It was in that snug dinner-room I have glanced at that a party of four sat over their wine. They had dined admirably, a bright wood fire blazed on the hearth, and the scene was the emblem of comfort and quiet conviviality. Opposite Miss O’Shea sat Father Delany, and on either side of her her nephew Gorman and Mr. Ralph Miller, in whose honour the present dinner was given.
The Catholic bishop of the diocese had vouchsafed a guarded and cautious approval of Mr. Miller’s views, and secretly instructed Father Delany to learn as much more as he conveniently could of the learned gentleman’s intentions before committing himself to a pledge of hearty support.
‘I will give him a good dinner,’ said Miss O’Shea, ‘and some of the ‘45 claret, and if you cannot get his sentiments out of him after that, I wash my hands of him.’
Father Delany accepted his share of the task, and assuredly Miss Betty did not fail on her part.
The conversation had turned principally on the coming election, and Mr. Miller gave a flourishing account of his success as a canvasser, and even went the length of doubting if any opposition would be offered to him.
‘Ain’t you and young Kearney going on the same ticket?’ asked Gorman, who was too new to Ireland to understand the nice distinctions of party.
‘Pardon me,’ said Miller, ‘we differ essentially. We want a government in Ireland—the Nationalists want none. We desire order by means of timely concessions and judicious boons to the people. They want disorder—the display of gross injustice—content to wait for a scramble, and see what can come of it.’
‘Mr. Miller’s friends, besides,’ interposed Father Luke, ‘would defend the Church and protect the Holy See’—and this was said with a half-interrogation.
Miller coughed twice, and said, ‘Unquestionably. We have shown our hand already—look what we have done with the Established Church.’
‘You need not be proud of it,’ cried Miss Betty. ‘If you wanted to get rid of the crows, why didn’t you pull down the rookery?’