‘I should still regard it as a passing caprice, that the mere mention of to-morrow would offend you. It is no disparagement of Walpole to say he is unworthy of you, for who would be worthy? but the presumption of his daring is enough to excite indignation—at least, I feel it such. How he could dare to link his supreme littleness with consummate perfection; to freight the miserable barque of his fortunes with so precious a cargo; to encounter the feeling—and there is no escape for it—“I must drag that woman down, not alone into obscurity, but into all the sordid meanness of a small condition, that never can emerge into anything better.” He cannot disguise from himself that it is not within his reach to attain power, or place, or high consideration. Such men make no name in life; they leave no mark on their time. They are heaven-born subordinates, and never refute their destiny. Does a woman with ambition—does a woman conscious of her own great merits—condescend to ally herself, not alone with small fortune—that might be borne—but with the smaller associations that make up these men’s lives? with the peddling efforts to mount even one rung higher of that crazy little ladder of their ambition—to be a clerk of another grade—a creature of some fifty pounds more—a being in an upper office?’
‘And the prince—for he ought to be at least a prince who should make me the offer of his name—whence is he to come, Mr. Atlee?’
‘There are men who are not born to princely station, who by their genius and their determination are just as sure to become famous, and who need but the glorious prize of such a woman’s love—No, no, don’t treat what I say as rant and rodomontade; these are words of sober sense and seriousness.’
‘Indeed!’ said she, with a faint sigh. ‘So that it really amounts to this—that I shall actually have missed my whole fortune in life—thrown myself away—all because I would not wait for Mr. Atlee to propose to me.’
Nothing less than Atlee’s marvellous assurance and self-possession could have sustained this speech unabashed.
‘You have only said what my heart has told me many a day since.’
‘But you seem to forget,’ added she, with a very faint curl of scorn on her lip, ‘that I had no more to guide me to the discovery of Mr. Atlee’s affection than that of his future greatness. Indeed, I could more readily believe in the latter than the former.’
‘Believe in both,’ cried he warmly. ‘If I have conquered difficulties in life, if I have achieved some successes—now for a passing triumph, now for a moment of gratified vanity, now for a mere caprice—try me by a mere hope—I only plead for a hope—try me by hope of being one day worthy of calling that hand my own.’
As he spoke, he tried to grasp her hand; but she withdrew it coldly and slowly, saying, ‘I have no fancy to make myself the prize of any success in life, political or literary; nor can I believe that the man who reasons in this fashion has any really high ambition. Mr. Atlee,’ added she, more gravely, ‘your memory may not be as good as mine, and you will pardon me if I remind you that, almost at our first meeting, we struck up a sort of friendship, on the very equivocal ground of a common country. We agreed that each of us claimed for their native land the mythical Bohemia, and we agreed, besides, that the natives of that country are admirable colleagues, but not good partners.’
‘You are not quite fair in this,’ he began; but before he could say more Dick Kearney entered hurriedly, and cried out, ‘It’s all true. The people are in wild excitement, and all declare that they will not let him be taken. Oh! I forgot,’ added he. ‘You were not here when my father and I were called away by the despatch from the police-station, to say that Donogan has been seen at Moate, and is about to hold a meeting on the bog. Of course, this is mere rumour; but the constabulary are determined to capture him, and Curtis has written to inform my father that a party of police will patrol the grounds here this evening.’