SOME IRISHRIES
That which the English irreverently call ‘chaff’ enters largely as an element into Irish life; and when Walpole stigmatised the habit to Joe Atlee as essentially that of the smaller island, he was not far wrong. I will not say that it is a high order of wit—very elegant, or very refined; but it is a strong incentive to good-humour—a vent to good spirits; and being a weapon which every Irishman can wield in some fashion or other, establishes that sort of joust which prevailed in the mêlée tournaments, and where each tilted with whom he pleased.
Any one who has witnessed the progress of an Irish trial, even when the crime was of the very gravest, cannot fail to have been struck by the continual clash of smart remark and smarter rejoinder between the Bench and the Bar; showing how men feel the necessity of ready-wittedness, and a promptitude to repel attack, in which even the prisoner in the dock takes his share, and cuts his joke at the most critical moment of his existence.
The Irish theatre always exhibits traits of this national taste; but a dinner-party, with its due infusion of barristers, is the best possible exemplification of this give and take, which, even if it had no higher merit, is a powerful ally of good-humour, and the sworn foe to everything like over-irritability or morbid self-esteem. Indeed, I could not wish a very conceited man, of a somewhat grave temperament and distant demeanour, a much heavier punishment than a course of Irish dinner-parties; for even though he should come out scathless himself, the outrages to his sense of propriety, and the insults to his ideas of taste, would be a severe suffering.
That breakfast-table at Kilgobbin had some heavy hearts around the board. There was not, with the exception of Walpole, one there who had not, in the doubts that beset his future, grave cause for anxiety; and yet to look at, still more to listen to them, you would have said that Walpole alone had any load of care upon his heart, and that the others were a light-hearted, happy set of people, with whom the world went always well. No cloud!—not even a shadow to darken the road before them. Of this levity, for I suppose I must give it a hard name—the source of much that is best and worst amongst us—our English rulers take no account, and are often as ready to charge us with a conviction, which was no more than a caprice, as they are to nail us down to some determination, which was simply a drollery; and until some intelligent traveller does for us what I lately perceived a clever tourist did for the Japanese, in explaining their modes of thought, impulses, and passions to the English, I despair of our being better known in Downing Street than we now are.
Captain Curtis—for it is right to give him his rank—was fearfully nervous and uneasy, and though he tried to eat his breakfast with an air of unconcern and carelessness, he broke his egg with a tremulous hand, and listened with painful eagerness every time Walpole spoke.
‘I wish somebody would send us the Standard; when it is known that the Lord-Lieutenant’s secretary has turned Fenian,’ said Kilgobbin, ‘won’t there be a grand Tory out-cry over the unprincipled Whigs?’
‘The papers need know nothing whatever of the incident,’ interposed Curtis anxiously, ‘if old Flood is not busy enough to inform them.’
‘Who is old Flood?’ asked Walpole.
‘A Tory J.P., who has copied out a considerable share of your correspondence,’ said Kilgobbin.
‘And four letters in a lady’s hand,’ added Dick, ‘that he imagines to be a treasonable correspondence by symbol.’
‘I hope Mr. Walpole,’ said Kate, ‘will rather accept felony to the law than falsehood to the lady.’
‘You don’t mean to say—’ began Walpole angrily; then correcting his irritable manner, he added, ‘Am I to suppose my letters have been read?’
‘Well, roughly looked through,’ said Curtis. ‘Just a glance here and there to catch what they meant.’
‘Which I must say was quite unnecessary,’ said Walpole haughtily.
‘It was a sort of journal of yours,’ blundered out Curtis, who had a most unhappy knack of committing himself, ‘that they opened first, and they saw an entry with Kilgobbin Castle at the top of it, and the date last July.’
‘There was nothing political in that, I’m sure,’ said Walpole.
‘No, not exactly, but a trifle rebellious, all the same; the words, “We this evening learned a Fenian song, ‘The time to begin,’ and rather suspect it is time to leave off; the Greek better-looking than ever, and more dangerous.”’
Curtis’s last words were drowned in the laugh that now shook the table; indeed, except Walpole and Nina herself, they actually roared with laughter, which burst out afresh, as Curtis, in his innocence, said, ‘We could not make out about the Greek, but we hoped we’d find out later on.’
‘And I fervently trust you did,’ said Kilgobbin.
‘I’m afraid not; there was something about somebody called Joe, that the Greek wouldn’t have him, or disliked him, or snubbed him—indeed, I forget the words.’
‘You are quite right, sir, to distrust your memory,’ said Walpole; ‘it has betrayed you most egregiously already.’
‘On the contrary,’ burst in Kilgobbin, ‘I am delighted with this proof of the captain’s acuteness; tell us something more, Curtis.’
‘There was then, “From the upper castle yard, Maude,” whoever Maude is, “says, ‘Deny it all, and say you never were there,’ not so easy as she thinks, with a broken right arm, and a heart not quite so whole as it ought to be.”’
‘There, sir—with the permission of my friends here—I will ask you to conclude your reminiscences of my private papers, which can have no possible interest for any one but myself.’
‘Quite wrong in that,’ cried Kilgobbin, wiping his eyes, which had run over with laughter. ‘There’s nothing I’d like so much as to hear more of them.’
‘What was that about his heart?’ whispered Curtis to Kate; ‘was he wounded in the side also?’
‘I believe so,’ said she dryly; ‘but I believe he has got quite over it by this time.’
‘Will you say a word or two about me, Miss Kearney?’ whispered he again; ‘I’m not sure I improved my case by talking so freely; but as I saw you all so outspoken, I thought I’d fall into your ways.’
‘Captain Curtis is much concerned for any fault he may have committed in this unhappy business,’ said Kate, ‘and he trusts that the agitation and excitement of the Donogan escape will excuse him.’
‘That’s your policy now,’ interposed Kilgobbin. ‘Catch the Fenian fellow, and nobody will remember the other incident.’
‘We mean to give out that we know he has got clear away to America,’ said Curtis, with an air of intense cunning. ‘And to lull his suspicions, we have notices in print to say that no further rewards are to be given for his apprehension; so that he’ll get a false confidence, and move about as before.’
‘With such acuteness as yours on his trail, his arrest is certain,’ said Walpole gravely.
‘Well, I hope so, too,’ said Curtis, in good faith for the compliment.’ Didn’t I take up nine men for the search of arms here, though there were only five? One of them turned evidence,’ added he gravely;’ he was the fellow that swore Miss Kearney stood between you and the fire after they wounded you.’
‘You are determined to make Mr. Walpole your friend,’ whispered Nina in his ear; ‘don’t you see, sir, that you are ruining yourself?’
‘I have often been puzzled to explain how it was that crime went unpunished in Ireland,’ said Walpole sententiously.
‘And you know now?’ asked Curtis.
‘Yes; in a great measure, you have supplied me with the information.’
‘I believe it’s all right now,’ muttered the captain to Kate. ‘If the swell owns that I have put him up to a thing or two, he’ll not throw me over.’
‘Would you give me three minutes of your time?’ whispered Gorman O’Shea to Lord Kilgobbin, as they arose from table.
‘Half an hour, my boy, or more if you want it. Come along with me now into my study, and we’ll be safe there from all interruption.’