‘It is, then, a good appointment,’ said Gerald, taking the pen. ‘But what is this? The Cardinal York has already signed this.’
In Caraffa’s eagerness to play out his game he had forgotten this fact, and that the Irish bishops had always been submitted to the approval of his Royal Highness.
‘I say, sir,’ reiterated Gerald, ‘here is the signature of my uncle. What means this, or who really is it that makes these appointments?’
The Cardinal began with a sort of mumbled apology about a divided authority and an ecclesiastical function; but Gerald stopped him abruptly—
‘If we are to play this farce out, let our parts be assigned us; and let none assume that which is not his own. Take my word for it, Cardinal, that if the day comes when the English will carry me to the scaffold, at Smithfield or Tyburn, or wherever it be, you will not find any one so ready to be my substitute. There, sir, take your papers, and henceforth let there be no more mockeries of office. I will myself speak of this to my uncle.’
The Cardinal bowed submissively and moved toward the door.
‘You will receive these gentlemen to-morrow?’ said he interrogatively.
‘To-morrow,’ said Gerald, as he turned away.
The Cardinal bowed deeply, and retired. Scarcely, however, had his footsteps died out of hearing, when Gerald rang for his valet, and said—
‘When these visitors retire for the night, follow the Signor Purcell to his room, and desire him to come here to me; do it secretly, and so that none may remark you.’