Practically the question was already settled long before young Robert looked out for the running up of the new flag. Not but what the Dublin populace were quite prepared for riot. They seized private carriages and tossed them into the Liffey; marched about with political effigies, and danced round the bonfires which consumed them. All this was very harmless vapouring in the eyes of those who yet heard the shrieks of the victims of '98--yet saw the Reign of Terror, with its pitch-caps, its cardings, its picketings, and triangles. No one took heed of the street mobs, even though my Lord Clare himself, in his carelessness, came once quite near to danger. It was on the morning of one of the last struggles. The debate had lasted, without a pause, for eighteen hours, and the members were wearily dispersing, when the crowd manifested a desire to 'shilloo' the speaker, who had behaved with refreshing patriotism. His horses were taken from his carriage, a hundred men dashed forward to seize the pole. At this moment the lord chancellor appeared upon the steps, with insolent chin in air, dressed in his great flapped wig and rustling laced robes. 'Harness him to the carriage!' cried a wag. My Lord Clare started round with an indignant reprimand; but perceiving from his vantage-ground a sea of some ten thousand threatening heads, he retreated backwards with caution, as a countryman might do before a bull, flourishing a toy-pistol in his hand, with which he swore to blow out the brains of the first man who came within six paces of him. The extraordinary pageant moved slowly along; so singular a spectacle that it tickled the humorous side of the Hibernian character--the lord chancellor of Ireland walking backwards through the mud, holding up his robes with one hand lest he should trip over them, pointing with the other a tiny firearm at ten thousand enemies. Sure, this alone was a glorious triumph for King Mob. Choosing his moment, he whisked with a swift dash into a house, the door of which withstood the battering of myriad kicks until Lord Clare made good his escape by a back way. But there were mobs and mobs, in Dublin as elsewhere. This one happened to be a good-tempered mob, for the patriotic speaker had gained a point that day. But there were other mobs abroad made up of desperate men--of men whose skins bore the scars of the Riding-school, whose hearths were desolate, whose homes were bereft of dear ones. It was to these, and such as these, whom no jests could soften, that young Robert looked for the realisation of his dream. His natural fear of bloodshed was washed away by the woes that had been the portion of his friends. He clung to the notion that the mantle of Theobald had fallen on his shoulders; that as Moses was forbidden to enter the Promised Land, so, for some Divine reason, Theobald was punished; and that he, Robert, was to play the part of Joshua. His green uniform failed to please him. A new one was designed--gorgeous--of scarlet, faced with green and laced with gold. He tried it on in secret before a glass, and minced hither and thither to see what the figure would look like that was to storm the Castle and kill Cornwallis in his bed. Yet, for all these childish pranks, none could be more earnest than he, or more genuinely prepared to do or die. The hordes of banditti which still infested Wicklow were taken into partnership. On the signal of a rocket they were to rush to their posts. Some were to seize the desecrated Senate-house; others to attack Chapelizod; others to secure important streets. Young Robert reserved to himself and a selected band of braves the sacred right of storming the Castle and pulling down the objectionable ensign.
To one only of his friends did he confide a vague suspicion of his intentions as they approached maturity. That one was gentle Sara, whom he bound by awful oaths, though she was in nowise fitted for a heroine, to divulge nothing of what she knew, but to keep her chamber, and pray there for his success. The poor child knelt by her virgin bed, and prayed and wept with terrible forebodings. Truth to tell, he told her very little. What was this venture which was to produce such marvels? What means could he employ to prevent the parliament from voting. Would he come to stand in the dock as so many had done who were now at rest? No. By Divine mercy he had been kept in England during the awful agony--had been specially preserved from peril. It could not have been in sport that the beloved undergraduate had been withheld from temptation--merely to be dashed down at last, when the tide of bloodshed was stemmed? No, no! Sara, with scared eyes, swept the ripples of flaxen hair from off her pure girlish brow, and rebuked herself for want of trustful faith as she folded her hands together and tried to pray. But her mind wandered. She could not help seeing in memory the distracted gestures of the trail of widows--of the wives who were worse than widows, for their husbands languished in lifelong duress. Who was she that she might hope to fare better than they? She was a feeble girl, who loved her father and her lover, and had no room in her being for more than that. If any evil befel Robert, what would become of her? Could she hope to rally? She was not one of those who bend before a storm and rise again but little the worse for buffeting. She was one of the sensitive sort, who may linger for a brief space perhaps before they wither. Even strong, haughty-browed Doreen was broken by what she had passed through. What if Sara were likewise summoned at the last moment to pass under the yoke? She would succumb at once. She prayed for help, and implored mercy with the desperate energy of a young creature who clings to the sweets of life, while tears rained down her cheeks. Doreen, looking for her by-and-by, found the maid lying on the floor asleep, and sobbing as she slept, with reddened lids and trembling baby lips. What was it that ailed her? Doreen inquired tenderly. Silly chit! to allow a dream to vex her thus. Sara said 'Yes, it was a dream;' and sent a prayer to heaven that an idle dream--no more--the fearsome vision might prove to be.
Doreen went upstairs to seek her friend, because the shadow of trouble still hung over the inmates of Strogue Abbey, and at the best it was not a gay house to be alone in. Now solitude reigned in its reception-rooms, for Curran shut himself in his chamber to forget the impending union; Shane was madly rollicking in Dublin; Terence had disappeared, and my lady had taken to her bed.
Yes, Terence had disappeared; none knew how or whither. Shane professed bitter anger, and cried out about family disgrace, till, on meeting the calm eye of Miss Wolfe fixed on him, he stammered and was silent. As for her, she knew not what to think. Perceiving his mother's grief, had he, in his chivalry, withdrawn himself, lest his presence should add poignancy to it? But how about the breaking of his parole? Sure, he was too honourable a man to do such a thing! She went and took counsel of Madam Gillin, who scratched her head and looked serious. This was a trick of Cassidy's--of that she felt quite certain, for that worthy had shown private spite in the way he had tried to run the young man down before. Yet what could be his object now? She soothed Doreen's anxiety as much as possible, affecting herself to be quite comfortable on the subject; but privately resolved to make another attack upon the chancellor as soon as his mind was free about the union, if the vanished one did not return. So Doreen waited in suspense, tending her aunt, who seemed very ill, and her young friend, who was singularly disturbed and wretched; while Mr. Curran moped, and the Abbey was as gloomy as a sepulchre.
Soon the one engrossing subject occupied every mind, to the exclusion, for the moment, of all others. A mob, by no means so good-tempered as that which had pursued Lord Clare, gathered about the House at the second reading of the bill, and assumed so threatening an attitude that the military were called out, who fired a volley among the people, and so dispersed them. Strange beacons were seen at night upon the Wicklow Hills. Rumour whispered that something was afoot. Timid people wished that the crisis was well over. Major Sirr and his lambs made a raid on a certain house, where they found a hundred bottles filled with powder, several bushels of musket-balls, meshes of tow mixed with tar and gunpowder, a large quantity of pikes. Of these they took quiet possession, and drove away, without seeking to follow the matter up. Did this point to a new conspiracy? M.P.s asked each other. How deeply laid was it? By whom organised? Why had no arrests followed the discovery of the stores? Rumour said that the ill-conditioned brother of Lord Glandore was plotting again; that he had broken his parole, notwithstanding the extreme kindness with which he had been treated. Well, well! Some folks were born to the halter--as some are to the purple, and others to misfortune. The sooner the great measure was carried, and the fate of Ireland decided, the better it would be for all parties. So said the members, as for the last time they strolled under the shadow of the Senate-house.
That last day was one of breathless excitement. All knew that the affair was settled; yet they waited, as if in expectation of a miracle. False reports flew hither and thither in distracting numbers. Messengers rode out with bulletins hour by hour to Strogue and other important country places, where fine ladies waited. Lord Clare, taking a lesson from his recent predicament, surrounded the House with cavalry. Foot-soldiers, with matches burning, lined the colonnades. No demonstration of popular feeling was permitted. Those who were about to cancel the national charter were well protected; yet seemed they ill at ease. Many anti-unionists, seeing how hopeless was the case, withdrew with sad looks before the third reading of the bill; others, urged by a morbid curiosity, waited for the curtain's drop. The lobbies were crammed; the galleries crowded. A monotonous murmur ran along the benches. Some were ashamed, some shameless, some--too late--sorrow-smitten. Among the latter was Lord Kilwarden, who despatched a courier to his daughter to say that he would stop to the last.
So the hours waned, and it was night ere Doreen's father arrived at Strogue. He was deeply, miserably dejected. So much so, that his daughter marvelled at him.
'It's all over!' he cried, in indignation mingled with contrition. 'The men who forgot their country have slain her, that she may not survive to remember them. The slave's collar has been slipped on--its lock snapped to for ever! But there's something yet to come. I have a hint from Clare that there will probably be more trouble to-morrow. Glandore told me the same thing just now, who has it, he says, from the Staghouse people, who are sure to know. Lord Cornwallis will have taken his measures, doubtless, for as a soldier he is above praise. I have business with him to-morrow, so we had better return at once to Dublin.'
'Now?' Doreen said, in wonder.
'You are not afraid?' her father asked, with a weak smile. 'My coach is below. Its liveries are well known. No one would harm me, thank Heaven!'