Another French fiasco! How strangely fortune favoured England! This time the fleets had remained weather-bound, unable to start at all until the golden moments were gone--till opportunity had slid into the past. It was too bad. Terence's blood boiled whilst he assuaged his tremendous appetite--so did Cassidy's, finding vent as usual in loud oaths and noisy execrations.
After breakfast the two shook hands and parted--when to meet again?--when and how?--under what strangely altered auspices? It was agreed that the members of the new Directory should communicate in the first instance with Terence, in person, somewhere on the shore near the Little House where he was to hide. The letters would speedily reach their destinations, Cassidy assured him. This new turn of events might induce Government to take active measures of some kind. What would they do? Repent them of their evil ways and take to leniency, or, thinking they had their victim quite at their mercy, still further goad and harass her? What would Terence's private enemy do--he of whom my Lord Clare so mysteriously spoke?
With so many spies about, it was almost inevitable that the active part that the young councillor was playing would become known to Government. Would they wink at this backsliding of an aristocrat--or would they make an example of him by putting a heavy price upon his head? Be that as it might, it would never do, in Cassidy's opinion, for him to share the fate of Emmett and the others. The giant was vehement on this point. He must go into hiding forthwith, and employ the most extreme precautions lest Sirr should discover his lair. Cassidy, being known as his friend, would make a point of never taking the air in that direction. He would hang about the Castle ostentatiously, and report what he might have to say to some prominent member of the society, who would take up his abode in Dublin. Indeed he thought it would be wise to abuse the society in public--to declare that once he had been seduced by specious argument into joining it, but that now he saw the error of his ways, and sang 'Peccavi.'
Much as he disliked his method, Terence was obliged to confess that the giant was right, and felt at the same time a small internal marvelling in that he was really shrewd and rather astute--by no means the hopeless bungler that Emmett had considered him.
He took hearty leave of his friend, and, accompanied by Phil, made the best of his way to Strogue. It was a gloomy place to live alone in, as he had discovered since the departure of the family. Even his brother's sneers and his mother's coldness were better than this chilling solitude. He lived at this time in his own little chambers in the 'young men's wing' under the armoury, gaining access to them by his own private door, so that the Abbey was to all intents and purposes shut up, being only inhabited by a few old retainers who dwelt away over the stable-yard at the other side of the house. To his dismay his things had been disturbed--he detected the fact at once. By whom? How tiresome old family servants are! Disobeying orders, they will rummage and clean by fits and starts, regardless of the havoc they innocently make. Then Terence remembered that neither old Kathy nor her spouse, Tim the coachman, were more given to cleanliness than Irish domestics usually are.
This must have been a sudden and most inconvenient gush of virtue! He would at once give Tim and Kathy a vigorous bit of his mind. They should be convinced for ever after that obedience is the most cardinal of all the virtues as far as servants are concerned, standing indeed before cleanliness. They should shiver and quake in their shoes after the jobation their young master would administer. But instead of quaking they both lifted up their voices and howled, swearing that young masther was distraught. Go among his bits of things indeed! Not they. Sorra a haporth of dusting had they done. Why should they, since master agreed with them that it was waste of labour? Kathy had stepped in to make the bed, but finding it undisturbed, had stepped out again at once. Then somebody else must have been there. Who could have an interest in the few scraps of property which were of no value at all except to their owner? The fishing-rods were overset--the cupboards had been rifled--the precious collection of hackles (apple of Phil's eye) were strewn on the floor as if somebody had been in haste, searching for some special object which he could not find.
The owner of the treasures began to look grave. Who would steal his things--things moreover which were not worth stealing? None of the peasantry about. Irish peasants, though they will pick off their man blithely from behind a stone, are little given to petty pilfering.
Terence looked around, and his heart beat fast. Nothing had been taken except--his papers! Rough drafts of manifestoes, over which, in the hot zeal of youth, he had consumed the oil of midnight. Projects for the capture of the gaols--rough plans; the very documents which, being compromising and not particularly useful, he had come hither to destroy. How silly and imprudent not to have destroyed them sooner!
Sirr for months past had been in the habit of making forcible entries into houses, on the chance of unearthing treason. What more likely than that he should think of making a perquisition upon Councillor Crosbie, who flaunted his opinions before the world in the outward form of a green tabinet neckerchief? Fool--babyish dolt! Idiot! Every one had spoken about that necktie. In a passion he tore it from his throat, and hurled it out of the open window. Conduct more childish still! The evil was done. Could it be remedied? His smooth forehead puckered itself into wrinkles as he strove to remember what the bundle of documents contained. Three forms of manifesto--to be printed and placarded so soon as Dublin should be taken. The rules and regulations of the society. A memorandum of prominent members--oh, horror! He knew he had been suspected of treachery by some. This list, incautiously kept, might bring about the death of many. Would he not be guilty, by gross carelessness, of their murder? Would they not have a right to curse him as they swung?
For a while his spirit was invaded by the same rush of unworthiness which had so unnerved Tom Emmett when he was arrested. He too felt the bitter sense of upbraiding humiliation with which Tom had asked himself what right had one, who was incapable of common prudence, to traffic thus rashly with the lives of other men? Do his duty! Was it his duty to put himself forward in this affair, or was it merely a culpable personal vanity disguised as self-sacrifice? He strove earnestly to settle that question--so earnestly that Phil, who watched him, was aghast at his distress, and endeavoured by humble barks and frolicking: to cheer his master from the dumps. To no purpose. With grief be it admitted that his master cursed him roundly, abused him with such unnecessary harshness that the poor fellow slunk away with tears in his eyes, under pretence of fetching the green kerchief. Big drops of sweat stood on the young man's brow. His brains had never in all his years been so tried as during the last few months. Only those usually unused to thought can tell of the dreadful addled feeling of helplessness which comes upon the muddled intellect during its first feeble struggles into work.