At the end of December Mr. William O'Brien returned from America, but, as a warrant was out for his arrest, he could not enter Ireland. Much against his own wish Parnell went over to Boulogne to see him, as the Party were so anxious that he should go. He did not think that it would do any good, and, feeling ill, he hated undertaking the extra fatigue. He felt, too, that he would have to fight "all along the line" in Ireland, and continued the war without cessation, although he went over to Boulogne several times to hear what Mr. O'Brien had to say. He was, however, on good terms with O'Brien, and suggested him as leader of the Party in the event of his own resignation. The suggestion did not prove acceptable to the Party.[[1]]

Throughout this time he occasionally attended the sittings of the House, and, on returning home one sad evening, he did not speak much after his first greeting. I felt that something had troubled him unusually, but forbore to worry him, knowing that he would tell me presently. After a while he turned to me, and all he said was, "O'Kelly has gone too."

I did not answer in words, for my heart bled for him in this the only personal sorrow he had suffered in the disloyalty of his Party. Anger, scorn, and contempt, yes! but this was the first and only blow to his affections. For the first time since that miserable and most cowardly exhibition of treachery in Committee Room 15 there was a little break in his voice. They had been friends for so long, and had worked with each other in American and Irish politics so intimately. He had loved him, and now O'Kelly had "gone too."

When Mr. Gladstone gave the word, and the insecure virtue of the country obeyed it, because it is a very shocking thing to be found out, the anti-Parnellites were extremely ingenious in inventing new forms of scurrility in connexion with my supposed name. From one end of chivalrous Ireland to the other—urged on more especially by a certain emotional Irish member of Parliament—the name of "Kitty" O'Shea was sung and screamed, wrapped about with all the filth that foul minds, vivid imaginations, and black hatred of the aloof, proud Chief could evolve, the Chief whom they could not hurt save through the woman he loved!

They hurt him now a little, it is true, but not very greatly. My husband said to me after the Kilkenny election, "It would really have hurt, my Queen, if those devils had got hold of your real name, my Queenie, or even the 'Katie' or 'Dick' that your relations and Willie called you." And then I was glad, so very glad that the gallant company of mud-slingers had with one accord leapt to the conclusion that those who love me called me "Kitty" because my name was Katharine. For me it was a little thing to bear for the man who loved me as never woman has been loved before, and the only thing that I could not have borne would have been the thought that one of those who hated him had pierced the armour of his pride and touched his heart.

* * * * * *

On 22nd April, 1891, Mr. Frederick Kerley wrote from 10, Broad Court, Bow Street, W.C., to Mr. Thomson, to say that he had succeeded that day in serving Mr. Parnell with a copy of the Judge's Order, which Mr. Thomson had handed to him on the evening of the 20th instant. He saw Mr. Parnell at 7.5 p.m. pass through the barrier on to the Brighton platform at Victoria Station. He walked by his side and, addressing him, said, "Mr. Parnell, I believe?" Parnell replied, "Yes." He said he was desired to hand him that paper, at the same time handing him the copy, when the following conversation ensued:

Parnell: "What is it?"

Kerley: "It is a Judge's Order."

P.: "Oh, it is the costs."