we should get on together, except as we are now."

"I do not pretend that there would be much romance about our
engagement," said Max; "but it might save you from a worse fate; we
are very good friends, and know each other's ways. I should think we
had as good a chance of happiness as most married people."

"I tell you what," said Miriam, with a gleam of amusement in her dark
eyes; "let us try for a time how we get on as an engaged couple. We
will only tell my father and mother, and it shall not be announced to
the world in general till the middle of June, let us say. Then, if we
have not seriously fallen out, we can think about settlements and
_trousseaux_, and so forth."

"Very well," said Max, quietly; "if such a plan suits you, and is
approved by my uncle and aunt, I have no objection. I would rather see
you in your coffin than married to Lord Stoughton. There seems to me
no reason at all that we should not get on very happily together."

"And you must keep your radical views decently in the background,"
said Miriam, laughingly; "but indeed I think you have entirely changed
your nature; for I have hardly seen you touch a newspaper since you
came here, and you have not once bored me with your tiresome theories
of reform."

"Who would have thought of seeing roses in full bloom at this time of
year!" said Max, glancing at the lovely little churchyard of Cambo,
which they were just approaching. "Let us get down here and rest the
horses."

Miriam willingly assented, and wandered off to look at the church;
when he rejoined her, she was standing, with her face turned to the
long range of snowy mountains, and he was struck by the softened look
in her eyes.

"Max," she said, looking up at him with a smile that was half sad,
"you are the best friend I have in the world. I am more grateful to
you for helping me in this trouble than you can guess. I will indeed
try to be good to you, dear."

Again all that was noble and chivalrous in his nature revolted at the
thought of Miriam being sold into life-long bondage to such a man as
Lord Stoughton. Something in her genuine gratitude touched his heart
and made him stoop down and kiss her reverently.

"Don't you remember," said Miriam, with one of her bright, mischievous
glances, "how old Colonel Dunbar used to say that kissing a cousin
was like lamb with mint sauce, and kissing a sister was like lamb
without the mint sauce?"

Max smiled, and the two rode home together in very good spirits to
gladden Lady Rachel's heart by the news of the arrangement that had
been made, and fairly to satisfy even the General, who mentally
reserved to himself the right to tell his own personal friends the
true state of things whenever it appeared to him convenient to do so.

That evening, about half way through _table d'hte_, as Max was
listening courteously to the remarkably dull conversation of a deaf
old admiral who sat next him, he was suddenly startled by hearing from
the opposite side of the table a question in a girl's high, clear
voice.

"Father, did you see the news about Miss O'Ryan, Doreen O'Ryan, you
know, the public singer whose voice you always admire so much?"

"No; what about her, my dear?" said the gray-haired _pater familias_,
putting down his knife and fork unwarily for an instant, whereupon the
waiter instantly whisked away his unfinished _entre_.

"She is in prison; just think!"

"Eh, what?" said the father, in astonishment; then, suddenly
perceiving that he had been defrauded of his food, he paused to
grumble in an aside to his wife that really the waiters were no better
than so many vultures watching to pounce on their prey.

Max, meanwhile, waited with a numb feeling as though some one had laid
hold of his heart.

"She was arrested in Ireland," continued the girl, "for having helped
to erect one of the huts for the evicted tenants. It says that she
will be in prison three months."

"Serves her right for being mixed up with that abominable, wicked Land
League," said the old gentleman, severely. "A set of thieves and
murderers, that's what they are; and I can't think that any nice girl
would be mixed up with such a crew."

Max felt as if he were choking. The deaf old admiral went mumbling on
with his interminable stories of the sea; the long tables, with their
goodly array of fruit and flowers, looked ghastly to him in the glare
of the gaslight as he contrasted them in his mind with the dimly
lighted cell, in which Doreen was at this very moment immured. Doreen
in prison! Doreen, of all girls in the world, to be hemmed in by rules
and regulations; to be shut out from life and sunshine, and condemned
to solitude! The thought was intolerable, and the harsh words of her
English censor opposite roused within him a feeling of strong
indignation.

"This room is intolerable," he said hastily to Miriam, who was sitting
at his right hand; "I can't bear it any longer; the heat is
suffocating me."

He pushed back his chair and made for the door, breathing more freely
when he found himself alone in the reading-room. Eagerly turning over
the foreign papers, he found the English journal he sought, and with a
pang of indescribable pain, read the following brief lines, under the
large type heading:--


"ARREST OF MISS DOREEN O'RYAN.

          "Miss O'Ryan, the well-known singer, was arrested
          yesterday afternoon, and sentenced by the
          magistrate to three months' imprisonment. She is a
          member of the Ladies' Land League, and a daughter
          of the late Mr. Patrick O'Ryan, formerly a member
          of the Irish Bar, but debarred on account of the
          part he took in the rising of 1848, and later on,
          undergoing five years' penal servitude as a
          Fenian. The news of the arrest caused great
          excitement and indignation, owing to the singer's
          popularity. It appears that Miss O'Ryan, after her
          day's work on Monday at the office in Upper
          Sackville Street, was deputed to travel down by
          the night train to the South, with aid for some of
          the tenants on Mr. Haman's estate. It is said that
          in order to get in front of the sub-sheriff and
          warn the people, she was carried across a river,
          so that when the evicting party arrived they found
          the houses barricaded. Resistance was useless,
          however, and, in spite of Miss O'Ryan's
          entreaties, the evictions took place, and the
          houses were levelled with the ground. An old woman
          was carried out in a dying state, and immediately
          received the last Sacraments; the whole scene
          being extremely painful, and greatly aggravated by
          the rain and the cold. Miss O'Ryan had just
          succeeded in getting one of the Land League huts
          erected to shelter the two large families which
          had been rendered homeless, when she was arrested.
          The news spread rapidly, and a small crowd awaited
          the eminent vocalist here, as the train entered
          the station. She appeared pale and exhausted, but
          smilingly acknowledged the vociferous cheers with
          which she was greeted on her way to the cab. As
          the vehicle drove off to the female prison in the
          suburbs, the people sang with great enthusiasm,
          'God save Ireland,' until they were dispersed by
          the police."


Max let the paper drop, and buried his face in his hands, fighting
against the horrible pain that proved clearly enough how false had
been his notion that he had no longer any heart left. It was not so
much of Doreen, as she had been during their last interview in Bernard
Street, that he thought; it was the little Doreen of long ago that
refused to be banished from his mind. Once again he heard the sweet
voice chanting "God save Ireland," as they climbed Kilrourk. Once
again he saw the funny little figure "heavily ironed," on the back of
the sofa, and boldly exclaiming "God save Ireland!" in spite of the
threatening aspect of the dragoon with the sixpenny sword.

Doreen was in prison for three months, while he, in this paradise of
rest and loveliness, was leading a life of luxurious ease, troubling
himself not at all about anything in the world but his own
satisfaction. He felt a sort of loathing of himself, and yet it seemed
to him that he was chained hand and foot, irrevocably bound to this
aimless existence, and that to free himself and plunge back once more
into the working world was an effort altogether beyond him. As for
Doreen, how could he help her? They had agreed to part, and she had
been false to him, horribly false--why should he grieve for her?
However admirable her devotion to Ireland, she had betrayed him, and
it was no thanks to her, he imagined, that he was not, at this moment,
in Kilmainham. He had, of course, no notion of the truth that it was
to Doreen's intervention that he owed his freedom and the preservation
of his name from public talk, as one who had, for years, known the
truth about the Lough Lee tragedy.

But, mercifully for him, the news had shaken him out of his false
dream of lazy peace and indifference. It had wakened him to cruel
pain, and a battle had begun within him, between good and evil, which
was destined to prove the crisis of his whole life.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


    "Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow;
     Rise on my gloom, like the sun of to-morrow;
     Strong, swift, and fond as the words that I speak, Love,
     With a song on your lips and a rose on your cheek, Love!
     Come, for my heart in your absence is weary!
     Come, for my spirit is sickened and dreary!
     Come to the arms which alone should caress you,
     Come to the heart that is throbbing to press you."

                                              JOSEPH BRENNAN.


That same account of the arrest had made its way into the Bernard
Street household in a somewhat curious fashion. Aunt Garth and the two
elder boys were not expected home till eight that evening, and Mollie
having been put to bed rather earlier than usual, that Mrs. Muchmore
might go to a service, lay crooning a little Irish lullaby to her
doll, when suddenly the ringing voice of a newspaper boy made the
quiet street resound, and caused the child to start up that she might
hear what was the thrilling intelligence that came after the
words--"special edition!"

"It sounds like our name," thought Mollie, with a thrill of pride; for
she had a child's notion that to "be in the newspapers" was a great
distinction. She sprang up and ran to the window that she might hear
better; surely it was--"address of Miss O'Ryan." Had Doreen, then,
taken to public speaking? She listened more intently as the boy
approached, and now quite clearly the horrible truth broke upon her;
the word was "arrest," and Mollie, young as she was, had heard of too
many arrests not to understand precisely what that word involved. With
a cry of dismay that might have touched the heart of the most
inveterate hater of the Home-Rule agitation, she rushed downstairs,
not pausing for an instant to reflect that the oilcloth in the hall
was freezing to her little bare feet, that the doormat was prickly, or
that the cold wind seemed to blow through and through her as she flung
open the front door just as the newsboy was passing. His mouth was
rounding itself for a stentorian bellow when Mollie's clear voice rang
out imperiously. "Paper!" she called.

"Which'll yer 'ev, miss?" said the boy, staring at the funny little
apparition, with its dishevelled locks and wind-blown nightdress."

"Both," said Mollie, promptly, with a laudable desire to be impartial
and to hear what was said by each side. Then, as the boy demanded
twopence, Mollie, having absently felt for a pocket which didn't exist
in her nightgown, was forced to fly for help to Uncle Garth, and to
his immense astonishment came running into his study with a breathless
request.

"Please, uncle, lend me twopence for a boy at the door, 'cause he's in
a hurry, and there's no pocket in my nightgown. I mean my purse is
upstairs in my frock pocket."

"My dear," said Uncle Garth, his mild, dreamy eyes opening wider than
usual, "what are you doing down here at this time of night? and you
mustn't give money to beggars at the door with only your
night-shirt--I should say your nightgown--on."

"'Tisn't a beggar," said Mollie; "he's a newspaper boy, and he's
calling out that Doreen's arrested."

Here she sank down in a little heap on the floor and wailed.

"What!" cried Uncle Garth, stooping to pick up the newspapers.

But Mollie, though "impecunious," was honest.

"There's twopence to pay first," she sobbed, holding on valiantly to
the "Pall Mall Gazette."

Uncle Garth hurried out to the front door and paid the boy; then, with
an air of deep concern, he returned to his study and very gently
picked up the little crying child.

"My dear," he said, mopping her eyes assiduously with his red silk
handkerchief, "pray don't cry so; these boys as often as not call out
lies just to sell their papers. Let me look and see."

Mollie relinquished both journals and smiled through her tears.

"Oh, I do hope he was lying!" she said fervently.

But her heart sank as she watched Uncle Garth's face while he read.
The boy had evidently been telling the truth.

Uncle Garth made inarticulate exclamations of annoyance and regret.
Mollie caught the words: "She's infatuated! There's no help for it.
Treading in her father's steps, and after all, it's natural enough!"

The child buried her face in Uncle Garth's coat and cried bitterly.

"There, there," he said, kissing her; "don't cry, my pet; they will
not keep her long in prison, you may be sure of that."

"How long?" sobbed Mollie. Then as she heard the length of the
sentence: "Three months! three whole months! Why, that'll be after
Easter. What did they send her to prison for?"

"For putting up a hut for some people who were turned out of their own
home," said Uncle Garth.

"Then," said Mollie, "if it was for doing a kind, good thing like
that, of course God will send one of His angels to her. He always
does, you know, to the people who do right and are put in prison."

Uncle Garth did not contest the point, or attempt to prove to the
little child that building Land League huts was "intimidation."
Instead, he drew closer to the fire and held the little bare feet to
warm, and began to tell her of the Egyptian doll which had been found
after being buried for hundreds of years in a child's coffin, and of
corn that had been found in a mummy's hand and had been planted here
in England ages after, and had sprung up and brought forth fruit.

When, later on, Aunt Garth and the boys returned grave and
sorrowful,--for they, too, had heard the news,--they found Uncle Garth
still chatting away, with the child on his knee, though Mollie had
blissfully fallen asleep to the sound of his soothing voice. Michael,
glad to escape from discussion of the bad news, took her in his arms
and carried her gently upstairs, abjectly miserable when he thought of
his helplessness to serve Doreen, yet proud, too, to think that she
should be among those who were suffering for love of Ireland.

Mollie's love, which was always of a practical nature, prompted her
the next day to spend the whole of her playtime over a carefully
written and curiously spelt letter, which ran as follows:--


          "DARLING DOREEN: Bride and me mean to be very
          ekstrar good to please you till you come back. We
          keep praying that God will send an angel to open
          the prison doors like St. Peter's angel did, and
          Daniel's that shut the beasts' mouths. Dermot
          calls the majistrit a beast and so did we till
          Hagar said she must soap our mouths if we kept
          saying beast because it was a bad word for girls
          and that you never said it. So now we only _think_
          the majistrit was a--you know what, because as we
          are to be ekstrar good it will not do for us to
          get our mouths soaped, and besides we hate the
          taste of the soap. So if you wake up one night and
          see a angel you won't be fritened will you, but
          you'll say 'Oh that's just the angel Mollie and
          Bride asked for.' Hagar says Paul was set free
          from prison by an earthquack, she means St. Paul
          not the Paul that sells roses, you know. So
          perhaps it may be an earthquack to set you free,
          but we shall spesh'lly ask for an angel because
          Bride and me think earthquacks must be rather
          dredful. Auntie reads us Mr. O'Sullivan's 'Story
          of Ireland,' she says it remines her of 'Tails of
          a Granfather' only that was Scotch Histry and this
          is Irish histry. She thinks Donal O'Sullivan a
          grand caracter, we are reading the part ware they
          crossed Ireland and they had to eat their horses
          and use the skins for boats, ugh! Hagar says I
          must write very carefly because the prison
          orthoruties will read the letter, I hope theyll be
          able to all right, ive wrote it as well as I could
          and these are for kisses x x x x
                      "From your loving sister,
                                             "MOLLIE O'RYAN.

          "P.S. The kisses of course are for you not for the
          orthoruties."


Mollie and Bride had many secret confabulations about this time, Bride
generally playing the part of sympathetic listener, and Mollie's
fertile brain and ready tongue doing the work.

"I've been thinking," said Mollie, as one spring day they sat together
on the top of the toy-box in the nursery window, "I've been thinking,
Bride, that while we're waiting for the angel to set Doreen free, we
might just as well be asking, too, that Max may come back and that
everything may come right again. There's no harm in asking, you see.
And Doreen has never looked quite the same since the day Max gave up
coming here. I remember it was the day we went to see Signor Donati's
baby, and picked the flowers in his garden. Doreen has looked kinder
sad ever since then."

"I love Max," said Bride; "I wish he would come back."

"Well, we'll ask God to send him," said Mollie. "And I tell you what,
Bride, we'll buy him a Easter card; there's a lovely one in
Southampton Row, with four angels on it, and something underneath
about 'Seek things that are above.' It's awfully dear--it was marked
sixpence. But I have got a sixpence, and if you would spend your penny
on the stamp, we could get it to him."

"But, then, we shan't have nothing to get one for Doreen," said Bride.
"What a bover it is we've not got more pennies!"

Mollie was silent; a look of profound meditation stole into her blue
eyes. "Don't speak to me," she said, pressing both hands over her head
and staring hard at the black brick house opposite, as though for
inspiration. "I can kinder see a thought, but it won't let me catch
hold of it. Wait, wait! Now I've got it. You see, Bride, as only one
of them can have the card, and as Doreen loves Max, she'd much rather
he had it."

"We could send them each a thrip'ny one," said Bride, astutely.

"No; but don't you see that she'd _rather_ go without, if it meant
something beautifuller for him? Doreen does so love people, and she
always wants to be giving. And you know, Bride, the thrip'ny ones are
not a bit nice; they're just crosses of flowers instead of four lovely
angels."

"The angels was very pretty," said Bride. "I think they was doing the
ladies' chain in the quadrille."

"Oh no, Bride, no; angels don't dance; they can fly, you know, which
must be something like skating in the air, I should think, or swimming
very fast in water that doesn't wet you. The worst of it is, Hagar
will never let us walk to Southampton Row alone; we shall have to ask
her to stay outside the shop, because we've a nice secret,--a very
spesh'ly nice secret."

The "spesh'ly nice secret" arrived at Biarritz on Easter Eve; for the
children had prudently posted it to Monkton Verney early in Holy Week,
and the housekeeper, touched by the childish "Please forward direkly,"
had given it a place in the packet which was being sent to her master.
Max, who detested letters, groaned inwardly as he opened the bulky
package from Monkton Verney, nor did the news he received tend to
raise his spirits. There was a long letter from the Firdale Liberal
Committee, informing him of the sudden death of the member, Mr. John
Steele, and asking him to telegraph an immediate reply if he were
willing to stand once more for Firdale.

To go through all the drudgery of an election campaign, with very
probable defeat staring him in the face, was a dismal prospect, and
then he realized how the Herefords would discourage the idea, how
utterly unsympathetic Miriam would be, and how horribly he would feel
the loss of his mother's presence and active interest. He could not
and would not endure it all. He would remain abroad; he would take
his ease; he would shut out from his mind all the work for which he no
longer felt any zest. Musing thus, he turned over his remaining
letters, smiling a little at the childish writing on the largest of
the envelopes, and touched more than he would have cared to own by the
elaborate angel card and the laboured inscription on the back, "With
love from Mollie and Bride."

"Those dear little souls! do they still care for me?" he thought to
himself, realizing that the card must have exhausted their exchequer.
And then, Bride's "dancing angels" somehow carried his thoughts back
to a silent room in the Shelbourne, and to a lesson he had learnt
there, but had of late forgotten.

"I must go out and get them some Easter eggs," he thought to himself,
and sauntered into the town, taking some pleasure in selecting for his
two little friends the most fascinating presents that Biarritz would
produce. Then, having posted them, he wandered on towards the sea, and
found his way out to the Virgin rock, a desolate promontory reached by
a little shaky wooden pier, and surmounted by a roughly hewn image of
the Virgin Mary. He had suffered much during those long weeks which
had elapsed since the day he heard of Doreen's arrest. Ever since then
he had been fighting a desperate inward battle, sometimes gaining,
sometimes losing; and, as he sought a sheltered nook among the brown
rocks, and sat watching the great Atlantic rollers as they surged by,
he knew that the time had come for the final struggle. He must decide
at once, whether he would take the unwelcome plunge into the stormy
arena of political life, or remain at Biarritz in self-indulgent
leisure and tranquillity. Watching the sea, he naturally enough fell
to thinking of Doreen. She was not often out of his thoughts at this
time, and now, as he reflected how the same vast Atlantic washed the
shores of the very place where she was imprisoned, her influence over
him was strong. In the dashing of the waves on the rocks below, he
seemed to hear her well-known voice singing the refrain of Ellen
O'Leary's song:--


    "To each--to all--I'm ever true,
     To God--to Ireland--and to you."


Had he not promised ages before to speak for Ireland? And was he in
cowardly fear to abandon the work to which he had pledged himself,
because it was likely to win him the world's disapproval? Because,
forsooth, Ireland was out of favour and unfashionable?

Again he listened to the surging of the waves, and again Doreen's
voice seemed to ring through his heart:--


    "And, oh, my darling, I am true,
     To God--to Ireland--and to you!"


He sprang to his feet, fearing even a moment's delay, and promptly
made his way back to the town, where he despatched a telegram
consenting to stand again for Firdale, and announcing his immediate
return to England.

"I will take you at your word," he said to Miriam, when he was telling
her of the summons he had received; "all these Radical doings shall
not bore you; I will keep them decently in the background, and not
enlist your services in the electioneering campaign."

"Very well," said Miriam, good-naturedly, "and if you really want to
succeed, why, I wish you well. After all, there are some conveniences
in your being in Parliament, even if you are on the wrong side. You
will be able to get all our friends orders for the ladies' gallery.
And tea on the terrace is rather fun."

Max spent his Easter on the railroad, and arriving in England, went
straight down to address a meeting of the Firdale electors. He spoke
with studied moderation, but did not escape a certain amount of
"heckling" with regard to his brief stay in Kilmainham. Still, his old
popularity stood him in good stead, and the knowledge that the
contest would be a severe one proved stimulating when he was actually
at work. Firdale was also a little prejudiced in his favour by the
touch of pathos in his solitariness. There was no cheerful house party
this time; for Monkton Verney was in the hands of strangers. There was
no sweet-faced Mrs. Hereford driving about the Firdale streets; she
had long since been called away. There was no bright Irish singer to
draw big audiences and to cheer and inspirit the electors; she, report
said, had jilted the young squire, probably for the sake of some
worthless compatriot.

All this told in his favour; and when the poll was declared, it proved
that the Liberals had a majority of fifty-six, upon which there was of
course great jubilation; and Max, in a dream-like way, did all that
was expected of him, shook hands with the defeated candidate, stepped
on to the balcony, said the few manly and modest words that he ought
to have said, and was loudly cheered by the crowd. But all the time he
felt a miserable aching void which utterly marred his triumph.
Everywhere he saw the loving blue eyes that had looked into his so
tenderly on the day of his defeat; through all the cheers of the crowd
he heard Doreen's response to his question whether next time he should
have her help, "Why of course; you will always have it when you want
it."

That afternoon he walked out quite alone to Monkton Verney, longing to
get away from Firdale, longing for peace and quiet. Taking a short cut
across the park, he chanced to come across old Goody, who had already
heard of his triumph and was full of congratulations. "And oh, sir,"
she added, "I'm main glad the ghost's laid. Have they told you?"

"Why, that's good hearing," he said, with a laugh. "The house will let
far more easily if that idle tale is knocked on the head."

"Well, sir, it was Miss O'Ryan; she wrote and told me just what it
was, and we've all seen it now; but she was the one that was bold
enough to walk right up to it, and till she touched the bare wall
with her own hand she thought it was his lordship."

"When was Miss O'Ryan here?" asked Max, with a curious twinge of pain
at his heart. And Goody, nothing loath, gave him a graphic description
of the visit early in January, and took great delight in showing him
the gargoyle which had so long been terrifying the people by its
life-like shadow. Max, when he had taken leave of the old crone,
wandered on to the churchyard, thinking over the story he had just
heard.

"My brave Doreen!" he said to himself, "that was exactly like you;
your heart throbbed and your knees trembled, but you walked straight
up to the ghost and laid hold of it."

The wind sighed drearily through the churchyard trees and seemed again
to repeat those haunting words,--"You will always have it when you
want it." He went and stood for a moment, with bared head, beside his
mother's grave. There was the wreath of which Goody had spoken, the
offering of lovely white flowers which Doreen had specially brought
over from Guildford on his mother's birthday. He himself had forgotten
the day altogether. It is only women who remember those little
delicate touches which sometimes, by their very fineness, do more to
brighten and console than far more solid bits of work. She had somehow
found time for thought in the midst of her busy life, and he in his
wealth of leisure had forgotten.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the old sexton, hobbling up as Max turned away
from the grave. "Shall I tidy up the turfs a bit, and throw away that
there dead wreath?"

"No," said Max, glancing at the brown and shrivelled remains; "leave
all just as it is."

"I'm glad to hear o' your success, sir," said the old man, "and I hope
I see you better."

"Thank you, Brown. Yes; I am quite well. Good day." And in no mood to
bear another word, Max left the churchyard, and walked drearily back
to Firdale, without daring to glance at his old home or at Rooksbury.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


    "But its bitter taunt repeating,
       Cried the harsh Voice: 'Where are they--
     All the friends of former hours,
       Who forget your name to-day?
     All the links of love are shattered,
       Which you thought so strong before;
     And your very heart is lonely,
       And alone since loved no more.'

         *    *    *    *    *

    "'Nay'; and then the gentle answer
       Rose more loud, and full, and clear;
     'For the sake of all my brethren
       I thank God that I am here;
     Poor had been my life's best efforts,
       Now I waste no thought or breath--
     For the prayer of those who suffer
       Has the strength of Love and Death.'"

          A. A. PROCTER, _The Tyrant and the Captive_.


It was quite late in the evening when Doreen arrived at the prison.
She looked up at the high, blank walls and at the grim, gray,
battlemented entrance, and shuddered a little. In this prison, long
ago, her father had once spent four or five months at the time of the
Smith O'Brien rising. She remembered vividly his description, in after
years, of the way in which the bed he had been allowed to hire had
rotted away from the damp of his cell. It was here that he had first
developed that delicacy of chest which had ultimately caused his
death, and which had, she feared, been inherited, more or less, by all
his children. Within those walls, moreover, she remembered to have
heard that in the famine years hundreds of prisoners had died in one
week.

No doubt a very different state of things now prevailed, but the
associations of the place still seemed to haunt it. It had lately been
converted into a female prison, and Doreen inquired eagerly whether
any other political prisoners were there. The matron who received her
replied in the negative; and Doreen sighed a little, knowing that this
meant that she was condemned to absolute solitude.

"Never mind," she thought to herself. "If all I can do here is to
suffer, I must try to suffer well."

This thought helped her to endure all the petty discomforts of her
first initiation into the rules and regulations of the place, and
before long she found herself alone for the night, a very taciturn
female warder having brought her a cup of tepid tea and some food.

"They'll not keep you to the prison fare," observed her attendant,
giving her a long, searching look. "Food will be specially ordered in
for you to-morrow. The gas will be turned off in twenty minutes."

"Thank you," said Doreen. "Good night."

To this remark the warder made no response; it was an attention to
which she was not accustomed; but just as she was leaving the cell,
she remarked, a trifle less gruffly, "I think, too, you'll have the
right to order in bedding"; and without leaving the prisoner an
instant to respond to this cheering suggestion, she clanged the door
behind her.

Doreen shivered. She had often heard Donal Moore say how that sound
more than any other affects a prisoner; but she tried to smile, and,
as she drank the tepid tea and ate the food that had been brought for
her, she valiantly forced herself to make a parody on "Oh, the clang
of the wooden shoon." It was not a very successful attempt. She became
wofully conscious that every bone in her body was aching, that her
heart felt like lead, and that whether she liked it or not, here, in
this tiny room, with its bare, white walls, she must remain for three
calendar months. It was bitterly cold, too, and she longed as she had
never longed before for a fire; it was quite in vain that she crouched
beside the hot pipes with which the cell was provided. For when you
have driven many miles on an outside car in pouring rain, on a cold
winter's day, and have then, in your wet clothes, had to sit for some
time in a draughty railway carriage, you will certainly find if, into
the bargain, you have been thinly clad, over-tired, and underfed, that
it takes more than a hot pipe to warm you. When the gas was suddenly
turned off, and she groped her way across the cell to the most
unyielding mattress it had ever been her fate to lie on, a sudden,
dreadful craving for Mollie and Bride and the familiar room in Bernard
Street, with the little lamp beneath Max Hereford's cross, came over
her, and she burst into an agony of tears.

At that very moment the warder was remarking to one of her companions,
"It's the very first of them strong-minded females I've set eyes on."

"And I heard the police as brought her say she was a rare plucked
one," remarked another warder. "He said she stood up as bold as could
be before the magistrate, and quoted the Bible against him."

"Lawks!" said the other. "Is there anything in Scripture to suit with
the Land League?"

Doreen woke at least a dozen times during the night, and always to the
same horrible realization that she was a prisoner. The moon was full,
and its light brought out into sharp relief the scanty furniture of
the cell and the heavily barred window. She wondered much what Max
would say to the news. He would hear about it at Biarritz, and General
Hereford would rejoice to think that his nephew had no longer any
connection with her. Would Max feel just a little sorry for her? Would
he defend her when other people said harsh things? Would he once more
be stirred into trying to serve Ireland, or would he only feel
thankful that he was out of the strife in the sunny south? Would he be
glad to think that they no longer belonged to each other? But at that
intolerable thought she once more broke down and sobbed her heart out.
"It isn't true! He is mine--I am his--whatever happens! His though I
can do nothing for him--nothing! Oh, Max! Max! Max! Come back to me!
Come back!"

But her brave spirit soon rose above the storm of emotion. "I am a
fool," she said, drying her eyes; "God has not allowed me to be sent
here without some good purpose,--perhaps, after all, I can serve
Ireland better in prison than at large. And I shall have more time to
pray than ever in my life before. It's a lie that I can do nothing for
Max; I can help him even if he hates me. Oh, my God! let me help him!
I ask for nothing more but just to help him!"

And so the three months began, and the first month seemed like a year;
for it was long before Doreen could grow accustomed to the deadly
monotony that contrasted so sharply with her ordinary life. For two
hours in each day she was allowed to walk in the exercise yard; for
the remaining twenty-two hours she was shut up in the dismal little
cell, and though no work was expected of her and she had nothing to
complain of, the mere imprisonment was terrible to one of her
disposition. The Chief Secretary had sent special orders that she was
to be allowed to see visitors, to have books, and to be treated with
every consideration. Doreen knew that he would fain have released her,
but that his unflinching determination to support the action of the
magistrates at all costs forced him against his own inclination to
refuse to interfere. She felt genuinely sorry for him; yet it
perplexed her much to think that in the face of the utter failure of
his policy of repression, he should still cherish the idea that
Ireland could be coerced into order and patience, while the horrible
evils were still unredressed.

The second month, however, passed much more quickly. She had recovered
from the severe cold which had followed on the fatigue and exposure
she had undergone on the day of her arrest. She had also become
accustomed to the restrictions and annoyances of detention, had
learned to endure the thought of having her letters read, and had
lost that shrinking dislike to being cooped up with some particularly
repulsive-looking criminals when she attended service in the chapel.

"I wish I could do something for them," she said one day, when two of
her father's old friends, members of the religious order of the
Christian Brothers, were visiting her. "Often when I look at them in
the chapel I think of your cases of specimens at the school, showing
manufactures from their earliest to their latest stage; most of the
prisoners seem to me in the primary stage, and there is nothing here,
absolutely nothing, to help them on to the next. It's not the least
use for the chaplains to preach at them. And they don't try indirect
means, like music. They say throughout Ireland no music is as yet
permitted in prisons. In England it is permitted, and has been found
very useful."

"Why don't you ask the Chief Secretary about it? You say you know him.
An appeal could do no harm," said the elder of her visitors.

"I have a very good mind to ask him if I may not sing to the other
prisoners on Easter Day," said Doreen. "I was as hoarse as a raven all
last month, but my voice is coming back again now."

The Chief Secretary gave a ready consent, and the prison authorities,
who, however much they detested the Land League, could not help being
touched by Doreen's cheerful and uncomplaining patience, gladly hailed
the daring innovation.

A more extraordinary audience she had never sung to; but there was
something almost dreadful in the way in which she at once felt that
she had riveted their attention, that the music was irresistibly
drawing them up out of their miserable memories and their evil
thoughts. It seemed to her that she could almost see them passing to
that "next stage" of which she had spoken to the Christian Brothers.

She sang them first, "Oh, that thou hadst hearkened to my
commandments," from Sullivan's "Prodigal Son," and as the last tender
repetitions of "Turn ye, turn ye--why will ye die?" rang through the
place, she could see that tears were raining down the faces of some of
those very women whose look of hardened wickedness had at first
appalled her. Then she gave them "I know that my Redeemer liveth," and
"Come unto Him," from the "Messiah," ending with a well-known hymn to
which neither of the chaplains objected. The experiment had been such
an evident success that the priest and the clergyman and the matron
began to cherish hopes of persuading the government to supply musical
instruments for the chapels, though they were well aware that much red
tape would have to be manipulated before such an outlay would be
agreed to.

During that Easter week, Doreen received another of Mollie's curiously
spelt, but very comforting letters. It contained a graphic description
of the arrival of the presents from Biarritz.

"We are keeping some of the chocklits for you," wrote the child. "As
Michael thinks the orthoruties wouldn't let you have them praps now.
But I send you the paper Max sent with them, and hope you'll like it
as well as a card, there wasn't enough money to get cards for both of
you, and we sent him a nice one insted. Bride says, 'tell Doreen when
she comes home I shall never let her go away again, but will cling
round her neck, and my clings are very firm.'"

The paper inclosed was a mere line hastily scrawled in pencil: "With
love from Max. The angels have reached me safely--a thousand thanks."
On the whole, Doreen thought she liked it as well as an Easter card.

Slowly, very slowly, the April days passed on. Doreen supposed it was
the relaxing climate and the mild spring weather that made her feel so
tired and languid. Sometimes it was all she could do to keep up her
allotted time in the exercise yard, but she struggled on, being loath
to return to her dreary little cell before it was absolutely
necessary. When at last the hour of her release approached,
excitement gave her for the time a fictitious strength. Her face was
radiant as she quitted the prison and joined Donal Moore's wife, who
had come to the south on purpose to meet her. Her fellow-workers would
fain have kept her in Ireland, but there were engagements in London
which she was bound to keep; and, moreover, her whole heart was crying
out for the children, and she could only be persuaded to spend the
night in the Moores' house, crossing by the morning boat, and arriving
in London that evening at a quarter to six. Michael and Dermot awaited
her on the platform, and their eager delight at getting her back once
more, their vociferous greetings, their intense excitement, made her
forget all her fatigue.

"It is worth while going to prison only for the sake of coming home
again," she said, laughing. "And look! look! there are my darlings on
the balcony. I only hope they won't shake the thing down; it looks
more than a hundred years old."

She sprang out of the cab and hastened into the house, where Mollie
and Bride came flying downstairs to cling round her neck with the
eager, child-like love which her heart had been aching for all those
weary months. And then came Aunt Garth's tender and rather tremulous
embrace, and Uncle Garth's kindly welcome, with no allusion at all to
her "wrong-headed adoption of Nationalist views," but a genuine gleam
of relief and pleasure in his quiet eyes, as he realized that the
sunshine had returned to his house. Last of all, there was Hagar
Muchmore's warm reception in the snug little nursery.

"Guess a cup o' tea and a bit o' hot buttered toast will hearten you
up after your journey," she said, having unceremoniously kissed her
mistress. "Give me your hat and jacket, and just you sit down and
rest. Why, for the land's sake! what have they been doing to you in
prison?"

"They certainly didn't starve me," said Doreen, laughing. "I was very
well treated; there was a great deal more sent in than I could eat. I
used to wish I could send the remains to Portland to Mr. Moore. Why
are you staring so at me? It's months since I saw a looking-glass. Is
there any change in my face?"

She laughingly crossed the room to an old mirror that hung above the
mantelpiece.

"Ah, my cheeks have fallen in rather, and my eyes look bigger. Never
mind. Home will soon cure me."

They were still laughing and talking round the tea-table, when the
servant came to announce that Mr. Farrant was in the drawing-room.
Mollie and Bride murmured a little that a visitor should so soon have
interrupted their peace; but Doreen, with an eager hope that she might
learn something about Max from his friend, ran swiftly downstairs,
glad to meet once more a man for whom she had a profound respect.

"I have not come to detain you for long," said the member for
Greyshot, taking her hand in his. "I only wanted to welcome you back
again, and to bring you the good news, if, indeed, some one has not
already forestalled me."

"What news?" she asked eagerly, for though rumours of coming change
had reached her in Dublin, nothing had been definitely known.

"The Chief Secretary has resigned," said Donovan Farrant. "It seems
that, at last, the English government and the Irish people are
learning to trust each other, are willing to credit each other with
honest intentions, and to work harmoniously for the good of Ireland.
The prisoners are to be released. There is to be no renewal of the
Coercion Act."

Doreen's face grew radiant.

"Thank God!" she said reverently. "The night of mistrust is over at
last."

"Now I shall not stay a moment longer," said Donovan Farrant; "for I
know your little people are hungering for you after this long
absence."

"Is Mrs. Farrant well?" asked Doreen. "I have scarcely seen her for a
really comfortable talk since the Firdale election."

"She is very well, thank you. By the bye, you have heard, I suppose,
of the late election at Firdale? Mr. Steele died while you were in
prison, and Max Hereford is just elected. He took his seat only
yesterday. This will be a very auspicious time for the beginning of
his public life."

This news seemed to fill Doreen's cup of happiness to the brim. Her
prayers had been answered. Max had left the unsatisfactory life of
purposeless wandering abroad, and had come back to work at the very
time when he could best serve her country. All through that week she
lived in a sort of dream of hope and joy; and when Donal Moore,
released from jail, came on the following Saturday to see how his
wards were prospering, there was such merriment and glad content, such
eager talk and overflowing mirth, as the walls of the respectable
Bernard Street drawing-room had never before witnessed. There had been
light-hearted gaiety, it is true, fifteen months before, on the eve of
Donal Moore's arrest; but things had then been very dark for Ireland,
and they knew that trouble was in store. Now the hearts of all the
Irish patriots were raised in glad expectation; for at last it seemed
that their redemption was drawing nigh.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


    "Oh, when the strife of tongues is loud
       And the heart of hope beats low,
     When the prophets prophesy of ill,
       And the mourners come and go,
     In this sure thought let us abide,
       And keep and stay our heart.
     That Calvary and Easter Day,
     Earth's heaviest day and happiest day,
       Were but one day apart."

                            SUSAN COOLIDGE.


"Signor Donati and his wife have come to see you," announced Michael
about ten o'clock on the following morning, as Doreen, surrounded by
the children, was making her usual Sunday breakfast in the nursery.

"I suppose they have just called on their way to church," she said;
"it's very kind of them to look me up so soon. What a curious thing it
is that the Italians are so much more ready to sympathize with
Ireland's cause than English people."

Carlo and Francesca Donati gave her a delightful welcome, and it was a
minute or two before she became aware that they responded rather
gravely to her bright flow of conversation and her happy auguries of
better days that were to dawn for her country.

"You must think it strange for us to come to you so early; but it was
Ferrier's doing," said Donati. "He was on his way himself to see you,
but he shrank from being the bearer of bad news. He persuaded us to
come instead, fearing, I think, that his English view of the matter
would jar upon you."

"What news?" asked Doreen, instantly taking alarm, and yet only
vaguely fearing, only curiously wondering what it could be that made
the Italian's eyes so sad, so pitiful.

"A call has come for all your courage, for all your faith in God," he
said rapidly. "Just when your hopes for Ireland were brightest, just
when England seemed beginning to understand the justice of your
country's cause, there has been a ghastly tragedy, a murder by some
vile miscreants, which will for a time alienate the sympathies of the
English."

She gripped his hand.

"Tell me quickly," she cried, in a voice that vibrated with an agony
that no words could describe. "Who has been murdered?"

For answer he put into her hands a note containing the hastily
written, almost broken-hearted words in which Donal Moore had conveyed
to Ferrier the news of that horrible tragedy which so strangely
united, in one common sorrow, one indignant protest, the English and
the Irish nations.

Doreen read the names of the victims. Every vestige of colour left her
face; she neither spoke nor moved. Francesca, terrified by her whole
aspect,--for, indeed, she seemed like one dead,--came and put her arm
round her, and kissed her, not trying to check her own tears.

The shock, in spite of the way in which her friends had tried to break
it to her, had been overpowering; and for one of Doreen's physique and
character, to be suddenly dashed down from the highest pinnacle of
hope to the deepest gulf of despair, was a dangerous thing.

"Have you heard no further details?" she asked at length, in a voice
that had sunk to a hoarse whisper.

"Nothing more as yet," said Donati. "Only just the fact, and the time,
and the place."

She shuddered. "It must have been at the very time when we were so
happy here with Donal just released from Portland, and the children
dancing and singing, and the future for Ireland all looking so bright,
so hopeful. Oh, why does God let such awful things happen? Why, when
deliverance seems near, are our hopes always frustrated by some
ghastly crime, some fatal misunderstanding, some ignorant blunder? We
dreamed that our redemption was at hand, and now evil has triumphed.
Why does God let it be so?"

"I don't know why it seems for a time to triumph," said Donati, in a
low voice, which strangely moved her, drawing her as it were, by the
speaker's strong conviction, out of her gulf of despair. "It is enough
to know that it seemed to triumph, yet was for ever crushed on
Calvary,--enough to know that you and I here, at this moment, can
share in the pain and in the victory. Why should you doubt that even
through this vile and shameful deed, God may work out the redemption
of your country? All redemption comes through suffering; all life is
won by pain. That is God's will for this world. If there had been any
better way of training us, do you think He would not have chosen it?
'_E La Sua Volontade  nostra pace._'"

Doreen, out of her dumb agony, looked up at him gratefully. She
unlocked her hands, and slipped her cold fingers into Francesca's
comforting clasp. These two, who had come to her aid, were no mere
talkers; they had lived through their agony, and in consequence, they
trod the world somewhat differently to the generality of people. It
seemed that their ears were more ready to catch the throb of others'
hearts; that while to reach most people the clumsy vehicle of words
must be used, these two understood and sympathized with those they met
by some much finer process.

Without their help, Doreen could hardly have borne the next few weeks;
for although some of those who had suffered most from the terrible
tragedy nobly refused to hold the Irish nation responsible for a crime
which was abhorred by all save a few miscreants, the English nation
called out vehemently for vengeance, and coercion became once more
the order of the day. Donal Moore, who, at first, in the horror of
receiving the news of the tragedy, had wished himself back in Portland
Prison, where, at least, he would have been ignorant of the terrible
calamity that had befallen his country, now with characteristic energy
and noble-hearted self-sacrifice threw himself into the difficult task
of fighting the odious calumnies which began to be heaped
indiscriminately on all patriotic Irishmen. But the shock had, for a
time, paralyzed all the confident hopes of mutual trust between the
two countries; and Max Hereford was swept away with the multitude, and
found himself listening to his uncle's denunciations of the Land
League without even attempting to prove that the whole scheme of the
Land League had been open and constitutional agitation, and that the
murders were clearly the work of one of the secret societies. News of
his attitude reached Doreen through the Magnays, and added terribly to
her pain; but she did not know through how grievous a crisis he was
passing, or how the conflict that had begun within him on the day of
her arrest had been bravely fought. Max was in truth, both in his
public and his private life, in a terribly difficult position. The
time was rapidly approaching when he must definitely declare his
attitude with regard to the Coercion Bill; and the time was also
approaching when General Hereford would expect the public announcement
of his engagement to Miriam. As far as he knew, Miriam was well
contented to let the nominal betrothal become a genuine one, and yet
all the time he was conscious that Doreen still exercised over him a
strange influence; sometimes he thought he hated her, at other times
he feared he still loved her, but he was never indifferent to her,
could never even hear her name without stirrings of heart for which he
tried to despise himself.

At last, goaded almost beyond bearing by this inward struggle, he
resolved to go and hear her sing. And one evening, early in June, he
left the house soon after eight o'clock, and made his way to St.
James' Hall, where Doreen was announced to sing at Mr. Boniface's
concert. With indescribable feelings he awaited her first appearance,
and when at length the conductor led forward the slim, girlish figure
robed in white poplin, his heart beat like a sledge-hammer. Her air of
simplicity and goodness was entirely unaltered; but he thought there
was additional dignity in her attitude as she stood regarding the
audience, while the pianist played the introduction to her song. The
face, too, was changed and had a fragile, delicate look about it that
reminded him somehow of little Mollie, and the eyes looked larger and
sadder even when, at her warm reception, she had smiled. She sang her
most popular song, "O Bay of Dublin," and the exquisite voice lured
him back, for the time, into a haven of rest, filling his mind with
memories that were all tender and gracious, all sharply in contrast
with his present miserable conflict. Then came other singers, and
presently Donati himself, the star of the evening; but Max scarcely
heard him or heeded him. He was once more desperately fighting that
battle in his own heart which must settle the course of his whole
life. And when Doreen again appeared, the very change in her aspect
angered him. She should not, urged the tempter's voice within him,
have allowed trouble to become so legibly stamped on her face; surely,
too, he caught the gleam of two or three white threads in her dark
hair? She should not, above all, have chosen to sing Linley's "Kate
O'Shane." He did not notice that in the programme it was stated that
she sang it by special request, nor did he pause to reflect that a
soprano is almost bound to sing love songs. He listened with darkening
brow and angry heart to the sweet refrain,--


    "O Dennis dear, come back to me!
     I count the hours away from thee.
     Return, and never part again
     From thine own darling Kate O'Shane."


A sort of fury of anger and hatred rose in his heart, an utterly
unreasoning wrath consumed him, and it chanced at that instant that
Doreen, as she bowed to the audience, caught sight of him. Had a knife
been plunged into her breast, it could not have wounded her so
terribly as that glance; her face, as she passed down the steps from
the platform, was absolutely colourless, and Donati, perceiving that
something was wrong, followed her out on to the stairs, and helped her
to the artistes' room.

"Max Hereford is in the stalls!" she exclaimed. "He looked--oh, I
can't tell you how he looked!"

There was no need to describe the change in Max, for Donati saw by the
dismay and horror in her own face what it must be.

"You cannot tell through what struggle he may not be passing," he
said, with that perfect sympathy and comprehension which characterized
him. "Go back and sing something that shall help him to conquer."

But the thought of returning again to face Max in his present mood,
the horror of singing to one who seemed to have given place to the
devil, was like death to her. She shuddered as the storm of applause
reached her more clearly upon the opening of the swing door.

"For his sake," said Donati, "be strong. Help him while you can."

"Will Miss O'Ryan give an _encore_?" said the Norwegian attendant, in
the mechanical tone of one going doggedly about his duty in spite of
personal suffering.

"My book of Irish songs, Hagar," said Doreen, quickly. "Yes, I am
coming. There is one song," she added in a low voice to Donati, "and
only one, that I think by its memories might reach him--if only I can
sing it."

"You certainly can sing it for his sake," said Donati, with that firm
confidence that everything right was possible, which gave his life
such wonderful force.

Doreen's heart was throbbing painfully, but she did not pause or
hesitate. She passed through the little waiting-room, smiled at
Sardoni as he bantered her on having kept the audience clapping for
such an unmerciful time, and handed the open book to Marioni.

"There are four verses," she said to him, as they mounted the steps;
"I think I shall be hissed, but whatever happens go on playing."

There was a thunder of applause as the people caught sight of her;
then all became deathly still.

"My God!" she cried in her heart, "let Max understand the message--for
no one else here will understand."

Marioni began to play the introduction; it was a well-known air, but
Doreen had never sung the words at an English concert, and she knew
well enough that at this time, when Ireland and all things Irish were
abhorrent to the majority, her choice of the song would expose her to
the bitterest censure. Yet, cost what it would, she must sing
it,--must sing it, too, to perfection, must call up vividly that
shameful scene when frantic men had demanded a sacrifice, and had
forgotten that He who said "Vengeance is mine" abhors revenge in a
nation as in an individual. In subdued style, but so clearly that not
one word was lost, she sang the first descriptive lines, breaking
forth triumphantly into the refrain:--


      "High upon the gallows tree
       Swung the noble-hearted three,
     By the vengeful tyrant stricken in their bloom;
       But they met him face to face,
       With the courage of their race,
     And they went with souls undaunted to their doom.
       'God save Ireland!' said the heroes;
       'God save Ireland!' said they all;
       'Whether on the scaffold high
       Or the battle-field we die,
     Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we fall!'"[1]

[Footnote 1: By the kind permission of T. D. Sullivan, Esq., M.P.]

The audience seemed startled and puzzled. From the front row she
caught a whispered reply to a question, "The Manchester murderers."
The unjust word, the utterly untrue statement, brought a glow to her
face; she declaimed the second verse with a power which constrained
the people against their will to listen to her.


      "Girt around with cruel foes,
       Still their spirit proudly rose,
     For they thought of hearts that loved them, far and near;
       Of the millions true and brave
       O'er the ocean's swelling wave,
     And the friends in holy Ireland ever dear."


This time, at the close of the refrain, there rose a sound which she
had never before heard in an English concert-room; but she thought of
Allen and Larkin and O'Brien, and how their last night in this world
had been disturbed by the vile songs and taunts of a mob howling like
wolves for their blood,--and she spared the audience nothing, but went
steadily on.


      "Climbed they up the rugged stair,
       Rung their voices out in prayer,
     Then with England's fatal cord around them cast,
       Close beneath the gallows tree,
       Kissed like brothers lovingly,
     True to home and faith and freedom to the last."


The people were now really angry; the refrain was almost drowned in
the storm that rose. Marioni looked round at the singer nervously,
hoping that she would spare them that fourth verse, but Doreen stood
like one wrapt in contemplation, almost, it seemed to him, that she
herself had become one of those victims about to be offered, and her
extraordinary calm, in the midst of an uproar that would have shaken
the nerves of the most courageous, began to influence all her hearers;
the hisses died away, and once more the exquisite voice rang through
the great hall. Max, throughout the song, had never taken his eyes off
her; he had known at once that she was singing for him, and for him
alone. Once more he was climbing the mountain beside her in the early
morning, and she was eagerly telling him of the Manchester martyrs.
"And Allen," he could hear the childish voice saying, "was only
seventeen,--a whole year younger than you. He had done nothing but
open the doors to let the prisoners out. He was so brave that he
wouldn't defend himself, but just fired his pistol in the air, and the
English almost tore him to pieces."

The storm of disapproval startled and horrified Max; that Doreen
should be exposed to this made his heart hot within him. Had he acted
on impulse, he would have forced his way to her there and then. And
yet she looked very little in need of such support as he might give.
That wonderful light which had startled the magistrate and had made
Maurice Mooney's gossoon protest that she was not to be pitied, for
she looked like an angel, now struck all who looked at her. Her whole
face seemed transfigured as she sang,--


      "Never till the latest day
       Shall the memory pass away
     Of the gallant lives thus given for our land;
       But on the cause must go,
       Amidst joy, or weal, or woe,
     Till we've made our isle a nation free and grand.
       'God save Ireland!' say we proudly;
       'God save Ireland!' say we all;
       'Whether on the scaffold high
       Or the battle-field we die,
     Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we fall!'"


At the close no one hissed, no one applauded; there was a little buzz
of talk through the hall, and Doreen passed swiftly off the platform,
to be greeted by astonished questions from her companions. Donati
helped her by instantly going on for his next song; and soon the
audience, which had been thrilled and horrified by the graphic
description of a shameful scene for which, as a nation, they had as
yet felt no regret, were listening to the very different refrain of
Gounod's "Nazareth,"--


    "Lo, the Lord of heaven hath to mortals given
     Life for evermore."


Doreen drank in every phrase of the song with relief and delight; but
afterwards, while Madame Gauthier, the pianist, was playing, the
low-toned discussion upon Irish rights waxed hot, and Stainforth, who
had never quite forgiven her plain speaking in the autumn at Hastings,
said many scathing things.

"Never mind," said Donati, when the welcome call for the violin player
had come. "Out of brave suffering springs deliverance. Did you ever
hear how the oppressed peasants in Japan won their rights? There was a
brave peasant, named Sogoro, in the seventeenth century; and he,
seeing how the land agents tyrannized over the people, and how all
petitions were disregarded, volunteered to place an appeal actually in
the hands of the Tycoon himself as he passed in state along the road.
For thus disturbing royalty, he was handed over to his own feudal
lord,--the very man against whom he had petitioned. And this tyrant
caused Sogoro and his wife to be crucified, and all their children to
be beheaded. But the work was done. The Tycoon had received the
petition; the wrongs of the peasantry were revealed, and the
government redressed them."

Meanwhile Max impatiently awaited Doreen's final appearance. She was
to sing Gounod's "Barcarola" with Donati, and he longed hungrily for
one more sight of her. He knew her far too well to imagine that she
had been indifferent to her reception. He was perfectly well aware
that to face again the audience that had insulted her would be no easy
matter for one of her temperament. When, by and bye, he watched Donati
leading her on to the platform, with his chivalrous air, and talking
to her as though intent on keeping in check all memory of what had
gone before, he felt a pang of envy, and a sudden, swift perception
that the Italian was worthy to stand beside her in this difficult
moment, and that he himself was wholly unworthy. Fortunately the
audience had the good sense to appreciate the lovely duet, and to
realize that there was something particularly sympathetic in the
blending of the two beautiful voices. For days after Max was haunted
by the phrase,--


    "Safe o'er the waters gliding,
     Come, love, and sail with me."


And always he could hear Doreen's prayer for Ireland, and could see
the spiritual beauty of her face as she confronted that hostile
audience. More than once it gave "the battle to his hands," and
through the days that followed, he painfully struggled up once more,
until he had made good his standing-place.




CHAPTER XL.


    "We owe allegiance to the State; but deeper, truer, more,
     To the sympathies that God hath set within our spirit's core;
     Our country claims our fealty; we grant it so, but then,
     Before man made us citizens, great Nature made us men.

    "He's true to God who's true to man; wherever wrong is done,
     To the humblest and the weakest, 'neath the all-beholding sun,
     That wrong is also done to us; and they are slaves most base,
     Whose love of right is for themselves, and not for all their race."

                                                          LOWELL.


Doreen awoke on the following morning to find herself alarmingly
hoarse; to fulfil her engagements was out of the question. Indeed,
Brian Osmond condemned her to three days of absolute silence. "One
might almost as well be in prison again," she wrote on her slate.
"It's by far the worst punishment you could devise for a talkative
Irishwoman!"

Her doctor was more anxious about her than she realized, and devised
every means he could think of to divert her mind and build up once
more her failing strength. It was owing to a word from him that Mrs.
Farrant called and persuaded her to go for a daily drive with her; and
one morning, early in the following week, there came a little note
which greatly delighted Doreen. It ran as follows:--


          "DEAR MISS O'RYAN,--My husband has managed to get
          an order for the Speaker's ladies' gallery for
          to-night. Will you come with me? It would be a
          great pleasure to have you.

                    "Yours very sincerely,
                                          "GLADYS FARRANT."


There could, of course, be only one reply to such a proposal; for
Doreen liked nothing better than to hear a debate. She was eager to
go, and Mrs. Garth was glad to see her cheered by anything, and knew
that Brian Osmond would approve. Though allowed now to talk once more,
her voice was still uncertain and troublesome, and the great authority
on throats, to whom she had repaired, had forbidden her to sing for
another ten days. The time hung heavily on her hands, and it was a
great relief to be with such a delightful companion as Mrs. Farrant,
and to be taken into an entirely different world,--the world,
moreover, in which Max Hereford had just taken his place. Their order
gave them one front seat and one back, and Gladys Farrant, who had
more opportunities of visiting the House, insisted that she should
have the best place.

A remarkably dull speech was in progress, and the members were
gradually reassembling after the dinner-hour. Looking down through the
lattice-work, Doreen recognized many familiar faces. There, just
below, was the Prime Minister, who had talked so kindly to her when in
her distress she had gone to him on that autumn Sunday. Over on the
Irish benches she could see Fitzhugh's calm, inscrutable face, and
O'Carroll, looking very wan and weary, evidently still suffering from
the effects of his imprisonment, and Dennis McMurtrie, with his air of
gentle dignity, and a host of others well known to her,--some of them
past masters in the mysteries of obstruction and interruption. On the
Liberal benches, below the gangway, she could discern Donovan
Farrant's fine profile, but she looked in vain for Max Hereford. The
House had gone into committee on the Coercion Bill, and Fitzhugh was
moving an amendment, when Doreen became suddenly aware that Max had
just entered the door. She saw him bow to the Chair and quietly walk
to the vacant place beside the member for Greyshot; and, watching him
long and closely, she was satisfied that he was in a very different
mood to-night; that since she had last seen him he had lived to good
purpose. For Max had one of those faces which are curiously dependent
on expression, and she had known and loved him for so many years that
she understood what was passing in his mind almost as a mother can
understand the heart of her child.

The strenuous resistance made by the Irish members to the Coercion
Bill met with scant sympathy from the House, but among the very few
English voices raised for Ireland was Donovan Farrant's. His brief,
forceful speech made him many enemies, and was vehemently attacked by
the next speaker; but Doreen blessed him in her heart, and a hope rose
within her that Max, too, would follow in his steps. She thought it
just possible that he would vote for the amendment, but she had not
expected him to speak. Her breath came hard and fast when she saw him
rise, for she knew that it was his maiden speech. Was it possible that
he would espouse a cause so unpopular?--that he would, for love of
Ireland, separate himself not only from his own party, but from almost
all his countrymen?

With hands fast locked together, with rapt attention and exquisite
content, she listened to the musical, finely modulated voice, speaking
in favour of Fitzhugh's amendment, heeding neither Tory interruptions,
nor the vehement contradictions of his own party; but, with a masterly
self-control, avoiding flights of rhetoric, and throwing the whole
force of his being into an appeal for justice and generosity to
Ireland. The speech was quite a short one; but it had made its mark.
And Max, now that he had crossed the Rubicon, felt a different man.
True, his private life was difficult and involved, and as yet he could
see no right way out of the maze in which he had so long wandered; but
his public life lay clearly before him. He had chosen a rough road,
and his spirit rose to face the difficulties of the way.

For some minutes Doreen enjoyed the most perfect happiness she had
known for months. She recognized once more that quality which had long
ago drawn her to Max,--his great power of dwelling on the things that
make for unity and concord, his capacity for seeing good in those of
another race. Instead of gloating over evil, and carefully searching
for points of disagreement, he seemed to throw out into strong relief
all that was noble and worthy of praise. She realized, once more, how
great her ambition was for him,--how strong was her hope that he would
indeed prove himself the strenuous, great-hearted worker of her early
dreams. But suddenly a whispered conversation, just behind her, came
to paralyze all her springs of joy.

"How angry General Hereford will be," said the voice. "Oh, did you not
know about it? The member for Firdale is his nephew, and is engaged to
Miriam. The General told your father so the other day. It is to be
announced almost directly. They were engaged at Biarritz. Miriam will
have to convert him from his Radical views, or the marriage will be a
failure."

For a minute or two Doreen sat motionless, feeling as though some one
had struck her on the head and had numbed all her faculties. In a
confused way she looked down on the busy pencils of the reporters,
just visible in the press gallery below, and on the members; but it
was in vain that she tried to see Max. He had vanished. She was almost
inclined to think that his whole speech had been but a dream, and that
she had wakened just in time to hear that dreadful whisper behind her.
Yet they had spoken of his Radical views, had said that the marriage
would be a failure,--his marriage with Miriam! At that intolerable
thought she felt that she could endure her present surroundings no
longer; that gilded cage, with its low ceiling and dark wooden walls,
and dazzling, spotted carpet, and stifling atmosphere, was
insufferable. She rose to go, and breathed more freely when they were
outside. Gladys Farrant had also heard the whispered conversation; but
she dared not allude to it. She spoke instead of the great heat of the
place.

"We will come home," she said. "I will just leave a message for my
husband, as he spoke of fetching us. It is already very late, and I
fear it is not much good waiting to hear the result of the division.
That bore, too, who is speaking now, will probably talk for the next
half hour."

"I am so sorry to take you away," said Doreen, wrapping her red cloak
about her, as they reached the head of the staircase. Then suddenly
she caught at the balustrade, for, coming up the steps, she perceived
Max Hereford.

He greeted Mrs. Farrant cheerfully, saying that he was on his way to
look after some friends of Lady Rachel's in the ladies' gallery; then
suddenly he perceived Doreen, and flushed painfully. She quickly
regained her composure at sight of his embarrassment, however, and
with eager desire to help him over this painful meeting, held out her
hand, and smiled.

"Thank you in Ireland's name for your speech," she said.

"I fear it will do no good; this bill is certain to pass," said Max,
recovering himself, and insisting on going down with them and putting
them into a hansom.

"If it were not for the misery and evil wrought by these incessant
Coercion Acts, one would be inclined to laugh at the euphonious names
they give them," said Doreen, still talking with an eager animation
which Mrs. Farrant understood, and could not but admire. "When they
dub them the 'Protection of Property Act,' and the 'Prevention of
Crime Act,' it always makes me think of the story of the tourist in
Ireland, who was surprised to find incessant entries in his bill under
the head of 'Refreshment for the horse'; on asking what it meant, the
driver replied: 'Sure thin, yer honour, that's just the whip-cord.'"

There was a general laugh at this, and Mrs. Farrant kept the
conversation going briskly afterwards, to the relief of her two
companions. When, at length, the strain was over, and Doreen could lie
back with closed eyes in the hansom, all the misery of recollection
rushed back upon her with renewed force. Yet her vigorous young life
would not, even now, wholly yield; and she wrestled with that strong
craving for the mere peace of death which comes to most people in any
very acute pain. The horse-hoofs seemed to beat out upon the road the
refrain of a song which she had sung in many a hospital ward:--


   "Not so, not so, no load of woe
      Need bring despairing frown;
    For while we bear it we can bear,
      Past that we lay it down."


"At least my professional life is left to me," she said to herself
bravely. "All is not lost!"

Two days after this, a somewhat animated discussion took place between
General Hereford and his daughter. Miriam had come in late for lunch,
looking much annoyed.

"I do wish, papa," she said querulously, "that you would not announce
my engagement to people. I find that the Tresidders know all about
it."

"Well, yes; I certainly did tell Sir John," said the General. "But
what does it matter, my dear? It is to be generally announced in a few
days."

"It matters very much indeed," said Miriam. "Mabel Tresidder was in
the ladies' gallery with her mother on the night Max spoke, and it
seemed that they mentioned the engagement; and just afterwards, to
their horror, they found that Doreen O'Ryan was sitting exactly in
front of them, and must have heard every word. I wouldn't have had
that happen for the world."

"Is that all?" said the General, composedly. "Then, my dear, you
really need not disturb yourself. Depend upon it, a public character
like Miss O'Ryan is well able to take care of herself. I never did
like the girl; the way in which she allowed those two boys to be
brought up in popery, and the audacious way in which she used to
declare that the teachings of the Church of Rome suited the Irish
nation, just showed what an unfit person she was for your cousin."

Miriam smiled.

"She had no choice about the education of Michael and Dermot; it was
arranged, at the time of her parents' marriage, that the boys should
be brought up in their father's belief, and the girls in their
mother's. As to the other matter, we certainly have failed to gain the
Irish, as a nation, to our views; and they are just as devout
Catholics as the people in the Tyrol you used to admire so much."

"My dear Miriam," pleaded Lady Rachel, "pray do not introduce these
controversial topics. Nothing shows such bad taste. And, by the bye,
my dear, did you ask Max about the diamonds? He may have sent them to
the bank, you know; and I really should like you to wear the Hereford
diamonds next week at the State ball. I am sure he wouldn't mind. I
shall speak to him myself."

"Oh, Max won't mind," said Miriam, easily. "If you like, mamma, we
might just drive round there and catch him before he goes to the
House."

The great drawing-room in Grosvenor Square, which had been so pretty
in Mrs. Hereford's lifetime, seemed now somewhat bare and desolate.
Max came in to receive them, looking, they thought, tired and worried.
But he responded with cheerful alacrity to his aunt's prettily worded
request for the Hereford diamonds, and went off at once in search of
them.

"They are probably in the safe," he reflected, going down to the
library. "Ah, yes; now I remember," he thought, with a swift pang.
"Doreen had them, and she sent them back that day last July when I was
just starting for Manchester."

He took out his keys, unlocked the skilfully concealed iron door, and
lifted out the old despatch box in which he now remembered putting the
unopened packet. There it lay, in the place where he had so hastily
thrust it. He cut the string, and unfolded the paper; out rolled a
packet of his own letters. He pushed them aside, and removed two or
three cases which he knew contained the bracelets and the betrothal
ring which he had given to Doreen. Below these was the large, brown
morocco case containing the Hereford diamonds, and on the top of the
case lay a letter directed to him in the familiar handwriting. He gave
a stifled cry of surprise and consternation. Then, with a
fast-throbbing heart, he tore open the envelope, and eagerly read that
letter which it had cost her so much to write.

"What a fool--what a brute I must have been to doubt the woman who
could write that!" he thought to himself. "And, oh God! all this time
she has been thinking that I have read her words! She thought it when
we met that day in the train, and again last Monday in the House.
Doreen! Doreen! No fiend could have made you suffer more horribly!"

He sprang to his feet and paced to and fro in terrible agitation;
great beads of perspiration stood on his brow. The more he thought,
the more desperate he became; for, with all its restraint and dignity,
the letter made no attempt to disguise the truth that Doreen loved him
and must always love him, and his heart passionately echoed her
words--"We still belong to each other."

What was to be done? What could be done? Oh, for one word of advice
from his mother, or from some one he could trust, to show him what
honour now required of him. The one intolerable thought was that,
before he had seen his way clearly through the perplexities, into
which a mere act of carelessness had plunged him, he should be called
on to talk to Lady Rachel and Miriam.

Thrusting Doreen's letter into his pocket, and sweeping back into the
despatch box all, save the case containing the diamonds, he sharply
rang the bell, and ordered the man to call a hansom.

The old family servant looked anxiously at his master's pale, agitated
face when he returned to announce that the cab was at the door; but he
made no comment, and with a perfectly unmoved countenance received the
morocco case which was put into his hand.

"Take this to Miss Hereford in the drawing-room," said Max, "and
apologize to Lady Rachel for me. Say that I was unexpectedly called
away."

He drove down to the House, and had the good fortune to come across
Donovan Farrant, the one man to whom he felt that he could appeal in
his perplexity.

"I want a few words with you," he said, when at length he had realized
that he must make his opportunity, and that it would not fall as it
were at his very feet. "Will you just take a turn on the terrace with
me?"

The terrace was deserted, for although it was June, the air from the
river was cold and the day uninviting. There was a certain grim look
about the darkly flowing river and the broad, deserted walk and the
frowning walls of the great building, which seemed to Max in harmony
with his own feelings.

"You and Mrs. Farrant," he began quickly, "know all the facts about my
betrothal with Miss O'Ryan and its sudden ending. I want you now to
tell me what you would think right if you were in my case." He then
told his companion as briefly as possible the exact state of affairs.

"I would certainly tell Miss Hereford the truth. She has a right to
know it," said Donovan Farrant. "Strangely enough the report of your
engagement to her has already leaked out. It was mentioned in the
ladies' gallery on the night you spoke, and my wife and Miss O'Ryan
overheard all that was said."

Max made an ejaculation of despair. It seemed to him that at every
turn he was confronted by fresh evidence of the suffering he had
caused Doreen. "Say no more!" he said hastily; "here is Everest
bearing down upon us."

And truly enough, the member for Mardentown paused to accost them,
having also apparently the full intention of getting an answer to a
question.

"You both of you know Miss O'Ryan," he said. "I wish you would tell me
if there's any truth in this report of her illness that I've just
heard."

"I understand," said Donovan Farrant, feeling sorry for Max, "that
they have been anxious about her ever since the shock she received in
hearing of the Irish tragedy. Do you know her at all?"

"Well, I can hardly say I know her," said the member for Mardentown;
"but last winter, when the Chief Secretary--as he then was--had been
speaking to my constituents, she actually came to the house, just as
he was leaving, to warn him that, lying in wait for him at the
station, were two men she recognized as his avowed enemies, and she
implored him to avoid the risk and to go to London by the other line.
He was at last persuaded to consent to the change of plans, and I
believe there is good reason to know that it is not the only time he
had a very narrow escape. They say he was much pained by the news of
her arrest, but his rigid rule not to interfere with the decision of
the magistrates kept him from releasing her. She must be a brave
woman, and I shan't forget how she pleaded with him that day to take
the precautions which he detested. His policy must have been hateful
to her, but she was too noble-minded to wish a hair of his head to be
touched. I believe, too, he had once given her an interview, and had,
in consequence of something she told him, released one of the
suspects. He said something to that effect to me at Mardentown, when
we were speaking of her, but he gave no details."

Max, with a sickening sense that here was another revelation that
reproached and tortured him almost beyond bearing, muttered an excuse
and left his two companions. Should he try to find out fuller details
of all that Doreen had done for him? Should he speak to the retired
Chief Secretary? That was for the time, at any rate, impossible, since
the overworked and overwearied statesman had just gone abroad for a
holiday. He was slowly making his way up the stairs when he was
accosted by one of the messengers, who handed him a card, on which was
written the name "Mrs. Claude Magnay." And instantly leaping to the
conclusion that his cousin's wife was bringing him news of Doreen's
illness, he hastened to St. Stephen's Hall, and for the first time,
standing between the two policemen, heard his name shouted out to the
waiting crowd in stentorian tones. Then, to his surprise, up the long
double line of people awaiting members, there walked, not only
Esprance Magnay, but Miriam.

"I have been entrapped into chaperoning Miriam," said Esprance,
gaily, as he took them a little aside. "You need not be afraid. I am
not coming to waste your time; but they happened to find me on the
steps at Wilton Crescent, and Miriam whirled me off in the carriage
whether I would or not."

"Look, Max!" said Miriam, eagerly. "Here is a note which arrived for
you just after you had left home. Mamma and I were crossing the hall,
when up came a porter from St. Thomas' Hospital with this letter for
you. It is from one of the patients, who urgently wishes to see you.
The man said he is not likely to live long."

"Who can it be?" said Max. "I don't know any one at St. Thomas'."

"Don't you recognize the writing?" said Miriam, in a tone of
astonished impatience. "Why, it is from your old tutor, Mr. Desmond,
unless my eyes have much deceived me."

With a stifled ejaculation of surprise, Max tore open the envelope and
read the following lines:--


          "DEAR MAX:--I telegraphed this morning to ask Miss
          O'Ryan to come and see me, but her brother sent a
          reply that she was too ill, and that they had not
          even given her my message. Will you come? There is
          much that I want to say to you. I have had a bad
          accident, and the time left is short.

                          "Yours very truly,
                                            "J. D."


"You are right," said Max, handing her the note, and observing that as
she read the words her colour changed. "I must go to him at once.
Thank you for bringing me this. I would not for the world have
received it too late."

"I must come with you," said Miriam, resolutely.

He gave her a startled glance; but something in her face kept him from
remonstrating. He remembered that in the old days his tutor had loved
Miriam. Was that love, even now, returned?




CHAPTER XLI.


    "Love was playing hide and seek,
       And we deemed that he was gone;
     Tears were on my withered cheek
       For the setting of our sun;
     Dark it was around, above,
     But he came again, my love!

    "And our melancholy frost
       Woke to radiance in his rays,
     Who wore the look of one we lost
       In the far-away dim days;
     No prayer, he sighed, the dead may move,
     Yet he came again, my love!"

                         THE HON. RODEN NOEL.


Esprance, with her usual tact, declared that she must go home by the
Metropolitan, and laughingly protested that when once they were out of
the sacred precincts of the House, Miriam would no more require her
services as chaperon. And so it happened that, quite alone, the two
cousins drove to St. Thomas', and were ushered through long corridors,
and up a broad staircase to the Albert ward. On the landing they were
received by one of the sisters, who explained to them that as Desmond
was particularly anxious to receive a private visit, she had had him
moved into the small ward where they could interview him without
interruption. Max asked a few questions as to the nature of his
friend's accident, and they learnt that some days before he had been
severely burnt; that bad symptoms had now set in; and that recovery
was very improbable. They were advised not to allow him to talk very
long. And then, without further delay, the sister took them into the
presence of the dying man, whose face lighted up with astonishment and
pleasure at the sight of Miriam.

"It is good of you to come," he said, his eager, dark eyes devouring
her face. "But you will see now how truly I told you that we were
hopelessly separated. You did not take my advice, though?"

He glanced from one to the other.

"No," said Miriam, steadily; "there are people who still imagine that
Max and I shall one day be married, but it is not true. We have never
cared for each other. I have never really loved any man but you; and
Max has, I believe, been all the time faithful to Doreen."

Max sat beside the bed, absolutely silent, stabbed to the heart by
those last words. Had he not, rather, been absolutely faithless? Had
not she herself reproached him with having believed of her what no
other man would have believed?

"Doreen was a brave child," said Desmond, "and she has proved herself
a brave woman. She risked much for love of you last summer. I hardly
thought what I was asking of her. I knew that Foxell's widow and that
scamp of a Frenchman had spies at work, and that you stood in danger
of disgrace and exposure. I dreaded lest you should be hampered by
that oath which you took in your boyhood, and which I well knew you
would never break; but I dared not see you or communicate with you.
Doreen will explain to you more fully than I can all that passed
between us. For I sent for her one night, and, knowing that it was for
your sake, she never heeded the strange time or the disreputable
place, but risked all and came."

"It was you she went to see?" cried Max, in terrible agitation. "Yes,
yes, I see it all now--miserable fool that I was to doubt her!"

He buried his face in his hands, and groaned so bitterly that, to
Miriam, the truth was instantly revealed. This, undoubtedly, must have
been the cause of the abrupt ending of his betrothal with Doreen.

"Max," she said quietly, "don't be so miserable about it. There is
time for you to set matters right."

But Max, with a wild look in his eyes, turned fiercely upon Desmond.

"Why, in heaven's name, did you not risk sending for me, rather than
expose the woman I loved to such an ordeal? What do I care for any
exposure in comparison with the suffering--the torture--you have
brought to her? And your plan was all a miserable failure. It did no
good--no good whatever!"

"There you are mistaken," said Desmond. "Had not Doreen received my
permission to reveal the truth about Foxell's death to the authorities
if ever you found yourself in difficulties, you would, very probably,
have been at this moment in Kilmainham."

"And do you think," said Max, desperately, "that I would not rather be
in Kilmainham than in this hell of pain and remorse? But I am
wrong--you meant well by us--you tried to help; it was my own hateful
distrust that wrought all the harm."

"I do not understand," said Miriam, her beautiful face curiously
softened and altered by all that she had passed through in the last
hour. "What could you reveal about Mr. Foxell's death?"

And then, very briefly, the dying man told her all that had passed on
that day long ago at Lough Lee, and how it had seemed impossible to
own the truth at the time; how his very love for her had led him to
keep silence. He told, too, how, after his recovery, the wrongs of
Ireland had incessantly preyed upon his mind; how it had seemed to him
that the slowly moved English would never yield to mere constitutional
agitation, and that by violent means only could the cause be
furthered. He told them of Doreen's horror when she had learned that
he was a dynamiter; how she had implored him to give up a mode of
working which she thought fatal to her country's cause, and how he had
made her realize that to be in any way connected with him would be
fatal to her lover's political career.

"Had she been able to come to-day, I should not have sent for you,
even now," he added, turning to Max. "But no one here is aware that
the police are seeking for me, and they do not know the exact cause of
my accident. It will never transpire, and I am not going to burden you
with another secret. That much will die with me presently. But lest
there should ever be any further trouble with regard to the other
affair, I have written here a confession of my share in the Lough Lee
disaster. The sister and the nurse thought they were witnessing my
will when they signed it; but here it is; I give it to your keeping,
and you can do what you deem right with it. I shall soon be beyond
their reach. As you say, I have miserably failed, and I have made
shipwreck of my own life. It may be that, after all, Doreen was right,
and that Ireland will be saved, not by violence, but by the
constitutional agitation which your incessant Coercion Acts make
well-nigh impossible."

They lingered with him, talking quietly on less moving topics for some
little while, and then, at the nurse's suggestion, left with a promise
to return early the next day. Miriam, as she walked along the wide
corridors to the main entrance, felt like one in a dream.

"Only to think," she cried, when once more they were in the brougham,
"that all these terrible troubles were surrounding me, and that I knew
nothing; but just lived an easy, selfish life! I hardly wonder that
the horror of it all has half maddened John Desmond; and, Max, I am
glad, yes, glad, that he is dying. It is because I love him that I am
glad."

"We must see your father," said Max. "Those were true words that you
spoke just now, but we can hardly expect my uncle to understand
them."

"I will see to that," said Miriam, "and you need not be afraid that I
shall consent to marry Lord Stoughton. When I think of that great
hospital, full of suffering and pain, it seems to me that there are
other ways in which I may be off my father's hands by the end of the
season. I may be unfit perhaps for any very difficult work, but there
must be hundreds of ways in which a woman can help, if she is so
minded. But it is hateful of me to go talking of my own life and my
private plans, when all this long time Doreen has been suffering so
dreadfully."

"I want to show you this," said Max, in a low voice. "It will open
your eyes to see what she really is, as it opened mine. I found it
just now in the safe with the diamonds, where, for eleven months, it
has lain unread."

Miriam read Doreen's letter without comment. Then she glanced up at
him, her eyes bright with tears.

"Just tell Balcombe to drive to Russell Square, will you?" she said;
then, as he obeyed, she gave him back the letter, and added, "I will
put you down at the corner, and then drive home."

"Thank you," he said, grateful for her silent sympathy. "I want to
inquire how Doreen is."

And through his mind there floated the words which had haunted him all
the afternoon, "When you believe in me once more, then come back and
let us talk things over quietly." He dared not expect to see her, but
he would ask if she were better, and later on he might write and ask
her forgiveness.

Taking leave of Miriam, he walked down Bernard Street, his heart
sinking terribly when he saw that a doctor's carriage was waiting at
Mr. Garth's door. But before he had reached the house, he saw,
approaching him, a well-known figure,--pretty little Una Kingston,
with her wistful face, and her wavy, golden hair. A pleasant-looking
German woman walked beside her and seemed to be comforting her. He
caught a few of the kindly German words of consolation, which
increased his anxiety.

"Una," he said, pausing in front of her, "do you not remember me?"

The child glanced up at him through her tears, and a wave of
passionate indignation swept over her face.

"Go away!" she cried. "I will not speak to you. It is your fault--all
your fault!"

"_Mein liebes Kind!_" said the German nurse, remonstratingly; then, in
broken English, she explained to Max that her little mistress was in
great trouble; that the doctors were very anxious about Miss O'Ryan.

Una, meantime, had recovered herself, and, ashamed of her outburst of
temper, caught Max Hereford's hand in hers, and drew him on so that
they could talk without being overheard by her nurse.

"I was wrong to be angry," she faltered. "But they think Doreen will
not get well, and her voice is gone--quite, quite gone! How can she
even wish to go on living?"

She felt her companion stagger as he walked, and, glancing up at him,
was frightened to see the ghastly pallor of his face. Her womanly
instincts and her childish audacity prompted her instantly to speak
out the thought that darted into her mind.

"You still love her; I know you still love her. And then all will be
right. She will want to live for you. Oh, go to her now, and don't let
her have one minute more of suffering."

Without speaking a word, he pressed her hand, and turned back. On the
doorstep he encountered Brian Osmond, who was just leaving the house.
He drew himself together, and assuming, for protection, a somewhat
frigid manner, inquired how Doreen was. Brian Osmond, for a moment,
misunderstood him. The conventional words and tone jarred upon the
young doctor, and he responded brusquely, knowing perfectly well that
in the hands of this faultlessly mannered, well-appointed,
fine-looking man lay the fate of his patient.

"I fear she is not likely to recover," he said; then, as Max, still
preserving a ghastly composure, inquired the cause of her illness, he
added, curtly, "She is dying of what the world calls a broken heart,
and what we doctors call shock to the system."

Then, instantly, he knew that he had been deceived; the conventional
tone was merely the armour in which a man of the world learns to
encase himself, and it was not proof against the terrible statement he
had hurled against it. He had seen many people in moments of exquisite
pain, but he had never before witnessed such mental agony as he saw
reflected now in the face of Max Hereford. Instinctively he grasped
his hand.

"I think," he said, "that much still remains in your power, if you
will allow me to speak thus plainly."

Max scarcely heard him, but the grip of the hand reached him, and
carried his mind back to Una's hand-clasp and to her eager words: "Oh,
go to her now; don't let her have one minute more of suffering."

"Do you think," he asked, "that she would see me? Would it hurt her to
talk?"

"No," said Brian Osmond; "it would do her good. You must be prepared
to find, though, that she can only speak in a whisper, but it will not
do her any harm. What makes us anxious is her utter failure of
strength,--she has lost all wish to live. I fancy for the last year
nothing but her hopes for Ireland kept her going, and now that reform
seems more than ever distant she has suddenly broken down. There is
little Mollie watching us from the window. I will beckon to her and
she will take you upstairs. Good-bye."

He stepped into his carriage and drove off just as the front door
opened, and blue-eyed Mollie, with her radiant face, sprang up to
greet Max.

"Oh, Max! Max! is it really you?" she cried gleefully, drawing him
into the hall and clinging about his neck. "Doreen will get well now
you've come back, I know she will! And do you know ever since she
went to prison Bride and me have had a great secret,--we asked God
every morning to send you back to us, and now here you are! Isn't it
good of Him to answer just two little children like us that hardly
know Him a bit? Max, have I grown too heavy for you to carry upstairs?
Why do you sigh so dreadfully?"

He bent his head and kissed her.

"Is she here in the drawing-room?" he said. "You knock at the door."

"Well," said discreet Mollie, "I'll just knock and take you in and
then I'll run away; for you know Doreen always did like to have you
all alone."

Doreen was lying on the sofa; she did not attempt to get up when
Mollie made her astonishing announcement, but into her white face
there stole a tinge of colour that seemed only to add to its sadly
delicate look.

"I am so glad to see you," she said, summoning up all her courage and
talking continuously, because she knew what a shock her toneless
whisper would at first give him, and how difficult he would find it to
respond. "But I see you have been having hard work in the House, for
you look tired out. Mollie, mavourneen, run and ask Hagar for a cup of
tea, not just a little small five o'clock one, but a large one,--my
bread-and-milk cup,--that's more the size for an overworked M.P."

The little girl ran away, and Max seemed struggling to speak, but
could not. Doreen saw how terribly he was agitated and she went on
talking.

"You'll find it very hard indeed to keep up a conversation with me,"
she said, smiling. "People first whisper, and then shout as though I
were deaf as well as voiceless. It would be very amusing if one were
not so dreadfully tired. But I have not half told you what a delight
it was to me to hear you speak for Ireland the other night."

"Doreen!" he said, breaking in passionately, "they tell me that on
that very night you heard a rumour that Miriam and I were to be
married, and indeed it was her father's great wish. But there never
was any true love between us, and all notion of any yielding to the
General's wish is over. Miriam understands that I love you; just now
at John Desmond's death-bed I think we both of us had much revealed.
Long ago I knew that I must have misjudged you, but your letter only
reached me to-day; and when in Dublin, after my illness, I was
actually starting to come to you, feeling certain that it was only
some misunderstanding that had parted us, I was arrested. And then the
devil entered into me, and I thought that just by careless talk you
had betrayed me and broken your oath, never dreaming that Baptiste had
learnt something of the truth, and that my own hasty dismissal--my own
vile temper--was at the root of the trouble. When you came to
Kilmainham pride kept me from seeing you, though it half killed me to
refuse; and so things went on from bad to worse till I lost all heart.
Then the news of your arrest came and that drew me back, thank God;
and the other night when once more I was wavering your 'God save
Ireland' saved me. You made me feel that, like Pilate, I had made two
or three efforts to help, and then was about to wash my hands of Irish
affairs and give in to the howling wolves who cried out for national
revenge. But you saved me from doing that. Had it not been for you, I
could never have spoken the other night."

Her star-like eyes rested searchingly, but tenderly, upon him as he
spoke.

"Come nearer, Max," she said. "I feel afraid when there is all that
space between us. It makes me think of that horrible day last summer
when you thought I had been false to you." Her cheeks burned at the
mere remembrance.

Choking back a sob in his throat, Max knelt beside her.

"Darling, can you ever forgive me?" he faltered.

"You have kept me eleven months waiting for my answer to that same
question," said Doreen, smiling through her tears. "And now I am
tired of talking. Let us 'kiss and be friends,' as the children say,
when they have quarrelled."

There followed a happy, timeless interval, which, by its sweetness,
made up for all the suffering of the past. It was broken at length by
Mollie's discreet knock at the door.

"Please open it," said the clear little voice. "My hands are full";
and as Max obeyed, in walked the little girl, as usual talking as fast
as her tongue could fly. "I'm sorry it's been so long; I thought the
kettle never would boil. Hagar says there's two things you never can
hurry up, however much you wish it, and one's boiling kettles, and the
other's love. She says both's bound to come right if only we wait long
enough."

They laughed; but when once more alone, Doreen's face grew sad.

"Hagar is a shrewd woman," she said. "But the coming right is not
always in this world. Think of Miriam and of Mr. Desmond. He is dying,
and all his life has been marred by that one day at Lough Lee. At
first, when he told me that he belonged to the dynamite faction, I
almost hated him; but since I have had time to think more, and since I
have been so very unhappy, I have learned to judge people less
harshly. You know, in America, he fell under the influence of one of
the most cruelly treated of the Fenians; the man you English kept with
his hands chained behind his back, day and night, for a month. I am
not exonerating him. There must be discipline in prisons, but that was
sheer brutal cruelty, not punishment. There are not many Donal Moores
in the world, who come out of penal servitude more noble, more
Christ-like, more eager to work for the good of others. There was
little enough to complain of in the way you and I were treated during
our short imprisonment, yet think how maddening the mere loss of
liberty was--how endless the days seemed!"

"I know that the days at Biarritz seemed endless to me," said Max,
"when I could learn nothing about you, save wretched little gossiping
paragraphs in the papers. I remember one of them said that you were
suffering from a severe cold, and that, like St. Martin, you had given
your cloak to a beggar. Was that true?"

"It was not to a beggar, but to the poor woman who was evicted while
she was dying. I wonder what became of the cloak afterwards! It was
the one I had at the Firdale election."

"Did the woman really die?" asked Max.

"Yes; but the priest came just in time--I was so glad of that," said
Doreen. "I wondered so in prison what had happened, and only heard
afterwards. That was the hardest part,--to be forced to do nothing
just when I had witnessed that heart-breaking scene. Oh! if the
English electors could only realize the state of things, they would
never rest till the hideous wrong was righted. But in some ways, Max,
I do think English people are puzzling; they go frantic over the
reluctance of Jumbo to get into the van that was to take him to
America, and yet their one idea of a remedy for Ireland is to clear
the country, to force the Irish to emigrate. I wonder how many of them
have seen an emigrant ship, and the bitter grief of those who are torn
from their land? I wonder if they understand how terrible it is to
live in exile, as we were forced to do?"

Then Max began to weave plans for the future, and to talk of an Irish
home, and of the work which together they might share.

"I don't know, after all, whether I ought to let you marry a
broken-down vocalist," whispered Doreen, her eyes filling with tears.
"You have witched me back to life, Max, for in truth, yesterday, when
I plainly saw that the doctors did not expect my voice to return, I
prayed that God would let me die. Oh, you'll never know what it was to
wake in the morning and to find it gone--absolutely gone like this!"

"And it is my fault," said Max, with a groan.

"No, no!" she said; "I will not let you say that. Many things had led
up to it. They say that bad cold which I caught on the day of my
arrest started the mischief, and then the frightful shock of hearing
the news from Ireland on that dreadful Sunday. If Carlo Donati and his
wife had not been here with me, I think I should have died. They were
so good! I can never tell you how they helped me. But my voice went
for a time that morning, and all through May it was troublesome and
uncertain. They think my speaking voice will return in time, you
know."

"And they surely cannot tell that you will not be able to sing," said
Max; "there must, at least, be room for hope."

"We will hope, darling, but we won't expect," she said; "and I shall
like to think that my last song was 'God save Ireland!' and that for
once in my life I had the bliss of singing that lovely 'Barcarola'
with Carlo Donati. Oh, Max, he and his wife will be so glad to hear
that our troubles are at an end! And the Farrants, too, they have been
so kind to me!"

"But it is, after all, to little Una that I owe you," said Max. "Who
would have dreamt that that shy little girl would have had the courage
to speak out so boldly? I should never have dared to ask to see you
had it not been for her words. How you have made that child love you,
Doreen!"

"Don't put it like that," she said, smiling, as she pressed her face
to his. "Say, rather, 'How thankful you ought to be, Doreen, to have
such a wealth of love laid at your feet!'"




CHAPTER XLII.


          "One great fact rises distinctly, star-like, out
          of all the confusion and passion and heart-burning
          and heart-uplifting of that memorable day--the
          fact that a great English minister, the foremost
          and most famous statesman of his age, has
          recognized, speaking to an attentive Senate, to an
          attentive nation, to an attentive world, the right
          of the Irish people to self-government. That great
          historic fact is at once the triumph and the
          justification of an oppressed but an unconquered
          nationality....With [this] recognition...of the
          justice of Ireland's appeal, and the righteousness
          of her cause, the whole aspect of the longest
          political struggle in history changes. A vast
          proportion of the English people are henceforward
          in sympathy with the Irish people. All those who
          are most closely identified with the cause of
          progress, the love of liberty, and the interests
          of civilization are eager to allow to Ireland the
          right to manage Irish affairs according to Irish
          ideas. This is a great triumph for Ireland and
          England alike. England, no less than Ireland,
          should be eternally grateful to the great
          statesman who has undone so much evil, who has
          healed so great a hurt, who has atoned for so much
          injustice, who has united two hostile
          nationalities, and has, while freeing Ireland from
          her unhappy servitude, strengthened the empire
          which it is his duty to serve."--JUSTIN HUNTLEY
          McCARTHY, 1886.


Max had often occasion, in after days, to think of those passionate
prayers of his childhood for the return of his mother's canary, which,
in a fit of temper, he had let out of its cage. All that the most
skilful physicians in London could do to restore Doreen's voice proved
useless. The speaking voice returned, it is true, weaker than it had
been, and wholly without that ringing tone which had made it such a
delight to listen to; but the singing voice, that had entranced
thousands, was irrevocably gone, and for the rest of her life Doreen
was forced to


    "Stand as mute
     As one with full, strong music in his heart,
     Whose ringers stray upon a shattered lute."


What the loss was to her, none save the members of her own profession
and her husband could in the least understand. Perhaps Donal Moore,
being made wise through much personal suffering, was able in a measure
to guess how sorely such a gift would be missed, and how to the singer
the whole world would seem strange and blank.

"'Tis not every patriot who can so clearly see how his own loss is his
country's gain," he said to her one day. "You have lost your voice,
Doreen, but you have won for Ireland, as no one else could have won,
your husband's lifelong devotion."

The words were spoken when he was paying them a visit in their quiet,
unostentatious home in County Wicklow. Whenever Max was not kept in
London by his parliamentary duties, they lived among those
gorse-covered mountains that had been so dear to Doreen in her
childhood. And the country people said of them, in the sweet old Irish
phrase, that they were "God's own people."

Poor General Hereford had a series of unpleasant shocks. First he had
to become accustomed to the idea that Max was not to be his son-in-law
after all. Then he had to consent to Miriam's determination to learn
something of sick-nursing, and to listen, with indignant astonishment,
to her plain avowal that the only man she had ever cared for had been
a penniless tutor, who was now dead, and that not for all the riches
in the world would she marry her admirer, Lord Stoughton. Lastly, he
had the severe trial of seeing Max actually renounce the whole of the
Monkton Verney estate. All in a minute, as it seemed to the irate old
man, this quixotic nephew of his decided that, although the land had
been bought by his own father, it had belonged originally to God, and
he gave it back now for the use of God's poor. The scheme for using
the old ruins fell through, much to Claude Magnay's satisfaction. That
part of the land lay low, and was near the lake. So the ruined Priory
remained to gladden the eyes of the artistic. But the large, modern
house, with all its comfortable arrangements, was admirably adapted to
the somewhat unconventional Convalescent Home and shelter for the
destitute, which Max Hereford devoted it to. An old friend of Carlo
Donati's, Miss Claremont, undertook the management of the place; and
the General found one sweet drop in his cup of bitterness; for Miriam
was the nominal head of the house, and so, after all, was fated to be
mistress of Monkton Verney.

"I am the first prioress," she said gaily, when, one April Saturday,
Max and Doreen and several friends had come down from London to take
part in some special festivity. "There were priors in former days, but
the old order changes, and now, as every one knows, women are to have
their turn. Monkton Verney leads the van."

She made a very charming prioress, and Claude Magnay and his wife
agreed that Miriam had found her vocation.

"She would never have done as a regular sister in those frightful
black clothes," said Esprance, smiling. "But in every-day dress, and
with such a fellow-worker as Miss Claremont, and in an easy
Convalescent Home like this, where they have few rules and
regulations, Miriam is quite in her element and ever so much happier
than she was in her London life."

"I am glad the Worthingtons could come to-day," said Claude. "To tell
the truth, I was a little afraid that, in the present burning stage of
the Home-Rule question, Lady Worthington might have refused; but she
is too genuinely fond of them. Why, just look; there she is walking
most amicably with Donal Moore! Do you think he is talking politics?
Yes; listen!"

"But," pleaded the Kelt, in his winning voice, "the land restoration
of which you approve in a special instance like this is very much
what we Land Leaguers have been striving for in Ireland."

"And you would ruin the present landlords," said Lady Worthington;
"would drive them out of the country."

"Not at all," said Donal Moore, eagerly. "Let them remain by all
means, if they wish to do so. They would not be ruined. They would be
bought out; the compensation would be ample. All we want is that, as
in the old days, the land should belong to the Irish people. Then, the
State having put as low a rent as possible on agricultural land,
cultivation would be encouraged, and the people, instead of being
forced, as they are now in Ireland, to starve or to emigrate (with you
here in England they have to starve or crowd into the manufacturing
towns), would use the land, as God meant it to be used, for the
application of labour, not as something out of which rent must be
extracted to support an idle landlord."

"Do you think Lady Worthington will ever come round to anything that
involves a radical change in the Land Laws, even one that included the
compensation of the present owners?" said Esprance. "I have tried
often to make her see how well our French system works."

"I don't know," said Claude Magnay; "but if any one can persuade the
English, I think it will be Donal Moore; for a man more absolutely
true and good I never met. Do you notice, by the bye, how every one
calls him by his Christian name? Like Charles Lamb, there's something
lovable about him that makes it a necessity."

Meantime, among the gray old ruins, Max and his wife lingered, talking
happily of the dawn that had come to cheer the hearts of all who loved
Ireland. At their feet, intent on picking daisies, was a baby girl of
two and a half, in whose sunny face it was easy to see the father's
colouring, and the mother's Irish blue eyes.

"This is what we should call 'a pet day' in Ireland," said Doreen,
looking at the clear, blue sky, and at the fleecy, white clouds, and
at the budding trees, lightly stirred by the soft air. "How glad I am
that we can see this dear old place at its best. It reminds me of that
day ten years ago, when we came here to escape from General
Hereford,--that time, you know, when we were not even exactly
engaged."

"The very day that I lost my temper and dismissed Baptiste," said Max.
"If you could have foreseen all the trouble I should bring you,
darling, I am afraid you would never have held out that hope to me on
Rooksbury."

"Should I not?" said Doreen, with a little tender caress. "Is that all
you know about it, asthore? Listen, there is baby singing to her
daisies! What a clear little voice she has. I can't say much for her
musical taste, though; she seldom treats us to anything more classical
than 'Wait till the clouds roll by.'"

"Well, that's the best popular song we have had for some time," said
Max; and, indeed, the pathetic air sounded pretty enough, as the baby
voice chanted it, specially when Mollie and Bride, the two youthful
little aunts, joined in the chorus. It was a pretty sight, too, to
watch the children as they played in the ivy-covered ruins, and
Doreen's sweet face had a look of rest and serenity which had been
absent from the face of the girl Doreen, who, ten years ago, had
talked with her lover in that same sheltered nook.

"My ears are still ringing," she said, "with the wonderful words we
listened to last Thursday. You can't think what it was, Max, to sit in
that same gallery where I had once suffered so horribly, and to hear
the Prime Minister pleading for justice for Ireland. We ought to be
better all our lives just for hearing that noble speech."

"Yes," said Max, thoughtfully. "It is something to have lived for. The
nineteenth century has witnessed no greater scene; it was the
recognition by the noblest of living statesmen that God will not
permit England to oppress and drive out a nation, and then to plead
expediency; it was the public recognition that the Irish have the
right to make their own laws. It was very proper that my Day Star was
looking down on it all," he added, stooping to kiss her.

"It feels to-day as if already the clouds had rolled by," said Doreen.
"One can bear to think of Irish wrongs, because now they must soon be
righted."

"The hopelessness is gone," said Max; "but before Home Rule is won
there is a very bitter struggle still before us, darling. Depend upon
it, hatred, malice, slander, and prejudice will do their very worst.
Our leader will not, just at first, find the majority of Englishmen as
brave, as open-minded, as disinterested as himself. Pope says a man
should never be ashamed to own that he has been in the wrong, which is
but saying that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday; but it takes
a great mind to do it, and most of us have narrow minds."

"I know," said Doreen, "that the battle is not yet over, and that
there will be a great call for patience and for suppression of our
Irish party differences, for the sake of the great national question.
But since the Prime Minister spoke last Thursday, it has ceased to be
a question of the Irish against the English; we are joined now with
all true lovers of freedom and justice; and, as Donal Moore is always
saying, we are really furthering the cause of the oppressed of Great
Britain, as well as the oppressed of Ireland. Sometimes I think, Max,
that history is going to repeat itself, and that Ireland is to be
rewarded for all her centuries of suffering by being allowed once more
to be the missionary nation, and to carry the good tidings to other
countries--the tidings that the rich are no longer to live in idleness
on the toil of the poor, the good news that the earth is the Lord's
and not the landlord's."

"Do you see that Michael and Una are beginning to find that Monkton
Verney is enchanted ground?" said Max, with a smile, as through the
broken archway they caught a glimpse of the young engineer and the
pretty violinist, who, at seventeen, seemed to be winning the
happiness of which she had known so little as a child.

"It is no surprise to me," said Doreen. "And I have given Michael no
end of elder-sisterly advice. He is going to follow my line, and not
to think of any engagement as yet. But I can't see why they should not
have the comfort of understanding each other, and of writing. Michael
quite agrees that they ought not to marry yet awhile."

"And what about the difference in their religious opinions?"

"Well, that can't be helped," said Doreen. "Theoretically mixed
marriages are a mistake; but perhaps I, who have seen the perfect
happiness of a father and mother, who, like these two, differed on
many important points, do not think it so very great an objection.
Differences are against one's ideal; but there's something better than
uniformity--there's the unity that comes from Christ's spirit of love
in our hearts, and it's given to Catholics and to Protestants alike if
they follow Him."

"You are quite right, darling," said Max, a thoughtful look lighting
up his face, which in the last few years had gained so much in
strength and manliness. "It is not by fierce denunciations of other
folks' religious views, or by selfish fear lest Ireland should
retaliate for our past persecutions, that we follow Christ or help His
cause. The only things He ever did denounce were hypocrisy,
indifference, and oppression. Here comes Dermot with his notebook."

"I want to know what is the real true name of this Convalescent Home,"
said the family journalist, who, at the age of fifteen, had the proud
privilege of styling himself "London correspondent to the 'Glenbride
Examiner.'" "I can't get any sense at all out of Miss Hereford. She
will only declare that I must put her in print as the first prioress,
and she protests that the Home resembles nothing so much as the Cave
of Adullam."

Max and his wife laughed.

"People can call it whatever they please," said Doreen, with a
mischievous look in her blue eyes. "The prioress may call it the 'Cave
of Adullam,' and the General, I am told, calls it 'Hereford's Folly,'
but Max and I have a particular name of our own for it that we keep
for our private use, and I shan't tell it even to you, dear boy,
though you are the very nicest, as well as the youngest,
representative of the press I ever saw. You can mention instead, if
you like, that the infant daughter of the member for Firdale presented
floral offerings, all round, with delightful impartiality, to people
of every nationality and every shade of opinion."

"And that she wound up," said Dermot, lifting the little maid on to
his shoulder, till her grannie bonnet towered above the heads of all
present, "by proving herself a true descendant of the O'Ryans, and
giving three cheers for Ireland. Come, baby! Show them that you have
voice enough to fill the Albert Hall!


    "'Here's loved old Ireland,
     Good old Ireland,
     Ireland, boys, hurrah!'"


THE END.




A LIST OF RECENT FICTION

PUBLISHED BY
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.,

15 EAST 16TH ST., NEW YORK.



=By Stanley J. Weyman.=

A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE. Illustrated,
  12mo, cloth, $1.25.

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF. A Romance. Illustrated.
  12mo, cloth, $1.25.

UNDER THE RED ROBE. With 12 full-page Illustrations.
  12mo, cloth, $1.25.

MY LADY ROTHA. A Romance. With 8 full-page Illustrations.
  12mo, cloth, $1.25.


=By A. Conan Doyle.=

_MICAH CLARKE_. Author's Edition. Illustrated.
  12mo, cloth, $1.25.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLESTAR, and Other Tales. Illustrated.
  12mo, cloth, $1.25.


=By Mrs. Parr.=

CAN THIS BE LOVE? Illustrated.
  12mo, cloth, $1.25.


=By Edna Lyall.=

DOREEN. The Story of a Singer.
  12mo, cloth, $1.50.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SLANDER. Illustrated.
  12mo, cloth, $1.50.


=By Mrs. Walford.=

THE MATCHMAKER.
  12mo, cloth, $1.50.

    *    *    *    *    *

=LONGMANS' PAPER LIBRARY.=

_Issued Quarterly at 50 cents each._

No. 1. NADA THE LILY. By H. RIDER HAGGARD. _Copyright
Edition._ With all the original Illustrations.

No. 2. THE ONE GOOD GUEST. By Mrs. L. B. WALFORD.

No. 3. KEITH DERAMORE. By the Author of "Miss Molly."

No. 4. A FAMILY TREE, and Other Stories. By BRANDER MATTHEWS.

No. 5. A MORAL DILEMMA. By ANNIE THOMPSON.

No. 6. GERALD FFRENCH'S FRIENDS. By GEORGE H. JESSOP.


LONGMANS' DOLLAR NOVELS.

=By H. Rider Haggard.=

MONTEZUMA'S DAUGHTER. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.
NADA THE LILY. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By Miss L. Dougall.=

WHAT NECESSITY KNOWS. A Novel. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.
BEGGARS ALL. A Novel. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By E. W. Hornung.=

THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. An Australian Story. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By Francis Forster.=

MAJOR JOSHUA. A Novel. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By John Trafford Clegg.=

DAVID'S LOOM. A Story of Rochdale Life in the Early
Years of the Nineteenth Century. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By Mrs. L. B. Walford.=

THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.
'PLOUGHED,' and Other Stories. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By May Kendall.=

SUCH IS LIFE. A Novel. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By William Tirebuck.=

SWEETHEART GWEN. A Welsh Idyll. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By the Author of "Miss Molly."=

KEITH DERAMORE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By Annie Thompson.=

A MORAL DILEMMA. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By Julian Sturgis.=

AFTER TWENTY YEARS, and Other Stories. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


=By C. J. Cutliffe Hyne.=

THE NEW EDEN. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.


A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE.

Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne,
Sieur de Marsac.

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF," ETC.

With Frontispiece and Vignette by H. J. Ford.
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.


"One of the best novels since 'Lorna Doone.' It will be read and then
re-read for the mere pleasure its reading gives. The subtle charm of
it is not in merely transporting the nineteenth-century reader to the
sixteenth, that he may see life as it was then, but in transforming
him into a sixteenth-century man, thinking its thoughts, and living
its life in perfect touch and sympathy...it carries the reader out of
his present life, giving him a new and totally different existence
that rests and refreshes him."--N. Y. WORLD.

"No novelist outside of France has displayed a more definite
comprehension of the very essence of medival French life, and no one,
certainly, has been able to set forth a depiction of it in colors so
vivid and so entirely in consonance with the truth...The characters in
the tale are admirably drawn, and the narrative is nothing less than
fascinating in its fine flavor of adventure."--BEACON, BOSTON.

"We hardly know whether to call this latest work of Stanley J. Weyman
a historical romance or a story of adventure. It has all the
interesting, fascinating and thrilling characteristics of both. The
scene is in France, and the time is that fateful eventful one which
culminated in Henry of Navarre becoming king. Naturally it is a story
of plots and intrigue, of danger and of the grand passion, abounding
in intense dramatic scenes and most interesting situations. It is a
romance which will rank among the masterpieces of historic
fiction."--ADVERTISER, BOSTON.

"A romance after the style of Dumas the elder, and well worthy of
being read by those who can enjoy stirring adventures told in true
romantic fashion...The great personages of the time--Henry III. of
Valois, Henry IV., Rosny, Rambouillet, Turenne--are brought in
skillfully, and the tragic and varied history of the time forms a
splendid frame in which to set the picture of Marsac's love and
courage...the troublous days are well described and the interest is
genuine and lasting, for up to the very end the author manages effects
which impel the reader to go on with renewed curiosity."--THE NATION.

"A genuine and admirable piece of work...The reader will not turn many
pages before he finds himself in the grasp of a writer who holds his
attention to the very last moment of the story. The spirit of
adventure pervades the whole from beginning to end....

It may be said that the narration is a delightful love story. The
interest of the reader is constantly excited by the development of
unexpected turns in the relation of the principal lovers. The romance
lies against a background of history truly painted...The descriptions
of the court life of the period and of the factional strifes,
divisions, hatreds of the age, are fine...This story of those times is
worthy of a very high place among historical novels of recent
years."--PUBLIC OPINION.

"Bold, strong, dashing, it is one of the best we have read for many
years. We sat down for a cursory perusal, and ended by reading it
delightedly through...Mr. Weyman has much of the vigor and rush of
incident of Dr. Conan Doyle, and this book ranks worthily beside 'The
White Company.'...We very cordially recommend this book to the jaded
novel reader who cares for manly actions more than for morbid
introspection."--THE CHURCHMAN.

"The book is not only good literature, it is a 'rattling good story,'
instinct with the spirit of true adventure and stirring emotion. Of
love and peril, intrigue and fighting, there is plenty, and many
scenes could not have been bettered. In all his adventures, and they
are many, Marsac acts as befits his epoch and his own modest yet
gallant personality. Well-known historical figures emerge in telling
fashion under Mr. Weyman's discriminating and fascinating
touch."--ATHENUM.

"I cannot fancy any reader, old or young, not sharing with doughty
Crillon his admiration for M. de Marsac, who, though no swashbuckler,
has a sword that leaps from its scabbard at the breath of
insult...There are several historical personages in the novel; there
is, of course, a heroine, of great beauty and enterprise; but that
true 'Gentleman of France,' M. de Marsac, with his perseverance and
valor, dominates them all."--Mr. JAMES PAYN in the ILLUSTRATED LONDON
NEWS.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


UNDER THE RED ROBE.

A ROMANCE.

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF," ETC.

With 12 Full-page Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville.
12mo, Linen Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.


"Mr. Weyman is a brave writer, who imagines fine things and describes
them splendidly. There is something to interest a healthy mind on
every page of his new story. Its interest never flags, for his
resource is rich, and it is, moreover, the kind of a story that one
cannot plainly see the end of from Chapter I....the story reveals a
knowledge of French character and French landscape that was surely
never acquired at second hand. The beginning is wonderfully
interesting."--NEW YORK TIMES.

"As perfect a novel of the new school of fiction as 'Ivanhoe' or
'Henry Esmond' was of theirs. Each later story has shown a marked
advance in strength and treatment, and in the last Mr.
Weyman...demonstrates that he has no superior among living
novelists...There are but two characters in the story--his art makes
all other but unnoticed shadows cast by them--and the attention is so
keenly fixed upon one or both, from the first word to the last, that
we live in their thoughts and see the drama unfolded through their
eyes."--N. Y. WORLD.

"It was bold to take Richelieu and his time as a subject and thus to
challenge comparison with Dumas's immortal musketeers; but the result
justifies the boldness...The plot is admirably clear and strong, the
diction singularly concise and telling, and the stirring events are so
managed as not to degenerate into sensationalism. Few better novels of
adventure than this have ever been written."--OUTLOOK, NEW YORK.

"A wonderfully brilliant and thrilling romance...Mr. Weyman has a
positive talent for concise dramatic narration. Every phrase tells,
and the characters stand out with life-like distinctness. Some of the
most fascinating epochs in French history have been splendidly
illuminated by his novels, which are to be reckoned among the notable
successes of later nineteenth-century fiction. This story of 'Under
the Red Robe' is in its way one of the very best things he has done.
It is illustrated with vigor and appropriateness from twelve full-page
designs by R. Caton Woodville."--BOSTON BEACON.

"It is a skillfully drawn picture of the times, drawn in simple and
transparent English, and quivering with tense human feeling from the
first word to the last. It is not a book that can be laid down at the
middle of it. The reader once caught in its whirl can no more escape
from it than a ship from the maelstrom."--PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS.

"The 'red robe' refers to Cardinal Richelieu, in whose day the story
is laid. The descriptions of his court, his judicial machinations and
ministrations, his partial defeat, stand out from the book as vivid as
flame against a background of snow. For the rest, the book is clever
and interesting, and overflowing with heroic incident. Stanley Weyman
is an author who has apparently come to stay."--CHICAGO POST.

"In this story Mr. Weyman returns to the scene of his 'Gentleman of
France,' although his new heroes are of different mould. The book is
full of adventure and characterized by a deeper study of character
than its predecessor."--WASHINGTON POST.

"Mr. Weyman has quite topped his first success...The author artfully
pursues the line on which his happy initial venture was laid. We have
in Berault, the hero, a more impressive Marsac; an accomplished
duelist, telling the tale of his own adventures, he first repels and
finally attracts us. He is at once the tool of Richelieu, and a man of
honor. Here is a noteworthy romance, full of thrilling incident set
down by a master-hand."--PHILADELPHIA PRESS.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


"CAN THIS BE LOVE?"

A NOVEL.

BY MRS. PARR,
AUTHOR OF "DOROTHY FOX," "ADAM AND EVE," ETC.

With Frontispiece and Vignette by Charles Kerr.
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

"A wholesome tale...It is a pleasant story, delightfully told, and
with a wholesome English atmosphere."--BOOK BUYER, N. Y.

"This is a story that will repay the time spent over it. Mrs. Parr is
a strong and interesting writer. Her characters are live characters,
and the incidents through which they move are natural and realistic.
Her present story is throughout an exceptionally interesting one, and
the reader will find his interest in it kept up to the end. It is
handsomely printed on good paper."--CHRISTIAN AT WORK, N. Y.

"The touches of humor...are pleasant; the descriptions of scenery are
charming; the plot is well and artistically planned and executed; but,
best of all, the whole tone of the book is pure and free from
morbidness, and one can read it from cover to cover without finding
the taint of vulgarity and super-emotionalism (to call it by the most
polite name) which degrades so much of modern fiction."--LITERARY
WORLD, Boston.

"It is a love story of more than usual interest and is well worth
reading...The three principal persons in the book are fine character
studies, and the story is strong and interesting."--ADVERTISER,
Portland, Me.

"Mrs. Parr has given us an altogether charming book."--TRAVELLER,
Boston.

"One of the daintiest, most homelike and natural stories of the
week...the girl is a downright, genuine, substantial girl, like the
girls we know in the world and love."--COMMERCIAL GAZETTE, Cincinnati.

    *    *    *    *    *

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF.

A ROMANCE.

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," ETC.

With Frontispiece and Vignette by Charles Kerr.
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.


"A delightful volume...one of the brightest, briskest tales I have met
with for a long time. Dealing with the Eve of St. Bartholomew it
portrays that night of horror from a point entirely new, and, we may
add, relieves the gloom by many a flash and gleam of sunshine. Best of
all is the conception of the Vidme. His character alone would make
the book live."--CRITIC, N. Y.

"Recounted as by an eye witness in a forceful way with a rapid and
graphic style that commands interest and admiration.

Of the half dozen stories of St. Bartholomew's Eve which we have read
this ranks first in vividness, delicacy of perception, reserve power,
and high principle."--CHRISTIAN UNION, N. Y.

"A romance which, although short, deserves a place in literature along
side of Charles Reade's 'Cloister and the Hearth.'...We have given Mr.
Weyman's book not only a thorough reading with great interest, but
also a more than usual amount of space because we consider it one of
the best examples in recent fiction of how thrilling and even bloody
adventures and scenes may be described in a style that is graphic and
true to detail, and yet delicate, quaint, and free from all coarseness
and brutality."--COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, N. Y.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


MONTEZUMA'S DAUGHTER.

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD,

AUTHOR OF "SHE," "ALLAN QUATERMAIN," "NADA THE LILY," ETC.

With 24 full-page Illustrations and Vignette by Maurice
Greiffenhagen. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.


"Adventures that stir the reader's blood and, like magic spells, hold
his attention with power so strong that only the completion of the
novel can satisfy his interest...In this novel the motive of revenge
is treated with a subtle power...this latest production of Mr. Haggard
blends with the instruction of the historical novel the charm of a
splendid romance."--PUBLIC OPINION.

"Mr. Haggard has done nothing better...it may well be doubted if he
has ever done anything half so good. The tale is one of the good,
old-fashioned sort, filled with the elements of romance and adventure,
and it moves on from one thrilling situation to another with a
celerity and verisimilitude that positively fascinate the reader...The
story is told with astonishing variety of detail, and in its main
lines keeps close to historical truth. The author has evidently
written with enthusiasm and entire love of his theme, and the result
is a really splendid piece of romantic literature. The illustrations,
by Maurice Greiffenhagen, are admirable in spirit and technique."--BOSTON
BEACON.

"Has a good deal of the quality that lent such interest to 'King
Solomon's Mines' and 'Allan Quatermain.'...England, Spain, and the
country which is now Mexico afford the field of the story, and a great
number of most romantic and blood-stirring activities occur in
each...a successful story well constructed, full of devious and
exciting action, and we believe that it will find a multitude of
appreciative readers."--SUN, N. Y.

"It is a tale of adventure and romance, with a fine historical setting
and with a vivid reproduction of the manners and people of the age.
The plot is handled with dexterity and skill, and the reader's
interest is always seen. There is, it should also be noted, nothing
like vulgar sensationalism in the treatment, and the literary quality
is sound throughout.

Among the very best stories of love, war, and romance that have been
written."--THE OUTLOOK.

"Is the latest and best of that popular writer's works of fiction. It
enters a new field not before touched by previous tales from the same
author. In its splendor of description, weirdness of imagery, and
wealth of startling incidents it rivals 'King Solomon's Mines' and
other earlier stories, but shows superior strength in many respects,
and presents novelty of scene that must win new and more enduring fame
for its talented creator...The analysis of human motives and emotions
is more subtle in this work than in any previous production by Mr.
Haggard. The story will generally be accorded highest literary rank
among the author's works, and will prove of fascinating interest to a
host of readers."--MINNEAPOLIS SPECTATOR.

"Is full of the magnificence of the Aztec reign, and is quite as
romantic and unbelievable as the most fantastic of his earlier
creations."--BOOK BUYER.

"We should be disposed to rank this volume next to 'King Solomon's
Mines' in order of interest and merit among the author's
works."--LITERARY WORLD, BOSTON.

"It is decidedly the most powerful and enjoyable book that Mr. Rider
Haggard has written, with the single exception of 'Jess.'"--ACADEMY.

"Mr. Haggard has rarely done anything better than this romantic and
interesting narrative. Throughout the story we are hurried from one
thrilling experience to another, and the whole book is written at a
level of sustained passion, which gives it a very absorbing hold on
our imagination. A special word of praise ought to be given to the
excellent illustrations."--DAILY TELEGRAPH.

"Perhaps the best of all the author's stories.

The great distinguishing quality of Rider Haggard is this magic power
of seizing and holding his readers so that they become absorbed and
abstracted from all earthly things while their eyes devour the
page...A romance must have 'grip.'...This romance possesses the
quality of 'grip' in an eminent degree."--WALTER BESANT in the AUTHOR.

"The story is both graphic and exciting,...and tells of the invasion
of Cortes; but there are antecedent passages in England and Spain, for
the hero is an English adventurer who finds his way through Spain to
Mexico on a vengeful quest. The vengeance is certainly satisfactory,
but it is not reached until the hero has had as surprising a series of
perils and escapes as even the fertile imagination of the author ever
devised."--DIAL, CHICAGO.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


MICAH CLARKE.

His statement as made to his three Grandchildren, Joseph, Gervas, and
Reuben, during the hard Winter of 1734.

BY A. CONAN DOYLE,

AUTHOR OF "THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE-STAR," "THE REFUGEES," ETC.

Author's Edition. Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.


"The language has the quaintness of old times, and the descriptions
are so vivid and home-like as to make us feel that we are listening to
them ourselves; indeed, the story stands very high among historical
novels, and will be of great interest to any one who has followed the
more critical setting forth of the troubles preceding the Restoration
found in the regular histories. The author has succeeded in giving us
the genuine flavor of former days."--PUBLIC OPINION.

"...There is a great deal of vivid, thrilling description."--THE NATION.

"Wonderfully vivid and realistic, full of the color of the time, and
characterized by remarkable power,...there are so many pieces of
excellent workmanship in 'Micah Clarke' that it would take too long to
name them."--N. Y. TRIBUNE.

"We make bold to say that...this story of Mr. Doyle's is easily the
best example of the class of fiction to which it belongs of the year.
Two descriptions of battles in this story are, it seems to us, among
the most brilliant and spirited bits of writing we have lately had.
But it is not merely two or three striking incidents, but the
maintained interest of the entire tale, that leads us to give it such
praise as we have risked above. We shall look with interest for a
second story from Mr. Doyle's pen."--CHRISTIAN UNION.

"It is due to the dramatic power of the author that this story becomes
so absorbing. There is quickness and vivacity in it, and the story of
the soldier of fortune of that day, Saxon, who has acquired this
military art in Germany, is capitally told...Mr. Doyle never pauses,
and so the reader can go at full gallop through the story."--N. Y. TIMES.


THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE-STAR:

And Other Tales.

BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.


"Lovers of wild adventure, of brilliant satire, of quiet pathos, will
all find wherewith to be content in the little book, which, in its
variety of subject and treatment, reads more like a volume of stories
from Maga than a collection of tales from one of the same
pen."--ATHENUM, London.

"This volume of short stories proves Mr. Doyle to be an expert of the
most delightful and skillfull kind in tales of mystery, imagination,
and fancy...The book forms a most delightful addition to the too poor
literature of good short stories."--SCOTSMAN ATHENUM.

"All the stories will repay careful reading, as in addition to the
interest of the plots the style is singularly varied and reveals as
many devices of the literary artist as that of Robert Louis
Stevenson."--SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


THE ONE GOOD GUEST.

A NOVEL.

BY L. B. WALFORD,

AUTHOR OF "MR. SMITH," "THE BABY'S GRANDMOTHER," ETC., ETC.

12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.


"It is a delightful picture of life at an English estate, which is
presided over by a young 'Squire' and his young sister. Their
experiences are cleverly told, and the complications which arise are
amusing and interesting. There are many humorous touches, too, which
add no slight strength to the story."--BOSTON TIMES.

"A charming little social comedy, permeated with a refinement of
spontaneous humor and brilliant with touches of shrewd and searching
satire."--BOSTON BEACON.

"The story is bright, amusing, full of interest and incident, and the
characters are admirably drawn. Every reader will recognize a friend
or acquaintance in some of the people here portrayed. Every one will
wish he could have been a guest at Duckhill Manor, and will hope that
the author has more stories to tell."--PUBLIC OPINION.

"A natural, amusing, kindly tale, told with great skill. The
characters are delightfully human, the individuality well caught and
preserved, the quaint humor lightens every page, and a simple delicacy
and tenderness complete an excellent specimen of story
telling."--PROVIDENCE JOURNAL.

"For neat little excursions into English social life, and that of the
best, commend us to the writer of 'The One Good Guest.'"--N. Y. TIMES.

"The story is bright, amusing, full of interest and incident, and the
characters are admirably drawn. Every reader will recognize a friend
or acquaintance in some of the people here portrayed. Every one will
wish he could have been a guest at Duckhill Manor, and will hope that
the author has more stories to tell."--PORTLAND OREGONIAN.


BEGGARS ALL.

A NOVEL.

BY MISS L. DOUGALL.

Sixth Edition. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.


"This is one of the strongest as well as most original romances of the
year...The plot is extraordinary...The close of the story is powerful
and natural...A masterpiece of restrained and legitimate dramatic
fiction."--LITERARY WORLD.

"To say that 'Beggars All' is a remarkable novel is to put the case
mildly indeed, for it is one of the most original, discerning, and
thoroughly philosophical presentations of character that has appeared
in English for many a day...Emphatically a novel that thoughtful
people ought to read...the perusal of it will by many be reckoned
among the intellectual experiences that are not easily
forgotten."--BOSTON BEACON.

"A story of thrilling interest."--HOME JOURNAL.

"A very unusual quality of novel. It is written with ability; it tells
a strong story with elaborate analysis of character and motive...it is
of decided interest and worth reading."--COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, N. Y.

"It is more than a story for mere summer reading, but deserves a
permanent place among the best works of modern fiction. The author has
struck a vein of originality purely her own...It is tragic, pathetic,
humourous by turns...Miss Dougall has, in fact, scored a great
success. Her book is artistic, realistic, intensely dramatic--in fact,
one of the novels of the year."--BOSTON TRAVELLER.

"'Beggars All' is a noble work of art, but is also something more and
something better. It is a book with a soul in it, and in a sense,
therefore, it may be described as an inspired work. The inspiration of
genius may or may not be lacking to it, but the inspiration of a pure
and beautiful spirituality pervades it completely...the characters are
truthfully and powerfully drawn, the situations finely imagined, and
the story profoundly interesting."--CHICAGO TRIBUNE.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


WHAT NECESSITY KNOWS.

A Novel of Canadian Life and Character.
BY MISS L. DOUGALL,

AUTHOR OF "BEGGARS ALL."

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.


"A very remarkable novel, and not a book that can be lightly
classified or ranged with other modern works of fiction...It is a
distinct creation...a structure of noble and original design and of
grand and dignified conception...The book bristles with epigrammatic
sayings which one would like to remember...It will appeal strongly by
force of its originality and depth of insight and for the eloquence
and dignity of style in the descriptive passages."--MANCHESTER
GUARDIAN, LONDON.

"We think we are well within the mark in saying that this novel is one
of the three or four best novels of the year. The social atmosphere as
well as the external conditions of Canadian life are reproduced
faithfully. The author is eminently thoughtful, yet the story is not
distinctively one of moral purpose. The play of character and the
clash of purpose are finely wrought out...What gives the book its
highest value is really the author's deep knowledge of motive and
character. The reader continually comes across keen observations and
subtle expressions that not infrequently recall George Eliot. The
novel is one that is worth reading a second time."--OUTLOOK, NEW YORK.

"Keen analysis, deep spiritual insight, and a quick sense of beauty in
nature and human nature are combined to put before us a drama of human
life...the book is not only interesting but stimulating, not only
strong but suggestive, and we may say of the writer, in Sidney
Lanier's words, 'She shows man what he may be in terms of what he
is.'"--LITERARY WORLD BOSTON.


NADA THE LILY.

By H. RIDER HAGGARD,

AUTHOR OF "SHE," "ALLAN QUATERMAIN," ETC.

With 23 full-page Illustrations, by C. H. M. Kerr. 12mo, Cloth,
Ornamental (Copyright), $1.00.


"A thrilling book full...of almost incredible instances of personal
daring and of wonderful revenge...The many vigorous illustrations add
much to the interest of a book that may safely be denominated as Mr.
Haggard's most successful venture in the writing of fiction."--BOSTON
BEACON.

"The story of 'Nada the Lily' is full of action and adventure; the
plot is cleverly wrought and the fighting and adventure are described
with spirit. Once begun it is, indeed, a story to be finished."--N. Y.
TRIBUNE.

"The story is a magnificent effort of the imagination and quite the
best of all that Mr. Haggard has done. There is no example of
manufactured miracle in this story, for the story of the Ghost
mountain, the Stone Witch, and the Wolves is nothing but the folk-lore
of the African tribes, and in no respect similar to the wonders which
the author introduced into the stories in which Allan Quatermain
figures."--SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN.

"To my mind the realization of savage existence and the spirit of it
have never been so honestly and accurately set forth. The Indians of
Chateaubriand, and even of Cooper, are conventional compared with
these blood-thirsty, loyal, and fatalistic Zulus...The whole legend
seems to me to be a curiously veracious reproduction of Zulu life and
character."--Mr. ANDREW LANG in the _New Review._

"Rider Haggard's latest story...has a more permanent value than
anything this prolific author has previously given to the public. He
has preserved in this latest romance many of the curious tales,
traditions, superstitions, the wonderful folk-lore of a nation now
extinct, a people rapidly melting away before an advancing tide of
civilization. The romance into which Mr. Haggard has woven valuable
material is in his own inimitable style, and will delight those who
love the weirdly improbable."--BOSTON TRAVELLER.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


KEITH DERAMORE.

A NOVEL.

By the Author of "Miss Molly."

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.


"One of the strongest novels for the year...A book of absorbing and
sustained interest, full of those touches of pathos, gusts of passion,
and quick glimpses into the very hearts of men and women which are a
necessary equipment of any great writer of fiction."--STAR.

"A story with originality of plot and a number of interesting and
skillfully drawn characters...Well worthy of a careful
perusal."--BOSTON BEACON.

"The few important characters introduced are very clearly and well
drawn; one is a quite unusual type and reveals a good deal of power in
the author. It is a live story of more than ordinary
interest."--REVIEW OF REVIEWS.

"A novel of quiet but distinct force and of marked refinement in
manner. The few characters in 'Keith Deramore' are clearly and
delicately drawn, and the slight plot is well sustained."--CHRISTIAN UNION.

"The author of 'Miss Molly' shall have her reward in the reception of
'Keith Deramore.' If it is not popular there is no value in
prophecy."--SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN.

"The story is strong and interesting, worthy of a high place in
fiction."--PUBLIC OPINION.

"Its development can be followed with great interest. It is well
written and entertaining throughout."--THE CRITIC.

"An exceptionally interesting novel. It is an admirable addition to an
admirable series."--BOSTON TRAVELLER.

"It contains character-drawing which places it much above the average
love story, and makes the reading of it worth while. It is a fine
study of a normally-selfish man. There is humor in it, and sustained
interest."--BUFFALO EXPRESS.


A MORAL DILEMMA.

BY ANNIE M. THOMPSON.

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.


"We have in this most delightful volume...a new novel by a new author.
The title is happily chosen, the plot is thrillingly interesting, its
development is unusually artistic, the style is exceptionally pure,
the descriptions are graphic. In short we have one of the best of
recent novels, and the author gives great promise."--BOSTON TRAVELLER.

"A novel of rare beauty and absorbing interest. Its plot, which is
constructed with great skill, is decidedly unconventional in its
development, and its denouement, although unanticipated until near its
climax, really comes as an agreeable surprise...As a literary work, 'A
Moral Dilemma' will take high rank."--BOSTON HOME JOURNAL.

"The story is well written and gives promise of the development of a
writer who will take place among the ranks of those of her sex who are
supplying what is much needed at this time--entertaining, wholesome
literature."--YALE COURANT.

"The author writes with vigor and earnestness, and the book is one of
interest and power."--PUBLIC OPINION.

"The story is strongly told."--INDEPENDENT.

"A strong story which leaves the reader better for the perusal. A
touchlight, as Barrie's carries one through the successive scenes,
which are fraught with deep interest."--PUBLIC LEDGER.

    *    *    *    *    *

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO, 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


SWEETHEART GWEN.

A WELSH IDYLL. BY WILLIAM TIREBUCK,

AUTHOR OF "DORRIE," "ST. MARGARET," ETC.

Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.


"Very charming in its depiction of a simple country life giving
several piquant studies of quaint and attractive character, and not
wanting in the flavor of that romance which all good novels must
possess--the romance of love...The book is written with knowledge and
power, and has the idyllic flavor."--BOSTON BEACON.

"It is an idyll, a lovely one, conceived by some one whose childhood
has been happily impressed on him...The reader lives amid the pastures
and the orchards of Ty-Cremad, and eats the brown bread and drinks the
milk there, and Auntie Gwen, with her white teeth, cracks filberts for
him. This sweet, impulsive woman, with her blue eyes and her russet
hair, bewitches you, as she does her little nephew, Martin. Mr.
Tirebuck's literary faculties are of an exceptional kind. Those who
love to read of child life will find here a perfect picture. There is,
however, much more than this."--N. Y. TIMES.

"It is a vigorously told story of rural and child-life in Wales, and
most tenderly, imaginatively, simply, it is done...has humor, pathos,
fancy, courage, deep human feeling, and admirable descriptive
power."--PROVIDENCE JOURNAL.

"This is a delightful romance...a charming description of Welsh
country life, with quaint and picturesque studies."--BOSTON TRAVELLER.


DORRIE.

BY WILLIAM TIREBUCK,

AUTHOR OF "ST. MARGARET," "SWEETHEART GWEN," ETC.

Second Edition. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.50.


"A really notable novel. Dramatic and profoundly pathetic. A
psychological study of great value."--GRAPHIC.

"Mr. Tirebuck is a novelist of undoubted courage and fertility of
imagination. The story is interesting beyond all question. He
unquestionably knows how to draw a picture."--ATHENUM.

"'Dorrie' is an extremely touching and realistic picture of Liverpool
life. Mr. Tirebuck writes vigorously, and his story is certainly one
of profound human interest."--G. BARNETT SMITH, in _The Academy._

"Mr. Tirebuck has the root of the matter in him. 'Dorrie' is really a
strong piece of work--a decidedly interesting story."--SPECTATOR.

"Mr. Tirebuck has a real gift of story-telling to begin with. And he
has other greater qualities than that...His latest novel possesses a
broad human interest as a really imaginative study of life."--RICHARD
LE GALLIENNE, in _The Star_.

"This story possesses unusual powers of attraction, and gives
unmistakable evidence of genius."--MANCHESTER EXAMINER.

"She (Dorrie) seems to myself the most absolutely original, and, in
her way, the most taking figure in recent fiction. She is unique. To
one reader at least she remains among the friends of fiction, the
beloved of dreams."--ANDREW LANG, _At the Sign of the Ship_.


LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 15 EAST 16th STREET, NEW YORK.


DARKNESS AND DAWN;

OR, SCENES IN THE DAYS OF NERO.

AN HISTORIC TALE.

BY FREDERIC W. FARRAR, D.D.,

ARCHDEACON OF WESTMINSTER, AUTHOR OF "THE LIFE OF CHRIST," ETC., ETC.

Large Crown 8vo, 594 Pages, Cloth, Gilt Top, $2.00.


"A book which must unhesitatingly be classed as one of the most
brilliant historical tales of the century...."--BOSTON BEACON.

"No novel could be more fascinating, and few historical or theological
works more accurate or more useful, than this 'historic tale.'
Brilliant and truthful descriptions of the life in the Imperial
palaces of Rome."--CHURCH TIMES.

"As a study of Ancient Roman life and character it is masterly, the
events being historically authentic and the scenes startlingly real.
The martyrdoms of Christians in the Amphi-theatre and the illumination
of Rome by their burning are vividly portrayed, and the intention of
the book commendable."--PHILADELPHIA PRESBYTERIAN.

"It is the ablest contribution to historical fiction that has been
made in many years, and it deserves to rank with 'Ben Hur' as a vivid
picture of the past."--SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE.

"The work is done with notable breadth of stroke and uncommon vigor of
coloring...it is all very real and engaging...."--THE INDEPENDENT.

"The simple power and beauty of Christianity are rendered impressively
real, and the heroism of even humble believers nerves and inspires to
nobler living now. The story is sure of a wide reading and cannot but
do good."--BOSTON CONGREGATIONALIST.

"This is a book of absorbing interest. It is not a novel, nor is it to
be judged by such a standard. The story is based on the most reliable
historic facts. The brilliant author takes his reader through the
darkness of a decadent paganism into the dawn of Christianity."--BUFFALO
CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE.

"This book is in Archdeacon Farrar's best style, and the story, even
in its driest historical portions, is told with that fascinating
interest which his many readers are familiar with.

"We think that no one can read this historical tale without interest,
and that every one who reads it will turn to the contemporary writings
of the great apostle with an awakened understanding of the
circumstances which called these writings forth."--THE CHURCHMAN, N. Y.

"A picture not only of intense interest, but of the greatest historic
value...Its clear and vivid style, together with its delineation of
character, make it a book not only of interest but importance. It is
neatly bound and printed in large type."--NASSAU LITERARY MAGAZINE.

"The work is characterized by learning, graphic skill, and a rare
naturalness, and the historical elements may generally be depended
upon."--N. Y. TRIBUNE.

"Written with accuracy of detail and great power of description...A
serious purpose inspired this book--an intention to show the secret of
the triumph of Christianity."--CHRISTIAN UNION.

"The book is quite voluminous, but apart from its literary excellence
the story is one of the most thrilling interest, so that its length is
a rare virtue rather than a detraction."--N. Y. TIMES.

"A novel of considerable magnitude and decided interest...it has all
the marks of Dr. Farrar's ripe historical culture."--THE BOOK BUYER.

"The reading of this noble volume will give any one new conceptions of
life at the beginning of our era, and new reverence for religion that
made its way, unaided by the sword or political influence, through the
debris of a falling civilization."--PUBLIC OPINION.

"This book...has more than a novel's interest...and the treatment of
all sacred subjects reverent."--N. Y. OBSERVER.


LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., Publishers, 15 East 16th St., New York.

Transcriber's Note:

1. page 152--deleted comma after 'Beriot's'

2. page 171--removed surplus quote mark at end of paragraph '...to
   Mrs.Hereford.'

3. page 178--changed 'Herz blttchen' to 'Herzblttchen'

4. page 246--superfluous double quote mark removed at start of verse

5. page 295--missing double quote mark added at end of letter

5. page 383--final quote on paragraph '...'Hearts of Oak' for an
   encore?' changed to a double quote mark

6. page 509--word 'humerous' corrected to 'humourous' in sentence
   '...tragic, pathetic, humerous by turns,...'




[End of _Doreen. The Story of a Singer_ by Edna Lyall]
