Wi 
 
 **T72TAM ICAS 
 
 CANON SHELHAN 
 
(tarmll Imtteratty IGibrary 
 
 Stifacn, N r m fork 
 
 THE CELTIC LIBRARY 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 CLARK SUTHERLAND NORTHUP 
 
 CLASS OF 1893 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5377.S5M6 
 
 Miriam Lucas, 
 
 3 1924 013 547 967 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013547967 
 
MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
By CANON SHEEHAN, D.D. 
 
 Luke Delmege: A Novel. 
 
 Lisheen: or the Test of the Spirits. A Novel. 
 
 Glen an a ak: A Novel of Irish Life. 
 
 The Blindness op Dr. Gray: A Novel of Irish Life. 
 
 Miriam Lucas: A Novel. 
 
 The Queen's Fillet: A Novel. 
 
 The Graves at Eilmosna: A Story of '67. 
 
 Parerga: A Companion Volume to " Under the 
 Cedars and the Stars." 
 
 The Intellectuals: An Experiment in Irish Club- 
 Life. 
 
 Early Essays and Lectures 
 
 Canon Sheehan of Doner aile: The Story of an Irish 
 Parish Priest as told chiefly by himself in Books, 
 Personal Memoirs and Letters. By Herman J. 
 He-user, D.D. 
 
MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 BY 
 
 CANON SHEEHAN, D.D. 
 
 Author of 
 
 "My New Curate," "Luke Delmege," 
 "The Blindness of Dr. Gray," "The Queen's Fillet," etc. 
 
 NEW IMPRESSION 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 FOURTH AVENUE &■ 30TH STREET, NEW YORK 
 LONDON, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA AND MADRAS 
 
 1920 
 
 C 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY 
 IONQMANS, GRBBN, AND CO. 
 
 'Printed, September, 1912 
 Reprinted, September, 1920 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. A Sleepy Hollow 3 
 
 II. Glendarragh 14 
 
 III. A Village Coquette 26 
 
 IV. The Lady of the Lea 36 
 
 V. The Admiral's Garden Party 45 
 
 VI. The Arrival op Mr. Holthsworth 57 
 
 VII. The Cry of Cleena 68 
 
 VIII. Rooms in Trinity 78 
 
 IX. Lost and Found 89 
 
 X. Guardian and Ward 102 
 
 XI. Farewells 113 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 XII. "The Watchman" 129 
 
 XIII. A Workmen's Conclave 137 
 
 XIV. A Breach of Rule 147 
 
 XV. A Monk in Trinity . 156 
 
 XVI. Two Interviews 166 
 
 XVII. Mother and Son 175 
 
 XVIII. From the Glen of the Oaks 185 
 
 XIX. The Great Strike 194 
 
 XX. Society 204 
 
 XXI. Tempted 211 
 
 XXII. On the Trail 222 
 
 XXIII. Trus Colours 233 
 
 V 
 
V i CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIV. In the Toils 245 
 
 XXV. "Revelations" 251 
 
 XXVI. A Dying Message 259 
 
 XXVII. A New Nebula 267 
 
 XXVIII. "Unus moriatub pro populo!" 276 
 
 XXIX. Defeated 286 
 
 XXX. Pursued 298 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 XXXI. Holthsworth Redivivus 307 
 
 XXXII. Coyote 315 
 
 XXXIII. Woman's Mission 323 
 
 XXXIV. Explanations 330 
 
 XXXV. A Defence and its Reward 339 
 
 XXXVI. A Quest and a Rescue 349 
 
 XXXVII. Baffled Again 360 
 
 XXXVIII. In Blackwell 373 
 
 XXXIX. Absolved 382 
 
 p ' XL. A New Heaven and a New Earth . . . 388 
 
 XLI. Found 397 
 
 XLII. On the Wings of the Storm 407 
 
 XLIII. Anstie Carroll's Return 416 
 
 XLIV. The Inevitable 428 
 
 XLV. The Owl's Nest 437 
 
 XLVI. Nemesis 445 
 
 XLVII. The Uplifting of the Curse 454 
 
BOOK I 
 
MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 I 
 
 A Sleepy Hollow 
 
 On a very hot afternoon in the early summer of 188- 
 two young Trinity students rode leisurely along the 
 precipitous highway that runs from Cuskinny Bay in 
 the Great Island to that particularly romantic and pictur- 
 esque spot, known as the East Ferry. They had passed 
 through Cuskinny demesne, and on the borders of the 
 little bay had held an academical discussion about the 
 advisability of bathing there. Hugh Ireton, the elder 
 of the two, who was the laziest, but most popular man 
 in his college, was emphatically for stopping and plun- 
 ging in, especially as the tide was just on the ebb, and 
 the huge boulders that obstruct the bay were not vis- 
 ible. Arthur Ashley voted a direct negative. 
 
 "I came out for a plunge in the briny," he said. 
 '"Twas for that we borrowed our gallant steeds; but I 
 have a decided objection to an amalgam of fresh and 
 salt water. I take my liquor neat, externally as well as 
 internally." 
 
 And Hugh Ireton, too lazy to offer resistance to the 
 superior will, acquiesced, and they rode on in silence. 
 When they came opposite Redington House, Ireton again 
 pointed to the clear blue waves beneath, that were just 
 then asleep under the sun, with only a thin collar of foam 
 to mark that they were living. Ashley shook his head. 
 
 "The same objection holds here," he said. "I shall 
 have no estuary water, nor diluted seawater today. 
 I must have the Atlantic, or nothing." 
 
4 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Hugh Ireton reined in his horse, and looked aghast 
 at his companion. 
 
 "That means crossing the Ferry," he said slowly. 
 
 "By all means, or two or three, if necessary. We 
 have the day to ourselves, dinner at seven; we might as 
 well be here as anywhere else, and — 
 
 Twopence to pay I 
 Twopence to payl 
 
 Who knows, old Socrates? " 
 
 "All right," said the fatalist. 
 
 They were soon at the Ferry, and beckoned for the 
 pontoon, which was at the other side. 
 
 "By Jove! 'tis a pretty place," said Ashley, casting his 
 eyes up and down the sloping banks and the rich ver- 
 dant vegetation, whose shadows, cast deep into the water, 
 now trembled beneath the outward rush of the tide. 
 The Mother-sea, exhausted by the suction of the Ocean 
 outside, was calling for supplies; and all her tributaries 
 were rushing furiously to her relief . 
 
 "It is a pretty place," said Hugh Ireton. "If one had 
 only a thousand a year, and one of these mansions here — " 
 
 "He would die of inanition," said his companion. 
 
 "No, 'twould be paradise." 
 
 "Wouldn't you take that little parsonage and that 
 Church over the way?" said Ashley. 
 
 "On a hundred a year? No. Mark how the times 
 have changed, Ashley. Here in this hollow cave the 
 poor hunted Papists heard their Mass in the old times; 
 and there is the spick span bijou church beyond. Would 
 you rather worship there, or here? " 
 
 "Ireton, let religion alone, my boy, and keep to the 
 saw and the scalpel. Here we are! Roger, old man, 
 steady! ' Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute! ' old man! " 
 
 "How we all dread that first step," said Ireton, "espe- 
 cially when our feet ring hollow on the arena." 
 
 They crossed safely, disembarked, and cantered lei- 
 surely along the white road that skirted Rostellan demesne 
 
A SLEEPY HOLLOW 5 
 
 Then, rapidly turning to the right, they asked direc- 
 tions and made in a straight line for the sea. 
 
 It was now far into the afternoon; but the sun was 
 high in the heavens and beat down on road and hedge 
 and field in an atmosphere that quivered in its intensity. 
 And when the two men, at a sudden turn of the road, 
 came face to face with the far-stretching, unbroken deep, 
 they had to pull their broad hats deeper down to shade 
 their eyes from the intolerable splendour. Their horses 
 stepped daintily over rough gravel and pebbles, then 
 their feet fell softly on the warm sand, and they were in 
 the village street. It consisted but of one row of white- 
 washed cabins bounded on the southern side by a seawall 
 that now was blinding in its new coat of limewash. There 
 was no sound or sign of life in the village. The doors 
 were all wide open, but apparently no one dwelt in the 
 houses. 
 
 "No danger of being observed here," said Ashley, 
 "but what the mischief shall we do with our horses?" 
 
 "Hitch on to one of these old boats," said Ireton. 
 "Here are the fishing cables." 
 
 He pulled strongly, and woke to life a venerable old 
 seaman, who was sleeping calmly in the shelter of the 
 boats. He rose lazily, lazily drew himself together, and 
 stared at the intruders. 
 
 "Hello, old salt," said Ashley, "we disturbed you! 
 Is there any place in this Sleepy Hollow where we could 
 get a bite, or a drink for our nags? " 
 
 James Carroll resented this familiarity for two rea- 
 sons. First, because "old salt" was an irreverent expres- 
 sion to a man who had spent half his life before the mast 
 in Her Majesty's Navy, and had several medals hanging 
 up near the altar of the Blessed Virgin in his little bed- 
 room at home. And second, because "Sleepy Hollow" 
 was an untoward epithet for the cleanest, tidiest, health- 
 iest little fishing hamlet in Ireland. He took up in silence 
 the tar-brush with which he was coating the little, fish- 
 ing smacks that, with their broad, black backs were now 
 
6 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 glistening in the hot sun, and, after a few moments' 
 reflection, during which he was gathering his thoughts 
 and concentrating them in a deadly form, he sent forth 
 the missile. 
 
 "I'd give you one advice, young man, and maybe you'd 
 thank me for it when you have grey hairs. There are 
 two things that carry a man safe through life — the 
 Grace of God, an' a civil tongue." 
 
 He bent down to his work again; but after a moment 
 he thought he could improve on the aphorism. 
 
 "An' a civil tongue is no load," he said. 
 
 Ashley looked at his companion and laughed. 
 
 "Stranded, by Jove!" said he. 
 
 Hugh Ireton, more diplomatic, because more kind, 
 said nothing; but running his horse's bridle under his 
 arm, he took out his tobacco pouch and rilled his pipe. 
 Then, without offering it to Ashley, he said to the old 
 mariner: — 
 
 "You have got your cutty about you?" 
 
 The old man hesitated for a moment between wounded 
 pride and the temptation. But it was only for a moment. 
 The flesh conquered the spirit; and, like most mortals, 
 he yielded. He put his pride in his pocket and took out 
 his pipe. He filled it well from the proffered pouch, 
 and taking a light from the young man, he sat and smoked 
 leisurely. When his anger, excited by the young man's 
 irreverence, had calmed down, he said apologetically: — 
 
 "Ye'll pardon me, young gintlemin, for the liberty; 
 but we, old navy men, were always addressed respect- 
 ful-like by our officers. And they had to mind their P's 
 and Q's themselves, I tell ye. If the Lieutenant on watch 
 had only to tell the Cap'n that the cook was drunk, he 
 had to tech his cap and say: — 'I've the 'anner to report 
 the cook is drunk, Sir!' and if the Cap'n replied: — 
 'You may go to the devil, Sir!' the lieutenant had to 
 tech his cap again, and say, respectful-like: — 'Ay, 
 ay, Sir!' That was manners for you. But this is rare 
 tobacco!" 
 
A SLEEPY HOLLOW 7 
 
 "May I be permitted, Sir, to join the pow-wow, Sir, 
 With this?" said Ashley, holding out a capacious flask. 
 
 "Ay, ay, Sir," said Ireton. "But that's new whis- 
 key, Ashley. Is there any fresh water around here?" 
 he asked, addressing the old man. 
 
 "Ay, ay, Sir," said the latter, entering into the fun 
 with twinkling eyes, and the expectation of better things. 
 
 He took them up to his little cottage; and a very neat, 
 clean, well-kept cottage it was. For its tutelar deity was 
 Anstie, James Carroll's only daughter, "the light of his 
 life and the pulse of his heart." It was her pretty pres- 
 ence threw sunshine wherever she cast a shadow; and it 
 was her swift, deft fingers that made the whole place a 
 "moral" of neatness and beauty. Of course it was only 
 a sailor's cabin; but the sailor's lass kept it as sweet as 
 the stateroom in a British man-of-war. She was busy 
 when her father entered with his guests, and did not know 
 whether to smile or frown, to be angry or glad. She had 
 had no notice, which is always a serious thing for a house- 
 keeper. And then — well, she would have liked to have 
 had time to put on that pink blouse, which as yet she 
 had only worn once, at Sunday's Mass. However, she 
 contrived to look agreeable at last, as her father said: — 
 
 "Here, lass, are two gintlemin stranded on our coast. 
 Their ships wore badly, and they are thrown on our 
 hospitality." 
 
 He called promptly for cold water, which made Anstie 
 stare and frown. Cold water! What an idea of 
 hospitality. 
 
 "Perhaps the gentlemen would like something better?" 
 she said. And the old mariner winked at his seamates. 
 Anstie was not in the secret. 
 
 "If your good daughter," said Ireton, "would take the 
 trouble to get us a good cup of tea, and a morsel of bread 
 — I see that sweet loaf over there is her handiwork, 
 and I hate baker's bread — we could run down and have 
 our bath. But, to be candid, we are more solicitous for 
 our horses than for ourselves; for they are not our own." 
 
8 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 James Carroll did not quite like this. He hated tea; 
 and he thought he was going to be cheated. But Anstie 
 assumed the mistress at once, and blushing to the roots 
 of her thick brown hair, and through a regular crop of 
 freckles, she said: — 
 
 "Coppal can run up to the Great House with the 
 horses and get a feed for them. And I'll have the tea 
 ready when the gentlemen come back." 
 
 She went to the door, and shouted with that familiar 
 heaveyo! which is the Irish equivalent of the Coo-ee of the 
 bush: — 
 
 "Coppal! Coppa-a-a-a-al!" 
 
 "W e c c c - c l?" came from far up the country road. 
 And presently as strange a figure as the Pied Piper of Ham- 
 elin came running down the white road towards the 
 village. His head, quite bare, was protected from the 
 hot sun by an enormous shock of hair, originally black, 
 now white as a miller's from dust. His breast, unpro- 
 tected by vest or shirt, was bronzed and tanned like 
 leather; his strong feet were bare, and horned and white; 
 and his garments, whose outer edges floated on the air as 
 he ran, had been made for him, or someone else, many 
 years ago. He ran up, not breathless, for his strong lungs 
 were like leather, and, touching his hat to the two gentle- 
 men, he scowled at Anstie, whom he cordially hated, and 
 said under his teeth: — 
 
 "Go to te tivil!" 
 
 Then, with a kind of animal instinct, he turned around, 
 and whinnying with admiration, he stroked the horses' 
 flanks, one after another, purred into their ears, whispered 
 into their nostrils, and drew their wet noses into his bosom. 
 And they drew to him, and whinnied with him, and ad- 
 mitted the affinity with all kinds of dumb animal affection. 
 
 The two gentlemen exchanged glances. 
 
 "Take a note of that, Ireton," said Ashley. "It will 
 serve you in next year's biology." 
 
 "This is a fool," he said, turning to old Carroll. "Can 
 we leave our horses in his charge?" 
 
A SLEEPY HOLLOW 9 
 
 "Faith ye may," said the old man. "Look how they 
 take to him. They know he has no sowl, like them- 
 selves." 
 
 And Coppal took his place between the two docile 
 animals, and led them, as a nurse would lead her chil- 
 dren, up to the Great House at Glendarragh. 
 
 Meanwhile the young men strolled down to the beach 
 and had their bath; and on their return Anstie had a 
 tea for them to which, with sharpened appetites, they 
 did full justice. 
 
 James Carroll eyed them furtively all the time, and a 
 few times he went out to see how was the weather. 
 Hugh Ireton, interpreting his impatience, glanced at 
 Ashley, who placed his flask on the table. Anstie flushed 
 angrily and frowned, but the young men did not notice 
 her. And James Carroll, his equanimity being restored, 
 joined the young men at the table and told them his best 
 yarns. 
 
 When Coppal returned with the horses, they again 
 strolled down to the beach, and lay down lazily in the 
 shadows of the boats. Coppal walked the horses up and 
 down the road. 
 
 "Now," said Arthur Ashley, blowing great lazy puffs 
 of smoke from his pipe, "I perceive you have called these 
 boats by feminine names, as becomes an ancient salt." 
 Old Carroll no longer resented the title. "These, now, I 
 presume, are fancy names; but where is the Saucy Nell, 
 and the Nancy?" 
 
 "They were the names given to their boats by ripro- 
 bate and unchristened sailors in the ould days," said the 
 old man. "But whin ye kum back to a Christian coun- 
 thry, ye must fall back upon the saints of God, an' the 
 glory and 'anner of His Church." 
 
 "Are these Saints' names?" said Ashley, reading: — 
 "The Agnes," "The Cicely," "The Lucy," "The Anas- 
 tasia"? — 
 
 "Ye don't be reading yere prayerbook whin ye goes 
 to Mass on a Sunday, I see," said the old man, now drop- 
 
10 MIRIAM. LUCAS 
 
 ping into a patriarchal style of language as a privilege 
 of old age. "I suppose ye do be lookin' around for some- 
 thin' better?" 
 
 "That's quite true," said Hugh Ireton, smiling. "It's 
 hard enough to get him up on Sunday mornings, and, 
 as you say, there are some ways of spending the time of 
 service besides saying your prayers." 
 
 "One couldn't say many prayers if he had that hand- 
 some daughter of yours, Carroll, before him," said Ash- 
 ley, in a moment of levity. 
 
 The old man blazed into a sudden fury. 
 
 " Drap that ! Drap that, you ruffian ! " he cried fiercely. 
 "An' I thought ye had anything in yer mind, damn ye, 
 I'd never lave ye home alive." 
 
 "There, Ashley," said Ireton, deprecatingly; "there 
 you have thrown oil on the fire again." 
 
 "He on the fire! He on the fire!" said the old sailor, 
 his bronzed face now flushing in crimson anger. "Be 
 the Most High God!" he continued, lifting his hat rev- 
 erently, "ye have been nearer the eternal fire, young men, 
 than ever ye were in yere lives; an' I suspec' ye have 
 been walkin' on the brinks of it long enough." 
 
 Now, if these young men had been wise, they would 
 have quietly ended the conference there and then, and 
 gone home whilst the day was declining. But what 
 young men are wise? And the evening was long; they 
 could get home for dinner in two hours, and this was a 
 novelty. Hugh Ireton, who hated scenes, was for start- 
 ing immediately, but his companion, lighter and merrier- 
 hearted, demurred. This old fellow was a curiosity — 
 a type. He would be a splendid joke in the halls of Trin- 
 ity during the winter evenings, and old Rip Van Winkle 
 in the Sleepy Hollow would be a rare piece of mimicry 
 amongst the jeunesse dorie of the capital. 
 
 "Stop, Ireton," he said, whisperingly. "You won't 
 get this chance again. I from the social, you, from the 
 scientific standpoint, are face to face with a specimen. 
 Are you going to throw it away?" 
 
A SLEEPY HOLLOW 11 
 
 " I don't like it," said Ireton. " You never know how 
 these experiences end." 
 
 The old man, half-muddled, sat with head sunk deep 
 on his breast. A word would kindle the smoulder- 
 ing flame again; or a word would reduce it to white 
 ashes. 
 
 " You mustn't resent a harmless word," said Ireton, 
 coming over and laying his hand on the old man's shoul- 
 der. "You have been kind and hospitable. Let us 
 part friends." Here the old man became maudlin. 
 
 "Tbim are our holy Saints," he whimpered, "the 
 Saints o' the Mass — the four by theirselves, and no 
 wan to tech or kem near them. An' I called my little 
 Anstie by wan of their names — Anstie Carroll — Anstie 
 Carroll; an', tisn't because I sez it, but a better or truer 
 girl there isn't in the barony of Imokilly. The natest 
 hand, and the purtiest — " 
 
 "Yes, yes! but who is this — 'Miriam'?" said Ashley, 
 impatient at the old man's tediousness. 
 
 "Miriam! Miriam! Ye mustn't spake of her at all, 
 at all!" 
 
 "Why? Is she a saint too?" said Ashley. 
 
 "Maybe not a canonized wan!" said the old man, 
 "because she's not wan of us. But if there's a saint in 
 heaven this blessed and holy night, it's you — Miss 
 Miriam!" 
 
 His head sank back on his breast again, and the two 
 gentlemen were smoking in silence when, suddenly, an 
 angry, but deep and rasping voice accostea them, and 
 they looked around to see Anstie Carroll standing over 
 them. Her light footfall on the sand had not been heard, 
 and she now stood right behind the two young men, and 
 she seemed to have grown in stature since they beheld 
 her in the cottage. The girl, the coquette, was gone; 
 and here was a woman, a woman with clenched hands 
 and blazing eyes, looking down, as an injured woman only 
 can look, and the young men cowered before her. 
 
 "Which of ye owns this?" she said, holding up the 
 
12 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 empty flask which they had left behind, as a present, 
 or in compensation for the old man's hospitality. 
 
 "Mine," said Ashley, trying to look composed under 
 the trying ordeal of the girl's eyes. He couldn't realise 
 that this was the shy, smiling girl of half an hour ago. 
 
 "And this?" she said, contemptuously balancing a 
 half-sovereign on her finger, and looking from one to 
 the other of the young men. 
 
 "It's mine," said Ireton, with a little anger. "Do 
 you suppose, girl, that we could trespass on your hos- 
 pitality without remuneration?" 
 
 "I don't understand your big words," she said, defi- 
 antly. "There, take them back. Come, father," she 
 said, lifting up in a helpless way the poor old man. She 
 had flung the flask and coin at the young men's feet. 
 They stared at one another in a helpless way. She 
 turned to go, and as she drew her father's hands within 
 her strong arm she hissed: — 
 
 "Ye have left a black shadow across the floor above, 
 and I can't brush it out." 
 
 As she passed away across the sands with her helpless 
 burden, Ashley, cleaning out his pipe, said: — 
 
 "Come along, Ireton, from this uncanny place. You 
 were right and I was wrong. We have the fool yet to 
 face, though." 
 
 Ireton, in a serious and thoughtful manner, followed 
 his more mercurial companion. He was a thoroughly 
 honourable man, and could see nothing wrong in what 
 he had done. Yet he was ashamed. There was a sug- 
 gestion of some infinite meanness in that girl's address 
 — a contemptuous accusation of something indefinite 
 and dishonourable which he could not define. Was it the 
 father's intoxication she resented; or the implied insult 
 to their hospitality in offering so large a remuneration 
 for so poor a meal? He could not conjecture. He only 
 knew that he had been addressed in a cutting and con- 
 temptuous manner by this humble girl, who, in her own 
 way, rough and unpolished as it was, threw into his face 
 
A SLEEPY HOLLOW 13 
 
 an imputation of deep dishonour. He felt inexpres- 
 sibly pained; and now and again turned around to look 
 after the retreating figures. His companion, more mer- 
 curial, or less susceptible to these minor annoyances of 
 life, was shouting, " Coppal ! Coppal ! " with all his might. 
 Then, around the turn, where the pathway to the sea 
 broadened into the country road, came the horses, slowly, 
 not led by Coppal, the village fool, but by a lady of such 
 extreme and rare beauty that the young men could only 
 stare and wonder, with uplifted eyes and bared heads. 
 
II 
 
 Glendabragh 
 
 "I have to apologise," she said, with simple candour, 
 "for the liberty I have taken in sending your servant on 
 a message." 
 
 Ashley muttered something incoherently. The soft 
 grey eyes, shaded from the sun under a broad-leaved 
 straw hat, that bent and waved towards the sweet face 
 beneath it, seemed to have burned up and withered 
 every trace of thought and even of emotion within him. 
 Ireton stood behind watching the apparition, whilst 
 strange, prophetic dreams surged through his mind. 
 He felt in a moment that distinct forevision, which says 
 unmistakably: Your fates have met! 
 
 "The truth is," continued Miss Miriam Lucas, "one 
 of my workmen has hurt himself with a pruning-knife, 
 and I fear an artery is severed. So I sent poor Coppal 
 at all speed for the dispensary doctor!" 
 
 "I am only sorry you did not send one of our horses, 
 Madam," said Ashley. " You couldn't have tione us a 
 greater honour." 
 
 "I'm sure I'm ever so much obliged," she said, "but I 
 couldn't take that liberty. Besides, Coppal is fleet of 
 foot, and I hope the Doctor will be able to reach this 
 poor fellow before he bleeds to death." 
 
 "I wonder" — said Ashley turning to his companion, 
 suggestively. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I may not be presuming," said 
 Ireton, coming forward, "but it happens that I have 
 some slight knowledge of surgery; and if I could be of any 
 
GLENDARRAGH 15 
 
 "Thank you ever so much," said Miriam, "of course 
 you can; for we have done only what is barely necessary: 
 and I doubt if we have stopped the bleeding." 
 
 "Then, with your permission," he said, taking the 
 reins gently from her hands, "I shall ride up to the house 
 — "By Jove," he added suddenly, "I quite forgot to ask 
 where it was?" 
 
 "Just there," she said, "that white mansion. You 
 can go around by the village, and ride in by the front 
 gate." 
 
 Ireton threw his horse into a gallop; and though he 
 passed Carroll's house, and knew that there was a figure 
 at the door, he saw nothing. Emotion swept experience 
 into utter oblivion. He rode up the white road, passed 
 under the strange, iron gate, with the curious emblems 
 carved on the stone-work, and went swiftly into the 
 stable-yard behind the house. There, stretched on straw, 
 his face quite blanched from loss of blood, was the work- 
 man. A crowd of curious, helpless servants were around 
 him, chattering, exclaiming, frightened. Beneath him 
 was a pool of blood. Ireton lifting the very pruning- 
 knife that had slipped and cut the leg, ripped open the 
 man's trousers, and saw at a glance that an artery was 
 severed just below the knee. A rough tourniquet, con- 
 sisting of a silk handkerchief, twisted by a strong piece 
 of wood, was bound tight above the knee, and this, with 
 the recumbent posture of the wounded man, had par- 
 tially stopped the haemorrhage. But now and again, 
 the blood jerked forth, and stained with fresh red the 
 deep-brown mass of coagulated blood beneath. Ireton, 
 at once, made his preparations, asking: — 
 
 "Who did this?" 
 
 "Miss Miriam, God bless her!" 
 
 "She has saved his life," said Ireton. 
 
 The wounded man moaned, "God bless her!" 
 
 The young student called for fresh linen, made a sec- 
 ond bandage, tied it until it seemed to cut into the 
 flesh, and had just completely suspended the dangerous 
 
16 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 bleeding, when the doctor cantered into the yard. He had 
 brought all his appliances, and the two surgeons had little 
 trouble in removing the man to his own cottage. There 
 Ireton left him; and after washing his hands strolled back 
 to the yard where he had left his horse. Not before, 
 however, he had carefully secreted in the breast-pocket 
 of his coat, the silken bandage that had been tied roughly 
 above the wound. He thought he saw the letter M worked 
 in whiter silk thread in the corner of the handkerchief. 
 
 A servant was waiting to invite the three gentlemen 
 into the house. The two young students hesitated for 
 a moment owing to the lateness of the hour; but it was 
 only for a moment. A second time throwing their horses' 
 bridles to Coppal, who had come with the doctor, they 
 stood in the porch at Glendarragh. Now, the day, as 
 we have said, was oppressively warm, so warm that this 
 was the only danger the dispensary surgeon feared for 
 the wounded man. Yet, as the young men entered the 
 spacious hall, they felt a curious chill, as travellers feel, 
 when, coming out of the hot oven of the square of an 
 Italian city, they lift the heavy leathern portiere of a 
 Cathedral Church, and stand in the gloom of the chilled 
 interior. And yet, it was not cold, for the doors being 
 wide open, the hot air had penetrated into the gloomy 
 hall, and warmed every recess. It was rather an uncanny 
 feeling — a thrill of nerves, as of a ghostly hand laid sud- 
 denly on the shoulder, or a cold finger touching the fore- 
 head in sleep. Both shuddered, then looked at each 
 other and smiled. They erroneously interpreted each 
 other's thoughts. It is the bare and untenanted look of 
 the place, each said, that causes him to shrink. And it 
 was bare. The floor was uncarpeted; not a picture hung 
 upon the walls; not a flower decorated the windows. 
 The mighty antlers of some forest monarch; the skins of 
 wild beasts killed in the jungle; the fowling-pieces on the 
 walls, or rusty axes or pikes from fargone times — even 
 the familiar hall-clock, were conspicuous by their absence. 
 Only one thing relieved the bare desolation — a heavy 
 
GLENDARRAGH 17 
 
 and intricate cornice, which hung down almost on their 
 heads its weight of grapes, and leaves, and flowers; and 
 a superb centre-piece of similar stucco, that filled half 
 the ceiling and drooped until one could touch its splen- 
 did workmanship with the hand. But, I am wrong. 
 For there, in the centre of the desolation, was the white 
 statue-like figure of the goddess of the place, and the 
 idol of its people — Miriam Lucas! Ireton once more 
 shivered under the chill, and the touch of the Fate, which 
 said: Your lives are converging together under shadow 
 and sunshine! 
 
 She welcomed them with simple dignity into the dining- 
 room. This, too, was almost bare of furniture. A heavy 
 mahogany dining-table filled the entire centre of the room. 
 There was a wood fire burning in the grate. Near it, in 
 a high-backed chair, carved out of black bog-oak, sate a 
 young, old man — young comparatively in years, old in 
 care and sickness, and he held his hands weakly to the 
 fire. 
 
 "Father," said Miriam, coming forward, "these gentle- 
 men have been very kind about poor Dwyer. I thought 
 you would like to thank them." 
 
 "Certainly, Miriam," he said, feebly rising from his 
 seat, and as feebly falling back. "You are very welcome, 
 gentlemen," he said, deprecatingly. "I didn't quite 
 catch the names?" 
 
 "My name is Ashley," said Arthur, "and this is Ire- 
 ton. You know the doctor, I presume?" 
 
 "Oh, doctor," the invalid said, turning round, "I 
 didn't see you. I hope you are very well. And you are 
 Mr. Ashton?" 
 
 "Ashley," Arthur corrected. 
 
 "Ashley! Ashley! The name is quite familiar. There 
 was a solicitor of that name practising in the same cham- 
 bers in Dublin. Ashley! Ashley!" 
 
 "My father was a solicitor," said Arthur. 
 
 "Ah, then! it must be the same! And you are Mr. 
 Ireland?" he said, looking at Hugh Ireton. 
 
18 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Ireton," said Hugh, meekly correcting him. 
 
 "A good old name!" said the invalid. "Ireton came 
 over with Cromwell, and did good work in this miser- 
 able country. We want a Cromwell and an Ireton now!" 
 
 The young men did not respond. The Doctor, who 
 was a thorough Nationalist and rebel, frowned. 
 
 "And I presume you are both professional men?" 
 said Lucas stretching his hands _to the flame. "How 
 cold it is this afternoon!" 
 
 ; "We're studying for the professions," said Ashley. 
 "We're Trinity men!" 
 
 "Ah, indeed, and so am I. What rooms do you 
 occupy?" he cried with some show of animation. 
 
 Ashley mentioned wing, corridor and rooms. 
 
 "Ah, indeed! They were occupied in my time by 
 Hemsworth and Spelman. Hems, as we called him, 
 was killed, poor fellow, in the engagement at Alma; and 
 Spelman — I don't know what became of Spelman." 
 
 "Spelman, father, is partner with Mr. Holthsworth. 
 Why you had a letter from him yesterday!" 
 
 Miriam had spoken; and then flushed scarlet; and then 
 grew suddenly pale at the revelation of her father's in- 
 firmity. 
 
 But he was in no wise offended. 
 
 "Quite true, Miriam. It is strange, now, gentlemen, 
 that I can recall the most trivial events of thirty years 
 ago, but I cannot remember what occurred this morn- 
 ing. The rooms you speak of in Trinity, their furniture, 
 their books, the windows, the faces of my old com- 
 rades, all come clear before my mental vision; but I can- 
 not recall a name heard to-day. I shall forget your names 
 before you depart. Ah, that struck your fancy, too, 
 Mr. Ireley?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ireton. "I fear I have been impolite; 
 but I couldn't take my eyes from that strange carving. 
 Might I look closer?" 
 
 "By all means. It was a freak, I believe, of a drunken 
 wood-carver, who used to come around here in the old 
 
GLENDARRAGH 19 
 
 times, long before we came here. I should have liked 
 to take it down and burn it; but Miriam wishes it to 
 remain." 
 
 Ireton rose, and went over to view this strange symbol 
 more closely. Between the broad fire-place, surrounded 
 too by elaborate sculptures of Cupids and Psyches in 
 white marble, and the wall furthest from the window, 
 ran a long, narrow frieze of woodwork carved in strange 
 and fantastic figures. Along a broad road or avenue, 
 a solitary figure walked. It was the figure of a man, 
 and a man in a state of absolute terror and bewilderment. 
 Lining the roads on either side were tall statues, mostly 
 draped female figures; who looked down on the solitary 
 wayfarer, and held out their hands as if warning him 
 against an immediate and appalling Fate. Those, which 
 he had already passed, had vanished or were vanishing 
 in smoke, as an actor, who had performed his part, might 
 make his bow and retire behind the scenes. At the end 
 of the avenue, and right in the centre was a winged angel, 
 its back turned towards the on-coming wayfarer. It 
 held before it, but screened by its wings from behind, 
 something that swung and dangled in the air. The 
 observer could see it; the wayfarer could not. It was 
 a skeleton. Beneath the rude sculpture were written 
 ruder verses: — 
 
 "O'er the moorland the pathway winds whitely, 
 
 On the road are the idols of death; 
 The masters shall pass in their terror; 
 
 Into smoke, like a vapour of breath; 
 The idols shall turn and vanish, 
 
 As the mists that are lifted at morn. 
 Shall turn and hiss as they perish 
 
 In laughter their hatred and scorn. 
 Till down where the bridge spans the river, 
 
 An angel, with outstretched wing, 
 And hands wreathed forewords shall give them 
 
 A promise the future will bring. 
 And- lo! as they pass with a smik 
 
 After dread, and a light in their eyes, 
 A skeleton, knotted from iroa_ 
 
20 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Shall crush them to death, and their cries 
 Shall ring through the oaks of Glendarragh, 
 
 And the life-blood shall curdle in the veins 
 Of the list'ners, who shriek in their terror: 
 ' The curse o'er Glendarragh remains! ' " 
 
 Ireton read it carefully, and turning round noticed a look 
 of pain and perturbation on the face of Miss Lucas. Her 
 father, holding his hands to the flames, seemed to have 
 forgotten his visitors. 
 
 "I thought all that legendary humbug was at an end 
 in Ireland," said Ireton, interpreting the look of pain on 
 Miriam's face. 
 
 "Eh!" said the invalid waking up. "Humbug? So 
 it is! Rot, I call it. But the soothsayer was merciful. 
 He gave us the obverse of the medal, too. There it is!" 
 And Ireton again arose to study an exactly similar 
 allegory between the fire-place and the window. But 
 the similarity was in outline, not in detail; for here the 
 figures, as the wayfarer passed, stepped from their pedes- 
 tals and accompanied him on his perilous journey. Over 
 the bridge, the Angel stood sentinel again; but this time, 
 instead of a skeleton, there was an infant in his arms; 
 instead of Despair and Death, there was Hope and Life. 
 Beneath it, and interpreting it, was a similar doggerel: — 
 
 "But one day o'er the pathway of waters, 
 
 Paved bright with the gold of the sun, 
 A fair ship shall come curts'ying and bowing; 
 
 And down where the rivulets run, 
 And the Ocean draws in his glad tribute 
 
 Of streams springing fresh from the land, 
 And flings a broad circlet of foam^waves 
 
 On the levels of glittering sand, 
 A maiden as white as the foam, 
 
 And as strong as the strength of the sea, 
 Shall welcome her bridegroom — a giver 
 
 Of life to the people is he; 
 Bearing health in his hands, and a love, 
 
 That is better than ruddiest gold, 
 Paid back by the love of his bride, 
 
 And the love of his people untold. 
 
GLENDARRAGH 21 
 
 And over the road winding whitely 
 
 Hand in hand shall they pass to their fate, 
 Followed close by the spirits that gladly 
 
 Flinging far all their scorn and their hate, 
 Transfigured to spirits light-bearing, 
 
 And chauniing a hymn as they glide, 
 Cast their robes, pearl-encrusted, gold-broidered, 
 
 'Neath the feet of the bridegroom and bride. 
 And down where the bridge spans the river, 
 
 An angel with outstretched wing 
 Shelters deep underneath his white cincture 
 
 Some dear promise the future will bring. 
 And lo! as they pass he flings wide 
 
 His garments of light, and they see 
 A babe, with the face of a seraph, 
 
 Laughing low in his rapturous glee, 
 And uplifting his hands to the bride; 
 
 Then the spirits glide down to the shore; 
 And the birds carol loud in the woodlands: 
 ' The curse of Glendarragh is o'er! ' " 
 
 "I agree with you, Sir," said Ireton, when he had read 
 the lines, "these rustic prophecies are out of place in the 
 nineteenth century. No one believes in them; and the 
 sooner they are swept away the better." 
 
 "You may be quite right, Mr. Ireton," said Miss 
 Lucas, looking him straight in the face. "But where is 
 the gain in burning that piece of oak, when the allegory 
 is cut deep into the hearts of the people; and where would 
 be the use in destroying these verses, when they are 
 chanted around every hearth in the farmers' and peas- 
 ants' cabins every night?" 
 
 "No wonder we are a backward lot," said Ashley. 
 "There's no use in trying to graft a new civilisation here." 
 
 "No, indeed!" said the doctor drily. 
 
 "The old traditions have their own charms," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 "I wish they were all, people, priests, and prophecies," 
 said the invalid in a sudden paroxysm of anger, "where 
 Cromwell sent them, if the devil had only let them stay 
 there — in Hell or Connaught!" 
 
 His head fell forward on his breast, as if he were dead. 
 
22 MIRIAM -LUCAS 
 
 "There," said the doctor, "I'm always warning him 
 against excitement. Some day it will be fatal. Gentle- 
 men, let us take our leave!" 
 
 "I fear I have acted rashly, doctor," said Miriam, 
 meekly following them into the hall. 
 
 "No, no, no," the doctor reassured her. "But he 
 must be kept quiet, and leave these infernal politics alone. 
 Good day! Be sure to give him that draught, but care» 
 fully!" 
 
 She bade good day! to the two students; but in some 
 strange way, Ireton, when she withdrew her hand, con- 
 tinued gajzing at her abstractedly. She, too, looked 
 deep into his soul, and then turned sadly away. 
 
 Before they departed with the doctor at the village 
 entrance, they lingered for a little while, trying to shake 
 off, yet loth to part with, the impressions they had re- 
 ceived from their visit to Glendarragh House. They had 
 paused at the end of the valley, by which the road to 
 the sea swept down in hillocks and hollows; and looked 
 backwards. The deep earth fissure, through which a 
 tiny stream trickled to mingle its sweet waters with the 
 brackish waves, was feathered on both sides with tiny 
 oaks, as if a new plantation had been formed after an 
 older oak-wood had been felled. These trees gave the 
 valley its name — Glendarragh — The Glen of the Oak. 
 At its northern extremity, and completely shutting it 
 in was the old mansion, in which our students now were 
 deeply interested. There was nothing very remarkable 
 about its appearance, nothing imposing, and certainly 
 nothing that would suggest such ghostly things as tra- 
 gedies or prophecies of tragedies to come. It was a square, 
 plain building, constructed more for use than ornament. 
 The two windows of the drawing-room on the right, 
 the corresponding windows of the dining-room on the 
 left; and the five windows of the second story let sun and 
 sea air freely into the large and lofty rooms. There was 
 a pediment overhead, bare and unsculptured; a porch 
 beneath, supported on four massive Doric pillars; and that 
 
GLENDARRAGH 23 
 
 was all. Yet, there they stood, gazing up the valley, 
 these three men, and their thoughts went out simultane- 
 ously to that grey-haired, broken man, and that spirit, 
 who guarded him; and their thoughts wandered curiously 
 to the past, inquiringly to the future; and the doctor, 
 interpreting the wishes of his acquaintances said 
 brusquely: — 
 
 "A story? Yes! And a curse? Yes! And the 
 promise of a reversal? Yes! And I'm not a Son of 
 Esculapius if the curse is not reversed by that young 
 girl. I wish I could ask you to dine," he continued, "but 
 my house is so far away. The only way in which that 
 story can be rightly told is around a log fire, and with 
 steaming glasses, and lighted pipes. This is not the place, 
 nor time, nor weather for a story: — " 
 
 "You've got a confoundedly long way of prefacing it, 
 doctor," said Ashley impatiently. " You must be an awful 
 botch of a surgeon if you cut around a case so slowly." 
 
 The doctor laughed. 
 
 "Youth always impatient — " he said. 
 
 "But the curse? the curse? the curse?" said Ashley. 
 
 "Is soon told," said the doctor. "A tyrant — White- 
 boys — house attacked at midnight — marauders beaten 
 off and dispersed — yeomanry searching the country 
 right and left, night and day — labourer's cottage where 
 our wounded friend, Dwyer, is now lying — son of the 
 widow absent — suspected by landlord — chased right 
 and left across the country — the bloodhounds closing 
 in — the fox seeks his cover — the hare his form — the 
 outlaw his mother's cabin — mother swears he is away — 
 the quarry found under a rick of turf — dragged forth 
 and tied — mother stripped naked, and flogged in sight of 
 her son — son flogged and then hanged in his mother's 
 presence. Mother kneels and prays the Most High God 
 that every owner of Glendarragh may die a viplent death 
 until the Day of Judgment; and that no voice of mother 
 in her birth-throes, or child in its cradle shall ever be 
 heard there. Curse so far fulfilled; and the righteous 
 
24 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 avenged; for the curse of a widow or an orphan is registered 
 in the archives of Heaven, and cannot be changed by 
 human hands or human wills. No child has ever been 
 born in that house, and every occupier, one after an- 
 other, has died a violent death — " 
 
 "Then those people are not the owners?" said Ashley. 
 
 "Yes, and no! Yes, and no!" said the doctor cau- 
 tiously checking himself. 
 
 "They don't belong to the place?" said Ashley again. 
 
 "Your friend will tell you," replied the doctor smil- 
 ing, "that the final lecture in our course, not in yours, of 
 course, is on the honour of the professor, and the neces- 
 sity of reticence amongst medical men about family 
 secrets. Good day, gentlemen! A pleasant ride home!" 
 
 The doctor cantered gaily away; and Ashley said with 
 a frown: — 
 
 "A confounded cad!" 
 
 "No! he was quite right," said his companion. "It 
 has been rather an interesting day!" 
 
 "I should rather say 'momentous,'" said Arthur 
 Ashley. 
 
 They rode rapidly on till they came to the East Ferry 
 again. Here they had to delay. They were so preoccu- 
 pied with thought that neither had chosen to break the 
 silence. Here, however, as they paused, they had to 
 speak. 
 
 "There's something uncanny about that girl," said 
 Ashley, as if breaking into a sudden soliloquy. "She 
 looked the picture of innocence with her white muslin 
 dress, and the fresh marguerites in her hat, and the little 
 sprig of geranium at her throat. But, by Jove, I shook 
 all over as we walked up to that haunted house together; 
 and I had to pretend to do several very unnecessary 
 things to this nag to conceal my nervousness. I tell 
 you what I think, Ireton!" 
 
 "Go ahead; 'tis valuable, I know!" 
 
 "By Jove, I think she's a Lamia; or one of those females 
 you read of in German legend who sucks your blood at 
 
GLENDARRAGH \ '25 
 
 night. Isn't that your opinion, for I perceive you're 
 thinking of her, too!" 
 
 "No, I'm not!" 
 
 "Then, why are you in the blues?" 
 
 "I'm thinking, no! feeling the lash of that young girl's 
 tongue down there on the beach!" 
 
 "Well, she was a spitfire. Alecto and Lamia all in one 
 day. Well, here we are!" 
 
x HI 
 
 A Village Coquette 
 
 Whether the doctor's explanation was historically 
 correct cannot be proved now; but distrust it who may, 
 or gainsay it in the light of modern historical accuracy, 
 the fact remains that some curse did hang over Glendar- 
 ragh House. No child had ever been born there, and 
 three successive owners had adopted the Roman way of 
 quitting life. One other had been flung from his horse 
 and killed. The animal had been frightened by a sud- 
 den apparition one night on the road as the master rode 
 home from his revels, and that apparition was no less than 
 the village idiot, Coppal, who, a remote relative of the rebel 
 who had been flogged and hanged, used sometimes at 
 night, to keep up again the historical tradition, array 
 his long, lank form in a white shirt, to the laughter of 
 some and the dismay of others. But after that dread 
 night, when the horse flung his master to death, the fool 
 dropped his own name, if he had ever had any, and was 
 known universally by the sobriquet, Coppal. He had his 
 likes and dislikes, like most mortals. Amongst the former 
 was, pre-eminently, Miriam, whom he followed like a dog 
 everywhere, and at whose bedroom door he was found 
 coiled up, on a mat, the faithful guardian of his beloved 
 mistress. For this he was whipped by the master, and 
 ordered to discontinue it. Amongst the latter was Anstie 
 Carroll, whom he hated with all the malignity of a stunted 
 and feeble intelligence. For Anstie, proud of her own 
 beauty, was sarcastic on Coppal's many deformities; 
 and the dim consciousness of his inferiority roused to 
 vehement and vengeful passion the unbridled sensations 
 
A VILLAGE COQUETTE 27 
 
 of the poor, mindless simpleton. Hence, the village 
 boys made it their pastime to ask Coppal when he was 
 going to marry Anstie; and were rewarded with showers 
 of stones flung with ferocity, and little care of hurting, by 
 the poor victim. Sometimes, too, Anstie, for the fun of 
 the thing, asked Coppal the same question. He brooded 
 over the shame and contempt of it, and when alone, 
 made dreadful vows of a revenge that was one day to 
 be his. 
 
 But, although the doctor pretended to our young stu- 
 dents that he knew all about the present owners of Glen- 
 darragh, and was only prevented by professional secrecy 
 from divulging all that he knew, the fact was,- it was a 
 sealed mystery to him, as well as to the rest of the world. 
 All that he knew was, that they had come thither, it was 
 supposed, from Dublin, some six years before; that they 
 had purchased the whole estate for a song; that they lived 
 in absolute retirement, seeing no society; that no one 
 had called on them except the rector and his wife; that, 
 consequently, there were all sorts of rumours rife about 
 their antecedents; that Edwin Lucas was a sour, crabbed, 
 cynical, sometimes a maudlin, invalid; and that Miriam 
 Lucas was an angel. And whatever doubts might be 
 cast on the other items of the doctor's knowledge, public 
 opinion confirmed the last. If she had lived in the ear- 
 liest ages she would have been canonized by popular 
 acclaim, although a heretic. This latter difficulty was, 
 however, considerably modified in the eyes of her ad- 
 mirers by several features in her conduct which seemed 
 to approach very nearly to the faith of the people; and 
 they used say, God only knows with what simple pride 
 and faith and hope: — 
 
 " Yerra, she's wan of ourselves; but the ould fellow won't 
 lave her. Sure, they say she has a picter of the Blessed 
 Virgin over her bed, and she makes Coppal say his prayers, 
 and the divil a much mind he has for that same. Cursing 
 comes aisier to the poor angashore." 
 
 "And, sure, she never goes to church at all, at all,tho' 
 
28 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 the ould minister does be as mad as blazes wid her. 
 She'd rather come to our chapel, if she could." 
 
 "Mind you me," said old Bill Motherway, a hardened 
 old salt, "it's she that'll take away the curse from Glen- 
 darragh, by comin' over to the thrue Church. That's 
 what the prophecy says." 
 
 "There's nothing in the prophecy about the thrue 
 Church, or Catholics or Prodestans at all," said another. 
 "Can't you- 'keep to the truth?" 
 
 "Keep to the thruth!" Bill would cry, in that sudden 
 flaring up of violent temper, which is one of our national, 
 and most amiable traits, "Am I tellin' a lie? Am I? 
 Did any wan of the nabors ever hear me tellin' a lie in 
 the whole course of my life? It's badly becomin' of 
 you, young man, to give the lie to your elders." 
 
 "I'm not givin' you the lie," the other would answer, 
 "but where's the use in invintin' things? Don't we all 
 know that Miss Miriam is wid us in her heart? Can't 
 we keep to that, and lave the 'Curse' alone?" 
 
 But how could they leave the "Curse" alone, when it 
 was familiar to them as their prayers; when it was crooned 
 in its original Gaelic by old grandmothers over the chil- 
 dren's cradles, and turned into a weird and solemn lul- 
 laby; when the blacksmith sang it over his anvil, a dread 
 accompaniment to the strokes of his hammer; when the 
 ploughman flung it at his unwilling team and the carter 
 to his fagged or lazy horse; when the fisherman sang it 
 on the deep, and the girls over their cottage looms; and 
 even the priest at the altar quoted it as another example, 
 almost equal to scriptural in its solemnity, of the terrible 
 Nemesis that follows crime even in this world, and pur- 
 sues its path of vengeance from generation to generation? 
 No! there was no hushing of that dread curse and proph- 
 ecy here, where everything tended to confirm and pre- 
 serve it. The people simply waited in great fear and hope 
 for its final fulfilment. But perhaps there was no one 
 so deeply affected by it as Miriam herself. Naturally 
 endowed with a strong mind, she treated the prophecy at 
 
A VILLAGE COQUETTE 2d 
 
 first with all the levity, or rather buoyancy, of youth. 
 She laughed at it as an old-world mysticism — she who 
 had come from city life where such things are regarded 
 as pretty heirlooms of a country's history; or ethnolo- 
 gical indications of the bent or bias of a people's fancies. 
 And so, when her father would have taken down the 
 rude, suggestive emblems, and burned them, Miriam 
 objected. They were antiques; they were historical; 
 they were unique — something to show to strangers on 
 their visits. The strangers never came, buirthe figures 
 stared for ever from their ghastly setting; and by degrees, 
 as she heard the prophecies verified in the traditions of the 
 people, a strange awe crept over her, and she was face to 
 face with the problem — Would she witness once more its 
 fulfilment in her father; or was she destined by the unre- 
 lenting Fates to uplift the curse for ever? Hence, over 
 her strong mind, a tinge of superstition fell, and the awful 
 loneliness of her position gave, alas! too much time for 
 brooding over the ghastly but fascinating subject. Then, 
 once and again, she felt that she was brought face to face 
 with her Fate; but she never felt this so strongly as when 
 Ireton's grave gaze rested on her, and she felt in the grasp 
 of his strong hand something protecting and prophetic. 
 
 When her father woke up revived after the draught 
 the doctor had ordered for such attacks of sudden coma, 
 he was in one of his irritable moods, and complained bit- 
 terly of the intrusion of the strangers. 
 
 "It was my fault, Father," she answered, meekly. "I 
 thought the circumstances demanded some courtesy at 
 our hands." 
 
 "Where did you meet them?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 "On the strand. I was looking for Coppal, and found 
 him minding their horses. I took the bridles from him 
 and sped him on his errand." 
 
 "Took their bridles!" said her father, with indignant 
 surprise. "A most unladylike proceeding! Ah, my 
 child, how much you miss a mother's care!" 
 
30 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 She stood before him, looking down on him with flash- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 "Father," she said slowly, but with strange meaning, 
 "would you repeat these words?" 
 
 But his head had fallen on his breast. He waved her 
 away with a humble gesture. 
 
 "No!" he- said. "Go from me, and leave me alone!" 
 
 One other reason why her village admirers thought 
 Miriam sympathetic with their faith was, that she waa 
 rather fond of visiting the little whitewashed village 
 chapel, and remaining there, sometimes, for a whole after- 
 noon. In reality, there was no thought, or desire, of 
 changing her own religion, for she had not given religion 
 much of her thought, and seemed content with that mod- 
 ern form, which consists of well-doing, without reference 
 to higher or supernatural motives. But she found the 
 quiet of that humble church very restful and soothing 
 to agonised nerves, strung with the tension of wonder 
 about her past and anxiety about her future. There was 
 something so quiet, so placid, in this remote and solitary 
 temple, and there were such silent sermons about resig- 
 nation, and suffering, and peace, preached from these 
 pictures and signs that they tranquillised feelings too 
 sensitive above all to the questions of destiny and the 
 operations of blind fate. Above all, she was fond of 
 strolling down to the church on the evenings when the 
 rude, rustic choir were practising the simple music that 
 accorded with their poor, limited capacities; and the 
 hymns echoed back in her heart in many a lonely hour, 
 and she sang them to spothe and compose a tried and 
 turbulent spirit. One such evening, the week after the 
 visit of our young students, she strolled through the 
 quiet village, her head bare, for, unless in blinding sun- 
 shine, she always liked to walk uncovered, and to swing 
 her broad hat by her side. The moonlight was almost 
 painful in its intensity, as it fell on whitewashed walls 
 and dusty road, and threw black, inky shadows every- 
 
A VILLAGE COQUETTE 3 t 
 
 where, and left untouched, except to deepen its purple 
 blackness, the still yet throbbing sea. At great inter- 
 vals the waves sighed out their little souls upon the beach, 
 and the soft wash of their waters was very soothing. 
 The old people sat by their doors, gossiping, but all arose 
 to make a respectful curtsey to their young queen as she 
 passed by. She, in turn, had a cheerful word for all, 
 calling each old villager by her name, and making minute 
 inquiries that seemed to prove an individuaLniterest in 
 each. They knew where she was going, and many a 
 prayer followed her for her conversion. 
 
 "Sure, that would settle everything," they said. "How 
 could a curse fall on a Catholic,. if God gave her the 
 grace?" 
 
 She entered the dark church and sat down in the deeper 
 shadows cast by the pillars from the lights in the choir. 
 She listened to the hum of voices above in the gallery, 
 and smiled at the naive remarks of the choir-conductor, 
 who was also the local teacher. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, the altos are drowning the 
 sopranos, and the basses are obliterating by their pro- 
 fundity the other integral portions of this amateur or- 
 chestra. What we want is not the individual vanity of 
 two or three voices, but the simultaneous harmony of 
 all. Miss Carroll, would you please commence that 
 beautiful antiphon, Laudate Dominium, omnes gentes! 
 which means, Praise the Lord, all ye nations!" 
 
 Anstie had trapped the teacher, too, amongst the other 
 victims of her coquetry. 
 
 "Mr. O'Donnell," continued the master, "you may be 
 able to sing Heaveyo to the lifting of an anchor; but re- 
 member, your naval accomplishments are out of place 
 in a limited place like this. Go on, Miss Carroll, and 
 make the nightingale who is singing, or ought to be sing- 
 ing, outside, jealous of your vocal endowments." 
 
 "Janie Calverty can sing a solo just as well as Miss 
 Carroll," put in another village swain. "Why are ye 
 always putting Miss Carroll in front?" 
 
32 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "I consider that remark, Sir, most unparliamentary," 
 said the master. "I make no distinction between the 
 solitary and individual members of this choir. Do I, 
 ladies and gentlemen?" 
 
 "No!" strongly from some. "No!" feebly from 
 others. "You do!" from a ventriloquial voice in a far 
 corner. 
 
 "Certainly not! I know my duty too well, and the 
 responsibiljjies of my position in this parish. But I can- 
 not hold the equilibrium of impartial administration 
 unless I am upheld by the unanimous approval of the 
 entire choir. Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby tender 
 my formal resignation of this most ungrateful and impe- 
 cunious situation. I retire into private life." 
 
 "Oh no, no, master, don't! Don't! Can't you hold 
 your tongue, you fool? You are always creating dis- 
 turbance here!" h • 
 
 "Oh, by all means, Mr. Lavarty," said Anstie, in a 
 pout. "Let Miss Calverty take my place. I'm quite 
 certain she'll be very much admired, especially by Mr. 
 O'Leary. Perhaps they would sing a juet?" 
 
 "I'm not sayin' anything agen you, Anstie," said poor 
 O'Leary — 
 
 "Anstie? Miss Carroll, please, when you're address- 
 ing me — " 
 
 "Quite right!" said the master. "It is necessary to 
 observe the customs of modern decorum and civilization 
 even in such remote places as ours. Please, Sir, address 
 the gifted and accomplished ladies of the choir according 
 to the manners of good society!" 
 
 This was amusing. But when they did sing — sing 
 with all their plain, untutored voices the sweet melodies 
 of the Church, the rhythm and music and prayer sank deep 
 in Miriam's heart, and softened it by the magic of appeals 
 to the great Unseen — the antagonists of the dread 
 Fates who were weaving in darkest colours, as she thought, 
 the web and woof of her life. 
 
 She lingered in the darkness of the church long after 
 
A VILLAGE COQUETTE 33 
 
 the choir had departed, partly because she liked the 
 solemn silence, partly because she did not care to be seen 
 by the too curious. When all had gone she came to the 
 chapel door, and was just stepping into the sea of moon- 
 light outside, when she heard voices close by in earnest 
 conversation, and her own name mentioned. She lis- 
 tened. It was Anstie Carroll who was speaking. 
 
 "Oh, no!" she was saying, with an affectation of great 
 scorn and pride. "They didn't come to see^ne, but to 
 see the 'Beauty of Glendarragh'!" 
 
 "An' who the divil, I'd like to know," said her male 
 companion, "is the 'Beauty of Glendarragh' but your- 
 sSJ, Anstie?" 
 
 "Me-e?" said Anstie. "Oh, no! There are superior 
 persons in the neighbourhood who would be a greater 
 attraction." 
 
 "Why, thin, that's the biggest lie ye ever tould, Anstie; 
 an' I'd like to hear any wan sayin' it but yerself. Be 
 all the goats in Kerry, and that's a hairy oath, 'twould 
 be their lasht remark. I know some wan who'd spile 
 their beauty." 
 
 "But ye don't suppose that gentlemen (what emphasis 
 poor Anstie laid on that gentlemen) would come riding 
 over here to see a poor village gurl like me?" 
 
 "Well, that bates me too," said the Voice. "If I 
 thought they were goin' to stale ye away, Anstie, from 
 wan who thinks more of ye than father or mother, brother 
 or sister, the Lord keep his hand on me for fear I'd do 
 harrum!" f ^ - '* f 
 
 "Well, all I know is," said Anstie, "they kem up to 
 our house, and we gave them — refreshments. But wan 
 of them stared me and stared me, the impident fellow — " 
 
 "The misfortunate blagard! But how could he help 
 it, Anstie? The wandher is, he tuk his eyes aff av you 
 at all, at all!" 
 
 "Well, it was most ungentlemanlike," said Anstie, 
 smiling in the praises of her admirer. "Thin they went 
 down to get their bawth, as they called it, but what I'm 
 
34 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 comin' to is this. I saw they were dosing the poor old 
 man with whiskey; and whin he was well-intoxicated, they 
 took him down to the beach. But that's not what I'm 
 comin' to. They left behind them what, d'ye think?" 
 
 " Maybe some of the liquor? " suggested the Voice. 
 
 "No! but the empty flask and a half-sovereign! " 
 
 " Begobs! And what did you do? " 
 
 " What did I do? " said Anstie, like a tragedy queen. 
 "What 'ud^any virtuous and respectable gurl do under 
 the circumstances? I went down to the sands; I held 
 out the flask, and demanded — 'Who owns this?' 'I,' 
 said the fellow that was staring me. I threw it at his 
 feet. 'And who owns this?' I said, holding up the half- 
 sovereign?' 'I,' said the foxoy fellow, the worst of the 
 two. I flung it at his feet. Then I took my poor help- 
 less father and led him away. But," said Anstie, break- 
 ing into a violent paroxysm of tears, "they won't come 
 here to timpt a poor helpless gurl agin." 
 
 "Be this, and be that," said her companion, in an 
 affected rage, "av they do, ye know who to send for — 
 but, Anstie, can't ye give a poor bye the right to pur- 
 tect ye, now and forevermore, Amen?" 
 
 "Leave me, now, Declan," said Anstie. "I'm over- 
 powered. I'm not myself. Some other time. And don't 
 go down be the priest's house, for fear he'd see ye." 
 
 When they had gone, Miriam waited a little while, her 
 mind a prey to painful sensations. She knew well that 
 Anstie was a confirmed flirt, and that her account of Ire- 
 ton and Ashley, and their motives, was dictated solely 
 by the desire to stimulate the jealousy of her rustic 
 admirer. Nevertheless, the suggestions were so piquant, 
 if painful, that they left an impression on Miriam's mind 
 as of a vanished vision, or an ideal that had been rudely 
 shattered by hard contact with nature and reality. In 
 a few days Ireton had grown from a commonplace visitor 
 into a hero, who was destined to rescue her from a 
 horrible fate; and on this airy conception she had been 
 
A VILLAGE COQUETTE 55 
 
 building all kinds of hopes. The very words of the 
 prophecy seemed to anticipate their fulfilment: 
 
 "Shall welcome her bridegroom — a giver 
 Of life to the people is he; 
 Bearing health in his hands, and a love 
 That is better than ruddiest gold." 
 
 And with the splendid hope of youth her fancy had leaped 
 forward, and constructed her future, with Hugh Ireton 
 as the radiant centre and soul of it. And now, Ugh! 
 To think of her knight drugging an old man into intox- 
 ication, and bribing a miserable village girl with gold! 
 It was horrible. 
 
 Her father was waiting for her. He, like many similar 
 invalids, was much better in the evenings than in the 
 mornings of his wrecked and shattered existence; and he 
 had a morbid fear of the night and the darkness. He wel- 
 comed her cheerfully. 
 
 "I have been thinking, Miriam," he said, "of our vis- 
 itors of a week ago — Mr. Ashton and Mr Ireley. I 
 regret what I said to you. It was rash and peevish. 
 I remember now, well, Mr. Ashton's father. "Twas he 
 drew our marriage settlement. Nay, nay, child, don't 
 start! I am not going to touch a painful subject, I only 
 wished to say, that I retract. They are gentlemen — 
 by birth and manners — Mr. Ashton and Mr. Ireley. 
 I hope they will soon come again. They are gentlemen; 
 and after all, it is rare to meet gentlemen nowadays!" 
 
 "It is, father, very rare," said Miriam, wearily. "Let 
 us dismiss the subject for the present. May I ask you 
 a question?" 
 
 "Certainly, Miriam! but not the old question," he 
 cried nervously, "not the old question, Miriam! Let 
 the dead past bury its dead!" 
 
 Miriam rose up, and taking her candle, went to her 
 room. 
 
IV 
 
 The Lady of the Lea 
 
 In a bay-window, overlooking the sea in that fashion- 
 able sweep of fine houses, called the Crescent, a lady sat 
 this same summer evening. She was not old; but her 
 hair, perhaps prematurely grey, was folded down over 
 her temples in rather ancient fashion. She was still 
 very handsome; but something very like a want of high 
 intellectual power detracted from the expression of per- 
 fect symmetry in her features, and suddenly arrested 
 anything like admiration. On the other hand, her face 
 wore a look of calm, simple benevolence, with a delight- 
 ful undershade of vanityy that at once substituted love 
 for admiration. Her conversation at once conveyed the 
 same impression. She could not say a brilliant thing, 
 but she could say a kind thing; and her little regrets for 
 the past, with its triumphs and lost pleasures blended 
 delightfully with her anxiety about every one connected 
 with her, and her interest in the smallest details that 
 affected humanity at large. She sat on a favourite low 
 chair, and on a small wicker table before her were her 
 work — the thousand and one little articles that feminine 
 tastes or industries require, her gold-trimmed pince-nez, 
 and her favourite book open at her favourite page. The 
 book was Lodge's Peerage and Baronetage of a rather 
 ancient date. The page opened freely to the touch 
 from frequent use, and in the lower right-hand corner 
 you might read: — 
 
 Sherle, Sir Ralph, of Sherle Manor, Co. Kilkenny, J.P. 
 and D.L. for the County Kilkenny. Born 1808, died 
 1878, married Elizabeth, third daughter of Bichard 
 Charles Blount, of Blomfield, Herts, and has issue: — 
 
THE LADY OF THE LEA 37 
 
 William b. 1830. Lydia b. 1834. 
 
 Octavius b. 1832. Caroline b. 1835. 
 
 This last entry, Caroline, was marked in red ink, from 
 which it is reasonable to conclude that the lady was Caro- 
 line Sherle, youngest daughter of the aforesaid baronet; 
 but this name was long since merged, and lost to all but 
 the owner, in the less romantic name of Mrs. Ireton. 
 
 Yes, it was Mrs. Ireton, mother of Hugh Ireton, that 
 sat in the bay-window this long summer evening, sat 
 quietly working" and reading, and only grew impatient 
 when the clock in the hall tolled out the threequarters, 
 and roused her to the intelligence that dinner was almost 
 ready. 
 
 "Bless me!" she cried, starting up hastily, "what has 
 become of these boys? They should have been here an 
 hour ago. They'll have no time to dress for dinner; 
 and I won't, no, I will not," she cried determinedly, 
 "allow the cook to defer the dinner one minute after 
 seven." 
 
 Just then there came across the shrubbery in front of 
 the Crescent the sound of two voices — the one, a deep 
 manly voice, the other, the shrill treble of a child. The 
 words were the old, familiar ones: — 
 
 "I said to the rose: ' The brief night goes 
 
 In babble and revel and wine. 
 young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 
 
 For one that will never be thine? 
 But mine, but mine', so I sware to the rose, 
 
 'For ever and ever, minet'" 
 
 The music was that which seems to be consecrated to 
 the use of Trinity students. 
 
 It was Arthur Ashley toiling somewhat painfully up the 
 steep path that led from Westbourne to the Crescent, for 
 Maud Ireton, youngest sister of Hugh Ireton was just 
 then perched on his shoulder, and accompanying his fine 
 voice with her childish notes. She had gone down through 
 the shrubbery to meet them, as they came up from West- 
 
38 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 bourne, where they had left their tired horses in the 
 livery stable, 'and Hugh had kissed his sister with his 
 usual exclamation: "Well, little witch?" and Arthur 
 had swung her up on his great broad shoulder, her favour- 
 ite perch, when her favourite, Arthur, came down on the 
 holidays to see them. Faces, attracted by the music, 
 stared at them from behind window-blinds in the Crescent; 
 some laughed, some said "Well! well!" Some declared 
 it was a forward child. Little she recked as she rocked 
 to and fro, and thrust her tiny fingers in her favourite's 
 curls, and sang out of her child's heart the famous love- 
 song of the then favourite poet of England. 
 
 "There, I knew 'twas that child again," cried Mrs. 
 Ireton coming to the door to meet them. "Come, Maud; 
 are you not ashamed of yourself — a great big girl like 
 you?" 
 
 "No, mamma, I am not," said Maud, leaping lightly 
 from Arthur's shoulder. "Don't you know that Mr. 
 Ashley and I are engaged?" 
 
 "Well, dear me, dear me," said Mrs. Ireton, "when 
 will wonders cease? It's the servants, I'm sure, that are 
 putting their nonsense into that child's head. Run 
 upstairs, Mr. Ashley. Dinner is just ready!" 
 
 Hugh Ireton, whilst making a rapid toilet, as rapidly 
 ran over in his mind a hundred reasons for telling his 
 mother all about the afternoon adventure, and a hundred 
 other reasons for not telling her. He well knew his 
 mother's pride and punctiliousness, which was concealed, 
 but never destroyed by her more amiable traits of char- 
 acter. The daughter of a baronet, whose mother belonged 
 to the Blounts of Hertfordshire, had high notions of what 
 was due to her dignity. She would never put it so, or 
 make it a mere personal estimate. She laid the scruple 
 at the door of Society, which demanded all the respect 
 due to blood and lineage with rigorous exactness; and 
 when her conscience, or gentle feelings smote her, she 
 said: "Noblesse oblige!" But she drew imaginary lines, 
 but oh! how impassable and rigid they were, between the 
 
THE LADY OF THE LEA 39 
 
 grades of Society; and these latter were shaded away 
 into such thin colourings of distinction that Hugh Ireton, 
 who was a clever mathematician, gave up that problem 
 in despair. He tied his cravat carefully, and made a 
 swift, wise resolution, which we commend to our readers 
 in similar dilemmas, to let events develop themselves. 
 And it was Maud, mischievous, teasing, and very em- 
 barrassing young lady that she was, who touched the 
 spring and drew out the slow development. She had been 
 allowed down to dinner by the special request of Arthur 
 Ashley. 
 
 "Mr. Ashley," she said, with her mouth full of pudding, 
 "why was you singin' the 'Lady of the Lea'? That's 
 not one of youse songs." 
 
 "When and where thou enfant tre~s terrible, was I singing 
 the 'Lady of the Lea'?" 
 
 "You was singin' it, comin' up the market steps," said 
 the unabashed Maud, "and you was lookin' back at 
 Hugh, and laughin'." 
 
 The young men laughed; Mrs. Ireton appeared discon- 
 certed as one from whom a ..secret is concealed. 
 
 "Oh! that's a favourite of mine," said Arthur gaily. 
 "I always sing that when I'm in good humour." 
 
 "But why was you laughin' at Hugh?" said Maud, 
 impolitely drawing the spoon down along her tongue. 
 
 "Because if I have chosen a dark beauty for mine own, 
 Hugh by the law of contraries must choose one who 'is 
 young and fair,"' said Arthur gaily. 
 
 "That's not the reason," said Maud judicially. 
 
 "Tell us the day's adventures," said Mrs. Ireton; 
 "where did you go, and whom did ye meet?" 
 
 "We went down to the sea at Whitecove," said Arthur, 
 whilst Hugh looked serious and annoyed, "had a dip. 
 Met no one but an old fisherman and a virago of a daugh- 
 ter, who put on tremendous airs when we offered her a 
 few shillings for a cup of tea." 
 
 "A few shillings?" said Mrs. Ireton. 
 
 " Yes ! You know we put them to a lot of inconvenience, 
 
40 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 boiling hot water, making cakes, etc., and they looked 
 poor!" 
 
 "H'm!" said Mrs. Ireton. "And of course, she was 
 ill-favoured and very old?" 
 
 "N-not exactly. Only very ill-tempered and as 
 contemptuous as a debutante at her first ball." 
 
 "Dear me! what strange similes you boys use." 
 
 "But was she 'young and fair'?" put in Maud. 
 
 "No, thou inquisitor! She was brown and freckled." 
 
 "Then, why was you saying: — 
 
 'She was young and she was fair, 
 That Lady of the Lea.'" 
 
 "Look here, mother," said Hugh, tilting back his chair. 
 "This young cross-examiner general and deputy-detective 
 scents a secret. There is none — at least none worth 
 speaking about. The only other persons we met were an 
 old retired gentleman, named Lucas, his daughter, and the 
 doctor." 
 
 "You don't mean to say you called on these people?" 
 said Mrs. Ireton, with an attempt at a frown. 
 
 "No, we didn't call," said Hugh resignedly. "The 
 fact was there was an accident. A labourer cut an artery. 
 The doctor was miles away. We heard it, and I proffered 
 my services which were accepted. Then Miss Lucas 
 kindly asked us into the house — " 
 
 "For what?" asked Mrs. Ireton grandly. 
 
 "Well, I really don't know," said Hugh, embarrassed. 
 "I believe she wished us to see her father, who was an 
 invalid, and who desired to thank us." 
 
 "Well?" said Mrs. Ireton, dubiously. 
 
 "Wos she 'young and fair'?" said Maud. 
 
 " Now, now, my young romancer," said her brother, losing 
 temper, and not wishing to reply to his mother, " keep your 
 novel reading to the kitchen and Lizzie. Was she young 
 and fair? How should I know? What is it to me?" 
 
 "But why wos Mr. Ashley laughin' at you, comin' up 
 the steps?" said Maud. "Will you marry her?" 
 
THE LADY OF THE LEA 41 
 
 "Mother, let's have a cigar outside," said Hugh. 
 "Arthur will be rushing for the train." 
 
 "By all means," said Mrs. Ireton, coldly, rising and 
 passing swiftly through the door. 
 
 Arthur had not a cigar on the terrace. He had a ttte-d- 
 tite with Miss Maud in the garden. 
 
 "You're a pretty little minx," he said almost angrily to 
 her. "There you've caused a bad breach between Hugh 
 and his mother. Why will you never stop your imperti- 
 nent questionings?" 
 
 Her under lip fell, and, in an instant, a great big drop 
 gathered in her eyes and fell sharply upon her little hand. 
 His heart smote him for the child. 
 J "Never mind, Maud," he said, gaily, taking her hand, 
 and running up and down the garden walk. "I was only 
 joking, Hugh and mother will make it all right." 
 
 She quickly came round. 
 < " Yeth," she said, "but who was the Lady of the Lea?" 
 
 "Well, well," he said, sitting down, "nothing can beat 
 feminine ingenuity. You must have the secret, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "I don't want it," she said, with a pout. "You may 
 tell it to Clare Hewson, if you likes." 
 
 "All right," he said, lapsing into silence, and watching 
 the child's face intently. 
 
 "Whin you goes away, and I suppose you won't come 
 back any more — " 
 . "Is that your wish, Maud?" he said, smiling. 
 
 "Yeth," she said, "when youse nasty. You may come 
 back when youse nice again." 
 
 "Very kind, I'm sure," said Arthur smiling. "Well, 
 when I go away? " 
 
 "I'll come to Hugh, an' I'll say: Brother Hugh, your 
 little sister, Maud, never kept any secrets from you, an' 
 you shouldn't have any secrets from her. I tole you, 
 Brother Hugh, lots of fings — how Annie Goldschmid had 
 the meagles, and Harry Wimpole got the mumps; an' 
 how Lizzie bwoke that jardinier, an' how she use put her 
 
42 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 fingers in the butter, an' Weak the eggs in her han's 
 before putting 'em — " 
 
 "Stop that! you little realist," cried Arthur Ashley in 
 disgust. "I shall never eat anything in your house 
 again." 
 
 "But I wasn't tellin' you anyfing," said the unconscious 
 Maud. "It was to Brother Hugh I was talkin'. And 
 then I will say: Who is the Lady of the Lea? an' are you 
 goin' to marry her, Brother Hugh, and leave your little 
 Maud here alone?" 
 
 "Alone," cried Arthur, indignantly. "Do you call it 
 alone when I'm here to the front? " 
 
 "Yeth! but you're nasty. You never tells poor little 
 Maudie anyfing, an' she tells you everyfing." 
 
 "There, by Jove, I'll tell you one thing, my Chief 
 Inquisitor. That's the gun, an' I have but a few minutes 
 to catch the train. Good-bye, little woman, and don't 
 dream of me!" 
 
 He strode away rapidly; but just as he passed out the 
 garden gate, his heart smote him for the child, and he 
 looked back. She was a picture of disconsolateness and 
 despair. Her two hands hung limp at her side, and she 
 looked with swimming eyes towards the gate. He ran 
 back, snatched her up hastily, and kissed her. 
 
 "You're my Lady of the Lea!" he said gaily. "Don't 
 fret Brer Hugh!" 
 
 It was wise advice, for just now Hugh was in a mood of 
 discontent and perplexity. He felt there was a slight 
 breach with his mother — a most unusual circumstance 
 in his hitherto happy life. He loved her deeply; and had 
 always paid her the greatest deference, although her 
 social and very conservative views clashed with the new 
 ideas that were just then fermenting in his mind. The 
 caste exclusiveness of Irish society, the arbitrary and 
 absurd distinctions which were made so silently but so 
 irrevocably, were totally at variance with his ideas of 
 freedom and the larger democratic spirit of the student- 
 class to which he belonged; and he had a dim presentiment 
 
THE LADY OF THE LEA 43 
 
 that sooner or later, very disagreeable differences of opin- 
 ion, if not a total rupture with his mother, were inevitable. 
 
 He returned from the railway station, whither he had 
 accompanied his young friend; and he came home by a 
 circuitous walk, hoping that his mother would deem the 
 hour too late to open up a disagreeable subject. In this 
 he was mistaken. After tea, Maud was peremptorily 
 ordered to bed, and Mrs. Ireton after fortifying herself 
 with a glance at the Peerage and Baronetage, said in a 
 calm judicial tone: — 
 
 " It would be very unwise, my dear Hugh, for mothers 
 to look too closely into the trifling adventures that daily 
 occur in the lives of young men, or to inquire into — well, 
 trifling indiscretions — " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, mother," said Hugh, seeing a weak 
 point here. "Have you discovered many indiscretions 
 in my course of conduct hitherto?" 
 
 " N-no," said Mrs. Ireton. Then, like a skilful diplo- 
 matist, "it is because your life has been hitherto spotless 
 and honourable, that I am so anxious to keep it so." 
 
 " Quite right. But do you not think that that very fact 
 is a fair guarantee that the future shall not belie the past? " 
 
 "I quite agree with you, my dear boy. But, there is 
 such a thing as inexperience, without the least trace of 
 guilt. And inexperience often places young men in 
 positions from which a libertine may escape." 
 
 "I don't quite understand," said Hugh meekly. "Per- 
 haps, mother, we had better let matters rest here. We 
 have only touched on general propositions, in which I 
 am sure we agree." 
 
 "Unfortunately, I cannot let matters rest," said Mrs. 
 Ireton, with another glance at the open book. "Let me 
 be very explicit and say at once that your accidental 
 meeting with these Lucas people must not lead to a further 
 or closer acquaintance." 
 
 "I am not anxious for it, nor shall I seek it," said Hugh, 
 hotly. "But so peremptory an order demands some 
 explanation. I reached my majority two years ago." 
 
44 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "My word, a mother's warning," said Mrs. Ireton, 
 with some little feeling, "should be enough. But, it is 
 quite sufficient to say now, that these people do not belong 
 to our set." 
 
 "I hate that abominable expression," said Hugh, 
 angrily. "Our set! our set! Did the eternal God draw a 
 line around this Crescent, and declare that here alone 
 were his elect?" 
 
 Mrs. Ireton was silent. She was shocked and pained. 
 She twirled her pince-nez in her fingers, and said, after a 
 time, but with an air of pity and compassion: — 
 
 "It is the first time you have used profane language in 
 my presence, and exhibited signs of temper. May I 
 hope it will be the last?" 
 
 "You provoked me, mother," said Hugh, somewhat 
 ashamed of the emotion into which he had been betrayed. 
 "I confess modern ideas into which I have been inducted 
 by reading and association are totally at variance with 
 this antiquated conservatism." 
 
 "Then you mean you have become a Socialist? or, at 
 least, that you lean to Socialism? " 
 
 "That depends on the meaning you attach to the word. 
 But, as this is not a college debating society, we must 
 not go further. Have you any other instructions, mother, 
 as to my course of conduct?" 
 
 "None," she said curtly. " It is not customary in good 
 society to enter into the details of family histories, which 
 will not bear examination. I cannot make further explana- 
 tions. A mother's word should be enough for her child." 
 
 Hugh rose up hastily, and went out. Then, as hastily 
 remembering himself, he rushed back, and bending one 
 knee to the ground, he took his mother's hand and kissed 
 it respectfully. Then strode out again. The mother 
 closed the Peerage and Baronetage, and sat musing in the 
 twilight that was now fast gathering. Somehow, she felt 
 that there was just now no consolation in that great book. 
 And Hugh Ireton strode up and down beneath the hedge 
 of escalonia, a puzzled and distracted man. 
 
The Admiral's Garden Party 
 
 The only visitors that ever called at Glendarragh 
 House were the vicar and his wife. The former called 
 as a matter of duty to an afflicted parishioner; the latter, 
 through an utter contempt for the studied and persistent 
 aloofness of society. She belonged to a county family, 
 and had therefore all the individualism and independence 
 of a recognised position. And she could afford to scorn 
 the strict scrupulosity with which the bourgeois gentility 
 of the neighbourhood observed the conventionalities of 
 life. Naturally, too, she was not only independent in 
 her thoughts and bearing, but exceedingly good-natured. 
 Hence, she affected plainness in dress and speech, spoke 
 without a trace of accent, and quietly accomplished her 
 works of charity in her neighbourhood without fear of 
 being misunderstood. It was taken for granted that she 
 was not only mistress, but supreme ruler in the vicarage. 
 Some jealous members of the congregation hinted that 
 possibly she was the author of the sermons which the 
 vicar read falteringly and hesitatingly every Sunday 
 from the little pulpit in the narrow and almost deserted 
 and ivy-darkened little church. But this could not be 
 the case, for her Catholic servants (and she would have 
 none other) averred that whenever there was a moment's 
 hesitation on the part of the vicar about some measure of 
 parochial or domestic economy, his lady at once took the 
 reins of power, which, indeed, she never dropped, and used 
 to say: 
 
 "Go back to your books, John Crosthwaite, and leave 
 this to me. You may know your Isaac Barrow, or your 
 Jeremy Taylor, better, but this is a matter of business." 
 
46 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 So it was quite clear that inasmuch as John Crosthwaite 
 did know these great lights of Anglicanism, there was no 
 necessity of appealing to his wife for literary help. In 
 fact, it was well known that he was, in the best sense of 
 the word, a scholar. He had a degree from his own col- 
 lege, which he never used, at least ostentatiously. His 
 bishop always called him "Doctor"; everyone else, his 
 brother clerics, his wife, and all friends called him, "John"; 
 the peasantry and labourers, "the minister" or "the 
 parson." But he was universally beloved. He trod on 
 no man's corns by excessive learning; he flattered every- 
 one's vanity by his exceeding humility. He was one of 
 those delightful beings who, with much knowledge, re- 
 tained all the simplicity and unconsciousness of a child, 
 never seeing a blunder, never blushing at a solecism, always 
 humble, suave, deprecatory; and everyone loved him, 
 because he appealed to their pity and never challenged 
 their pride. The farmers' sons in his neighbourhood, 
 Catholics all, would leave their own harvest work un- 
 finished to cut or thresh his corn; and, stranger still, they 
 worked from dawn to dark for him with no greater stimu- 
 lant than tea or coffee, whilst porter was the invariable 
 accompaniment and reward of their own generosity else- 
 where. Like all good people, he was a little trying 
 sometimes. He was an amateur botanist, and would 
 spend days on the cliffs seeking some new marine plant. 
 He had a glorious collection of butterflies; and gave 
 liberally to the gossoons of the neighbourhood to secure 
 their services in trapping the gaudy beauties. 
 
 "It is demoralising and cruel," said his wife. 
 
 "My dear, 'tis science," said John. 
 
 But his one great hobby was astronomy. He had a 
 beautiful, poetic, unscientific knowledge of the stars; 
 and, having read somewhere that a mere doctor, or mer- 
 chant, had with a four-inch lens actually discovered a 
 new planet, he was consumed with the ambition of handing 
 down his name to posterity as the discoverer of some 
 celestial wonder. "The Crosthwaite Nebula," or the 
 
THE ADMIRAL'S GARDEN PARTY 47 
 
 "Crosthwaite Gemini," or the "Crosthwaite Comet," 
 was perpetually before his eyes; and he had had one 
 severe attack of pneumonia, and two or three milder 
 bronchial attacks in consequence. As he grew older and 
 his sight became impaired from the use of the telescope, 
 he would sometimes requisition the sharper eyes of the 
 village boys, giving them minute directions as to place 
 and perspective, and ample remuneration for their vicari- 
 ous labours. But he found that this method, if it enlarged 
 his field of discovery, also confused it. And sometimes 
 he was at a loss to reconcile his astronomical maps with 
 the wonderful discoveries made, night after night, by his 
 assistants. 
 
 "Now," he would say to one of a group of idle lads, 
 who knew that the parson had excellent bottled stout, 
 and who strolled round the vicarage two or three thr.es a 
 week, "be the way of no harrum," "now, count carefully, 
 my boy, the little specks of light around the great planet, 
 and let me know how many are there." 
 
 "Begobs, yer 'anner, if there's wan of thim there's tin, 
 all bobbing round like corks in the wather." 
 
 "No, no, that cannot be," the vicar would say in las 
 gentle way. "Try again." 
 
 It would then dawn on the young astronomer that it 
 wasn't exactly number was wanted, although he was 
 prepared to accommodate the vicar as far as he pleased 
 in that direction. It was necessary to proceed cautiously. 
 
 "Wan, — two, the-ree — four — " 
 
 "Exactly. And now, my boy, are they all on one side, 
 or are they evenly divided around the planet?" 
 
 "Begor, no, yer 'anner — wait a moment! there's 
 three of them to the nor' and three more est — " 
 
 "No, no, that would make six! And I'm sure there are 
 only four." 
 
 "Of course, yer 'anner. Faith my sight is wandhering, 
 and I didn't tech a dhrop today. Of course there are only 
 four. Wan to the nor', and wan to the south, and wan — 
 no, two, est." 
 
48 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Quite so," the vicar would echo dubiously. "They 
 vary their positions. Come in, boys, the night is cold." 
 
 And Mrs. Crosthwaite, with very rigid notions of the 
 necessity of Total Abstinence, had not the heart to refuse 
 the key of the pantry. 
 
 The vicar and his good lady had many and many a 
 conference about Miriam and her father — conferences 
 which were mostly conjectures, but which invariably 
 ended with the rather unconjugal exclamation: — 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, you are a fool!" 
 
 And John would smile. He had great faith in the 
 superior worldly wisdom of his spouse; and he did not 
 grudge it, because had he not the higher wisdom that 
 comes from knowledge and science? 
 
 But they both came to the same conclusion, that there 
 was some great pathos surrounding these mysterious lives, 
 and that they deserved great pity, which it was the 
 bounden duty of themselves to give. 
 
 "Society has given them the cold shoulder," said Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite, in her matter-of-fact way. "All the more 
 reason why we should befriend them." And she deter- 
 mined to defy Society, partly out of good-nature, partly 
 because she knew she could afford to do so. Hence, 
 Miriam was not only a frequent guest at the vicarage, 
 where the old man treated her with a kind of half-courtly 
 homage, .and wholly paternal sympathy, and his wife 
 treated her partly as mother, partly as companion; but 
 on the few festive occasions that brightened the monotony 
 of the old ivy-clad parsonage and its quaint, secluded 
 garden, Miriam was invariably invited. She went once, 
 but found everyone so strange and distant and supercilious 
 that she entreated her kind friend not to expose her to such 
 social trials again. Mrs. Crosthwaite did not like this. 
 
 "Defy them, child," she would say. "There is a lot 
 of the spaniel in human nature. Kick the prostrate 
 thing and it will fawn; rub it, and it will bite. Believe 
 me, my dear, if you had only one stand-up fight with Mrs. 
 Rolleston, it would be all over. She would go down in a 
 
THE ADMIRAL'S GARDEN PARTY 49 
 
 trice. "Tis their nature, my dear; rolling stones all out. 
 Her grandfather was a grocer in Winthrop street." 
 
 But Miriam, fierce enough where more serious principles 
 were at stake, declined to enter the lists with this leader 
 of society. She preferred the garden, the beach, the cliff, 
 and a book. 
 
 But Mrs. Crosthwaite was not going to be balked in 
 this way. Miriam should come out and become a member 
 of society. So it was determined; and so was Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite launched on a perilous and anxious enter- 
 prise, which should be a great and permanent success, or 
 an egregious failure. A great garden-party was to be 
 given at the Admiralty House in Queenstown, and thither 
 she and her young charge should go. There was no trouble 
 about obtaining the requisite invitations; and then Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite argued thus with her spouse: — 
 
 "Now," she said, "this odious Mrs. Rolleston can't 
 be there to whisper and nod and suggest. The Admiral's 
 wife is so much above all these local bourgeoisie that, like 
 myself, she can afford to overlook distinctions. Her only 
 consideration will be to secure the most attractive and 
 charming young people around her, so as to make the 
 party not only a success but a pleasure. Then, these 
 naval fellows do not care a brass farthing about our 
 provincial grades and caste-worship. They'll swarm like 
 bees around Miriam, and oh! won't all the young eligibles 
 faint with envy?" 
 
 "But — but — " said John Crosthwaite, dubiously. 
 
 "But what?" said Mrs. Crosthwaite, sharply, at such 
 a sceptical exclamation. 
 
 "I mean, my dear," said the vicar, rubbing his chin in 
 a meditative way, "that perhaps, you know, some rude 
 young lady — " 
 
 "What can the most malignant and ill-natured young 
 person do?" said his spouse, angrily. 
 
 "They might, you know — that is, you know better 
 than I. But it would be dreadful if poor Miriam were 
 annoyed or disappointed." 
 
50 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "John Crosthwaite," said the lady, "you are a fool." 
 
 "I suppose so, my dear," said John meekly. "But 
 the poor child has so much suffering at home, that I 
 should not like to see new trials heaped on her head." 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, you are a good man," said his wife. 
 "But you may trust me." 
 
 "And so I do; and so I do, my dear. I know it will 
 all come right." 
 
 Yet she had some misgivings — not the least was, how 
 would Miriam accept this invitation; and would she not 
 promptly reject it? There was but one way of solving 
 that difficulty, and that was the way of the Romans with 
 the Sabine women. Mrs. Crosthwaite would carry 
 Miriam into society in spite of herself. 
 
 And so, when the morning came, a beautiful autumn 
 morning, with just the faintest smell of frost in the air, 
 Ezid with it the promise of a glorious day, the good chaperon 
 drove up to Glendarragh House, threw the pony's reins 
 to a groom, knocked fiercely, and, after the usual saluta- 
 tions and inquiries after the invalid, who was bending, 
 chilled, over a blazing wood fire, she promptly said: — 
 
 "You must manage without Miriam today, Mr. Lucas. 
 I have determined to give her a whole day's holiday. 
 The doctor will be here in the afternoon, and Margaret 
 v. ill do the rest. Don't expect us before evening." 
 
 The poor invalid was about to make a feeble and 
 querulous protest; but he was afraid of the lady; so he 
 said faintly: — 
 
 "By all means! By all means! Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 Indeed it was in my own thoughts for some days; but I 
 didn't see how it could be managed." 
 
 "Leave the management to me," she said. "Come, 
 Miriam; that dress will do admirably. Put on your pale- 
 blue blouse; and bring heavy wraps against the evening 
 dews." 
 
 So far the ruse was successful. 
 
 It was a gay, nay, a brilliant party, that was gathered 
 in the Admiralty grounds that beautiful autumn after- 
 
THE ADMIRAL'S GARDEN PARTY 51 
 
 noon. And the gallant old officer who, with his wife, 
 presided, looked happy and radiant, as with old-time 
 chivalrous courtesy he passed up and down the ranks of 
 the gay company, and bowed and smiled and welcomed 
 his guests with genuine hospitality. The band of the 
 Revenge was hidden away beneath some heavy copper- 
 beeches, and music and flowers and gay dresses, and all 
 that makes life such a dream to the young, contributed 
 to the splendours and pleasures of the afternoon. A 
 gleam of red here and there, where an officer from the 
 garrison on Fort Westmoreland passed rapidly forward 
 to offer his respects to the Admiral's wife, was instantly 
 dulled by the dark-blue uniform of the naval and artillery 
 officers. The latter looked stiff, as if they were standing 
 by their guns. The captain, lieutenants and midshipmen, 
 were quite at home. This was their entertainment. 
 The rest were their guests. 
 
 When Mrs. Crosthwaite and Miriam entered the 
 grounds, they were at first unobserved in the throng. 
 A few acquaintances saluted the vicar's lady, and stared 
 at the singular beauty of Miriam. She had begun to 
 feel embarrassed and almost irritated when Hugh Ireton, 
 who had been talking to a group of ladies, stepped hastily 
 forward, and with a smile of pleasure, held out his hand. 
 Miriam flushed with a moment's involuntary delight. 
 Then the thought of what she had overheard from Anstie 
 in the little chapel came back to her, and, on a sudden 
 impulse of dislike and resentment, she bowed stiffly, her 
 hands by her side, and passed on. Mrs. Ireton, watching 
 her son closely, saw the little gesture, and with a mother's 
 pride resented it. For the moment, she could not con- 
 jecture who this strange beauty was. And turning to a 
 friend, she said with suppressed anger: — 
 
 "Who is that stranger in white, who has just passed 
 in?" 
 
 "Don't know. But I think she has come with that 
 odious Mrs. Crosthwaite." 
 
 Even then Mrs. Ireton did not guess the identity; but, 
 
52 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 watching an opportunity, she drew her son aside and 
 interrogated him. 
 
 "It is Miss Lucas," he said, simply, "of whom you 
 heard me speak." 
 
 "She has cut you dead," says Mrs. Ireton, half pleased 
 at the abrupt close of such an acquaintanceship, half 
 angry at the slight to her son. 
 
 "Yes," he said, simply. "I cannot understand. She 
 may have forgotten, and resented such a sudden intrusion." 
 
 "You have a Christian and forgiving spirit," said his 
 mother. "But I do hope you will consider what is due 
 to me." 
 
 She spoke in a whisper, but it was weighted with angry 
 determination. 
 
 Meantime, Mrs. Crosthwaite and her charge had passed 
 on through the crowd, and after their greetings from the 
 Admiral and his lady, they found themselves, to the in- 
 tense delight of Mrs. Crosthwaite, and the embarrassment 
 of Miriam, the centre of the brightest circle on the grounds. 
 The former looked around her with calm pride. Miriam, 
 frightened, but with an assumed air of perfect coolness 
 and ease, chatted brightly with a group of officers who 
 had detached themselves from other circles, and were 
 staring, with undisguised admiration, at the freshness 
 and simple beauty of the young girl. It was not hard to 
 interpret their thoughts. The older officers treated her 
 with a kind of respectful homage, yet on terms of equality. 
 The younger men, who had as yet but little gold lace on 
 their sleeves, and who fidgetted with their white gloves 
 nervously, seemed to be dreaming of far-off times, when, 
 after perilous voyages on unknown seas, they might en- 
 snare such a bird of Paradise, and keep her for ever in a 
 golden cage. And one or two thought, that it was only 
 out of the smoke of action, and the crash of shells, and 
 the leaning over into the deep of some great leviathan, 
 they could win a smile from so fair a lady, or finally 
 possess her. And, all the time, jealous eyes were 
 watching her curiously, and jealous lips were weaving 
 
THE ADMIRAL'S GARDEN PARTY 53 
 
 snares. For, as the day wore on, a strange chill came 
 down on the sunshine; and, as her male admirers had, 
 one by one, departed, and she had to seek the com- 
 pany of ladies, she found herself suddenly deserted. 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite was not to be seen. Miriam turned 
 around, and seemed to wish to join a tennis-party. 
 She was left standing, shamed and unnoticed. She 
 approached a tea-table. A young gentleman, with a cup 
 in his hand, was bending down to speak to a lady. He 
 saw Miriam, but didn't move to help her. She flushed 
 with pain and disappointment. A young servant came 
 over, pityingly, and procured her a seat; and noticing 
 her distress, was assiduous in her humble and generous 
 attentions. But it was clear the cloud had come down. 
 She had half expected it. Cold looks, and whisperings, 
 and averted faces were everywhere around her. In the 
 distance Hugh Ireton was watching her intently. She 
 would be grateful now if he approached her. He was 
 burning with the wish to befriend her. He would have 
 gladly braved his mother's anger as she watched him with 
 lynx eyes from a cool recess, and saw the little tragedy 
 which her own evil ingenuity had set in motion. But he 
 feared another slight, and dared not approach her. And, 
 after a long interval of anguish, Miriam arose with a 
 bursting heart, and with bitter hatred against this cold, 
 glittering, evil-minded thing, called Society, and sought 
 momentary refuge in the shelter of the shaded walks far 
 down beneath where the semaphore waves his messages 
 to the deep. She was about to enter what appeared to 
 be a little cool grotto here, when she was arrested by the 
 sounds of a child's voice; and saw before her, sitting on a 
 rock, a little child who, with her dolls, was mimicking the 
 manners of her elders above. It was amusing; and helped 
 to drive away the bitterness which now consumed Miriam 
 like a sheath of fire. 
 
 "After all," she said, "it is but the comedy of life. 
 And neither the child nor her seniors can raise it to the 
 dignity of tragedy. I must try to smile at both." 
 
54 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Her smile caught the eye of the child, who blushed 
 with the fear of the sudden apparition, then smiled back 
 in turn, and waited. 
 
 "You were singing," said Miriam. "Do not allow me 
 interrupt you. Please sing on that pretty song, and I 
 shall listen." 
 
 She had entered the grotto and sat close to the child, 
 who remained silent, and took up and arranged her dolls 
 as if to depart. 
 
 "Don't go," said Miriam. "I shouldn't have disturbed 
 you. You shall remain and I shall go." And she rose 
 to depart. 
 
 "Don't go," said the child, meekly. 
 
 "Then you will sing for me. What was your song? 
 'The Lady of the Lea'?" 
 
 "It is not my song," said the child. "It is Arthur's." 
 
 "Arthur's? And who might Arthur be? A boy- 
 lover?" 
 
 "No. Arthur is Mr. Ashley; and him and brother 
 Hugh were away — away a whole day, ever so far away. 
 An' they came to a great big castle, ever so far away; 
 an' they saw a great beautiful lady, all white, with big 
 blue eyes, like Kitty here, and long, gold hair. An' when 
 they came home Mamma was very angry because they 
 were late; and Lizzie was cross; but I went down to meet 
 them; and Arthur was singing: — 
 
 'She was young and she was fair 
 That Lady of the Lea,' 
 
 and looking back at Hugh and laughing. And I asked 
 Brother Hugh: and I sad: Brother Hugh, you keep 
 nothing back from your little sister. Brother Hugh, will 
 you marry the Lady of the Lea — " 
 
 "Maud! Maud! Maud!" cried a voice in alarm. 
 "Where can that child be? I should never have let 
 her come. Maud! Maud!" 
 
 And Mrs. Ireton and her maid-servant entered the 
 grotto. She gave one swift look of scom and anger at 
 
THE ADMIRAL'S GARDEN PARTY 55 
 
 Miriam, then, snatching up the dolls, she bade the servant 
 to bring the child away at once, and without another 
 word departed. 
 
 Ashamed and angry, Miriam sat still for a moment. 
 
 "And so I am a pariah!" she said. "Well, be it so! 
 I shall not enter this nest of asps again." 
 
 She met Mrs. Crosthwaite at the entrance to the 
 grounds. That excellent lady, seeing that Miriam was 
 an object of universal attention, had slipped quietly away 
 to do some shopping in the town; and, on her return, had 
 found most of the guests departed, and those remaining 
 rather unsociable and discontented. She felt one swift 
 emotion of alarm for her young charge; but threw it 
 aside as altogether out of place. 
 
 "Miriam is the reigning beauty," the good woman 
 said. "This will be a red-letter day in her homely, 
 monotonous life, poor girl!" 
 
 She started on seeing the drawn face and the staring 
 eyes, ever so slightly bloodshot, of Miriam. 
 
 "May we go home?" said the latter, quietly. 
 
 "By all means, child," said her kind friend. She felt 
 that something had occurred, but forbore questioning all 
 through that dreary journey homeward. Then, at length, 
 as they approached Glendarragh, Miriam spoke. She 
 told calmly, and in an even, unconcerned voice, all that 
 had occurred. 
 
 "I know my position now," she concluded, with a little 
 gasp. "I am tabu — why, I do not know. One further 
 favour you will do me?" 
 
 "What is it?" said Mrs. Crosthwaite, who was more 
 disturbed than she had ever been before. 
 
 "You, too, must give me up," said Miriam. "I want 
 to be alone." 
 
 "I shall do nothing of the kind," said the good old 
 lady. "Why should I give you up, child?" 
 
 "Because I have a devil," said Miriam, in the same 
 cold, unimpassioned voice. 
 
 "Nonsense," said Mrs. Crosthwaite. But she felt a 
 
56 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 strange chill; and she said to her husband that evening 
 at tea: — 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, I have made a discovery." 
 
 "What is it, my dear ? " said the vicar. 
 
 "There is a fool in this establishment," she replied 
 "But it isn't you, John!" 
 
VI 
 
 The Arrival op Mr. Holthsworth 
 
 Her father was not alone when Miriam entered his 
 room. Instead of being stooped over the fire in his usual 
 posture, with feeble hands extended to the flames, he sat 
 upright, and was engaged in a brisk conversation with a 
 stranger. The latter might have been about fifty years 
 old, although in his thick black hair not a mark of age 
 was observable, and his smooth features showed not a 
 trace of the progress of the years; for the upright lines 
 that deepened into a frown upon his forehead, and one 
 or two wrinkles round his mouth, might be indicative of 
 character as well as of age. He spoke blandly, too, but 
 with a certain precision as if measuring his words; and 
 all that he was saying was pleasant to the hearer, if one 
 were to judge by his own smile. Yet Mr. Lucas, though 
 vitalised into new life by the visit, was not altogether at 
 ease; and although he assumed an air of cheerfulness 
 corresponding with that of his visitor, a furtive, half- 
 frightened look from time to time, showed that he did 
 not altogether regard the visit as a friendly one. Yet, 
 he, himself, had solicited it. 
 
 Mr. Holthsworth's journey had been a pleasant one. 
 The trains were punctual, the day was fine, and the driver 
 of the car from the railway station to Glendarragh was 
 communicative. He was all the more so from the fact, 
 which he speedily discovered, that his fare was a perfect 
 stranger in these parts, and was a guileless and credulous 
 city man, who, unacquainted with rustic ways, was 
 prepared to accept tales of the imagination with simple 
 faith. He manifested no surprise on being told that the 
 
58 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 district was in a disturbed condition, and that the life of 
 an agent or a landlord was not worth a moment's purchase; 
 that, therefore, it was at the extreme peril of his own life 
 he had condescended to drive a perfect stranger through 
 such dangerous byways. He even showed his hat, which 
 had been perforated with a bullet a few weeks before, as 
 he drove a landlord to the station. It appeared, too, that 
 the people were so lawless that they mutilated the unhappy 
 horses that were so unpatriotic as to carry the enemies 
 of their country, and he volunteered to show Mr. Holths- 
 worth how his own horse had lost his tongue, cut out by 
 these unscrupulous and savage rebels. To his surprise, 
 his fare accepted the invitation to examine the horse's 
 mouth; but as the latter obstinately refused such ungentle 
 treatment, the truth of the statement remains unverified 
 but also uncontradicted to this day. It was, therefore, a 
 genuine surprise to this highly imaginative native when, 
 on arriving at Glendarragh House, his fare carefully cal- 
 culated the number of miles he had travelled, as carefully 
 doled out sixpence for each mile, and, on threats of law 
 being made, after sundry profane exclamations by the 
 driver, coolly handed him a card, on which was written: — 
 
 Mr. Augustus Holthsworth, 
 Notary, 
 46 A, Dame Street, 
 Dublin. 
 
 And so we have learned the name, profession, and address 
 of the stranger; and perhaps some slight indication of 
 character. 
 
 Miriam started back on seeing him; and it was more 
 than a start of surprise. At least Mr. Holthsworth under- 
 stood it as a gesture of aversion. Not that he showed 
 this, or reciprocated it in the least. On the contrary, he 
 rose, and after an involuntary start of surprise at seeing 
 the fully-formed and perfected beauty of her whom he 
 had only known as a pretty, if spoiled, child, he said, with 
 an air of deference and gentleness: — 
 
THE ARRIVAL OF MR. HOLTHSWORTH 59 
 
 "Have I the pleasure of seeing my old playfellow, 
 Myrrha?" 
 
 "Yes, Holthsworth. Miriam, you haven't forgotten 
 Mr. Holthsworth? He is an old and valued friend." 
 
 Miriam took frigidly the extended Land, and murmured 
 her surprise at the unexpected visit. 
 
 "But not unpleasant, nor unwelcome, I hope, Miss 
 Lucas?" murmured Mr. Holthsworth in return. "Please 
 say, not unwelcome, nor unpleasant,, Miss Lucas!" 
 
 "Oh, by no means, Sir!" said Miriam, still standing. 
 "Any friend of father's is welcomed by me." 
 
 "Then you forget, or repudiate our former friendship?" 
 he said. "That is unfortunate, or — ungrateful. If I 
 had known this I should have kept that interesting driver, 
 and gone back, disconsolately to Dublin." 
 
 The sneer was not lost on Edwin Lucas, who fidgetted 
 under it; nor on Miriam, who coldly said, turning to her 
 father: — 
 
 "Has Mr. Holthsworth dined, father? Or shall I 
 order dinner?" 
 
 Mr. Holthsworth thought this a curious and altogether 
 superfluous question. It was barely half-past six o'clock; 
 and that dinner, as a matter of course, should be placed 
 upon the table at seven o'clock seemed to him such a daily 
 certainty that he was as much surprised as if he were 
 asked, had he washed his face that morning, or would he 
 go to bed that night. But he reasoned that city habits, 
 perhaps, had been abandoned in that remote country 
 district; and that, if he had chosen to pass beyond the 
 boundaries of civilisation, he must take the consequences. 
 
 "You really must not think," he said, "of altering or 
 disturbing your arrangements on my account. I had an 
 early dinner; and will be content with a very light supper." 
 
 Miriam was about to leave the room when he said: — 
 
 "I have so many things to say to you, Myrrha, so 
 many messages from friends in Dublin! You don't 
 know how well you are remembered, though you were 
 but a child— " 
 
60 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Not now, please," said Miriam. "You may have 
 some business matters to transact with father. After 
 supper." 
 
 " It is a command! " said Mr. Holthsworth, with humble 
 deference. But for the next hour, whilst he affected to 
 talk business with Edwin Lucas, his thoughts ran over 
 this strange and striking transformation. 
 
 "I expected to see a girl," he reflected, "and here is a 
 woman! A hoyden, and behold a self-possessed lady of 
 the world! Who'd have thought it? I was thinking of 
 a freckled rustic, uncouth and unformed, with all kinds 
 of rural gaucheries, and ecco! Lady Clara Vere de Vere! 
 Well, young lady, I won't cut my throat for you. But, 
 by Jove, under all this mannerism and dignity there is a 
 devil somewhere! How could it be otherwise? The 
 fathers have eaten sour grapes, etc., etc. And what of 
 the mother? Ha, my fine lady, there lies your fate and 
 your future! I wonder does she know it? Or has this 
 poor imbecile revealed it? Let me see? " 
 
 "She reminds me marvellously of her mother," he said 
 to Edwin Lucas. "The same eyes, the same hair, the 
 very turn of the chin, the very curve of the cheek — does 
 she remember her mother, Edwin?" 
 
 "Hush!" said the invalid in a frightened voice. "We 
 never speak of that here." 
 
 "But why not?" urged the notary. "Don't you know 
 what the imagination of a young girl is, and that she 
 fancies all kinds of possibilities, far in advance of the 
 reality?" *-*i 
 
 "That would be impossible," said the invalid, feebly. 
 
 "Impossible? Not at all!" insinuated the notary. 
 "Your weak health exaggerates. You had formed too 
 high an idea of womanhood; and your reality did not 
 correspond with your ideal. That's all." 
 
 He knew he had his listener on the rack, but he went on 
 mercilessly: — s- ■■■ 
 
 "Men of the world — you know you were never a man 
 of the world, Edwin — take large views of these things 
 
THE ARRIVAL OF MR. HOLTHSWORTH 61 
 
 and are prepared for disappointments. So, when even- 
 tualities arise — " 
 
 "Yes! Yes! For God's sake, spare me, Holthsworth! 
 Why the devil did you come here?" 
 
 "There, now you are excited; and excitement is always 
 bad. But, take my advice, and tell Myrrha all — " 
 
 "Not for worlds!" said the poor invalid. "Besides 
 what is the all? No one knoweth, but God!" 
 
 " All the more reason for preventing your child's mind 
 from being racked with surmises — " 
 
 "No! No! Besides, there is nothing to tell. She 
 beggared me, ruined me, left me — that's all! " 
 
 "But that is not all, my dear friend," said the notary, 
 insinuatingly placing his hand on the other's knee. "She 
 never made reparation, never wrote — " ' 
 
 "She did her best, poor thing," said Lucas, softening 
 under the spell of tender memories. "All I had was hers; 
 and is, wherever fate has placed her. She at least retained 
 this house for her child. Nominally mine, it is in reality, 
 my . . . "the word choked him, "my wife's." 
 
 And the man of the world went and ate a hearty supper. 
 He had found exactly what he had sought. 
 
 Yet, it was a dreary entertainment, and so the city 
 man, accustomed to pleasanter surroundings, felt. The 
 great gloomy, unfurnished house; the corners of the large 
 diningroom wrapped in mysterious shadows; the play 
 of the solitary lamp on the ceiling and on the walls, where 
 the figures were exaggerated and dislocated into all kinds 
 of weird and ghastly shapes; the chill of the October 
 evening, which was not dissipated by the great wood fire 
 that burned in the large fire-place; the shrunken aspect 
 of the poor invalid, who, now relieved from the cerebral 
 excitement of this unwelcome visit, had lapsed into his 
 usual incongruities of speech; the cold, contemptuous 
 stateliness of this girl, whom he had only known as a 
 plaything — all seemed to freeze the spirits, never very 
 exuberant, but always restrained into pleasant formalism, 
 of the Dublin notary. Yet, he did not show it. He 
 
62 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 soliloquised bitterly, while he spoke amiably, and with a 
 pleasant assumption of great deference and humility. 
 
 " If this is the heritage, and that the heiress," he thought, 
 "you, Augustus Holthsworth, have had your journey fcr 
 nothing. Who could live in such a ruin, and with such a 
 spectre? She makes me shiver all over; and I am not 
 much given that way. Yet, in summer, as a shooting- 
 lodge? and she would be a dainty figurehead over my 
 mahogany in Dublin! Well, here I am, Augustus Holths- 
 worth, and here I remain for twenty-four hours at least, 
 unless — " 
 
 "You have no idea," he said to Miriam, "how they 
 interest themselves about you in Dublin. Some say you 
 have grown plain and ugly, on the general principle that 
 child-beauties are fleeting; some conjecture about your 
 future, and speculate about your marrying a great country 
 squire or landlord, riding to hounds, and becoming a 
 regular Lady Bountiful, dispensing blankets and camo- 
 mile-tea to old ladies; some — " 
 
 He could not help dropping into sarcasm; it was his 
 nature. Edwin Lucas, with all his feebleness, resented it. 
 
 "Let us change the subject," he said. "I dare say 
 Miriam and I are as forgotten in Dublin as we would wish 
 to be." 
 
 "I assure you, you are completely mistaken," said 
 Holthsworth. 
 
 "No matter! Is that old gamester in the Exchange 
 yet?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Oh, I cannot remember names. What's that, Miriam, 
 they drive through the ground? " 
 
 "Shovels? Spades? Picks?" hazarded Holthsworth. 
 
 "No! No! No! I cannot remember. What the horses 
 pull, you know, through the — what you call? " 
 
 "Oh! Ploughs?" 
 
 "Exactly. Old Plowman. Is he in the Exchange yet?" 
 
 " No. Made his pile, enjoyed it, and died. He thought 
 a lot of you, Edwin. 'Ah, Lucas! Lucas!' he used say, 
 
THE ARRIVAL OF MR. HOLTHSWORTH 63 
 
 'that's the man! that's the financier! He can buy and 
 sell us all. He should be Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 Depend upon it, he has the shekels somewhere. Where 
 could they go? And his wife's enormous fortune?'" 
 
 Edwin Lucas looked at his daughter. She was im- 
 perturbable, her eyes cast down on the table, and appar- 
 ently unheeding all that was said. Lucas looked pitifully 
 at Holthsworth, as if pleading with him to desist. 
 
 "Yes," continued the latter, calmly cutting a salad into 
 minute fragments, "Plowman gone! Sharwood gone! 
 Manly emigrated after a hopeless smash! All that you 
 knew, and that remembered you in your — well — happy 
 — no! prosperous — no! in your — past professional 
 days, are vanished. New faces, newer manners, other 
 times!" 
 
 "I thought," said Miriam, with quiet sarcasm, "that 
 you mentioned all the minute and affectionate inquiries of 
 our friends? " 
 
 "Ah! now, that is too finical, Myrrha — " 
 
 "I prefer 'Miriam,' if you please." r 
 
 "But I don't," he said, with calm effrontery, which 
 made her fear the man. It assumed not only a superiority, 
 but some rights of possession. " Our good Lord Byron, a 
 much maligned man, and a too little appreciated poet, 
 has consecrated the name 'Myrrha' unto all time; and 
 'Myrrha' it must remain. Besides, Miriam means, 'sea of 
 bitterness' and how could that apply to you?" 
 
 "And 'Myrrha' means?" said the young girl forgetfully. 
 It was a step down from her dignity. 
 
 "All that is sweet and beautiful," he said, smiling and 
 bowing. 
 
 "Father, Mr. Holthsworth might like a cigar on the 
 terrace?" said the offended girl. 
 
 "Thanks, very much," said the unabashed notary. 
 "A cigar — and a moment's reflection!" 
 
 She took no notice, but left the room. 
 
 It was a thick, dark night. No light, and no sound 
 except the monotone of the waves, heard from afar, or 
 
64 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 their closer thunder on the beach below the village. The 
 terrace was wrapped in blackness except in one spot where 
 the faint lamp of the diningroom threw a streamer of light 
 on the rough pebbles, and the great rude stones, sculptured 
 into fantastic forms by the sea, and which took the place 
 of statues or urns near the great limestone steps. Holtks- 
 worth's cigar made quite a halo of brightness around him 
 as he walked up and down, crunching the rough stones 
 and thinking of many things. - There was an eerie, un- 
 wholesome feeling about the whole place that made him 
 heartily wish himself back in his Dublin club, or in his 
 own comfortable library. He was not used to this kind 
 of thing; for at Malahide or Greystones, if you had this 
 savage sea for a neighbour, ah, well! you had the well- 
 lighted hotel, the perfect dinner, the gracious society; and, 
 if you did care to enjoy an after-dinner cigar, you had an 
 old chum, or a new pleasant acquaintance with you. 
 And then the City was so near. But here — he pulled 
 the collar of his greatcoat higher on his neck and shud- 
 dered. Then, he became aware of some sort of figure that 
 suddenly leaped out of the darkness, and disappeared in 
 deeper darkness. It crossed his path, like some wild 
 beast, again and again — a low, crouching figure, that 
 seemed like a great, black dog, rushing by him, and 
 brushing his very garments. He could not understand it. 
 He hoped to see it emerge into the faint light from the 
 diningroom; but it was only in the thick darkness that it 
 seemed to cross and recross and hide itself in the shrubbery 
 beneath. Once or twice it stumbled against him, and 
 almost threw him down. He whistled at it, called it 
 'Carlo,' 'Caesar/ and other doggish names; but the thing 
 came not nearer. Then he cursed it, and beginning to 
 feel the weird loneliness of the place creep into his heart 
 until he became half superstitious, he threw away his 
 cigar, and was about to enter the hall, when Miriam stood 
 by him. 
 
 " Father is asleep," she said. " Can I have a word with 
 you?" 
 
THE ARRIVAL OF MR. HOLTHSWORTH 65 
 
 His heart leaped at the suggestion. It was just a 
 change from her cold superciliousness of an hour ago. 
 It was an appeal ad miser icordiam, expressed rather in 
 tone than language. He was so surprised he could not 
 gather his thoughts together. He muttered: 
 
 "With great pleasure!" 
 And then he thought — 
 
 "This girl is playing a part. Such a sudden volte face! 
 Is she afraid of her father? Or, is there something be- 
 tween them that is secret and mysterious? " 
 
 He stepped back upon the gravel, and, as Miriam 
 followed him, he said, with some tenderness: — 
 
 "Myrrha, the night is cold. It is freezing. Go back 
 and get some wraps." 
 
 "I am quite protected," she said. He heard her voice 
 quivering in the darkness. He would have liked to see 
 her face. 
 
 They walked up and down for some time in embarrassing 
 silence. He knew she was trying to compose her words, 
 and to steady her voice. At last she stopped, and said: — 
 
 "I want to ask you one question. It is one on which 
 my whole life depends; and what is more — my entire 
 happiness. You are at liberty to answer it, or not." 
 
 She stopped for a moment, and he was so eager to hear 
 he feared to interrupt her with inane words. 
 
 "What is my mother's history?" she said. 
 
 It was just the thing that was farthest from his mind at 
 the moment, and he was so disappointed that he was only 
 too glad to temporise. He knew it would make her un- 
 happy. 
 
 "You have made a great mistake in your preuminary 
 remarks," he said, as if to disabuse her mind of a false 
 idea, on which she was building up a woeful future. 
 "Your life and happiness are perfectly independent of 
 what has occurred in the past — " 
 
 She didn't like to offend him by too abrupt questioning, 
 so she said: — 
 
 "You should know better! Events and lives lees 
 
66 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 closely strung than mine and my mother's have had 
 effects on both for good or ill." 
 
 " True. But, so far as you are concerned, your mother's 
 relations with society and your good father cannot have 
 the least effect on you." 
 
 "You are mistaken; or you are deceptive," she said, 
 bluntly. " Only this very day I experienced in bitterness 
 and anguish how much a family secret, or a family stain, 
 can affect us all." 
 
 "Where?" he asked, with curiosity. 
 
 "It makes little matter," she said, bitterly. "There is 
 an abstract spectre, called Society, that can make its 
 presence and its evil customs bitterly felt; and there are 
 men and women who have the hearts of wild beasts, and 
 the poison of asps beneath their tongues." 
 
 "I know it," he said, as if claiming the sympathy of 
 experience in return; "no one better. I, too, have been 
 in the toils. But, Myrrha," he said, almost tenderly, 
 "you must learn to despise this wretched thing. Why 
 should the talk and idle gossip of a few old catamounts 
 affect you so strongly?" 
 
 "I suppose, because I am not used to it," she said. 
 "I have never received aught from these poor serfs" — 
 she pointed towards the village — "whom your society 
 so much despises, but reverence and affection. I shall 
 not put my hand into that nest of asps again!" 
 
 He saw then how and why she was suffering. 
 
 "You cannot avoid it," he said. " You must become 
 inured to it. Its votaries must be martyrs." 
 
 "But I shall not be a votary," she said, angrily. 
 
 "You cannot help it. You cannot walk through life 
 alone." 
 
 "Why?" she cried, stopping suddenly and facing him. 
 
 "Because you are only mortal, like the rest. You 
 have but one other alternative." 
 
 "What?" she said sharply. 
 
 "To meet with someone who will guard and protect 
 you and shield you against the 'slings and arrows' — 0»e 
 
THE ARRIVAL OF MR. HOLTHSWORTH 67 
 
 who will give his life for yours, and whose every wish and 
 care shall be for your welfare and happiness; one who — " 
 
 Something in the tone of voice in which he spoke struck 
 her as peculiar. She drew back, and stopping suddenly, 
 said: — 
 
 "You haven't answered my question?" 
 
 "What? I beg pardon. I had forgotten." 
 
 "I asked you about my mother's history," she said. 
 
 "Some other time," he replied, conclusively. 
 
 She left him. 
 
 He took a few more turns on the gravelled terrace, 
 completely out of humour with himself. 
 
 "It was a tactical mistake, and premature," he said. 
 "How could I have been so stupid?" 
 
 Then he entered the large hall to find Edwin Lucas 
 feebly mounting the stairs, his daughter helping him from 
 step to step. The invalid turned around on hearing the 
 footstep in the hall, and said : — 
 
 "Good-night, Holthsworth!" 
 
 "Good-night," said the notary. "By the way, what 
 kind of mastiff do you keep around the place? There is a 
 land-beast, or sea-beast prowling around outside all the 
 evening?" 
 
 "There must be a mistake," said Edwin Lucas. "We 
 keep no dog, do we, Miriam?" 
 
 "No, father," she said. 
 
 "Then the place is haunted," said Holthsworth. 
 
VII 
 
 The Cry of Cleena 
 
 Though Mr. Holthsworth retired to rest, he did not 
 sleep. It was not his conscience which troubled him. 
 That he had long ago hushed into silence by the more 
 imperious cry of business. "Business" stifled everything. 
 It was the ruling deity, at whose feet such minor things 
 as principle, conscience, etc., grovelled and slept. But, 
 there was an uncanny feeling about everything that made 
 him uneasy. He began to believe in spirits. And, when 
 he extinguished his candle, and darkness was all around 
 him, except a faint glimmer as of starlight through the 
 one window of his room, he felt still more uneasy, and 
 sleep finally fled. He was angry with himself for such 
 weakness. He argued, reasoned, scolded; but in vain. 
 It was with a certain sense of relief from mere self-contempt 
 that he heard a strange sound at the window as of gar- 
 ments brushing against it, or a soft body crouching near 
 it; and a long, low, half -stifled moan, as of some one in 
 pain. He waited and watched. Again, after a few 
 minutes, he heard the same soft brushing sound, and again 
 a melancholy, long-drawn moan as of a beast that had been 
 hurt. He at once lit his candle, and looked. This time 
 he saw a face at the window. It seemed human; but he 
 doubted it. It was a long, pale face with the matted hair 
 streaming down at both sides — a face, idiotic but curious 
 — rightly or wrongly, he thought it malicious. He 
 rushed to fling up the window, but it resisted. With a 
 violent effort, he at last succeeded, the glass crashing down 
 upon him from the force he used; and he looked out. 
 The leads of the great porch were just under his window, 
 but there was no trace of any living thing there. The 
 
THE CRY OF CLEENA 69 
 
 rain-water lodged there was undisturbed. He listened 
 for a passing footfall. But no sound came to his ears 
 but the sound of the restless sea, far below beyond the 
 village. 
 
 "I hope you slept well?" said Edwin Lucas, the follow- 
 ing morning at breakfast. 
 
 "Very well, indeed," he said, sarcastically. "By the 
 way, do you keep any wild beasts about the place for 
 show?" 
 
 "Wild beasts? No," said his host, wonderingly. 
 
 " No apes, or gorillas, or semi-human things? " 
 
 "No," said Edwin- Lucas, looking at his daughter. 
 
 " Do you take tea or coffee? " said Miriam. 
 
 "Coffee, please!" said Holthsworth, looking steadily at 
 her. 
 
 "The carriage will be round at a quarter to eleven," 
 said the host. "I suppose you are as strict a Church-goer 
 as ever, Holthsworth? " 
 
 "Yes, yes! I never miss Church!" he replied. 
 
 "I cannot go," said the invalid feebly. 
 
 "Perhaps, Myrrha?" questioned Holthsworth. 
 
 "I have been to early celebration," said Miriam quietly. 
 
 So Mr. Holthsworth had to perform his devotions alone. 
 How he discharged them is known best to himself. How 
 he appeared to charitable or inquisitive eyes may be 
 gathered from a conversation between the rector and his 
 wife at luncheon after service. '- 
 
 "You noticed that distinguished stranger, my dear, 
 under the pulpit?" 
 
 " I did," said his wife drily. 
 
 The vicar looked at his lady, as if not quite sure about 
 his next assertion. 
 
 "He seemed very attentive to the — the — sermon," 
 said the vicar. 
 
 "Very," echoed his wife. 
 
 "And, if I may judge, he seemed very recollected and 
 pious." 
 
 "No doubt," said his wife. 
 
70 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "But, my dear, you seem doubtful. Don't you really 
 think that he was all that he appeared?" 
 
 "John Crosthwaite," said his wife, "you are a good 
 man, a scholar, and an astronomer. But you have not 
 the gift of the 'discernment of spirits,' John. That man, 
 unless my eyes and judgment deceive me, is a thorough 
 and accomplished hypocrite." 
 
 As Holthsworth drove back to Glendarragh, he noticed 
 a curious coppery colour in the south-west sky. Over- 
 head, the sky was a grey, ashen colour, darkening into 
 inky blackness. There was no sun, only that dull, grey 
 light from the zenith to the horizon, that seems to hold, 
 without shedding, the sunbeams it has caught. And 
 there was a deep, low boom along the shore, as if the 
 waters were lifted suddenly out of their torpor, and 
 rounded into larger pressure on the sands. 
 
 "I hope it is not the foreshadowing of a storm," said 
 Mr. Holthsworth. "It would be a dreadful place to be 
 stormbound." 
 
 He consulted his driver. With the amiable politeness 
 of his race, or perhaps with their sanguine forecastings 
 of the future, the driver said: 
 
 "Niver fear, yer 'anner. 'Tis all for fine weather." 
 
 "I don't like that sky," said Mr. Holthsworth. 
 
 "Ah! niver mind that, yer 'anner," he replied. 
 "Whinever you see that colour in the sky airly in the 
 day, but not in the morning, 'tis a sign that you'll have 
 at laste a week of fine weather." 
 
 So, too, apparently thought some of the village boys 
 and girls, who, after Mass, had strolled down to the 
 beach and were eagerly dividing into groups for the boats 
 which some strong men were now pushing down along 
 the smooth sand to launch for the pleasure parties. High 
 up on the cliff, aged fishermen, lying fiat on the green 
 sward, were watching a great Atlantic liner, that a few 
 miles from land, was sweeping down from Liverpool to 
 gather up mails and passengers at Queenstown for the 
 outward voyage. She was late; and apparently under 
 
THE CRY OF CLEENA 71 
 
 full steam, if one were to judge by her speed and the fierce 
 churning of her screw blades. Sometimes, they drew 
 the telescope around towards the south-west, and seemed 
 to watch with some interest that strange sky-colour which 
 was deepening there. 
 
 "Call me Davy," said old James Carroll, "if that's 
 not as big a blow as ever we had round 'the Horn.'" 
 
 "And d'ye hear it?" said John Motherway, a well- 
 tanned old salt. "I'm blessed if that isn't the Cry of 
 Clema!" 
 
 He bent his ear down to the turf, and listened. A 
 strange, deep boom seemed to echo all along the coast 
 — a low, subterranean sound, as of the sea in hollow 
 caves, which it had cut with its eternal chiselling. It 
 was not the sound of the breakers, although these, too, 
 now thundered on the sands, or on the base of the cliffs. 
 But something far different, and far away, as the mutter 
 of a storm raging afar off, and approaching with sweep- 
 ing and irresistible strength towards the heavens. The 
 sea, too, so calm all the morning, now was fluted in deep 
 round curves, yellow from the sky, and oily; and precip- 
 itated itself no longer in tiny waves, but in great round, 
 shining breakers that echoed and thundered all along 
 the coast. 
 
 "Call thim fools back," said Motherway, pointing to 
 the heavy fishing-smacks, deeply laden with boys and 
 girls, that were racing about half a mile from shore. Great 
 shouts of laughter came shoreward from time to time, as 
 the merry girls shouted to their champions, and waved 
 their white handkerchiefs in triumph. 
 
 "There is no fear," said old Dave Ahern. "That storm 
 won't break before night. It may blow away to the 
 sud'dard." 
 
 "When Cleena cries, Sailors, be wise!" said Mother- 
 way. "Cleena never growled without biting." 
 
 The boats came back, however, and the villagers went 
 home to their early tea. Just about five o'clock, Anstie 
 Carroll, the village belle, too proud to be seen amongst 
 
72 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 the common folk, strolled down leisurely. She wore 
 her Sunday dress, and, as she walked alone on the hard 
 sands, she made a pretty figure against the darkening 
 sky. So thought her admirer, Declan Ahern, who, in 
 some way, contrived to slip from home, and joined Anstie 
 on the beach. Now, Anstie happened to be in a pouty 
 mood. It was one of her many attractive ways of secur- 
 ing and chaining attention. And she had been playing 
 Declan Ahern with all her little wiles, until sometimes 
 he was driven to the verge of desperation. He was the 
 son of a fisherman and small farmer, like all the poor 
 people in this vicinity, cultivating to-day their little 
 patches of ground fertilised with rotten seaweed, which 
 they watched and seized, as the tide threw it up on the 
 half mile of beach before the village; and to-morrow, out 
 on the high seas, fishing for mackerel or sprats or whiting 
 for their own poor food, or for the market in the neigh- 
 bouring town. It was a hard, rough life; but they were 
 contented enough. Deelan's mother was now very old 
 and feeble; and the time had come when they required a 
 younger housekeeper. There was many a lass in the 
 neighbourhood who would have been glad if Deelan's 
 eyes rested favourably upon her; but no! Anstie had 
 captivated him; and Anstie alone should be his wife. 
 She knew this; and probably had determined, sooner or 
 later, to accept him; but she loved her freedom, and the 
 little play of coquetry amused her, especially as she had 
 created untold jealousy in the hearts of the other village 
 girls. 
 
 "Were the boats out this afternoon?" she loftily asked 
 Declan, as she walked by his side. 
 k "They were, Anstie," he said; "where were you?" 
 
 "Oh! I was engaged," she said. "There is a strange 
 gentleman at the House, and the cook asked me up to 
 help." j 
 
 "Faith, then, she couldn't do better," said Declan. 
 "Begor, you must have turned out wondherful things 
 in the way of aten'!" 
 
THE CRY OF CLEENA 73 
 
 "Well, a little! I'll be surprised if the Dublin gentle- 
 man doesn't like his dinner this evening, that's all!" 
 
 "An' why didn't ye remain to see it out?" said Declan, 
 half-curiously, half-flatteringly. 
 
 "Because I would have you know, that if I wish to 
 help on occasions, I don't want to be taken for a cook!" 
 
 "God forbid!" said Declan. Then, fearing that he 
 was treading oi\ dangerous ground, he abruptly changed 
 the conversation. 
 
 "Begor, as ye hadn't a bret' of air all the mornin'," 
 said he, "cookin' and slushin', perhaps you would take 
 a turn wid me in 'The Linnet'?" 
 
 "No, thanks," she said loftily. "Isn't that Jack 
 Motherway? I must spake to him!" 
 
 The crestfallen Declan walked up the sloping cliff 
 with a sore heart, whilst Anstie went , forward to meet 
 a young man-of-war's man, who had just got away from 
 his ship on a brief furlough. He was a bright, handsome, 
 young fellow, and, as he walked towards her with the 
 loose easy gait of a sailor, he was a decided contrast to 
 the lumbering young fisherman she had just left. Anstie 
 looked up into his bright handsome face, his firm neck 
 open at the throat, the loose hands swinging at his side, 
 as if ready, at a moment's notice to haul a sail, or ship 
 an oar; and she half decided to cut Declan Ahern for 
 ever. Meanwhile, the latter, high up on the cliff, jeal- 
 ously watched the young couple down on the beach, 
 devouring with hungry eyes the eager face of Anstie^ or 
 with maddening envy the fine figure and graceful swing- 
 ing gait of his rival. After some minutes' conversation 
 he saw the young sailor pushing forward his own boat 
 "The Linnet," and rushing her into the shoaling waters 
 preparatory to launching her out on the deep. He saw 
 him help Anstie into the sternsheets, and then steady the 
 boat in the shallow tide for a moment. Motherway had 
 evidently forgotten, or missed something, for he left 
 Anstie there, and passed up to the village at a swinging 
 trot. With a heart bursting with rage and jealousy, 
 
74 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Declan looked down at Anstie, who was idly toying with 
 the breakers that swept in long sheets around the boat, 
 lightly rocking it, without lifting it from the firm bed of 
 sand. Then, in a wild paroxysm of wrath, he made up 
 his mind. Swiftly, and silently, he descended the grassy 
 side of the cliff, and came behind the boat, unseen by 
 Anstie. With one tremendous push, he flung it forwards; 
 and then, running with it, till up to his waist in the waves, 
 he lightly leaped in, and seized the oars. Then, as the 
 boat swung around to the sweep of the breakers, he stood 
 up, and driving one long oar into the sand, he pulled the 
 boat's head to the breaking sea, and, once righted, he sat 
 down deliberately, and with a few swift strokes pulled 
 out into deep water. 
 
 At first, Anstie, taken by surprise, took it as a prac- 
 tical jest, and putting on her grandest air and accent,' 
 she peremptorily ordered Declan to pull around, and 
 put her ashore at once. He took no heed of her, but 
 pulled steadily out to sea, as if he were racing for a prize 
 at a regatta. Then, Anstie became frightened, as she 
 watched his white face, his set teeth, and. the bloodshot 
 eyes that looked away from her, as if he feared that one 
 glance would unbend his resolution. 
 
 "Declan, what are you up to?" she said, nervously 
 clutching the gunwale with both hands, as the boat leaped 
 up the long round waves, and sank into their trough. 
 
 "What, in God's name, are you up to, Declan?" she 
 cried. " Sure I was only joking. Pull round, and I prom- 
 ise you, Declan, — I will indeed — Oh! Blessed Mother 
 of God, he's mad! he's mad!" 
 
 "Declan, for God's sake, stop! stop! where are you 
 going to, at all?" 
 
 "To Hell and the Devil, where you wer drivin' me this 
 long time," he said. They were the only words he spoke. 
 
 Then she saw that he was mad; and, in her agony, she 
 stood up in the stern of the boat, and looked back to the 
 shore. Motherway was standing helplessly, the rudder 
 and its ropes swinging idly in his hand. He did not 
 
THE CRY OF CLEENA 75 
 
 know what to think, until the scream of Anstie came over 
 the waters: — 
 
 "Jack! Jack! for the love of God, save me! He's 
 mad! He's mad!" 
 
 He rushed back to the village, and roused the fisher- 
 men and their sons. They were incredulous, and laughed 
 at him. 
 
 " Begor ! that whipster is playing her game well. Never 
 fear, Jack! she won't have you till you are a warrant- 
 officer at laste!" 
 
 "I tell you," he said, "he's out of his mind; and is goin' 
 to drown the girl." 
 
 " Not a bit of it! Declan is too studdy for that. He'll 
 give her a big fright, and the divil mind her, for her 
 tricks; and pull her ashore agin!" 
 
 "Well," said Jack, "all right! I wash my hands out 
 of it anyway." 
 
 But, when they leisurely walked down to the beach, 
 now in the darkening eve, and saw the boat a mere speck 
 in the offing, they became thoroughly alarmed. For 
 now, the coppery sky had disappeared, and a great wall 
 of blackness, shot through and through with the grey, 
 thin lines of rain, blocked up the entire horizon. It was 
 the storm-phalanx, suddenly veering round from the 
 west whither it was marching to precipitate itself on the 
 northern shore. Angry gusts of wind swept hither and 
 thither, the storm-videttes; and the great sea became 
 ploughed up before its advancing feet. Far out on the 
 horizon, the white sea-horses were racing and plunging 
 furiously; and already the advance guard of the hurri- 
 cane had taken, and blotted out from human sight the 
 great Head that stood out in the Atlantic to the left of 
 the little village. It was the twilight of an October 
 evening, and the shadows of the night and of the storm 
 were blending together. Now and again, the anxious 
 eyes on shore caught a view of a speck, only a speck, 
 that was lifted up on the crests of the white breakers, 
 and then disappeared in the sea-valleys between them. 
 
76 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "May God help them, for no man can!" was now the 
 exclamation on shore. "'Twould take a Cunarder to 
 weather that storm." 
 
 "What came over Declan, at all, at all? sure, he was 
 the quietest boy in the parish!" 
 
 "I often tould him," said his old father, Dave Ahern, 
 "that she'd be the ruination of him. Sure the boy never 
 tasted a dhrop of dhrink, until she put her comedher on 
 him! The Divil was in her handsome face, the young 
 whipster." 
 
 "Whin was she at her juty?" asked a woman, who 
 thought of the two souls going to inevitable destruction. 
 
 "Divil a much her juty throubled her," was the answer. 
 "She thought more of her looking-glass than her con- 
 science." 
 
 But when old James Carroll, now tottering and weak, 
 came down to the beach, and silently took his place 
 amongst the bystanders, the conversation took a more 
 sympathetic turn. He heard briefly all that could be 
 told him ; and looked out in silent grief over the sea. High 
 up on the cliff overhead, men with their telescopes were 
 sweeping the great expanse of waters now narrowing under 
 the fury of the storm. From time to time, they tele- 
 graphed down their discoveries. 
 
 "She's all right yet! He's making for the Head! The 
 coast-guards will see them and put out. There, they're 
 gone! No! there she is again! May God help them! 
 Sure we wouldn't mind, but, think of them goin' before 
 God in such a state! There, she's sunk! No! there she 
 is again!" tor! 
 
 Silently old James Carroll refused all the sympathy 
 of his neighbours, that was so freely proffered to the 
 lonely old man. His heart was out on the deep with his 
 child. He never saw her faults. He only saw in her 
 face her mother's image. Then, when no word came 
 down from the watchers on the cliff, he turned to his 
 neighbours sadly, and said: — 
 
 ^'Twas before her, I suppose! She was always afraid 
 
THE CRY OF CLEENA 77 
 
 of the say! She used say, 'It is waiting fur me. It is 
 calling fur me! Father, I'll never be berried in the 
 brown airth, mark me words!' An' she used hide her 
 little curly head under the sheets, when the say used be 
 calling at night." 
 "Cheer up, James! where there's life, there's hope!" 
 "No! no! It is her fate. She's gone, and for ever! 
 Ah, wirra! if she wos only sleepin' wid her mother over 
 there in the ould Abbey, I wouldn't mind. Or, if she 
 died wid the grace of God about her. But, oh my God ! 
 sure 'tis I'm the lonely and sorrowful man this blessed 
 night!" 
 
 He turned away in desolation from the beach, and his 
 neighbours followed; for now, the night and the hurri- 
 cane met; and in great cataracts of rain, and lightning 
 flickering out of the breast of the blackness, and the 
 thunder of the on-rushing hurricane, the great wall of 
 cloud and tempest and fire drew out of the deep, and 
 blotted out beach, and cliff and village, as if for ever! 
 
VIII 
 
 Rooms in Trinity 
 
 Hugh Ireton and Arthur Ashley sat together in the 
 latter's rooms. It was after eight o'clock. The lamp 
 burned brightly on the table and the fire shone cheer- 
 fully in the grate, all the more so, perhaps, for the wind 
 that was howling outside. Hugh, though a medical 
 student, was buried deep in some political treatise, for, 
 alas! he had developed a dangerous taste for the dismal 
 science, and his sympathies were towards those strange, 
 novel theses for the regeneration of mankind which have 
 always had such a fascination for the young and ardent. 
 He was reading aloud a glowing, favourite description 
 of the millennium that was rapidly coming, when under 
 the magic word, "Equality" "every valley should be 
 filled and every hill made low"; and there should be no 
 aristocracy but of those whose personal talents or gifts 
 made them really the best. 
 
 "I'm not sure," said Ashley, who had put down a 
 volume of Miss Braddon's, and was reading a love-letter 
 from Maud, received by that evening's post, "that you 
 are acting honourably by your mother, Hugh." 
 
 "How is that?" said Ireton, looking up. 
 
 " You know how she detests these doctrines, and clings 
 to old conservative principles." 
 
 "Well? What then?" 
 
 "She doesn't know that you have a bias towards 
 revolution?" 
 
 "No-o-o!" said Ireton, in a prolonged intonation. 
 "Some day, perhaps; but I am not bound to reveal my 
 merely intellectual secrets to my mother, any more than 
 my secret sins." 
 
ROOMS IN TRINITY 79 
 
 "No! But some day there will be an explosion. By 
 Jove! how that wind howls. It is playing the deuce with 
 the slates of old Trinity." 
 
 "What news from Maud?" asked Ireton, but half 
 interested in the reply. 
 
 "Not much. She is not illegible certainly; every let- 
 ter is like a circus-poster's; but I am not sure that old 
 Harvey would pass her orthography." 
 
 "No! That's not her strong point. But what does 
 the little minx say?" 
 
 "Multum in parvo. Lizzie dismissed. Governess com- 
 ing. Forbidden to play with the Allensons, Cork gro- 
 cer's children. Condemned to finger the piano two hours 
 per diem. Great love to Brer Hugh, etc., etc." 
 
 "Poor little woman!" said Hugh, affectionately. "I 
 wonder what her fate will be." 
 
 "That is easily determinable," said his friend. "On 
 the day on which you marry the 'Lady of the Lea,' I'll 
 marry Maud. That's all!" 
 
 "I wish you would," said Hugh. "I could trust her 
 to you; but — " 
 
 "There's another crux, you know," said Ashley. 
 "You'll certainly get into another conflict with your 
 mother about that same 'Lady of the Lea.' Why don't 
 you forget her?" 
 
 "Forget? Perhaps I could and would, but it is the 
 infernal injustice that is shown her that is cutting her 
 image deeper on my mind. Probably, if she were now 
 a recognised member of good society — Oh, Lord! that 
 good, when we know — no matter! — probably I would 
 have flung aside her memory long since. I could forget 
 that centre of attraction, which she certainly was, when 
 she came into the Admiral's grounds that day; but I can 
 never forget the pariah, the helpless outcast which she 
 was made by good society before, evening, nor her piti- 
 ful look, as of a hunted animal, when everybody shunned 
 her." 
 
 And Hugh Ireton almost sobbed, 
 
80 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Yes; of course," replied Ashley, nonchalantly, "that 
 does appeal to one's sympathy; and I'm not sure that 
 I would not have kicked that puppy, Peniyth. But, 
 after all, Hugh, my dear fellow, these things occur at 
 every ball and party throughout the world; and if you 
 and I were to take up the cause of every wall-flower at 
 an evening party, we'd have a pretty fair number of duels 
 ch hand. Besides — " 
 
 "No! no! that is different. It is the accident of choice, 
 the principle of natural selection, and no one has a right 
 to complain — Lord! listen to that howling hurricane, 
 how it lashes the old crescent tonight. I can see Maudie 
 hiding her curls under the counterpane. But you were 
 saying, ' besides ' — " 
 
 "What was it? Oh, yes! Besides, all these little 
 ordeals are intended to be an education, a training for 
 young debutantes, who might otherwise lose their little 
 heads — " 
 
 "Just like the fagging at Harrow and Eton?" 
 
 "Precisely. It is part of the programme. I admit it 
 is savage and all that; but it fits these young people for 
 the rough-and-tumble of life. Did Arnold or Keate 
 ever object to fagging?" 
 
 "I'm not sure. The thing was brutal. Doesn't it 
 all prove, Ashley, my main contention, that a new gos- 
 pel has to be preached? Listen, isn't that terrific? And 
 there's lightning. I can see by the dim flashes. Think 
 of Glendarragh tonight. How the tempest howls up 
 along the valley of the Oaks, and the waves break on 
 the seawall in the darkness. And that lovely girl with 
 that querulous, wretched invalid — " 
 
 "There, we are wandering from the New Gospel. Is 
 that a knock? Come in! No! "Twas but the wind, 
 or a car rattling o'er the stony street.' 'Tis a knock, by 
 Jove! Come in! Is this the preacher of the New Gos- 
 pel, I wonder?" 
 
 There was some hesitation on the part of the new 
 comer, evidently, for he fumbled with the door-handle, 
 
ROOMS IN TRINITY 81 
 
 but did not open the door. Ireton went over and threw 
 the door open, saying heartily: — 
 
 "Come in, Albrecht. There's no one here but Ashley 
 and I." 
 
 The visitor was a decided contrast to the two athletic 
 young fellows who were now his hosts, and there was 
 almost a pitiful and painful difference between his pale 
 features and light form and the more robust physique 
 of his friends. He was tall, but undeveloped in propor- 
 tion to his height, and he stooped under rounded shoul- 
 ders which some said were the acquired result of study, 
 and merely a "student's hump," but some others thought 
 indicative of a tendency to phthisis. This feature was 
 accentuated by the curious wistful eagerness with which 
 he threw himself forward into anything — book, person, 
 conversation — that interested him. His was a nature 
 never in repose. Shrinking and timid in ordinary life, 
 it needed only the stimulus of thought or action to throw 
 it into an attitude that seemed almost convulsive. And 
 in this state, his features, delicately rounded and refined 
 as a young girl's, glowed and shone with emotion, as his 
 eyes seemed filled with a light of inspiration, and his 
 small white hand ran like a comb through his thick, 
 tangled hair, or tossed lightly the brown curls that hung 
 deep down over his neck. He was the son of an Austrian 
 colonel, who had married an English wife whom he met 
 at one of the Embassies. The colonel was dead, but the 
 mother was still living quietly on a moderate income in 
 one of the Dublin suburbs, her tie in life, her son; her 
 business and consolation, her religion. She belonged to 
 a very strict sect of Dissenters, whose creed was extreme 
 Calvinism. From this gloomy faith Albrecht (he was 
 never known by any other name, although he had been 
 called Ian at his birth) speedily emancipated himself. 
 He had resided abroad for a time and imbibed larger 
 views of life and its final issues from contact with mod- 
 ern thought. And he had read freely, perhaps too freely, 
 but that his pure, exalted mind had always spontaneously 
 
82 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 rejected the dangerous elements with which liberal thinkers 
 had too freely surcharged their theories of progress and 
 advancement. In this unconscious sifting and strain- 
 ing, he retained a great love for whatever was beautiful 
 in Nature and in the Universe, a great love for his species, 
 and the distinct and unique ambition of serving his fel- 
 lowmen, and doing some little work in the world before 
 he passed out to the Unknown. For he felt that his 
 time was short here below. He little recked of health. 
 Perhaps, if he had economised strength, mental and phys- 
 ical, he might have hoped to live into middle age; but 
 he was a wastrel of health, burning it up in midnight 
 thought, in the dangerous excitement of emotions which, . 
 if honourable, were none the less consuming and peril- 
 ous; and when remonstrated with, he would answer, 
 with Festus: — 
 
 "We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 
 In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
 We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
 Who thinks most — feels the noblest — acts the best." 
 
 One of those mighty truths which men are at most pains 
 to disavow — at least, in action. 
 
 "You must really pardon my intrusion," he said with 
 that tone of humble deference that characterises such 
 men, "but I could not remain in my room alone under 
 this terrific storm. It quite magnetised me. There must 
 be a good deal of electricity in the air. Have you seen 
 the lightning?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ireton, "You can see the dim flashes 
 now and again on the window-blind." 
 
 "I thought so," said Albrecht, as if he had made some 
 unpleasant discovery. "I felt it tingling in my shoul- 
 ders and pricking under my hair. I am horribly sus- 
 ceptible to these atmospheric disturbances. 'Tis a unique 
 and almost phenomenal hurricane." 
 
 As if to verify his words, great gusts of wind slapped 
 the windowrpanes and shook their half-rotten frames, 
 
ROOMS IN TRINITY S3 
 
 One could hear the elements howling away in the far 
 night, and gathering strength as if by the pouring of 
 endless blasts of wind into some common vortex, from 
 which cataract after cataract smote the earth, the gables 
 of houses, the inclined roofs, until the chimneys howled 
 with the tumult, and now and again the crash of a slate 
 in the Quadrangle, or of glass in some student's room, 
 added to the weird horror by telling of the success of 
 destruction. 
 
 "There seems to be no thunder," said Albrecht. 
 
 "No," said Ireton, "but look here! Lower that lamp, 
 Ashley, and come here, Albrecht!" 
 
 The young men approached the window. The night 
 was so intensely dark they could but half discern the 
 windows, washed again and again under the pitiless rain. 
 But now a great flash, swift as thought, lit up the Quad- 
 rangle, the rooms at the far side, the trees: then all was 
 blackness again. 
 
 '"Tis terrific," said Albrecht. "No man has ever yet 
 described it. What a subject for a word-picture!" 
 
 "The storm in 'Lear'?" suggested Ireton. 
 
 Albrecht shook his head. 
 
 "The midsummer thunder-storm in Pippa Passes?" 
 said Ashley. 
 
 "Nearer; but not yet!" said Albrecht. "You cannot 
 dissociate the smiling and sunny Italian landscape from 
 that momentary anger. It is the savagery of our storms, 
 their loneliness, their utter and awful desolation that 
 no man can describe. It seems to say — ' There is no 
 hope — none! The final cataclysm has come!'" 
 
 There was a long pause, the young men listening to 
 the storm. 
 
 "I remember once being caught," he continued, "on 
 the borders of Lake Como. I was strolling along the 
 road in brilliant sunshine, with just now and again a whiff 
 of frozen wind from the Alps above, when, on a sudden, 
 the sky darkened, and I was in the very centre of the 
 play of the storm. The lightning seemed to be weaving 
 
84 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 a mantle of fire for me. I used to put out my hand to 
 catch them, as children try to catch sunbeams — " 
 
 "Then you weren't afraid?" said Ashley. 
 
 "Not a bit," he said. "I was only wondering if two, 
 now, like Sebald and Ottimar, were here in the storm, 
 guilty and remorseful, but unrepentant, how would they 
 feel? Think of the Almighty, with his javelins in his 
 hand, searching through the darkness to strike and anni- 
 hilate the guilty ones." 
 
 "They wouldn't believe in an Almighty Avenger," 
 suggested Ireton. 
 
 "They would," said Albrecht, solemnly. "They would 
 hate each other with that selfish hate that fear engenders. 
 For, say what you please, love never extinguishes self." 
 
 "Except in the single-minded and the pure," said 
 Ashley. "Suppose it were brother and sister, or hus- 
 band and wife that were caught in that storm, do you 
 mean to say that they would not feel for each other more 
 than for self? You see 'tis 'perfect love that casteth out 
 fear.'" 
 
 "Yes; but where will you find it?" said Albrecht, al- 
 most despairingly. "Where is the perfect love that sac- 
 rifices the Ego on the altar? I suppose on earth (I am 
 not revealing personal secrets) there never was such affec- 
 tion as between my good mother and me. It seemed to 
 be absolute, and perfect, and conditionless. There was 
 no alloy of self-interest, or gratitude, or speculation of 
 the future about it. Yet, on a mere suspicion, one day 
 my mother says gravely to me, and the calm manner in 
 which she spoke made it all the more emphatic: 'Ian, 
 but two things can come between us — politics and reli- 
 gion. Should you ever descend to the level of the mob, 
 and become an Anarchist' — mark the correlation; 'or 
 should you ever embrace the religion of the kitchen and the 
 scullery, that day we part, and for ever!'" 
 
 "It seems to me, if I may say so, Albrecht, rather 
 narrow-minded. Ashley and I have been discussing the 
 question under another aspect." 
 
ROOMS IN TRINITY 85 
 
 "It is the inevitable," said Ashley, with a yawn. 
 "Clearly, if you, young fellows, want to keep whole 
 skins you must give up. your Quixotism and embrace 
 facts." 
 
 "But when, in God's name, then," said Albrecht, rush- 
 ing in with the excitement he had only badly concealed, 
 "when shall the reign of charity come on earth? The 
 reign of dogma vanished at the Reformation; the reign of 
 Paul, that is of grace, departed like a ghost in the face 
 of the new materialism; but the reign of love — divine, 
 unselfish love — the gospel of John, that is, of Christ, 
 seems to be as far away as ever. The fissures between 
 class and class seem to be ever deepening and widening. 
 Talk of Hindu caste! there is more caste-worship in Ire- 
 land than in any country under the sun!" 
 
 " I am with you, Albrecht," said Ireton. " Like your- 
 self, it is not a question of feeling — my feelings are un- 
 engaged and unconcerned — " 
 
 Ashley whistled slowly at the fire. 
 
 "Unengaged and unconcerned," repeated Hugh Ire- 
 ton. "But every decent feeling revolts at the brutal- 
 ity with which society draws its lines of demarcation; 
 and enforces tabu against individuals, not for their own 
 personal inferiority or shortcomings, but for the sins of 
 their parents. Arthur and I lately came across a case 
 of the kind in the South. A young lady, of excellent 
 character, bright, intelligent, quite out of the common 
 in fact, is not that so, Arthur? — " 
 
 "Perfectly," said Arthur, studying the fire. 
 
 "That young lady," said Hugh, "after becoming, by 
 virtue of her rare attractions, a centre of interest at a 
 certain garden-party, was ruthlessly insulted and neglected, 
 merely because a pack of toothless old tabbies — " 
 
 "Hugh! Hugh!" said Arthur Ashley. 
 
 "Yes, I repeat it," said Hugh, quite forgetting the part 
 his own mother had played in the ostracism. "I say 
 took it into their heads that there was some family stain, 
 which no one can determine, no one explain — and that 
 
86 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 poor young girl was subjected to an hour's misery, because 
 of this miserable suspicion — " 
 
 "Were you there?" said Albrecht, fixing his glowing 
 eyes upon him. 
 
 "I — I was!" said Hugh, with hesitation. 
 
 "What did you do?" interrogated Albrecht. 
 
 "Do? What could I do? My mother—" 
 
 Then, for the first time, he remembered the part his 
 mother took in that deplorable affair, and he was struck 
 silent. 
 
 Albrecht waited. But Hugh Ireton remained silent. 
 At length the former said: — 
 
 " If I had the honour of that young lady's acquaintance 
 I would have gone to her, remained with her, honoured 
 her, and pitched the whole caste of hypocrites to the 
 devil!" 
 
 "I'm just thinking that you two young fellows will 
 modify your views considerably when you get out of 
 your teens," said Ashley. "You haven't cut your wis- 
 dom teeth yet. Besides, Miss Lucas is not a girl, or a 
 woman, at all. She is one of those things you read of in 
 Greek or German romance, just like the Lady Geral- 
 dine in 'Christabel.'" 
 
 "Lucas? Miss Lucas, did you say?" asked Albrecht. 
 
 "Yes. Miss Miriam Lucas of Glendarragh House, 
 who gave me the shivers, and mesmerised Ireton," said 
 Ashley. " There, we've had enough of her. Let us have 
 some supper." 
 
 He went to the door and shouted: — "Cassidy!" 
 
 But Cassidy was asleep, or deafened by the storm, and 
 Arthur had to go down a flight of steps to find him. 
 
 "I've heard that name somewhere," said Albrecht, as 
 if searching his memory. 
 
 Hugh Ireton brightened up. 
 
 "Did you?" he demanded, eagerly. 
 
 "Ye-es! Where?" said Albrecht, in self-examination, 
 "My memory does not deceive me, but I cannot just 
 recall time and place." 
 
ROOMS IN TRINITY 87 
 
 "I'd give a good deal to find out what that family 
 secret is," said Hugh, anxiously scanning the other's face. 
 "I feel sure there is nothing in it, at least, nothing too 
 disgraceful. And in any case," he said, fiercely, "why 
 visit the sins of parents on the children?" 
 
 "Nature does so," said Albrecht, quietly. 
 
 "If it does, all the more reason for intelligence, not to 
 say charity, to fight against nature, and conquer its evil 
 tendencies." 
 
 "I know I have some dim knowledge of the name," 
 said Albrecht, musingly, " and it will all come back. Mir- 
 iam — Miriam — Myrrha! Ha! That's better! Myr- 
 rha Lucas! I feel it dawning upon me. Never mind. 
 Some day it will all flash out. Then I'll tell you, Ireton." 
 
 "You promise me?" 
 
 "Yes! Yes! I'll tell you." 
 
 It was a simple supper enough — bread and cheese 
 and beer. But young men are content with little. Ven- 
 ison pasties, champagne and gout are the perquisites of 
 middle age. Albrecht declined the invitation to sup 
 with his friends; and went back to his room. They 
 followed the law of nature, and discussed him. They 
 had not yet adopted the law of Society, and they dis- 
 cussed him as brothers and friends. 
 
 " 'Twill be horrible if he breaks with his mother," said 
 Ireton, forgetting his own proximate danger in the same 
 connection. 
 
 "Horrible," said Ashley. 
 
 "I think I'd forgive her for the religious prejudice," 
 said Ireton. 
 
 "What was that? I forget," said his friend. 
 
 "The religion of the kitchen and the scullery," said 
 Ireton. 
 
 " The religion of the kitchen and the scullery? " slowly 
 repeated Ashley. "Does she mean the noble cultus of 
 gastronomy?" 
 
 "No! but Papistry. Anything but that!" 
 
 "And why that?" asked Ashley. 
 
88 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Because that is such an unspeakable degradation," 
 said Ireton. "It is the sacrifice of all mental and moral 
 freedom." 
 
 "But then, it is free choice," said Ashley. "There is 
 no compulsion in our days. If I chose to surrender my 
 mental and moral freedom, am I not justified in doing 
 so?" 
 
 "Quite so, but not at such a price!" 
 
 "What price?" 
 
 "Honour, dignity, manhood, social position — " 
 
 "Caste!" said Ashley, with a laugh. 
 
 "I think I'll get to bed," said Ireton, "if the hurricane 
 will let me sleep. We have had enough of these academics 
 for one evening." 
 
 ■ "To be. continued in our next," said Ashley. "It is 
 not often, Hugh, you are caught in the toils." 
 
IX 
 
 Lost and Found 
 
 When Edwin Lucas and his guest sat down to dinner 
 in the gloomy dining-room at Glendarragh, the storm was 
 at its highest. The one tall lamp shed but a pallid light 
 around the dark, wainscotted room; and though the flame 
 of the wood fire, great blocks of elm and pine, leaped up 
 the chimney and threw a roseate colour on the table- 
 cloth and chairs, it was but a sickly glare, so great was 
 the shadow that seemed to leap from the ceiling, and wrap 
 everything in its gloomy folds. All day long, that event- 
 ful Sunday, the two gentlemen had been closeted together 
 in what was called the library — a small poorly-fur- 
 nished room that opened from the drawingroom, and had 
 probably served as a breakfast parlour in the days when 
 guests were numerous and the laughter of children per- 
 haps, was heard in the hall. Miriam was too proud to 
 intrude unasked on their deliberations, yet she could 
 not help feeling anxious, not about herself, but about her 
 father, when, late in the afternoon, he came out of the 
 library and feebly asked for pen and ink. He looked so 
 worn, so flushed and excited, that Miriam dreaded one 
 of those sudden fits that were sure one day to end in 
 death. She got the pens and ink for her father. As 
 she handed them to him she noticed that he was almost 
 sunk in a stupor, and had apparently forgotten his de- 
 mand. He woke up in a start. 
 
 "There are the pens and ink you required, father," 
 she said, handing them to him. 
 
 "Oh yes! I was near forgetting. What was it? Pens 
 and ink for what? Who? Oh, I remember! Mr. — 
 Mr. — " 
 
90 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Holthsworth," suggested Miriam. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Holthsworth wished to write a letter. No! 
 that's not it. Wished to — to — " 
 
 "Father, whatever it is," said Miriam, "I would wish 
 it were over, and that you wouldn't fatigue yourself." 
 
 "Yes! Yes! 'tis all over now. I did my best. 
 But — " He paused, and looked mournfully at his 
 child. 
 
 "Miriam, will you forgive me?" he said at length. 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive, father," she said; though she 
 felt he was being dragged into some unaccountable wrong. 
 
 He turned away in great pity and remorse, and entered 
 the study again. 
 
 There was but little conversation at dinner. Holths- 
 worth tried to be very agreeable; made remarks on the 
 storm, told stories, tried to bring back to Miriam's mem- 
 ory little incidents of her childhood. But now and again 
 the moaning of the wind in the deep chimney became 
 almost too solemn, and the terrific gusts that, rushing 
 up the Valley of the Oaks, assumed fresh strength from 
 their concentration within its boundaries, beat at the 
 windows, and shook the frames, and made the old house 
 tremble to its foundations, whilst the rain, not in gusts 
 but in sheets, washed the window panes and ran in cat- 
 aracts from the leaky gutter above. Silent and calm, 
 Miriam presided, as course after course was brought in. 
 Holthsworth drank freely. Her father, too, drank more 
 claret than was his wont. The former was trying to cheat 
 himself of ennui. The latter was trying to stifle remorse. 
 Once or twice Miriam, by some little feminine strata- 
 gem, prevented her father from filling his glass too 
 frequently. She noticed his excitement, and had a 
 presentiment of disaster. 
 
 "If I can only save him this night," she thought, "until 
 that evil man leaves the house, all may be right." 
 
 She noticed that the maid who was bringing in the 
 courses looked very white and was trembling as she laid 
 down dish after dish. 
 
LOST AND FOUND 91 
 
 " What's the matter, Annie? " she said at length. " You 
 shouldn't be so nervous. The storm will soon spend 
 itself. In any case you are in no danger, and the light- 
 ning is harmless. You see, it is the great, broad sheet- 
 lightning." 
 
 '"Taint that at all, Miss," said Annie, with trembling 
 lips. "Might I say a word to you outside, Miss?" 
 
 "To be sure," said Miriam, rising, and with much con- 
 cern on her features. "Well, Annie, what is it, child? 
 Why are you afraid?" 
 
 "Oh, Miss! 'Tis awful! Poor Anstie, Miss, that 
 was here up to an hour ago — " 
 
 "What about her? What has happened?" asked Mir- 
 iam, anxiously. 
 
 "She was walking with two boys, Miss, and they had 
 a fight, Miss; and wan o' them took her out in a boat 
 and drownded her, Miss!" 
 
 And Annie burst into tears. 
 
 "Can this be true?" said Miriam. "Who were the 
 boys?" 
 
 "Jack Motherway, Miss," said one of the group that 
 had now gathered into the hall. "He was home from 
 the 'Revenge,' Miss, on furlough. But twasn't him at 
 all, Miss, but Deck Ahern, ould Dave Ahern's son — " 
 
 "They said, Miss, that Deck got out of his mind, and 
 threw her out of the boat; and that you'd hear her roarin' 
 and cryin' and bawlin' at the Point." 
 
 "This is serious," said Miriam. "Look after the other 
 courses, Annie — but wait! It cannot be long now! " 
 
 She returned to the diningroom, and when dinner was 
 over, made some apology, and rapidly donning water- 
 proof and goloshes, went down to the village. She had 
 not gone far, buffeted and beaten hither and thither by 
 the wind, when she was aware of a figure following her 
 rapidly, then as swiftly coming to her side in the dark- 
 ness. She divined who it was at once; but said, as the 
 squall tore open her mackintosh and swept her words 
 behind her; — 
 
92 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Who is that? Is that you, Coppal?" 
 
 "Me, Miss," said Coppal. 
 
 "Give me your hand, then, and direct me." 
 
 He put out his rough, grimy hand and grasped her 
 little wet glove. 
 
 "You've heard all about Anstie, Coppal?" 
 
 It was in a voice of badly-suppressed exultation he 
 replied: 
 
 "Anstie? Yes? Drownded? Ha! Ha! Deck Ahern 
 wasn't poor Cop for her." 
 
 "I hope you are sorry for the poor girl," said Miriam. 
 
 "Am! She call Coppal 'fool'; Deck no fool. She call 
 Coppal ' Onshuck.' Deck no ' onshuck.' ' Will you marry 
 me, Cop?' An' she laugh at poor Cop. 'Will you marry 
 me, Anstie?' She want Jack, big sailor-boy. Deck has 
 her; they are married now!" 
 
 Miriam shuddered. 
 
 "Can't you say, 'Lord have mercy on her'?" she 
 said. *'* 1 
 
 "Me? Oh, no! She's in hell, hell. She call Cop 
 'fool,' an' she's in hell." 
 
 "Cop, if you say that again I'll send you away." 
 
 "Oh, don't, Miss. Oh, don't, for God's sake, don't! 
 Here is the house. Ould James good to Cop!" 
 
 The tale she heard from the old man, or rather from 
 the group of women who were gathered in sympathy in 
 the little cottage, was brief, but tragic. Anstie was not 
 drowned; at least, no one could say so; but there was no 
 hope for that fragile boat in the teeth of such a storm. 
 Miriam felt deeply for the old man, now completely 
 bereft in his declining years. She could hardly summon 
 up sympathy for the lost girl. Anstie had been too 
 hard and flippant and insincere to demand much inter- 
 est in this gentle young lady, whose heart went out to 
 all the poor in her neighbourhood, and who, in turn, 
 was worshipped by the poor. Yet, little things came back, 
 in the vivid recollection which death creates,which proved 
 that Anstie was not altogether heartless — nay, even ha(J 
 
LOST AND FOUND 93 
 
 a kind of far-off worship, and even love, although tinged 
 with jealousy, for the young mistress of the Great House. 
 
 "Ah, Miss, if you knew how fond Anstie was of you?" 
 said the old man. "She worshipped the ground you 
 walked on." 
 
 "That's thrue for you, thin," subjoined a neighbour. 
 "Sure she used to set the other girls wild by tellin' them 
 all the fine things Miss Miriam would give her." 
 
 "And sure, she used to brag that she, alone, was asked 
 up to the Great House. 'Twas only today she was brag- 
 gin' and boastin' of all she done in the kitchen. May 
 the Lord ha' mercy on her sowl, poor girl! Sure she's 
 the loss! The ould must go, but the young might stay!" 
 
 "Had Deck Ahern and Anstie any previous quarrel?" 
 asked Miriam, with some half-meaning, dimly revealed 
 to herself. 
 
 "Wisha, they used be out and in, in and out, a hunder' 
 times a day. He was crass, an' she was aggerawatin'; 
 but they used make it up again. They had one big fight 
 a few weeks ago. It appear she tould Deck a parcel of 
 lies, up at the chapel, about two young gintlemin that 
 rode over here wan day from Queenstown. She made 
 him believe 'twas after herself they were comin' whin 
 they never saw or heard of the place before. Deck 
 found out 'twas all a parcel of lies; and they didn't spake 
 for days. But they made it up agin." 
 
 Miriam passed out of the cottage with a strange sense 
 of lightness; and went down to Dave Ahern's, still guided 
 by Coppal. Here she heard nothing but angry comments, 
 and bitter sayings about the wretched girl. There was 
 no pity for her here. Miriam did not remain long. She 
 said to Coppal, as they returned home, on the lee side of 
 the hill behind the valley: — 
 
 "No pity for poor Anstie there! Why did ye all hate 
 her, Cop?" 
 
 "Wha?" said Cop, choked by the wind. 
 
 "Poor Anstie! No one has a good word for her. All 
 the pity is for Deck." 
 
94 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Deck? Poor Deck! He hit me wance. She made 
 him. But the divil was looking for her a long time; an' 
 he has her." 
 
 "Shame! Shame, Coppal! You mustn't guide me 
 again." 
 
 She entered the house hastily, glad to be safe from the 
 storm. Her mackintosh glistened and streamed with 
 rain, her boots were sodden, her dress draggled and wet. 
 The struggle with the fierce elements outside had given 
 a momentary blush to her usually pallid features, and 
 tossed and disarranged her hair. She was passing through 
 the hall on the way to her room when she met the house- 
 maid, Annie. 
 
 "Are the gentlemen here still, Annie?" she said. 
 
 Annie said, "y es >" but in a tone that seemed to imply 
 much more. Miriam stopped. Just then she heard a 
 voice through the half-opened door. It was Holths- 
 worth's : — 
 
 "One more, old fel'; let us drink to the 'Beauty of 
 Glendarragh.' Hip, hip — " 
 
 He had not finished, when Miriam strode into the room. 
 She walked up to the fireplace, where Holthsworth and 
 her father were standing. The former, with flushed and 
 stupid eyes, held a wineglass firmly between his fingers. 
 The latter, stooped under the maudlin influences of the 
 wine, held a half-filled glass before him. His trembling 
 hands had spilled the red wine on his fingers and coat, 
 as he strove with difficulty to balance himself. It was 
 a pitiable and humiliating exhibition. It roused all 
 the passion and pity of Miriam. She advanced slowly, 
 keeping her eyes, blazing with contempt and indignation, 
 steadily fixed on Holthsworth. He tried to brazen it - 
 out, but failed. His eyes fell beneath the indignant and 
 contemptuous glance of that young girl. She locked her 
 arm in her father's; gently removed the wineglass from 
 his fingers; and with a parting look at her guest, passed 
 from the room. 
 
 Holthsworth, stupefied by the wine and the rebuke, 
 
LOST AND FOUND 95 
 
 stood gazing at the fire for a long time. Then flinging 
 himself into his chair, he drew over the decanter of port, 
 filled a glass, tossed it off, and said : — 
 
 "Pah! the melodramatic antics of a spoiled chit of a 
 girl! Why should I heed? I have got all that I required 
 — her own dainty figure into the bargain. Come, old 
 Omar, my genuine and only-inspired prophet, what dost 
 thou say? " — 
 
 "Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring 
 Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling; 
 
 The Bird of Time has but a little way 
 To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing." 
 
 "And there's another little bird also on the wing, good 
 Omar! There is!" 
 
 Meanwhile Miriam had conducted the tottering figure 
 of her father across the hall to the drawingroom, and 
 seated him in an armchair. 
 
 "There, try and sleep," she said, gently, arranging a 
 pillow for his head. " It always serves you. When you 
 awake, we shall have some tea." 
 
 She was leaving the room to go upstairs when he called 
 her back. 
 
 She bent down over him. 
 
 "Miriam, my child, can you ever forgive me for this, 
 and all other evil I have done thee?" 
 
 She stooped lower and kissed his forehead, saying 
 nothing. She then went to her room. In her excitement, 
 she forgot all about her wet dress and shoes, and sat down 
 near a little table, leaning her head heavily on her hand. 
 It had been an eventful day. The long hours of confer- 
 ence in the study between this evil man and her father; 
 the horrible tragedy of Anstie Carroll and Declan Ahern; 
 the swift little drama in the diningroom, which she guessed 
 might be fraught with all kinds of consequences to her- 
 self and her father — all combined to throw memory 
 backward on each detail, exaggerating it; and to throw 
 imagination forward to gauge the possibilities that might 
 lie enwombed in the misty and mysterious future. 
 
66 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 There was a timid knock at the door. Annie entered. 
 Miriam thought she had come to announce tea. 
 
 "Where's the master, Miss?" said Annie. 
 
 "He's in the drawingroom. Don't disturb him. He 
 likes to sleep till tea-time." 
 
 "He's not in the drawingroom, Miss!" said Annie, 
 half reluctantly. 
 
 "Then he's gone to his bedroom," said Miriam impa- 
 tiently, as if some new disaster was foreboded. 
 
 "No one heard him, Miss; but William heard the hall 
 door open and shut about half an hour ago. We thought 
 'twas that — that — that — gentleman ! " 
 
 "Perhaps! — May God now help me!" said Miriam, 
 in an agony of apprehension and fear. "This is awful!" 
 
 Her father's last words, his pitiful appeal for forgive- 
 ness, his attitude of despair, as if he had consummated 
 some heinous crime, and sought the absolution of death, 
 flashed back upon her. 
 
 " God and His Blessed Mother will help you, Miss," 
 said the faithful girl. "You deserve it from them." 
 
 They searched every room in the house, in vain. Then 
 the servants examined the diningroom. Holthsworth 
 was sleeping calmly, under the influence of the Flagon 
 and Philosophy. Then, there was but one conclusion. 
 
 In the swiftness of her agony, Miriam gave rapid orders 
 to the servants, and taking a stable-lantem from the hands 
 of the groom, she bade him follow with another, and with 
 ropes. Then, without reflecting whither she was going, 
 she bade one of the girls to unfasten the front door. It 
 was flung back and the girl tossed against the wall by 
 the violence of the storm. Then, Miriam leaped out into 
 the night. In an instant the lantern was whisked from 
 her hand, and extinguished; and she was spun round and 
 round the gravelled terrace until she got under shelter of 
 some tall pines that fringed it on the southern side. Here 
 she paused for breath. Then, recovering herself, she 
 sped down to the village, keeping under the shelter of 
 the high hedges, and valorously bending against the tem* 
 
LOST AND FOUND 97 
 
 pest when it struck her. It appeared to have increased 
 in volume and intensity since she came down by the same 
 pathway an hour ago. At last she came within the lights 
 of the village. It was close upon ten o'clock and the 
 lights were few. Most of the villagers were in bed. 
 But, in a few minutes, her sad tale was on every lip; lights 
 flashed in every house; and a band of eager volunteers 
 was enlisted to search the cliffs on either side the beach. 
 
 "If he's gone on yon cliff, Miss," said an old fisher- 
 man, "he's not gone far! Ten paces in such a gale, and 
 he was over!" 
 
 "You stay here, Miss, and warrum yourself be the 
 fire; and let the min go on search. Sure, the poor, old 
 gentleman isn't gone far." 
 
 That would not do, however. Miriam could not rest 
 there when her beloved was out in the stress of the storm. 
 She should go. 
 
 "But what good?" 
 
 There is no use in questioning. She must join in the 
 fray with the elements, and be the first to rescue her 
 father, if yet he may be saved. 
 
 They set out on that apparently hopeless quest. With 
 great difficulty, and only by the assistance of some strong- 
 armed fishermen, did she climb the cliff, and there, con- 
 fronting the storm, which broke on its summit with 
 tremendous force, she was suddenly swept backward 
 into the fields, and had to run before the gale to save 
 herself. Then, beating up against the storm, she regained 
 the summit and saw beneath the white fringe of foam, 
 which was the only thing discernible in the thick dark- 
 ness, that was howling as if with the screams of countless 
 lost spirits. On she sped, throwing all her fragile weight 
 against the wind, and ever and again wiping the lashing 
 rain from her face and eyes, that she might see straight 
 before her to where the lanterns shook to and fro in the 
 hands of the fishermen. Now and again they would 
 stop to look down to a ledge of cliff beneath, and Mir- 
 iam's heart would stop beating, as she dreaded, at every 
 
98 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 pause, some fearful discovery. Her dress, sodden before 
 by the rain, now clung close to her figure, her shoes flung 
 out water at every step on the saturated turf. She could 
 but faintly hear the shouts of the men in the distance, 
 as they called to each other, so terrific was the force of 
 the gale, and so loud and angry the hoarse wash of the 
 lashed waves beneath. Sometimes one of the fishermen 
 would return to her side and say, with a familiarity that 
 seemed irreverent to himself, — 
 
 "How are ye gettin' on, Miss? Sure we must find 
 something' soon!" 
 
 But not a man of them would venture to offer her his 
 hand, or touch her, so far away she seemed to their humble 
 imaginations. Probably, if any rough hand did grasp 
 her tiny hand, now ungloved, it would not be quite safe 
 for him nor her. That night was no time, and that cliff 
 no place for the nervous dread of chivalry. It needed a 
 senseless, nerveless thing to offer and give her the required 
 assistance. 
 
 "If I could only pray," she said. "If I could call on 
 the Unseen, like these poor people, it would be a help. 
 What is it they say: Jesus, Mary!" 
 
 Just then she heard the soft tread behind her as of a 
 beast — the soft tread of naked feet pattering and splash- 
 ing on the wet turf. She heard also the panting of some 
 wild animal in the darkness, and in a moment, a cold, 
 wet, fishy hand grasped hers, and pulled her violently 
 aside. 
 
 "Keep back, Miss! Keep back!" said the voice. 
 
 "Oh, Coppal!" said Miriam, recovering from her 
 fright, "what a shock you gave me! But where were 
 you all the night? I was looking for you!" 
 
 "In bed, in bed. Woke up. Dog barking. Lanterns. 
 What? What? What? What? Gov'nur over the 
 cliff! Keep back, Miss! Keep back! Don't you see 
 the hole?" 
 
 No! the acute senses of the poor imbecile perceived in 
 the darkness what the keener eyes of the young girl could 
 
LOST AND FOUND 99 
 
 not see. She suffered herself to be led passively and help- 
 lessly by the idiot. 
 
 They had gone, on their hopeless quest, something 
 more than a quarter of a mile when the fishermen turned 
 back, and coming up with Miriam said : — 
 
 " We are sorry, Miss Miriam, but there's no use going 
 further tonight. We can see nothing. We'll be out the 
 first thing in the morning, and, with God's blessing, we'll 
 find your father." 
 
 "But — but — " she stammered, "what may occur 
 till then?" 
 
 "The min are gone round to the Head, Miss," they 
 said, with great pity in their hearts, "and will be comin' 
 back this way, an' if anything has happened — " 
 
 "Then I shall go to meet them," said Miriam. "You 
 all get home as soon as you can. You may be of help 
 in the morning." 
 
 They left her there, in the storm and the darkness — 
 left her reluctantly and shame-heartedly. Yet, they 
 knew it was a bootless quest. 
 
 "At laste, take the lanthern," one said, shoving it into 
 the hands of the idiot. 
 
 "I wo-not," said Coppal. "I can see better with the 
 eyes that God give me." 
 
 They cut their way through the darkness and the 
 storm — that fair young girl, her face flushed under the 
 fierce rain that washed it mercilessly, and her beautiful 
 fair hair now tossed and dishevelled, and torn under the 
 fierce sifting of the wind; and her guide and companion, 
 a poor, witless thing, a proverb in many mouths and a 
 butt of all men's scorn. Yet, on that lone and desolate 
 cliff, some strange instinct, planted by the Eternal Mind 
 in lieu of reason, guided the muttering, stammering idiot 
 through the darkness, showed him the rough chasms 
 under his feet, the deep cavernous indentations in the 
 face of the cliff, where one false step would be instant 
 death for both; and Miriam, the beautiful, the desired, 
 trusted herself implicitly to his guidance, and believed 
 
100 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 that if her quest was not to be altogether vain, Cpppal, 
 and he alone, could make it successful. They had gone 
 about half a mile, and Miriam was almost exhausted, 
 when Coppal suddenly stopped, and leaned down his 
 ear as if to hear better. They were now quite close to 
 the Head, but there was no sign of the rescuing party, 
 who had gone out to search for Declan and Anstie. For 
 a few seconds the idiot remained bent in a listening atti- 
 tude. Miriam could see in the darkness a little bay, 
 for the waves were fretted into white foam by the huge 
 rocks that here and there filled the chasm beneath her. 
 Then Coppal, releasing her hand, stooped down, and 
 stretching himself at full length on the wet turf, leaned 
 out over the cliff and tried to peer into the darkness. 
 Then straightening himself up, he grasped Miriam's hand 
 once more, and cried : — 
 
 "Dere's somethin' dere, Miss. Come!" 
 Notwithstanding her sense of great danger, she suffered 
 herself to be led by the idiot, step by step, down the rough 
 goat-path that led to the little bay. Several times she 
 stumbled on the gravel, and Coppal cried: — 
 "Keep in, keep in, Miss! Lane agin the cliff." 
 She did so, throwing all her weight against the wet, 
 red rocks, and grasping at tiny brambles and sea-shrubs 
 to help her perilous descent. At last, they stumbled 
 out upon the firm, wet sand. Cautiously guiding his 
 young mistress, Coppal groped along from rock to rock, 
 peering here and there, as if his eyes could pierce the 
 darkness. At last they came close to where the foaming 
 broken water washed around their feet, the spent and 
 feeble sputter of waves that had flung their gigantic 
 strength upon the strand, and were now retreating, 
 angrily dragging the reluctant pebbles with them. Mir- 
 iam drew back, but Coppal, rushing forward, stooped 
 down and pulled something heavy and dead from the 
 grip of the jealous waves. When he had hoisted it 
 high above the reach of the breakers, he bent down and 
 felt it all over with his wet hand. Then, rising up, he 
 
LOST AND FOUND 101 
 
 gave vent to a long, low, dismal howl, as of a beast 
 cheated of his prey; and Miriam shivered in the rain 
 and the darkness, for she believed that he had found 
 what he sought, and that she, herself, was alone in the 
 world. 
 
Guardian and Ward 
 
 Just as the cry of Coppal echoed through the dark- 
 ness, rising high above the storm, lights were seen dimly 
 flashing on the headland above — the lights of the res- 
 cuing party which had gone out to seek Anstie and Declan. 
 Hoarse voices echoed down through the black night, 
 and in response to Coppal's cries, the lights were seen here 
 and there as the bearers descended the cliff cautiously. 
 In a few minutes the fishermen were on the sandy beach; 
 but when they flashed their lanterns here and there, and 
 the light fell upon Miriam, they started back in fear and 
 amazement, and would have retreated if she had not 
 detained them. Her tall figure, with her garments 
 clinging close from the rain; her face, swept by her wet 
 and sodden hair, the waterproof hood, forming a cowl 
 for her head — all appeared to the astonished gaze of 
 the rescuers, seen there in the darkness of midnight and 
 in the face of the howling hurricane, like a vision of 
 some spirit that had been borne in by the storm, and had 
 floated on the billows to the land. They did not rec- 
 ognise her till she spoke, and calmed their superstitious 
 fears. 
 
 "Good God, Miss!" said the captain of the party, "we 
 thought how you wor a ghost. What is it? Was it you 
 that shouted at us on the cliff?" 
 
 "No," she said. "Come hither and help." 
 
 They went over to where Coppal bent over the sea- 
 waif; and flashing their lanterns downwards, they recog- 
 nised the apparently dead body of Anstie Carroll. It 
 was cold and rigid, and the dress clung heavily around 
 it. There was a slight froth on the mouth that seemed 
 to indicate death. Miriam, dreading the revelation, 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD 103 
 
 came over hesitatingly; but felt a strange sensation of 
 relief at seeing the body of the girl. 
 
 "Would you mind, Miss Miriam," said one of the men, 
 who had torn open Anstie's dress, "puttin' your hand 
 on her heart to see if 'tis batin'?" 
 
 Miriam knelt down and placed her hand on the girl's 
 heart. It seemed as if there were a slight pulsation. 
 She doubted her judgment. 
 
 "Move her gently aside," she said. 
 
 They did; and now she discovered, slow and thin, the 
 vibrating of the heart. 
 
 "Did ye bring cordials?" said Miriam. 
 
 Only a tiny flask of whiskey. Miriam poured some 
 on the purple lips of the girl, and moistening her hands 
 with the liquid, she chafed the cold face, and in a few 
 moments had the pleasure of seeing the eyes faintly 
 open and look unconsciously at her. 
 
 "It is exhaustion rather than drowning," she said 
 to the wondering men. Then, by degrees, she managed 
 to get a few drops into the girl's mouth. There was a 
 quick reviviscence, and Anstie, raised by the strong 
 hands of the men, stared blankly around her. 
 
 Meanwhile Coppal, prowling around like a wild beast, 
 found the boat in which the lovers had gone out to their 
 tragic fate, stove in, and gradually going to wreck under 
 the force of the breakers; and a little further on, seated 
 on a rock, with his head sunk down between his legs, in 
 an attitude of utter prostration and collapse, was Declan 
 Ahern. He, too, was speedily revived by the kind efforts 
 of the villagers, and then the fishermen stared at Mir- 
 iam, as if awaiting her orders. She looked at them, 
 with a blank appeal in her eyes, as if she expected them 
 to say something. 
 
 "You saw nothing, nothing further on the cliff?" she 
 queried at last. 
 
 They looked at her questioningly. 
 
 "You didn't meet father?" she asked, falteringly. 
 
 "No, Miss! What has happened?" 
 
104 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 She told them all. They sympathised deeply with 
 her, but looked at one another. The curse had fallen. 
 
 "'Tis a bad business, Miss," they said at length. 
 "We'll get these poor crachures home. It will then be 
 near daylight, and we can go out again." 
 
 It was reasonable, and Miriam assented. It was quite 
 easy to get Anstie up the cliff. She was stupid and dazed, 
 but obedient. But Declan resisted furiously. He de- 
 clared he was dead! dead! and in hell for ever. The 
 poor fellow's mind was hopelessly gone; and the morn- 
 ing had far dawned before they were able to carry him, 
 a violent and dangerous lunatic, into his father's home. 
 
 When Miriam returned home, Annie had some tea 
 ready for her. This she hastily drank, and leaving orders 
 that she was not to be disturbed, she went to her room. 
 There, having hastily changed her wet garments, she 
 turned down the lamp, and leaning on a little table, 
 began to think. It had been an eventful day — a day 
 of destiny. It would seem as if fate, having left her in 
 peace for so many years, and now tiring of its indiffer- 
 ence, had determined to concentrate in one day the 
 events of many years, so full, so sudden, so final were 
 the catastrophes she had witnessed, or in which she had 
 participated. She knew that some serious business, 
 connected with her own future, had occupied her father 
 and the notary all that long Sunday afternoon; she also 
 knew, as if by instinct, that her father was gone from her 
 for ever. She could hardly find a coign or resting-place 
 for hope in that blank, dim wall of destiny that had 
 risen around her; and if for a moment she leaned a little 
 on probabilities, and the argument that Anstie and Declan 
 had been providentially rescued from the awful death 
 they had tempted, the Curse of Glendarragh, that had 
 haunted the house with its ghastly traditions for so many 
 years, rose up to her memory and her lips, and she con- 
 cluded that her father's was the latest instance of the 
 dread Nemesis that pursues crime from generation to 
 generation. The thought of her utter loneliness over- 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD 105 
 
 whelmed her with despair. But this was only for a 
 moment. Her strong nature rose up defiantly against 
 any apprehensions which cold reason might create about 
 her future; and her thoughts, summoned from the prob- 
 lem of her own future by her strong will, reverted to the 
 past, and lingered, with more of bewilderment than ten- 
 derness, on those from whom she was separated for ever. 
 And, strange to say, in this supreme moment of her life, 
 her feelings would go back, not so much to the memory 
 of her father, whom she had known, as to that of her 
 mother, vague and shadowy as it was, and wrapped more 
 and more in the mists of obscurity. She had loved her 
 father; but it was the love of compassion, which is not 
 the highest leap of that virtue. She had nursed him as 
 a sick child; had borne with all his querulous humours; 
 had been infinitely patient with his eccentricities; but 
 there was lacking that exalted reverence that ennobles 
 and consecrates love. Strength, as much as sorrow, is 
 demanded in a sufferer, if he would command the high- 
 est affection. The minor note of contempt jars and dis- 
 turbs all the finer harmonies that swell and break across 
 the strings of that mysterious lyre, the human heart. 
 Hence, in her desolation, Miriam's thoughts went back 
 to her mother — her sinning, despairing, outcast, wronged 
 mother, who, by some strange instinct, she felt had gone 
 down in the battle of life, not so much by fault of her 
 own, or fate, but by some secret treachery that had never 
 been made known. If only, now, she could see or touch 
 her, nay, even in her most sordid wretchedness; if she 
 could pull her out of the gutters of cities, and clothe her 
 anew with the garments of righteousness; if she could 
 live with her, watch her, cherish her; speak to her soul 
 to soul, as she never could speak to her feeble and com- 
 plaining father; life would yet have a glorious object, 
 and her future a consecrated ideal to follow and realise. 
 Once, and once only, had she caught a glimpse of a small 
 portrait of her mother. It was a dainty little miniature 
 on porcelain. She saw it for a moment; and then it was 
 
106 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 shut from her view for ever. Yet that glance revealed 
 a beautiful, oval face, dark lustrous eyes, and a wealth 
 of fair ringlets framing the face, and revealing it. There 
 was just a suspicion of sternness, or stubbornness, in the 
 under lip, sucked in beneath the upper, where there 
 appeared to hover a faint smile of contempt for men, for 
 the world, for everything. Evidently, a self-centred, 
 self-reliant, defiant face, as of one who would say, going 
 down in the gulfs of despair — "Beaten, baffled, but un- 
 conquered!" And the lonely girl, looking into the dismal 
 future, cried in her heart, "I have no fear; but mother, 
 mother, could we but meet, and hand in hand walk boldly 
 through life, defying fate and the world, we might make 
 our own Paradise of earth, not so much shielding each 
 other from hate and scorn, as content to dwell in a mutual 
 love that would exclude fear by defying all opinions and 
 sentiments but our own." And the sweet face in the 
 miniature came back to her in a dream, and hovered over 
 her, until she sank into a peaceful slumber, that was 
 broken only by the grey dawn that shuddered over earth 
 and sea. 
 
 It was a grey, raw landscape that met her eyes, as shiv- 
 ering with cold and depression she stood at her window, 
 and looked out over the Valley of the Oaks across the 
 roofs of the village to where, furrowed into great, green 
 billows crested with white flame, the ocean still heaved 
 and trembled after the lashings of the hurricane. There 
 was no sun to light the desolation; only the grey light of 
 early winter; and it showed only chillness and silence. 
 For all Nature seemed awed and subdued after the tumul- 
 tuous desolation of the previous night. Her thoughts, 
 chilled by the bareness and gloom outside, reverted to 
 herself. Then she thought of Holthsworth, with a shud- 
 der of infinite repugnance, and all her energies were awak- 
 ened to seek means to avoid meeting him, until he had 
 passed from Glendarragh, and, as she hoped, away from 
 her sight for ever. Like all strong spirits, she sought 
 silence in her sorrow; and anything like explanations as 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD ' 107 
 
 to her father's fate to this man, or hypocritical condo- 
 lences from his lips would have been unbearable. She 
 swiftly decided what she would do. Without even speak- 
 ing to the servants, or acquainting them with her deter- 
 mination, she stole through the back garden, and, making 
 a swift detour around the village, and across some meadow- 
 land, she found herself at the vicarage. The vicar and 
 his wife were at breakfast. They had been discussing 
 the events of the previous day, with the very contradic- 
 tory and imperfect information they had gleaned from 
 the villagers; and Mrs. Crosthwaite had her bonnet and 
 shawl ready to run down to Glendarragh, when the faint 
 knock at the door, the exclamation of the maid: "Oh, 
 Miss Miriam!" and a stifled sob told the name of the 
 morning visitor. She rushed out with an exclamation: — 
 " Miriam, my child!" and Miriam could only say: — " Oh, 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite!" as she sank exhausted by fatigue and 
 sorrow into the open arms of her friend. 
 
 When Holthsworth awoke, cold and stiff, towards 
 the early hours of the morning, he felt a strange shudder, 
 not of chilliness, but of dread. He shook himself to- 
 gether, and began to reason. 
 
 "It is the uncanny place," he said. "Was there ever 
 such a tumble-down, ramshackle, haunted old caravan- 
 serai in the world before? There are ghosts everywhere 
 around, but," as he looked at the empty decanter and 
 the flickering lamp, "I did my best to banish them. Rare 
 good invalid port, too. I wonder what quantity has 
 Lucas got of that precious liquor? The old knave never 
 showed me his cellars. Lord! what a place to live in! 
 not a flower, nor a mirror, nor even a picture — Hallo! 
 what's this distinguished piece of bric-a-brac?" 
 
 His eye for the first time caught the weird, strange 
 sculptures near the mantel-piece, and stretching from 
 side to side towards the wall, and he approached to exam- 
 ine and read. As he did, his face fell. He was a strong 
 man, not by any means prone to superstition; but whether 
 he was unnerved by too much wine, or by the solemn 
 
108 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 silence that held all things around him, or the strange 
 uncanny place, or the unusual hour, as he read he grew 
 pale and trembled. He then remembered having heard 
 something about this tradition before; but he had dis- 
 missed it as childish, and unworthy of a moment's thought. 
 Now, it all came back; and with it, all that occurred the 
 day before, there in the secret recesses of that study. 
 Once again he read it, and tried to shake off the incanta- 
 tion. But he felt that strange shivering again, as of a 
 ghostly hand laid on his face. 
 
 "Some one is walking over my grave," he laughed, 
 "as the folks say down here. I shall arise," he continued, 
 with singular flippancy, which his very nervousness inten- 
 sified, "and go — to bed." 
 
 Daylight brought stronger nerves; and an excellent 
 breakfast, to which, notwithstanding the night's debauch, 
 he did full justice, toned him sufficiently to ask questions 
 of the servants about his host, and his own contemplated 
 departure from Glendarragh. He was not surprised 
 when he found himself breakfasting alone. He con- 
 cluded that his host had not yet risen, and that Miriam 
 had breakfasted early and gone out. He deferred fool- 
 ish questionings, and' possibly unpleasant replies, until 
 he had fortified himself against all possible contingencies 
 in that strange archaic place. But he was hardly pre- 
 pared by breakfast or philosophy to be told that his host 
 was probably drowned, and that Miriam had fled, no 
 one knew whither. 
 
 "Nonsense!" he said to the weeping Annie. "Mr. 
 Lucas has gone down to some farmer's house and is asleep 
 there. He could never have faced that hurricane last 
 night!" 
 
 Annie shook her head. 
 
 "The whole parish is up and looking for him," she 
 said, weeping. "If he was hiding anywhere he could 
 easily be found." 
 
 "But, it is ridiculous, my dear girl — that was an 
 excellent breakfast — you must come to Dublin — you 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD 109 
 
 are thrown away here — it is simply ridiculous to suppose 
 that that feeble old man could have gone even a hundred 
 yards in such a gale!" 
 
 "I don't know, Sir," said Annie, "but they say 'tis the 
 Curse!" 
 
 "Curse? What curse?" 
 
 "The 'Curse of Glendarragh,'" said Annie, removing 
 the breakfast things, but never looking at her visitor. 
 "The curse that will follow the owner of Glendarragh 
 from generation to generation." 
 
 "Ha! did you say the 'owner'?" he cried. "Is it the 
 owner, or the occupier, or the trustee? Come now, 
 you're a clever girl! Answer that!" 
 
 He was decidedly superstitious, and he hated himself 
 for the weakness. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know, Sir," said Annie. "It's all 
 there on the wall. I'm only saying what the people do 
 be saying!" 
 
 "Quite right! quite right! You're an excellent 
 girl. You really must come to Dublin," said Holths- 
 worth, in a kind of reverie of apprehension, rising and 
 going over to the mantelpiece. 
 
 He studied the figures long and carefully; read the 
 ghastly interpretation beneath the one, and the hopeful 
 presaging of the other, and snapped his fingers at both. 
 
 "Destiny! Nemesis! Humbug! We make our own 
 destinies, and learn to flout the pale, persistent goddess. 
 She pursues cowards, but shrinks from those who turn 
 their faces defiantly towards her. Where's Miss Mir- 
 iam? " he said angrily, to the servant. 
 
 She was frightened by his sudden change of manner, 
 and said: — 
 
 "I don't know, Sir. She went out — " 
 
 "Had she breakfast?" 
 
 "N-no! Sir," stammered the girl. 
 
 "At what hour is the carriage ordered?" 
 
 "At eleven, Sir." 
 
 "I must see your young mistress," he said, angrily. 
 
110 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Your master will turn up in the afternoon. But I 
 must see Miss Miriam before I go. Where is she?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you, Sir," said Annie. 
 
 "But you can form an idea! You can guess?" 
 
 "The only place she could go, Sir," said Annie, "ia 
 down to the village. There is a search party out all the 
 morning. Or over to the parson's." 
 
 "Parson? Parson what?" he cried, abruptly. 
 
 "Parson Crosthwaite, Sir," she said. 
 
 "And what would take her there?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 "They're great friends, Sir," said Annie, hastily 
 bundling up the table-cloth, crumbs and all, and fleeing 
 from the room. 
 
 "Catch me goin' to Dublin with the likes of you I" 
 she said to herself. And to her fellow-servants: — 
 
 " If he isn't the ould boy, he's his nephew. Tell John, 
 for the love of God to get the carriage ready, an' take 
 him away, body and bones, from us." 
 
 John was not loth to take the order, and the result was, 
 that a carriage drove up to the door of the vicarage a 
 few minutes after eleven o'clock on that morning, a 
 gentleman alighted, and demanded peremptorily to see 
 Miss Lucas. It was Mrs. Crosthwaite that came into 
 the hall and said: — 
 
 "I do not know who you are. I cannot conceive a 
 gentleman intruding on Miss Lucas's privacy on such a 
 morning, and in face of such awful bereavement." 
 
 "I should have explained," said Holthsworth, politely, 
 "I am a friend of Miss Lucas's, and a guest at Glen- 
 darragh. I simply came on my way back to Dublin 
 to offer my condolences to Miss Lucas on her possible 
 bereavement. I cannot believe that the evil news is 
 correct." 
 
 "Miss Lucas is quite prostrated. I shall deliver your 
 message to her — " 
 
 "Why should I be prevented from seeing Miss Lucas 
 herself? If the sad news is true, I am now in loco parerir 
 Us. I am her guardian and trustee." 
 
GUARDIAN AND WARD 111 
 
 "If you insist, of course. Please step into the drawing- 
 room, and I shall summon Miss Lucas." 
 
 It was probably the worst ordeal that Miriam, in such 
 unhappy circumstances, could be called upon to face. 
 She disliked Holthsworth, through that instinctive feel- 
 ing which fine natures experience when brought face to 
 face with what is warped, and crooked, and insincere. 
 To stand face to face with such a character, to know that 
 it understands perfectly that you read its insincerity 
 and despise it, to feel that you are despised in turn for 
 the weakness of honour, and the powerlessness of truth, 
 which in every age and race have gone under in the unequal 
 conflict — all this was as sharp a trial as a sensitive and 
 refined nature could be called upon to face by the dread 
 exigencies of fate. And Miriam, this morning, physically 
 exhausted and mentally overwhelmed by the magnitude 
 of the disaster that had overtaken her, felt herself quite 
 unable to sustain her attitude of independence and pride. 
 She felt the utter sorrow and despair of that word 'Alone'; 
 and felt she must bow to fate, and see it calmly do its 
 worst. 
 
 "You must really pardon my intrusion, Miriam," said 
 Holthsworth, who was almost touched by the pitiful sight 
 of the girl, "but I am sure I hope that all this sad fore- 
 boding is unfounded; and that your father is yet safe." 
 
 "I can hardly hope it," said Miriam, not looking at 
 him, but gazing vacantly through the window, her hands 
 clasped pitifully before her. 
 
 "I was anxious to remain, and help in the quest after 
 your father," he continued; "but business summons me 
 to Dublin." 
 
 Miriam was silent. She wished from her heart that 
 he would go and say no more. 
 
 "When father returns, I dare say I shall be apprised 
 of it. If — if the worst has happened, perhaps — per- 
 haps — " 
 
 "If it concerns you in any way, I shall let you know," 
 said Miriam, interrogatively. 
 
112 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Well, in one it does," answered Holthsworth, inter- 
 preting her question. "In the event of your father's 
 death, which I hoped would be a far-off event, I have 
 the honour to become your guardian, and the trustee of 
 the estate." 
 
 He expected a gesture of surprise and even of dis- 
 pleasure; but Miriam showed neither, but continued 
 looking listlessly through the window. He was unwill- 
 ing to continue without some expression of feeling on her 
 part; but her silence compelled him. 
 
 "In such an event, of course, you could not remain 
 here — " 
 
 Miriam started now. 
 
 "Why?" she said, looking him steadily in the face. 
 
 "This is no place for a young lady of your — your 
 attractions," he continued. "You must come to Dub- 
 lin, and take your proper place in society." 
 
 The very word aroused the slumbering spirit. 
 
 "Society! I hate the very name. What is your soci- 
 ety to me? To go amongst people that hate and despise 
 one another, and would be allies to concentrate their hate 
 and scorn on me; to be brought face to face with all the 
 fraud and insincerity of life, powerless to unmask it and 
 unwilling to adopt it; to have to eat out my heart in the 
 solitudes and deserts of fine company — no! I shall 
 live here and die here, please God, amongst the poor who 
 love me, and to whom I give my love in return." 
 
 He saw it was useless to speak further now; and he 
 stretched out his hand in a good-bye. She barely touched 
 it with her fingers. He was going out to his carriage, the 
 one thought uppermost in his mind: — "The very mien, 
 gestures, language and look of her mother! Will she share 
 the same fate? " — when he heard his name suddenly called: 
 
 "Mr. Holthsworth, I have lost my father. Where is 
 my mother? you know!" 
 
 "I don't know," he said. "But if I could distrust 
 reason, I should say she was speaking with me at this 
 moment." 
 
XI 
 
 Farewells 
 
 For several days the fishermen of the little village 
 continued their quest along the cliff and coast, but rather 
 to satisfy the wish of Miriam, who clung with a kind of 
 passionate tenacity, born of despair, to the hope that in 
 some way her father had escaped the perils of the hurri- 
 cane, and was safely housed in some poor cabin, or res- 
 cued in some mysterious and miraculous manner. For, 
 now the whole sense of her desolation broke in upon her 
 with appalling vividness; and not even the tender care 
 and sympathy of her kind friends at the Vicarage, nor 
 the shy but sincere condolence of her servants and the 
 villagers could mitigate a feeling of loneliness that was 
 overwhelming in its intensity. Sometimes, she reproached 
 herself with her cowardice in yielding so completely to 
 this harrowing sense of her bereavement; and, with swift, 
 strong stirrings of the spirit she would rise above the 
 weakness for days. Then again the word, Alone! which 
 has such depressing suggestions for the strongest and 
 best-balanced mind, would recur to her with terrible sig- 
 nificance. She rarely spoke of her sorrow. Souls like 
 hers, prefer to suffer in silence. But, now and again, 
 she would break forth in the presence of her dear friends, 
 who would allow her to sob herself into silence rather 
 than offer empty words of sympathy or weak words 
 against despair; and sometimes, when in the cabin of a 
 fisherman, the quick and ready feelings of the poor would 
 express themselves in rude, but fervent words of condo- 
 lence, she would only sigh and shake her head sadly. 
 
 "Wisha, agragal," some poor woman would say, "'tis 
 the hard thrial, to be sure, but sure haven't you God and 
 His Blessed Mother with you?" 
 
114 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," Miriam would answer, "but in the 
 worst trials, people have some friends: but I am alone, 
 alone!" 
 
 "How can you be alone, Miss," would come the ready 
 reply, "when you have the great God wid you? Isn't 
 he a match for the wurruld? " 
 
 But Miriam had never been taught the philosophy of 
 the poor; and she failed to understand it. 
 
 She found a relief, however, in her usual missions of 
 charity and kindness amongst such, as like herself, were 
 suffering; and she was particularly kind to poor little 
 Anstie, who had now fully recovered from the shock of that 
 dreadful evening, but was shunned, as a kind of crimi- 
 nal, by all her associates in the village. Declan Ahem 
 had been taken to the County Asylum, and had been pro- 
 nounced in a fair way to recovery. His splendid consti- 
 tution was asserting itself against the effects of the 
 violent paroxysms to which he had unhappily yielded, and 
 which terminated so tragically. But all the blame was 
 laid at Anstie's door, and many and bitter were the com- 
 ments passed on her conduct. She was formally expelled 
 from the village choir. The young men passed her by 
 without a nod of recognition. The young girls talked 
 loudly at her, when passing, although they affected not 
 to see her. Her father was growing older and more 
 feeble every day, and altogether she who had been the 
 envied one of the village, gradually grew to be the de- 
 spised. If she had been of a milder nature, this would 
 have had a chastening influence on her; but Anstie had 
 all the fire and passion of her race, and she grew hardened 
 under the pressure of public opinion, and defied it. And 
 just at this crisis, when the affectionate solicitude of 
 friends saved Miriam from despair, her own kindness 
 towards Anstie saved the latter from an utter abandon- 
 ment of passion. 
 
 Meanwhile, Holthsworth, now legal trustee of the 
 estate and of Miriam herself, continued to urge her to 
 leave Glendarragh, and come up to Dublin. But her 
 
FAREWELLS 115 
 
 dread of society, of mixing with and meeting people who 
 might despise her for her mother's faults, or her own dis- 
 inclination to accommodate herself to their ways of life, 
 forbade her to accept the invitation. It was the subject 
 of many a friendly debate at the Rectory. The rector 
 was as emphatic as he could be about anything, in saying 
 that Miriam was thrown away there in that remote coun- 
 try place; that she would be an ornament to society, 
 etc. Mrs. Crosthwaite, probably from her affection for 
 Miriam, and her secret, unavowed wish to retain so charm- 
 ing a companion, argued otherwise. Miriam could be 
 happier there amongst those who loved her, than in the 
 cold, steely, if glittering mazes of society. Some day, 
 the Prince would discover her, and marry her; and she 
 would lift the Curse from Glendarragh, and all would 
 go merry as the marriage bell. Then the vicar, a great 
 believer not only in the omnipotence, but in the righteous- 
 ness, of human law, would prophesy that, sooner or later, 
 her guardian would insist on Miriam's going to Dublin, 
 and that he could not be possibly resisted. Mrs. Cros- 
 thwaite, on the contrary, maintained that there was no 
 law to that effect, limiting the freedom of a subject who 
 had come of age; and that even if Holthsworth had re- 
 course to rough measures, there were a hundred ways, 
 thank God, in Ireland, of evading the law, and maintain- 
 ing individual independence. 
 
 "Don't say that, my dear, before the servants," pleaded 
 the gentle rector. "If these ideas went abroad, as sanc- 
 tioned by me", and — you, the congregation would leave 
 us, and go elsewhere." 
 
 "Not much of a loss, and not much of an increase," 
 said Mrs. Crosthwaite. "How many have we? Ten, 
 including Miriam, and two coast-guards and their fam- 
 ilies. That's another reason for keeping Miriam. If 
 she goes, no one will understand your sermons." 
 
 "We would miss her sadly," said the rector, remember- 
 ing with harmless vanity the pleasant little discussions he 
 had had, from time to time, with the bright, intelligent 
 
116 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 girl, about life and death, and the Unseen; and how 
 he had excited her fancy with suggestions of beautiful 
 abstractions, and mysterious hints about the wonder and 
 mystery of life, and the sadness of the eternal progress 
 of things, instead of their settling and subsiding into one 
 happy, uneventful, and irresponsible Now! 
 
 "There is the great despair of life, my dear," he used 
 to say, "that we cannot stand still. It is always on, on, 
 on — the eternal wheel revolving, night and day, and toss- 
 ing up sparks of light and fire; and anon, mud and silt 
 and stones. No wonder the poet cried: — 
 
 O World, where all things change, and nought abides! 
 O Life, the long mutation!" 
 
 "Aye, Mr. Crosthwaite," Miriam would answer, "but 
 what of the sick, the unhappy, the despairing? Would 
 you wish for an eternal Now! for them?" 
 
 "N-no," the good rector would answer. "I would 
 give them relief; and, when relieved, establish them in 
 their new-found happiness with an everlasting Now!" 
 
 "And they would grow weary of it; and pine even for 
 the novelty of pain. Anything, anything, but sameness! 
 Isn't this ennui the disease of the age?" 
 
 "Yes! But it is a disease, my dear. Now, keep free 
 from it. Look not before, nor after; but enjoy the Now! 
 and make it as eternal as you can!" 
 
 Alas! for the good rector's philosophy, and alas! for 
 all philosophy. On goes the eternal wheel — no ceasing, 
 no stopping for human cries; but ever-varying, eternal 
 change. And, one day in the early Spring, there came a 
 peremptory, but polite order from her guardian to Mir- 
 iam, and with it an auctioneer's bill, to be posted up on 
 the gates of Glendarragh demesne; and specifying, down 
 to the smallest detail, the articles of furniture that were 
 to be sold in a fortnight's time — some of them, too, 
 very dear to Miriam because of their associations. What 
 is one to do — before Fate, the inexorable, and Destiny, 
 the inevitable? One article was overlooked — the sym- 
 
FAREWELLS 117 
 
 bols of the Curse. Everything else was to come under 
 the hammer. 
 
 So far everything appeared to promise well for the 
 designs of Mr. Holthsworth. It was quite clear that 
 when Glendarragh was dismantled, there was no such 
 thing as dwelling there. The servants, too, had received 
 notice to leave, all wages being paid in advance to the 
 auction-day. The eventful day came; but there was no 
 auction. The auctioneer drove up in his smart trap, 
 rubbed his hands, looked around to see that all was right 
 for the eventful moment, when carriages and cabs would 
 roll into the yard, and occupy the terrace, and he would 
 commence his day's work on the "antique and valuable 
 furniture of this ancient and historical mansion." Alas! 
 there were no carriages, not even cabs. The gentry and 
 nobility, to whom he had so pathetically appealed were 
 conspicuous by their absence. A few loiterers hung 
 around the premises. Twelve o'clock struck; the auc- 
 tioneer was amazed. "It was unprecedented," he said, 
 "in his experience." He waited for an hour. The very 
 loiterers had vanished. Coppal alone put in his wild, ape- 
 like face and grinned. 
 
 "Pu-pu-pu-put up dem ding-dongs," he said, "a-a-and 
 I'll buy dem. He! he! he!" 
 
 He pointed to the great hall-clock, which struck the 
 quarters, and whose low, deep tones had a peculiar fas- 
 cination for him. 
 
 "Come here," said the auctioneer, peremptorily. 
 
 Coppal pulled down the loose lock of shaggy, grimy 
 hair that hung on his forehead, and came into the hall. 
 
 "Where are the people, you fool?" angrily asked the 
 auctioneer. 
 
 "D-de-de people? Wha-wha-what people?" said 
 Coppal. 
 
 "The people that should be here," said the auctioneer. 
 "What new devilment is going on amongst ye here?" 
 
 "De-de-divil is on your side," said Coppal. "De-de- 
 disisa'Cant."' 
 
118 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Then the truth dawned on the salesman. A "Cant" 
 meant sales, compulsory and legal, of property sold under 
 some debtor's act, and at the instigation of his creditors. 
 It was decidedly unpopular in Ireland; and the word had 
 gone around to city, town, and hamlet, that the sale had 
 been ordered against Miss Lucas's express desire, and that 
 only traitors to their country and cause would attend. 
 
 "I see," said the man of the hammer, "the auction 
 must be postponed until further notice." 
 
 A few days after a deputation of the tenantry called 
 upon Miriam. Ireland is a wonderful place for deputa- 
 tions. Deputations are supposed to settle everything. 
 There are deputations to parish priests, if a school is 
 vacant, or a chapel-woman has died, or a local sexton has 
 been buried, side by side, at last, with those whom he 
 had helped to inter. There are deputations to Bishops 
 about vacant parishes, which the people would like to 
 give to a favourite curate; deputations to County Coun- 
 cils, Grand Juries, Dispensary Committees; deputations 
 to agents and landlords to reduce rents, and deputations 
 to Leaguers to help them to defy them. And the depu- 
 tations come prepared, not to reason and argue, but to 
 carry their point. And, it is amusing sometimes, to see 
 some venerable body, who are quite convinced they have 
 reason and principle on their side, arguing and proving 
 by every species of logic, that a certain thing cannot be 
 done; and the deputation, calmly listening, as if they were 
 open as children to conviction, then coolly departing to — 
 have their own way. And so a deputation of the tenantry 
 called on Miriam. 
 
 "We kem to ask you, Miss Miriam," said the foreman 
 of the deputation, "to whom we are to pay our rint in 
 future?" 
 
 "I am not very certain," said Miriam, who understood 
 but little of her own position, and less of the law. "I 
 suppose you will get legal notice in due time." 
 
 "We got thim," said the spokesman, holding up a sheaf 
 of papers, "from some fellow in Dublin, an' begor, you'd 
 
FAREWELIS 119 
 
 think he owned half the wurruld, and a good bit of the 
 moon thrown in, the way he spakes. But we want to 
 know from yer own lips, Miss, are you the owner of our 
 land, or is it somebody else?" 
 
 "I presume I am the owner," said Miriam, "but the 
 property is probably vested in a trustee, who — " 
 
 "Is that the naygur, wid a jaw like a blacking-brush, 
 that was down here lately?" asked one of the other 
 tenants. " Because, Miss, to tell you the thruth, we don't 
 think much of himf" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Holthsworth! He is my poor father's legal 
 representative now — " 
 
 "To make a long story short, Miss Miriam," said the 
 spokesman of the deputation, who insisted on his right 
 to interpret the common opinion, "we've brought the 
 rint to you," here he unbuttoned his great coat, and 
 dragged out of his side-pocket a huge bundle of grimy 
 notes, "because you have the best right to it. How are 
 we to know whether you'd ever get a pinny of your rights 
 from that fellow?" 
 
 "Oh! no, no, no!" said Miriam, anxiously pushing the 
 notes aside. "You are all extremely kind, indeed; it 
 would be illegal, and you would be again responsible. 
 Unless, indeed," she said with some hesitation, "you 
 wish me to spare you the trouble, and desire that I should 
 forward the rent to Mr. Holthsworth in your names? " 
 
 "Thin, divil a note you'll get from us, Miss," said the 
 farmer, replacing the money in his pocket, "unless you 
 promise to keep it for yourself." 
 
 "But the law, my dear friends — you are very kind 
 indeed, but you know that if I were to accept your 
 money, Mr. Holthsworth could sue you, and perhaps do 
 you harm." 
 
 "Make your mind aisy about that, Miss," said the 
 farmer, looking around at his neighbours with an air of 
 satisfaction, "but I'll tell you what it is, Miss. If you 
 take our money, as our landlord, by the laws of the land, 
 well and good. If you don't, divil a pinny will that 
 
120 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 fellow get from us. We know somethin' about him. We'll 
 lodge our money in your name in the Bank; and begobs, 
 we'll tie it up so that even yerself cannot give it to any- 
 body, but yerself." 
 
 "You are very kind," said Miriam, "but I am afraid 
 it will involve you in great trouble." 
 
 "Make yer mind aisy, Miss, about that. If we get 
 throuble, we can give it back on the double." 
 
 And because this aphorism rhymed neatly, the good 
 farmer smiled at his success, as the deputation departed. 
 
 Miriam stood looking at them with a strange, wistful 
 glance, as they passed down to the gate of the sphinxes. 
 Their loyalty, their affection, for her, not of their faith, and 
 almost a stranger, touched her deeply. As she watched 
 them, one broke away from his companions, and returned. 
 
 "We have been sayin', Miss," he said, with a kind of 
 blush on his rugged features, "that whin you come back 
 to lift the Curse, you'll want many a good pound to put 
 the ould place in repair. But, take our word for it we'll 
 keep the war chest safe locked till you return. Good-bye, 
 Miss Miriam. God wos never wantin' to the orphan!" 
 
 "Good-bye!" said Miriam sadly. 
 
 For, neither the law, nor its darling child, Mr. Holths- 
 worth was to be balked. On a certain day in the follow- 
 ing week, four huge vans drove up to Glendarragh House; 
 and eight sturdy porters dismantled it; and packed away 
 every article of furniture in it; and that night Miriam slept 
 under a stranger's roof, if indeed, they could be called 
 strangers at the Vicarage, who had been her dearest 
 friends. 
 
 "There's wan thing stuck in the wall here," said a por- 
 ter, as he looked around the bare halls and rooms, to see 
 if anything had escaped him. 
 
 "What is it?" said .the driver of the van. 
 
 "A quare thing, like a purcession," said the porter. 
 
 "Is it movable, or a fixture?" said the driver. 
 
 "It is nailed agin the wall," said the porter, "or stuck 
 into it." 
 
FAREWELLS 121 
 
 "Lave it there, thin, and come on," said the driver. 
 "There's nothin' about it in our orders." 
 
 And so Destiny remained sunk deep in the wall of the 
 doomed house. 
 
 After a little while, it became evident to Miriam that 
 Destiny, too, was weaving a future for herself, and that 
 the inexorable, and unseen goddess was not to be denied. 
 It is a strange thing that no kindness can conquer pride 
 — even the legitimate pride of feeling oneself an incum- 
 brance on the charity of others. And, although the 
 vicar and his wife would most gladly have retained the 
 companionship of Miriam for the rest of her life, and 
 would be willing to surround her with every substitute 
 for home affection and comfort, she felt it was not to be. 
 And so, on a certain day, Mr. Holthsworth did refurbish 
 his rooms, although they were very exquisite already, 
 for the reception of a lady; and Miriam began to make 
 her farewells. 
 
 She had determined to take Anstie with her, as the 
 position of the girl had become intolerable at home; and, 
 after some reluctance, and only when she saw her father 
 installed in a neighbour's house, where his pension was 
 sufficient to support him, Anstie consented. 
 
 The evening before they left for Dublin, Anstie went 
 down to the little chapel to say her farewell prayer there. 
 She remained a long time, hidden in its gloom; and all the 
 past, with its sweet and tranquil associations came back 
 to her memory. Here she had heard her first Mass, 
 peeping out from behind her mother's apron at the tre- 
 mendous spectacle of the Altar, wondering, ignorant, 
 dazed. Here, too, she had come with her classmates on 
 the long, summer afternoons to learn her Catechism, 
 and prepare for her first confession. Here, she made her 
 First Communion that tremendous morning, when the 
 heavens bent down to earth and swallowed up all its 
 trivialities and littlenesses. Here, she was confirmed, 
 full of nervous fears and trembling at the great, majes- 
 tic Bishop; and here, oh! so many times she had heard 
 
122 MIRIAM LUCAS~ T 
 
 Mass, received the Sacraments; but here! too, had she 
 approached the tremendous mysteries with her faith 
 somewhat choked by vanity and the notice of men, and 
 her charity cooled because she had blended human with 
 Divine Love. Anstie was not, as we have seen, too 
 impressionable; yet, there in the twilight, her tears fell 
 sadly, as she promised all great and good things for her 
 future, and besought God and His Mother to guide her 
 through life. Then, she rose, and passed into the little 
 churchyard, and knelt by her mother's grave. Here, 
 too, she gave herself up to some sweet, sad meditations 
 on the vanished life; here she breathed a silent prayer 
 to the unseen spirit, that was yet watching over her; 
 and taking from her bosom a little spray of early flowers, 
 she kissed them, and laid them reverently on the grave. 
 She rose up to depart, and found Declan Ahern standing 
 near, looking intently at her. 
 
 She was much alarmed, for she had not heard that he 
 had left the Asylum cured; and, besides, the dread of the 
 past, and the insecurity that hangs around those who 
 have been ever seriously demented, broke upon her 
 startled imagination; and she stood, with her hands 
 clasped before her, looking at him in speechless dread. 
 He, too, continued looking at her for a long time, and 
 then he said in a low, hollow, broken voice: — 
 
 "Anstie, I hard that you were goin' away for ever!" 
 
 "Yes," she said, nervously, "I am!" 
 
 "Don't be af eared of me, Anstie," he said, "'tis a lone- 
 some place; but, if it were twenty times as lonesome, ye 
 have nothin' now to fear from me." 
 
 "I'm not afraid of you, Declan," she said, somewhat 
 reassured, "but Miss Miriam is waiting for me to pack 
 her trunks, and I must be going." 
 
 "Wan minit, only wan," he said, trying to moisten his 
 dry lips, and to get out his words. "I suppose," he con- 
 tinued, nervously, "there's no use in bringin' up the ould 
 bisness agin, Anstie. But, perhaps — some time — in 
 the future — oh! my God!" he almost shouted In an 
 
FAREWELLS 123 
 
 accent of anguish, that made the girl's heart sink with 
 remorse and contrition. She put out her hand. 
 
 "Declan," she said, "I treated you badly. God knows 
 I am sorry." 
 
 "No, Anstie," he said, weeping. "It was all my 
 fault. You were too good for me; an' I didn't know 
 it." 
 
 " 'Tis all the better, Deck," she said, placing her hand 
 on his arm. " One of these days you will marry and settle 
 down, and be happy with some better girl than me — " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Never, never!" he said. "I belonged to you, Anstie, 
 body and sowl; and I'll never think of another." 
 
 He remained sunk in a kind of stupor. Anstie wished 
 he would go; yet she felt the keenest pity for him, the 
 keenest shame for herself. 
 
 "I want to ask you wan faver, Anstie," he said, not 
 daring to look at her, for he distrusted his own fortitude. 
 
 "Would you ask the ould man to stay with us, till — 
 till you come back? He'll be lonesome among strangers." 
 
 "But your father and mother, Deck — " 
 
 "The father and mother want it, too. He'll be no 
 throuble, they said. The bit he ate won't matther, and 
 wan fire will do for all; an' thin, 'twill make us sometimes 
 think of ould times." 
 
 "Declan," said Anstie, now weeping freely, "you are 
 too good. If I had known sooner — I'll tell father, an' 
 he'll be sure to go to you." 
 
 "You know, Anstie," said the poor young fellow, not 
 looking at her, but up at the sky, at the graves, at the 
 flowers, "'twill remind us of you, too. I suppose wher- 
 ever you are, you'll write to the ould man. You'll be 
 changed a good dale, if iver you forget him. An' thin, 
 'twill be a bame of sunshine acrass our flure, whin we 
 sees the postmark, an' your own bit of writin'. An' 
 sure, I'll work up and get the schoolmasther to tache me 
 betther, so that I can write back to you for your poor 
 father. And, who knows, perhaps some day you may 
 
124 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 be sick an' sore — I don't wish it, Anstie, or anything else 
 but what is good for you — but it may happen that you 
 would wish to come back to us agin; an' shure it's some- 
 thin' to know that ye have a little home in the ould place; 
 an' I promise you before God and His Blessed Mother 
 that I'll never spake of the ould affair agin." 
 
 "Declan," said Anstie, trying vainly to keep back her 
 tears, "God bless you! You've a thrue heart!" 
 
 The following day, Anstie, with her little trunk well 
 corded, drove in a farmer's cart the eight miles to the 
 train. Miriam followed in the vicar's trap. The vicar's 
 wife had taken the reins, and in her old matter-of-fact 
 way, had said: — 
 
 "Now, John, we have no time to spare! Say good- 
 bye to Miriam." 
 
 The old man, with his head uncovered, although the 
 sun shone fiercely down upon him, came over to the 
 side where Miriam sat. 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear. If ever you — that is — you 
 know, this is your home always; and we'll be pleased, 
 my wife and I — " 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, you're a fool. Go in out of the 
 sun, or you'll get a stroke." 
 
 Miriam stooped down, and kissed the old man's fore- 
 head. Then, amidst tears from the weeping people and 
 fervent prayers for her welfare to the Father of the 
 orphan and the widow, she passed from their sight. 
 
 The vicar when he returned to his study wrote down 
 at once, and with extreme care the following: — 
 
 "The great comet, Myrrha, discovered by the Rev. 
 John Crosthwaite on the night of March 187-, must have 
 now completed its cycle, and will probably appear in the 
 south-west horizon, one of these nights." 
 
 After some reflection, he crossed out several words, 
 and changed more. Then, because the paper looked 
 untidy under the erasures, he tore it up; and taking a 
 clean sheet, after some meditation and biting of the pen- 
 handle, he wrote again: — 
 
FAREWELLS 125 
 
 "The new star, Myrrha, in the constellation of the 
 Lyre, and which was discovered by the Rev. John Cros- 
 thwaite, with a four inch lens on the night of the 14th of 
 March, 186-, has suddenly disappeared from the place 
 in the heavens which she occupied, thus proving it to be, 
 as the discoverer surmised, a variable star — " 
 
 "No, no," said the vicar, "that won't do! Variable? 
 God forbid. The child is as true as the Polar!" 
 
 He bent down his head over the paper, which this time 
 was blotted not with ink or pen, but with a tear. 
 
BOOK II 
 
BOOK II 
 
 XII 
 
 "The Watchman" 
 
 Here, then, was our Miriam suddenly launched upon 
 life from the quiet little haven where hitherto her years, 
 comparatively happy, had been spent. It was an unpleas- 
 ant change; but one so full of wonder and freshness that, 
 for a while at least, the unpleasantness remained unre- 
 vealed to her consciousness. For Holthsworth took care 
 to surround this beautiful girl, so suddenly and rudely 
 transplanted from her more congenial surroundings with 
 every care and comfort that a luxurious taste and great 
 wealth could procure. And whilst he avoided, with 
 much solicitude, any introductions that could lead her 
 into certain circles of good society where he moved, he 
 was also careful to bring her in touch with some milder 
 spirits, who, without brilliancy or show, would yet be 
 kind to the friendless girl. Had he a hope that those 
 guileless natures would mould her thoughts in their own 
 groove, and give them a bias towards himself? For now 
 he had set his heart, with all the strength and determina- 
 tion of which such breasts are capable, on making Mir- 
 iam his wife. Strong natures are attracted by the strong. 
 Holthsworth did not want, as regnant queen of his house- 
 hold, any of your creeping, fawning women — white, 
 murmuring doves, with wings of pearl to be stroked and 
 caressed, and who give back plaintive little cries, and a 
 certain measure of domestic felicity. He rather leaned 
 towards the strong, the untamed spirits, defiant like 
 himself, and with whom he might sometimes at least 
 have the pleasure of a joust with tongue and temper. 
 And Miriam seemed to him the very replica of his own 
 
130 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 spirit. Her very defiance of him, her undisguised dislike 
 and contempt only accentuated his desire to get into his 
 power this eagle-spirit, and to conquer it. Whether he 
 had baser motives, with a view to her property, is a 
 matter of conjecture. He was enormously wealthy — 
 had shares and stocks in half the mammon-markets of 
 the world. But, such spirits are rapacious. Their appe- 
 tite grows with eating. 
 
 Yet, surrounded by every comfort and luxury, Mir- 
 iam, after the first period of wonderment had ceased, 
 grew home-sick for the Oak-Valley, and the cliffs and the 
 sea. And, as she grew to understand what hollowness lay 
 beneath the glitter of society, how language, verily, was 
 the veil of thought, and people lied with their lips, with 
 their eyes, with the very shrug of their shoulders, she 
 began to yearn for the simple, unsophisticated people 
 she had left — for the dear old guileless, kindly minister 
 and his loving wife; for the rough dependents of Glen- 
 darragh, who worshipped her, for the fishermen and 
 labourers; yea, even for the fool, who followed her like 
 a dog. 
 
 Then, like all sensitive and noble souls, brought sud- 
 denly from solitude into chill contact with the world, she 
 shrank into herself, and folded up her thoughts and 
 wishes in swaddling-clothes of silence. Not that she 
 ever became morose or selfish. The remembrance of the 
 past and the sweet natures she had known would be quite 
 enough to antagonise the present; and as healing woods 
 in acrid waters, to purify the more or less hostile elements 
 around her. But she was flung back upon herself, and had 
 to find other resources for an eager and restless, though 
 serene spirit, than were to be found in human society. 
 
 Holthsworth had a splendid library of splendid books, 
 splendidly bound. He had read a good deal, and could 
 speak well on the authors — the recognised masters — 
 of every national literature, and it was a pure physical 
 pleasure to look at, or take down any of the magnificent 
 volumes on his shelves, and merely feel its creamy soft- 
 
itTHE WATCHMAN',' 131 
 
 ness, or watch and study the beautiful colours that were 
 ingrained in its calf or morocco bindings, and the large, 
 clear type, and broad margins of the text. On his li- 
 brary table, too, were to be found papers and magazines 
 of every type and colour of thought, from the thin sheets 
 of some ephemeral journal to the large, firm quarto of 
 some great literary organ. Over these Miriam lingered 
 many and many an hour, drinking in inspiration from 
 great minds and wondering, wondering at the treasures, 
 as if some Aladdin lamp had opened up to her a hidden 
 cave where the wealth of generations had been massed. 
 One day her eye lighted on a paper called "The Watch- 
 man." It was a thin sheet of only eight pages; but para- 
 graph after paragraph seemed to have been written with 
 a pen dipped in flame. The words binned with the fierce 
 enthusiasm of a conviction that was a faith; and the bur- 
 den of the teaching was the ceaseless war between labour 
 and capital; and the rights, the rights, — the wrongs, 
 the wrongs of the poor. Society was solemnly arraigned 
 as a criminal conspiracy against the weak and the suffer- 
 ing; and all generous and courageous natures were sum- 
 moned to take part in the war, just now inevitable, against 
 this society, until it was remodelled and reformed on a 
 new, and more legitimate basis. Here and there were 
 burning sentences from masters of epigram and maximes; 
 and in certain columns, long, deep, rolling stanzas of 
 verse, each line a trumpet-call to such a spirit as Miriam's. 
 The girl, keenly alive to her own disabilities, and her 
 sufferings from this same Society; and sympathising heart 
 and soul with the poor and the workers, read, with kin- 
 dling eyes and heaving breast, these flaming sentences. 
 Week by week she looked forward to the Thursday even- 
 ing when this sheet, wet from the printer's hands, would 
 appear on the library table. She took it promptly to her 
 own room, and read every sentence of it, not measuring 
 its wisdom or prudence, or practicability, but blind, with 
 the excess of feeling and enthusiasm, to everything but 
 its hot and generous appeal. One day there appeared 
 
132 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 in an angle of the paper Speranza's "Year of Revolu- 
 tions." It was the summing up of every lesson in its 
 most beautiful form. Miriam committed the words to 
 memory; and afterwards whiled away many a weary mo- 
 ment, and scattered many a dream of despondency by 
 repeating the stirring lines. 
 
 Then, at last, she did what all who have great convic- 
 tions long to do. She took up her pen. With fear and 
 trembling, yet with the firmness that comes from a strong 
 conviction, she wrote from her heart some things that 
 she had been long dreaming over. She read her writing 
 over again and again, spoiled some things by remodel- 
 ling them; but at length sent the flaming epistle to the 
 editor of "The Watchman." 
 
 That good man leaped from his office stool as he read 
 them. Then, he handed them to his sub-editor, who 
 read them more coolly, and said: — 
 
 "Put it in! Madame Roland has come to life!" And 
 so Miriam made her dibut in literature. 
 
 And for many weeks during that winter she poured 
 into the editorial office paper after paper, dealing with 
 one form or another of Socialistic theories. Sometimes, 
 it might be a little poem; sometimes, a brief comment on 
 the sayings of leading Socialists in Germany; sometimes, 
 a review of some new book; but always with one gos- 
 pel — the irreconcilable antipathy of the classes that 
 make up a Commonwealth, and the necessity of formulat- 
 ing new and more human social systems and surroundings. 
 There were, of course, some qualms — not of conscience, 
 for conscience never rebuked her — but that timidity, 
 that belongs to all feminine natures would recoil some- 
 times, when she thought: — 
 
 "What if these ideas were put into practice? What, 
 if the masses rose up; and in fire and ruin taught the les- 
 sons that I am teaching in cold print?" 
 
 But this seemed far away and unlikely. Meanwhile, 
 here was the delight of seeing herself in print, and of 
 hearing again and again, the plaudits that came from 
 
"THE WATCHMAN" 133 
 
 the outside world, and were echoed to her from the edi- 
 torial office. 
 
 Once, she was a little more disturbed. It was, when, 
 having sent a marked copy of the paper down to Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite at her old home, she got back a warning 
 answer, the strongest condemnation of such principles, 
 although the authoress was evidently unknown. 
 
 "John," wrote Mrs. Crosthwaite, "says that such ideas 
 are subversive to all morality and religion. He wonders 
 how such a paper could have reached your gentle hands; 
 and he says that you should burn all future copies that 
 you find. I don't understand it; but it must be all 
 wrong. Take care, dearest! Take care! The old ogre 
 who has caged my pretty bird may have his own designs in 
 placing such poison before her. We shall defeat him yet; 
 as your tenants are defeating him now. They won't 
 pay him one penny until he can prove title. Oh, if you 
 were only here, our little Queen of Hearts! what a place 
 Glendarragh would be once more!" 
 
 This, and many other, kind warning expressions did 
 disturb Miriam a little. But only for a moment. Great 
 causes need great sacrifices, and was she not called of 
 Heaven to make them? But sometimes, when visiting 
 in the city, her heart stood still, when she heard the vig- 
 orous condemnations of society on her opinions, and even 
 her work, and the anathemas which rained from soft 
 lips on doctrines which were as dear to her, and as true, 
 as religion. How she yearned for some kindred soul 
 into whose sympathetic bosom she could pour her impas- 
 sioned ideas and sublime hopes for the future. If she 
 had heard even one sympathetic word, one little sigh of 
 tenderness for bleeding humanity, it would be enough. 
 But no! "The poor in a lump is bad," t- that was the 
 burden of all conversation, the one revealed dogma of 
 society, and with it, the eternal cry for Force! Force! 
 to keep down the turbulent elements that everyone knew 
 were seething beneath the polished surface of civilisation. 
 ,. Once, she timidly ventured to escape for a moment 
 
134 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 from a lady-companion (a Madame B , who lived in 
 
 Harcourt Street, and was a kind of dependent on Holths- 
 worth's charity), and to rush down a narrow alley that 
 opened off Sackville Street to a certain house, that had 
 great attractions for her highly-wrought imagination. 
 She drew back at its aspect of sordid and blackened mean- 
 ness. But no! there was no mistake. There, over the 
 fan-light, were the unmistakable words in yellow ochre, 
 a tawdry substitute for gold lettering: "The Watchman." 
 The one window seemed to be pasted all over with copies 
 of the paper, festooned with numberless cobwebs. She 
 would have drawn back, but her impetuous spirit would 
 not allow her. She entered. The long, dark room, 
 lighted at one end by a dirty window, was dingy in the 
 extreme. The damp smell of wet newspapers, the odour 
 of printer's ink and oil were everywhere. Great files of 
 the paper seemed to fill up the shelves that stretched up 
 to the ceiling; and the floor, where it was not littered 
 with scraps of paper, was filthy with the mud of many 
 boots, and here and there darkened with huge splotches 
 of ink. 
 
 Miriam walked slowly and hesitatingly along the dirty 
 floor. A solitary clerk, who had been perched on a high 
 desk at the end of the room, came forward, his quill pen 
 behind his ear, and his hands stuck deep in his pockets. 
 
 "I wish to see the editor," said Miriam. 
 
 "Not visible yet above our horizon," said the clerk. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Stenson, then — can I see him?" 
 
 "Not visible either," said the clerk. "In fact, quite 
 eclipsed." 
 
 She turned to go. 
 
 "Who, shall I say, has called?" he said. 
 
 "It does not matter!" she said, shortly, as she left 
 the place. 
 
 The clerk's further ideas were not complimentary; 
 and Miriam's? Her heart sank down as she sought her 
 friend in a news-shop quite near. The newsboys clam- 
 oured round her, merry as mudlarks, grinning, laughing, 
 
"THE WATCHMAN" 135 
 
 cheating, singing. One or two labourers calmly smoked 
 leaning up against a dead wall in the street. Through 
 the open door of a public-house she heard the sounds of 
 revelling and drunken singing, although the day was yet 
 young; the 'prentice-girls and shop-employees, who were 
 home for dinner, passed gaily by, linked arm-in-arm, 
 and tossing their foolish little heads in playful scorn at 
 young men, who stood idly by to watch them. Where 
 was the down-trodden and trampled proletariat? Where 
 the misery, the squalor, the depressed heads and sad and 
 worn faces of the many who were the victims of a vicious 
 and selfish oligarchy? 
 
 Miriam's enthusiasm began to ooze out slowly under the 
 influence of that great disillusionist — experience. She 
 regained her friend, and they drove home slowly through 
 the crowded streets. 
 
 "Madame," said Miriam, when they had passed out 
 from the roar of the city into a tranquil suburb, "where 
 are the poor? I mean, where are the submerged and 
 down-trodden masses of the people?" 
 
 Madame B looked at her charge curiously. "I 
 
 don't know, my dear," she said. "People in our sphere 
 of life know nothing of these things. There are, of course, 
 carriage-people, and people who walk; and there are 
 Papists or kitchen people and their masters — " 
 
 "What?" said Miriam, flushing. "Do you mean, 
 
 Madame B , that it is religion makes the difference 
 
 and nothing else?" 
 
 "Of course, my dear child," said Madame B , 
 
 sweetly. "What else? There is no other distinction in 
 this country. The Papists are poor, and our serfs; the 
 Protestants are wealthy, and the masters — what more?" 
 
 Miriam was silent. New lights were beginning to 
 break upon her. Then she said: — 
 
 "In that case, Madame, Papists, as you say, are never 
 allowed into good" — she gulped down the word — 
 "Society?" 
 
 "Never!" said Madame B , dogmatically. "Or 
 
136 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 if ever," she said, settling her hands more comfortably 
 in her muff, "on account of their accidental wealth, or 
 other circumstance, they are merely tolerated, never 
 assimilated. But ask your Guardian about these things. 
 He understands them so much better than I." 
 
XIII 
 A Workmen's Conclave 
 
 In an upper room of a hotel, kept by an Italian in a 
 back street in Dublin, three men met one evening in the 
 early winter of the year in which Miriam Lucas was sum- 
 moned to Dublin by her guardian. One was evidently a 
 mechanic — a great burly, red-faced, strong-handed man, 
 with some tokens of the smoke and smut of his calling 
 hidden away in creases on his neck and face and hands. 
 The second was a pale-faced, calm, rather stupid-looking 
 individual, who, if one might judge by his dress and man- 
 ner, had emerged for some considerable time from the 
 condition of labour, and had passed into that of ruler or 
 organizer. He was well-dressed, wore a huge gold chain 
 with heavy seals, and dropped his h's. The third was a 
 Cassius — thin as a consumptive, his hair tossed wildly 
 down on a forehead beneath which gleamed eyes, which 
 would be ferocious, were they not rather filled with a 
 light in which the dreaming soul saw pictured a new 
 Heaven and a new earth above the smouldering ashes of 
 a burnt-out civilisation. The mechanic was ill at ease, 
 as if in the presence of superiors, and as if called upon to 
 determine between his instincts and his conscience. The 
 young dreamer was ill at ease, as he pulled down strand 
 after strand of a deep, drooping moustache. The English- 
 man alone was calm, as he looked, with a certain kind of 
 curious and pitying amazement at his companions. 
 
 He had some whiskey and water on a table near him, 
 which he occasionally sipped; he smoked calmly a large 
 briar-wood pipe, and read, or appeared to read, and to 
 be altogether engrossed in, the sheets of a newspaper, 
 but he was watching eagerly every gesture and symptom 
 
138 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 of the two excitable natures with whom he was play- 
 ing a somewhat desperate game. It was their very 
 nervousness — the want of volition on the part of one, the 
 total absence of caution on the part of the other, that 
 excited his contempt. He, like his race, was built so 
 solidly, made up his mind so rapidly, pursued his course 
 so unflinchingly, and tossed aside regret or remorse for 
 failure so easily, that he disdained these senstive and deli- 
 cate natures, which seemed to be always regretting the 
 past, or conjecturing the future, without regard to the 
 all-important present. 
 
 Cassius went striding up and down the room, his hands 
 clenched behind his back so fiercely they were white from 
 the pressure; the mechanic sat humbly on a chair, which 
 he appeared to regard as a stool of repentance; and he 
 looked from time to time deprecatingly at the others, as 
 if he would apologise for not being able to reach up to 
 their demands. After a long silence, he opened out his 
 hands and said: — 
 
 "I must be candid, gentlemen, and above board. I 
 can't reckin on the min." 
 
 "In Gawd's name, why?" said the Englishman. He 
 did not see the use of the expletive; but he thought 
 it necessary to be emphatic in addressing Irishmen. 
 "Cawn't they see it is for their own interests?" 
 
 "They can, an' they can't," said the mechanic. "Their 
 women are agin it, an' the priests." 
 
 The Englishman was wise enough to say nothing on 
 these subjects. He was playing a game, and could not 
 show his hand. 
 
 Not so Cassius. He brought his bony, nervous hand 
 down on the table with a ringing blow, and hissed: — 
 
 "It is so, Newton," he cried, trying to speak in a sup- 
 pressed voice. "You can't understand it. Our men 
 are dragged by the apron-strings still. 'Lie down,' 'be 
 content,' 'be poor,' 'be satisfied'; "tis all the same in the 
 end' — what can you do with a race emasculated by such 
 philosqphy?" 
 
A WORKMEN'S CONCLAVE 139 
 
 "Nothing," said the Englishman, "until you teach 
 them different doctrines. Is there no one amongst you, 
 fire-eating rebels, that could tell them to lift up their heads 
 and be men? " 
 
 "Not that I know of," said Cassius, sadly. "Besides, 
 if we had a Mirabeau, or a Danton, they wouldn't listen 
 to him. It is this friar, with his eternal preachment on 
 the vanity of this life, and the verity of eternity, who is 
 turning their hot blood into water." 
 
 The Englishman arose, and coming over to where the 
 young fanatic sat, he laid his hand on his shoulder and 
 said with a smile: — 
 
 "Couldn't we win over that friar to our side? Eh?" 
 
 "No, you cannot," said the young man, sullenly. "If 
 you mean money, you are mad. You don't know us. 
 If you mean argument, he'll beat you hollow. He can 
 prove to you that all discontent comes from imagination 
 — that every improvement in the condition of the work- 
 ingman clamours for another — that there never can be 
 rest or repose, so long as the fancy is excited by dreams 
 of independence and wealth. And what is worse; if you 
 could win him, it would be only half-way. The moment 
 you said 'match,' 'petroleum,' 'rifle,' he would kick like 
 a mule, or fly screaming to some desert." 
 
 "Well, I'm blessed but yer are kids!" said the English- 
 man, with a touch of contempt in his voice. Then, as 
 if remembering something, he said: — 
 
 "What about the Press?" 
 
 "Tied, muzzled, handcuffed, fettered — all, except the 
 Watchman. By the way, Greevy," said Cassius, turning 
 suddenly to the mechanic, "who wrote that article in 
 Saturday's Watchman about Hindu and Hibernian 
 caste?" 
 
 "I don't know," said the mechanic, as if tired of the 
 discussion. "It was all Greek to us!" 
 
 "Perhaps so! but it had the right ring. Can you find 
 out for me? " 
 
 "I might," said the mechanic, with indifference. Cas- 
 
140 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 sius arose, and beckoning the mechanic into a corner, 
 he put his hand on his shoulder, and said in a low, earnest 
 tone: — 
 
 "This is a matter of no consequence to me, Greevy — 
 but of lif e and death to you ! Listen ! I can earn my three 
 pounds a week quietly and easily. I have only to sit at 
 my desk, dip my pen in ink, cover a certain quantity of 
 white paper with ink, and take my salary. You have 
 to work from dawn to dark — sometimes from dark to 
 dawn — for what? Half what I can pocket. Further- 
 more, you have to see your own hands put over your 
 head by influence — weren't you an old man when Hunt 
 came into the works? You were! Well, where is he now, 
 and where are you? He, your junior, kicks you about. 
 'Tis 'Here, Greevy, you, Sir!' And 'Why are you late, 
 Greevy, this morning? I tell you I'll have to sack you!' 
 Isn't it so?" 
 
 The face of the mechanic was kindling under the cut- 
 ting words, and his hands were twitching in his pockets. 
 
 '"Tis thrue, Mr. Stenson," he said. "By God, 'tis 
 thrue." 
 
 "Very good! I don't want to excite you, Greevy. 
 I'm only talking plainly, as man to man. The thing 
 doesn't concern me at all. You know that as well as I. 
 Don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir, I do! Go on. We all know you are the 
 friend of the workingman." 
 
 "Very good! I don't want to pose as your friend. I 
 want nothing from you, or your fellow workmen. As I 
 said, these two fingers can earn all that I want. Well! 
 You tried to get your boy on the works. Don't start! 
 I know it. You failed. The engineer said there was 
 no vacancy. But Hunt's son, a half-idiot, was taken on 
 during the week; and has today a bigger salary than you. 
 You know more than the engineer himself about the 
 machinery. But what do they care? You are but a 
 Dublin man and a Papist. And I tell you, if you are there 
 to the day of Judgment, 'twill be the same story. You'll 
 
A WORKMEN'S CONCLAVE 141 
 
 work; but others will be paid for your brains and your 
 labour." 
 
 "I see it all, Mr. Stenson," said the mechanic, fairly 
 roused. "But you see, here's the trouble. Father Hugo 
 says 'don't'! He dreads violence. He says we are not 
 like the English that can go so far, and no farther. He 
 says we're Irish; and when once set going, there's no 
 more stopping us than stopping the limited mail passing 
 Hazelhatch. And, then — " 
 
 "That's all right! But will Father Hugo, or any other 
 Father Hugo, or the Archbishop himself, put you over 
 Hunt, or Hunt under you?" 
 
 "Begobs, no! They'd turn him out, neck and crop, 
 if he interfaired!" 
 
 "Very well, then! What do they propose? Here, 
 we'll give them a fair field and no favour! Go to them 
 — Ask them to fight your battles for a month. We won't 
 interfere. But give us a show at the end, When they fail." 
 
 "As for that, you may commence now," said the 
 mechanic. "They can do nothing for us. "Tis all Free- 
 masonry from ind to ind." 
 
 "Very good. Now, here is your chance. He has 
 all England and Scotland behind him. He has a cool 
 head. He knows what's what. The law won't grip him, 
 or any one that follows him. Give him a fair chance, 
 anyhow!" 
 
 "But the min — the min," said the mechanic, bewil- 
 dered. "You cannot stir them. There's only wan man 
 in the city that can stir their blood. An' he won't!" 
 
 "Who is he?" said Stenson, looking the mechanic be- 
 tween the eyes. "Do I know him?" 
 
 " You do well. You were at the Hall the night he spoke 
 before." 
 
 "Albrecht? The blind bat from Trinity!" 
 
 "The very man. But I tell you, he can see farther in 
 the dark than most men in the light." 
 
 "Then we must get him, at any cost!" 
 
 Stenson remained a long time in a kind of reverie. 
 
142 * MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 The Englishman was calmly reading beneath the gasa- 
 Jier at the round table. 
 
 "By the way," said Stenson at length, "when did you 
 hear from Minnie?" 
 
 Greevy started back, as if struck. 
 
 "Minnie? Minnie? What do you know of Minnie?" 
 he said hoarsely. "Why do you fling that shame in my 
 face?" 
 
 "Because now is your time," said Stenson. "If you 
 do as you are ordered, the man that wrought shame on 
 you is in your power." 
 
 Greevy's face was whitening and reddening under 
 strong emotion. His whole frame shook. 
 
 "Yes," continued Stenson, relentlessly. "Your 
 daughter is on the streets of Chicago this night; and the 
 man that drove her to elope with his coachman, is now 
 at the Gaiety. I saw him with a white young girl by 
 his side yesterday in his barouche. Probably, if she saw 
 your child tonight, she would spit upon, and spurn her!" 
 
 "Hell's ind to me!" gasped the mechanic, as if he was 
 stricken with apoplexy. "Say no more! Lave the rest 
 to me!" 
 
 He took up his hat and left the room. 
 
 "I thought I'd fetch him," said Stenson to Newton. 
 "A whole convent of friars won't stop him now." 
 
 "I 'eard you say somethink about his daughter?" 
 queried Newton. 
 
 "Yes! A giddy, handsome girl. She was hand in 
 glove with the coachman of a scoundrelly director, named 
 Holthsworth. He wouldn't allow them marry. It was 
 supposed he had evil designs on the girl. Anyhow, they 
 eloped. And, as usual, she was cast off when they landed 
 in America. But Greevy will never forgive Holthsworth, 
 living or dead!" 
 
 "Then, how goes it now?" said the practical English- 
 man. 
 
 "Thusly," said Stenson. "The whole thing, now, is 
 to get one or two fierce articles into the Watchman. Then, 
 
A WORKMEN'S CONCLAVE 143 
 
 to convoke a meeting in the Mechanics' Hall, and get 
 this young Albrecht to address them. He'll carry them 
 through Hell-Fire!" 
 
 "I can't understand. How's that?" 
 
 "Well, you see, in the first place, he is a gentleman; 
 and that counts for everything with the Irish, who still 
 hold the old feudal sympathies with the 'quality.' Then, 
 he is a Protestant; and they will follow a Protestant where 
 they would hang a Catholic leader. And then, he has got 
 the gift of the gab; and, if you can wrap an Irishman's 
 intellect in a cloud of words, you may lead him where 
 you like." 
 
 "You're strange folk," said the Englishman, medi- 
 tatively. "Now, I got orders not to spare the rhino; 
 but it isn't the rhino but the lingo ye want." 
 
 "Money doesn't go far here in the way of bribes," said 
 Stenson. "It is easier and cheaper to work on our tem- 
 per than on our pockets." 
 
 "Well, be it so. But my time is limited, Mr. Stenson. 
 If your men will give us a helping hand now, it will never 
 be forgotten. If not, we'll let them drift." 
 
 "I can only do my share," said Stenson. "But, by 
 the Most High God, Newton," he cried, his eyes flashing 
 fury, "it isn't for love of your country or countrymen 
 that I am taking up this movement. Mark that! I'd 
 no more trust the English than I'd trust the Devil!" 
 
 "That's all right, old fellow," said the Englishman, 
 grasping Stenson's bony hand in his fat palm. "We 
 don't trouble about motives if we get work." 
 
 That same evening, and about the same hour, a tall, 
 gaunt figure, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, walked 
 slowly up and down the wet flags outside the office of the 
 Watchman. There was a soft, drizzling mist, that cleared 
 the street of passers by much to his delight. Now and 
 again he stopped and peered anxiously up and down the 
 street. Then, impatiently, he resumed his walk. Once 
 or twice he entered the office, and eagerly inquired if any- 
 one had called; but no; no one had entered or left. At 
 
144 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 last, as the city clocks tolled ten, a closely muffled female 
 figure came swiftly around a corner, and after one or two 
 looks of eager inquiry, entered the office. In a few min- 
 utes one of the clerks came out, and told the eager and 
 expectant young man that he was wanted inside. The 
 Editor briefly pointed with his pen to the young lady, 
 who was now unveiled. 
 
 " Your distinguished correspondent, Mr. Albrecht," he 
 said. 
 
 Albrecht uncovered with all reverence, and was about 
 to make a pretty speech, when the lady said: — 
 
 "Is it you, Ian? No other name could have summoned 
 me forth tonight!" 
 
 "I beg pardon. I am confused; and my eyes are so 
 weak — " 
 
 "And it is a long time since we met and played to- 
 gether. You must have forgotten your old playmate — 
 Myrrha Lucas?" 
 
 "Myrrha — Miriam — can it be possible? ^ome Col- 
 lege friends have been speaking of you lately. But we 
 had no idea you were in Dublin. How you have grown! 
 Why, you are quite a woman!" 
 
 Miriam blushed at the compliment, and smiled at the 
 simplicity. 
 
 "I wasn't aware that I had College friends?" she 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, yes! Ireton and Ashley seem to have known 
 you well." 
 
 He did not see the shade of annoyance that passed 
 across her face. 
 
 "And you, my little Myrrha," he continued, forgetting 
 the woman before him, "you wrote that inspired article. 
 For I tell you, it is inspired. The fire of genius flames 
 along every line. Did you write it all?" 
 
 "All," said Miriam, simply. 
 
 "Then, we have got all we want, Merritt," he said, 
 turning to the Editor. "The cause has its Sibyl and its 
 prophetess." 
 
A WORKMEN'S CONCLAVE 145 
 
 They turned and left the office together. 
 
 "I must see you home," said Albrecht. "Tis late, 
 and I should be in my rooms; but I can frame an excuse. 
 No," he continued, with a smile, seeing her surprise at 
 the words, " I won't prevaricate, but I shall tell the whole 
 truth, which is but half the truth. Everyone does it. 
 But, no matter! Where do you live, and when did you 
 come up?" 
 
 Miriam answered briefly. 
 
 "Your guardian? Who?" said Albrecht, hastily. 
 
 "Mr. Holthsworth. We are at Rathgar; but I have 
 permission to remain with a friend at Harcourt Street 
 to-night." 
 
 "Holthsworth! Holthsworth! You have fallen into 
 evil hands, Myrrha! There must be a sad story, and a 
 long one, there. I heard all about your father's disap- 
 pearance. God grant it is only a disappearance; and 
 that someone may arise to take you from the grasp of 
 that hound. But— '-there, I have a lot to ask you! How 
 did you conceive those ideas? They are rare in our 
 class." 
 
 "And how did you conceive them?" she replied. "I 
 have learnt them slowly but surely — " 
 
 " You cannot have seen any books down in that dread- 
 ful hollow," he interrupted. "It has taken me many years 
 to divest myself of all my class prejudices, and to see 
 that there is no greater crime against humanity than the 
 classification of the species by rank and money. But 
 you — how could you have heard of such things? " 
 
 "I had a better teacher than you," she replied. 
 
 "How? What?" he asked. 
 
 "Experience," she said, simply. "But I have a lot to 
 ask you, Ian," she continued, "When shall I see you 
 again?" 
 
 "You'll remain in town to-morrow," he asked eagerly. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "till dinner-time. I may not come 
 in again for some time." 
 
 "Then I may call in the forenoon?" he said. 
 
146 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Certainly. I shall tell Madame B " 
 
 "And I shall not come alone. I may bring a friend, 
 
 may I not?" he asked. 
 
 "Ye — es," she answered, dubiously. "If it is a friend. 
 
 This is the house. Good-night!" 
 
XIV 
 
 A Breach of Rule 
 
 When Miriam entered the drawing-room the following 
 day, in response to the card that was sent in by Ian 
 Albrecht, she became suddenly aware of a new sensation 
 — that she was acting against social conventions, and that 
 her little rebellion was already punished by conscience, 
 and the possibility of disagreeable consequences. She 
 hated artificiality so much, that she never saw that all 
 things in heaven and on earth are governed by rule; 
 and that the open violation of such rule must necessarily 
 entail suffering. But she had been so much in the habit 
 of repressing every attempt to make her conform to ways 
 that she despised for their very littleness, that now, 
 when a suspicion glanced across her mind that this meet- 
 ing with Albrecht was not quite correct, she at once sup- 
 pressed it with a kind of secret disdain, and held out her 
 hand cordially to him. When he murmured something 
 about his friend, "of whom I spoke, Mr. Ireton," she 
 bowed to the latter, and said: — 
 
 "I think I have met Mr. Ireton before." 
 
 "Yes," said Hugh, gallantly forgetting the incident at 
 the Admiral's, "I hope, Miss Lucas, that my quondam 
 patient has done well." 
 
 "Dwyer?" she replied. "Yes! Your prompt inter- 
 vention that day saved his life." 
 
 "That is gratifying," said Hugh. "Ashley and I, 
 that is my comrade you may remember, have retained 
 pleasant memories of that day." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "And I think," said Hugh, who was astonished at his 
 own courage, " I may add, that both he and I were very 
 sorry for your great bereavement." 
 
148 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "You are very kind," said Miriam, simply. 
 
 "I may also say," said Hugh, carried along by his ovm 
 emotions, and the rather kindly manner in which Mir- 
 iam received him, "that I was never so angry and bitter 
 in my life, as that day at the Admiral's, when you were 
 so shamefully treated." 
 
 Miriam flushed a little, and then grew pale again. 
 
 "I believe it was nothing very exceptional," she said. 
 "I understand that such things occur at all these meet- 
 ings. That these are the ways and manners of good 
 society." 
 
 "Not always, nor everywhere, I should hope," said 
 Albrecht, breaking in. "There is a certain hollowness 
 everywhere, I should say, but it does not generally reach 
 the positive cruelty of which Ireton speaks, and of which 
 he has spoken to me before." 
 
 "I don't know," said Miriam sadly. "It appears to 
 be everywhere. It seems to me sometimes that we need 
 a terrible upheaval, and then a reforming of dl things on 
 a new system." 
 
 "That was the burden of your paper," said Albrecht. 
 "Don't start, Myrrha. I have no secrets from Ireton; 
 and your secret is as safe with him, as with me. Nay," 
 he continued, looking at both with his large, dim eyes, "I 
 would wish you two to know one another well. You and 
 I, Myrrha, could hardly drive the chariot of life in safety. 
 We should court destruction. But Ireton is a calm, 
 prudent fellow, with a good eye and steady hand." 
 
 He spoke of the political propaganda in which they 
 were engaged; but there seemed to be some subtler mean- 
 ing in his words, that made Miriam stare at him in silence. 
 It seemed to her quick fancy to be a kind of quiet rejec- 
 tion; as if there were between them an unspoken secret, 
 or rather as if Albrecht was determined that Miriam 
 should understand that, though they were old friends 
 and playmates, and now linked in common sympathies 
 about social matters, there were to be no closer relations 
 under any circumstances, for that a great gulf yawned 
 
A BREACH OF RULE 149 
 
 between. Albrecht never noticed the look of consterna- 
 tion on her face, though his great, dim eyes seemed to 
 be wandering all over her; but he continued in a slow, 
 melodious manner, which excitable people so often affect, 
 until something spurs them into forgetfulness: — 
 
 "I was saying that I cordially agree with your view, 
 that at stated periods, when things have grown old, and 
 cumbersome, it is in the order of things that they should 
 come all to pieces in some sudden cataclysm, and then be 
 reconstructed in new forms more suitable to the circum- 
 stances of the age, and the world's progress. I would 
 have suggested to you as a comparison what occurs in 
 the physical universe, where suns grow old, break up, 
 become meteorites, gases, atoms, and then in the eternal 
 laboratory are reconstructed into stars, systems, and 
 planets again. So it is with society. Certain conditions 
 reach their term and evaporate to give way to, or rather 
 to form the elements of new social conditions. We have 
 just touched the term, or end of one of those epochs here; 
 and no doubt, we shall succeed in re-forming a new and 
 wholesomer condition of things out of the remnants, 
 or debris of that which is not worthy to last any longer." 
 
 "You must know, Miss Lucas," said Hugh Ireton, 
 interposing, "that I don't think with Ian on this matter. 
 I assure you we have had some stiff academical debates 
 up yonder in Trinity on these vexed questions; but it 
 does not much matter. They are not likely to proceed 
 beyond the academical state." 
 
 "And I tell you, Hugh," said Ian, straightening him- 
 self on his chair, and clenching his right hand, "that they 
 will proceed further, and further, until we smash up the 
 whole hollow lie, and make men lead honest and veracious 
 
 "You won't succeed in Ireland, Ian," said Hugh. "Or, 
 if you did it would be under such utter ruin, that nothing 
 could justify it." 
 
 "All day long," continued Albrecht, as if in a tone of 
 soliloquy, "the poor are ground under foot, trampled 
 
150 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 upon; they appeal to men for justice: 'tis denied them. 
 They cry to Heaven for vengeance; Heaven stares dumbly 
 at them. Oh! 'tis awful to hear what you do hear, and 
 stand impotent before it. To hear men prating of jus- 
 tice, whilst their hands are steeped in iniquity; to hear 
 them denouncing the wickedness of the poor, and their 
 own sins crying to Heaven for vengeance; to hear that 
 law and order are everything, no matter what brutality 
 is exercised under that law and order; to see men, for- 
 ever plucking motes from the bleared eyes of the starving 
 workman, and no man dare say, There is a beam in your 
 own! And the law, the law behind it all, bracketing all 
 this iniquity; and worst of all, men coolly accepting the 
 law's infallibility and society's verdict, as if it were the 
 Voice on Sinai, or its thunder." 
 
 He coughed a little, stopped, took out a white silk 
 handkerchief, and moistened it with his tongue. Then 
 stared wildly at it. As if reassured, he replaced the 
 handkerchief in his pocket. 
 
 "Pardon me, Myrrha," he said humbly, "but I am 
 always expecting to read my death-sentence here." 
 
 "I am always telling him, Miss Lucas," said Hugh, 
 "that he is over-exerting and over-exciting himself. He's 
 as headstrong as a mule. Can't you persuade him to 
 get out of this business? It is killing him. He's certainly 
 threatened with phthisis; and all this thing is wearing him 
 steadily into it." 
 
 "Do, Ian," said Miriam sympathetically. "You are 
 not fit for rough work like this, especially as you think 
 it will grow more serious." 
 
 "And leave it to girls and children to be worked out?" 
 he replied. 
 
 "You have not been wronged," she said. "You have 
 no score against Society. Besides, you have a mother 
 to look to. You know how she loves you, Ian, at least 
 must love you, if she is now what she was when I remem- 
 ber her — " 
 
 "Yes," he replied, passing his hand across his forehead. 
 
A BREACH OF RULE 151 
 
 "she is all that and more. You must come and see her 
 soon, Myrrha. She'll be so pleased and delighted to 
 see you." 
 
 "Would she? Do you really believe so?" said Miriam. 
 
 "Of course, of course, I take it for granted," he said, 
 dubiously. 
 
 " And then when all would be revealed, she would turn 
 on me as a traitor, as well as an interloper. No! I 
 know the world now. I have to walk my way alone. 
 But, you have everything to lose — position, honour, 
 wealth, even life — " 
 
 "I have thought it all over," he said, "and am prepared 
 to make the sacrifice. But, look here, Miriam, get rid 
 of your ideas of solitude. The world is not all bad. Come 
 out, and see it a little. It is horrible to think of your 
 being shut up there, in a splendid prison-house with that 
 wretch." 
 
 "He has been extremely kind to me," she said, "since 
 I came, or rather was forced to Dublin." 
 
 "Perhaps. But he is a ruffian. The men have many 
 a grudge against him; and if ever Greevy gets his hand on 
 his throat — well, this is not fit for a young lady's ears. 
 But, Myrrha, Myrrha, how did it all happen? What 
 put you in that fellow's power? " 
 
 "You know he was father's confidential agent and 
 adviser," she replied. "And he is now trustee of the 
 property in Glendarragh, under my father's will." 
 i "But how do you stand towards him? Are you with 
 him of your own will; or has he used legal compulsion 
 towards you? " 
 
 "I don't know," she said, looking at him hopelessly, 
 "it's all surrounded in mystery — my mother's history, 
 my father's disappearance, this man's evil shadow — all 
 I know is, there is some dark mystery somewhere, every- 
 where, and no one seems able to explain it." 
 
 "Then, you are in the toils of the wicked one," he 
 exclaimed. "Beware, Myrrha, beware!" 
 ,_ 'I can do nothing," she said simply. "I cannot go 
 
152 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 hither or thither without his permission. The law of 
 the land, he says, is on his side, and he is omnipotent." 
 
 " There it is again — 'the law of the land' — the abet- 
 tor of every infamy, the ally of every traitor and mis- 
 creant, the apology for every crime. Yes," he cried 
 vehemently, "we must smash that law in pieces first by 
 defying it; and then — well then, all will come well. But 
 again, Myrrha," he cried, rising up, "I won't have you, 
 my old playmate, locked up with this fellow. My mother 
 and some lady friend will call upon you; and you must 
 come out. Have any ladies called yet? " 
 
 "Not one!" said Miriam, smiling. "You don't seem 
 to realise, Ian, that I am an exception, and shall remain 
 so. If I could only discover my mother's secret, or 
 where she is!" 
 
 "Well, at least," said Ian, affecting a gaiety he did 
 not feel, "you have two champions here in Dublin that 
 are sworn your knights — " 
 
 "Say three," said Hugh, wishing to raise the girl's 
 spirits. "Ashley is with us; and perhaps the most valiant 
 of the three!" 
 
 "Yes, three knights, sworn to help you," said Ian. 
 "And, by Jove," he cried vehemently, "if ever it comes 
 to a test of strength or manhood, you may count on three 
 thousand. And I am not sure," he said, as Miriam made 
 a gesture of dissent, "things are ripening fast; and, if I 
 mistake not, we are pushing rapidly to the crisis that 
 all brave men desire. Now, good-bye! and to relieve 
 your solitude, pen a few more of these flaming articles. 
 And write straight from your heart. Humanity, suffer- 
 ing, claims you as a suffering sister." 
 
 Her eyes kindled under the inspiring words. She felt 
 now that in all her rebellious or angry moods against 
 society, she was not alone; and that therefore she was 
 right. Her feelings were those of the great toiling masses, 
 wronged as she was, humiliated as she had been. A 
 wretched oligarchy, under the name of society, were 
 apparently trampling down the whole race; and it was 
 
A BREACH OF RULE 153 
 
 this horrible perversion of natural law that was account- 
 able for all the misery and crimes of humanity. She 
 saw, as in one glance, because it was a familiar subject 
 of her thoughts, all that was wretched and sinful and 
 forlorn pass before her eyes — the toiling millions with 
 their horny hands and the sweat beaded on their brows; 
 she saw the weary mothers clasping half-starving chil- 
 dren to their breasts; young maidenhood festering in slums 
 of cities; brave young toilers by hand or brain refused 
 means of utilising their abilities and condemned to inglo- 
 rious idleness; injustice everywhere rampant; men cabal- 
 ling together for the overthrow of their fellowmen; anger, 
 jealousy, hate everywhere — and she thought she saw 
 the wronged and the oppressed, as they passed by, lift 
 their manacled hands or their tearful eyes to her, and 
 say in their mute sorrow: — Yea, thou art our sister by 
 right of suffering; Thine is a hereditary wrong, as well 
 as a personal injustice; and thou hast the power to help. 
 God has given it to thee! See thou, O our suffering sis- 
 ter, that thou misuse not thy gift. We will demand of 
 thee otherwise an awful retribution! 
 
 But she choked down those feelings; and, apparently 
 oblivious or careless of all that Ian had said, she called 
 him a little aside in the hall whither she had accompanied 
 them. "Mr. Ireton is quite right, Ian," she said. 
 " This is no work for you. It will burn you up and con- 
 sume your strength in a little time. This must be the 
 work of rougher natures." 
 
 "Like yours, then," he said, smiling. "No, Myrrha, 
 life is so short, so fleeting, it is absolutely worthless if we 
 do not ennoble it somehow; and this is my way and yours, 
 if I mistake not. But, again, let me say, you must not 
 drive in my chariot. It is too fast for thee. And thou 
 art too precious to be endangered. Write as much as you 
 please; but when it comes to action, you must step aside. 
 And, one word more. Ireton is my friend and yours. 
 Promise me that you will obey implicitly any injunction 
 of his, should a crisis arise, and I should not see you." 
 
154 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 She looked troubled, but said yes! The next time she 
 saw Ian Albrecht was through a mist of tears for his 
 sufferings. The soul had worn its way, here and there, 
 through the frail flesh, and was about to go forth in pain 
 and sorrow. 
 
 As she re-entered the drawing-room, she was suddenly 
 confronted with Society in the person of her hostess. 
 Society was not angry, Society never is angry. But 
 Society was sad. Society was pained and grieved. 
 
 "Miriam dearest," Society said, "what have you done? 
 Sit down, child; what have you done?" 
 
 "Nothing, Madame! Nothing wrong that I am aware 
 of!" 
 
 "But, surely, child," said Society, "you must have 
 known how exceedingly improper it was to meet and 
 entertain young gentlemen, and alone!" 
 
 "I cannot see anything wrong," said Miriam in her 
 perfect innocence, "in renewing an old acquaintance of 
 my childhood, and his friend. I am quite sure Mr. 
 Albrecht saw no harm in it, nor I." 
 
 "Let me tell you, Miriam, that there are strange 
 rumours afloat in society about Mr. Albrecht and his 
 companions. He is just the last person your excellent 
 guardian would wish you to meet." 
 
 "I am not a child, Madame — " said Miriam, bridling 
 a little at her guardian's name, "and," she added with 
 emphasis, "I am not a slave. Mr. Holthsworth can 
 control my affairs, but I am my own mistress about my 
 own actions." 
 
 "I don't like such sentiments, Miriam," said Ma- 
 dame — half-frightened at the girl's determination, "but 
 I know Mr. Holthsworth will be gravely displeased if 
 he ever shall hear of this visit. He is exceedingly punc- 
 tilious about social matters, apart altogether from his 
 feelings in this case." 
 
 "As I have said, Madame — " repeated Miriam, "I 
 cannot accept Mr. Holthsworth as master and judge of 
 all my actions and conduct. But, if you think he would 
 
A BREACH OF RULE 155 
 
 make you responsible in this matter, I shall tell him the 
 whole thing, and exonerate you." 
 
 "Oh, no, no," said Madame — hastily, "please don't! 
 He shall never know it; and better he shouldn't. Will 
 you, must you go back this evening?" 
 
 " Yes, I think so," said Miriam. " But I am very sorry, 
 Madame, if I have pained you. You see I have been 
 brought up without a — friend." 
 
 She was going to say "mother," but the word would 
 not come. 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Madame — embracing the girl amidst 
 her tears, "I know all. But do not forget you have 
 friends now." 
 
XV 
 A Monk in Trinity 
 
 Arthur Ashley and Hugh Ireton sat together in the 
 rooms of the latter one cold, bleak, wintry morning in 
 the decline of that year. Both young men were grave 
 and they spoke not in the connected way men speak, 
 when only trifles interest them, and a pause is embar- 
 rassing, but in that swift, abrupt manner, interspersed 
 with great gaps of silence, when the speakers feel that 
 the subject matter of conversation demands thought. 
 Of the two Arthur Ashley was the more composed, as 
 Hugh Ireton plied him with question after question. 
 
 " Are you quite sure, Arthur, that the Dons are taking 
 up the matter; or is it a practical joke of Leslie's?" 
 
 "I am afraid there's no doubt about it," said his friend. 
 "Holthsworth has certainly been closeted with the Prov- 
 ost—" 
 
 "That's a d ruffian," said Ireton furiously. "Be- 
 lieve me, he has some object behind this besides the inter- 
 ests of the Company." 
 
 "I can't say I'm sorry," said Ashley lazily. "It is the 
 one thing and the only thing that can save Albrecht. If 
 this won't do, I see nothing before him but Mountjoy." 
 
 "Yes, but what can Dons or Proctors or Provosts do?" 
 cried Ireton. "There is no proof of anything against 
 him, absolutely none. They may caveat him or pluck 
 him — what does he care?" 
 
 "Well, Leslie says they are all running around with 
 their gowns tucked under their arms, and looking as if 
 the Papists had got Trinity at last. Why he told me that 
 old Sol. did actually take two steps at a time going to 
 the Provost's rooms yesterday." 
 
 "That's awful! The next thing will be the Chancel- 
 
A MONK IN TRINITY 157 
 
 lor with a skipping rope. But you were saying, Arthur, 
 something about Holthsworth. Do you really think he 
 has his eye on Miriam — Miss Lucas? " 
 
 "Think? No, I'm sure of it. He has her property, 
 why not herself?" 
 
 "That would be a tragedy. Have you discovered 
 anything as yet?" 
 
 "No. I have searched and searched everywhere, and 
 found nothing." 
 
 "But surely the property must be registered in some 
 one's name? " 
 
 "'Tis registered now in Holthsworth's. He is legal 
 owner until Miriam can claim." 
 
 "But, but — what are the conditions of the will? Are 
 these ascertainable?" 
 
 "They should be, my friend; but in the labyrinths of 
 the law, it is easy to hide one parchment." 
 
 Ireton was silent. He had no selfish motive in asking 
 these questions, or in putting his friend, Ashley, on the 
 track of Holthsworth. But he was deeply interested in 
 this friendless girl, and he felt that some wrong had been 
 done, or would be done to one so helpless under the power 
 of one so unscrupulous and merciless as Holthsworth. 
 
 "Have you ever since broached the question of Mir- 
 iam's parentage to Ian?" 
 
 "No! I doubt if he knows all, or if what he knows is 
 more than conjecture." 
 
 "But I heard him say that his mother knew Miriam 
 long ago; and she must therefore have known Miriam's 
 mother!" 
 
 "But, my dear fellow, you should know that his mother 
 is a Society woman of the strict Evangelical type. A 
 hint that Ian was interested in Miss Lucas would lead 
 to a bad breach between them. The proletariat and the 
 Papist are banned there!" 
 
 "I wish we could get Albrecht out of this mess, and 
 Miriam out of the hands of this rascal. Both appear 
 to be about equally possible," said Ireton rising. 
 
158 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "And," he said, after a pause, "things are coming to 
 a crisis both ways. That meeting the other night in 
 the Artisans' hall seemed to bring things to a practical 
 issue between the Directors and the men. And all Dub- 
 lin is talking Holthsworth and Miriam." 
 
 " You may be quite sure, Ireton, that a marriage there 
 is nearer than an explosion elsewhere. You see Holths- 
 worth has a distinct object in dragging Miss Lucas from 
 ball to ball, and parading her in Grafton Street. He'll 
 send her name from mouth to mouth, and then — " 
 
 "Look here, Ashley," said Ireton, "I'll tell you what 
 it is. That girl cares for Albrecht more than she thinks. 
 Albrecht cares for her more than he thinks. We'll get 
 them married, by Jove, and that will save both." 
 
 "Good old Don Quixote," said Ashley lazily. "See 
 what that would mean, even supposing it could be done. 
 Albrecht disinherited and disowned; Miss Lucas disin- 
 herited and penniless, unless," he said, after a rhetorical 
 pause, "they could go down to that place with a savage 
 name, and live on potatoes and fish." 
 
 "You have a lawyer's head and a lawyer's heart," 
 cried Ireton, half angrily, although he admitted the jus- 
 tice of his friend's remark, and was not half sorry for it, 
 "you see everything in such a — practical way. But 
 'tis a nasty affair. How the mischief did Albrecht ever 
 get entangled in this nefarious business?" 
 
 "Bad and promiscuous reading," replied his friend. 
 "When a fellow like Albrecht begins to read all this lit- 
 erary stuff — Revolutions, Rights of Man, Religion of 
 Humanity, from Rousseau to Karl Marx, he must lose 
 his head. His heart betrays him, and puts his reason 
 and common-sense in pawn." 
 
 "I can't understand it!" 
 
 "Oh, 'tis intelligible enough. Nothing hits a young 
 man's fancy so much as fine, rounded, rhetorical air- 
 bubbles. He wants them all, and doesn't care into what 
 quagmires or morasses they lead him. And, without doubt, 
 Albrecht is now up to his neck in a shaking bog." 
 
A MONK IN TRINITY 159 
 
 "You can see no means of escape. Scratch that law- 
 yer's head of yours, Ashley, and strike on something!" 
 
 "Where's the use? There's no use in appealing to 
 Albrecht's safety or self-interest. He would dismiss the 
 idea in scorn. His honour is at stake. Poor devil! As 
 if there were any such thing as honour nowadays. There's 
 no use in appealing to Miss Lucas. You tell me she's 
 as hot over the confounded matter as he is; and I suppose 
 she, too, believes in the 'death before dishonour' busi- 
 ness. There's no use in talking with these ruffians that 
 are using him. What do they care, so long as he is in 
 their toils, and they can use him? We might speak to 
 his mother; but, candidly, that would look treasonable. 
 Would it not?" 
 
 "Do you know what it is?" said Ireton, as if a brilliant 
 idea had shone upon him. "I'll speak to Miss Lucas 
 myself. Albrecht told her to place all her trust in me — " 
 
 "Generous fellow!" said Ashley smiling. 
 
 "I don't know if she takes that view herself," said 
 Ireton. "But now 'tis Albrecht we want to save; and 
 she alone can save him." 
 
 "But she won't!" 
 
 "I say she will. I have been reading somewhere, I 
 suppose in some confounded novel, that a woman will 
 sacrifice anything for the man she loves; and I tell you 
 there's something more than childhood's friendship be- 
 tween Albrecht and Miss Lucas!" 
 
 "'Tis a plant of sudden growth then," said Ashley. 
 "Their love is like the mango tree with the Hindoo jug- 
 glers. But go ahead and fail." 
 
 "Why should I fail?" 
 
 "Because you will. Do you think Albrecht would 
 allow Miss Lucas to despise him? " 
 
 "I said persuade him to give up this folly." 
 
 "Yes! But let her succeed, what would come after, 
 at least in Albrecht's imagination?" 
 
 "Love and happiness and peace!" 
 
 "No! Contempt, worse than death," 
 
160 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Ireton was silent. He did not quite understand his 
 friend, but he felt that what he said was true. And then 
 Albrecht's words came back with the force of a sudden 
 revelation: 
 
 "You and I, Myrrha, could hardly drive the chariot 
 of life in safety. We should court destruction." 
 
 Clearly there was nothing to do but wait and watch. 
 But Ireton was sorely grieved for his friend. He began 
 to think, as so many think when great crises in life are 
 pending, that Death, merciful death, would be the only 
 possible saviour. But he was deeply grieved for his 
 friend. As for Miriam, she appeared to have passed out 
 of his life for ever. 
 
 Strange to say, just at this very time, when the two 
 friends were discussing Albrecht's affairs with a view to 
 save him, there was closeted with the latter another 
 pleader for his own safety, as involved in the safety of 
 others. Father Hugo, who was made aware of all the 
 secret forces at work to make a great strike inevitable, 
 and who saw with dismay the men passing gradually 
 away from his own saving influence, determined to make 
 one bold move and challenge the chief instigator and 
 organiser on his own floor. He knew perfectly well that 
 Newton was supplying from the English war-chests the 
 money; that Stenson, a sincere but half-mad enthusiast 
 was inflaming the men's passions by his writings and 
 speeches; that Greevy, though a subordinate, was doing 
 great mischief by his influence gained by his unselfish 
 character and his strong religious feelings; but he also 
 knew that with all these forces against him, he could still 
 keep the men in safe courses but for the tremendous influ- 
 ence of this young Trinity gentleman, whose position, 
 as one of the dominant race and an alumnus of Trinity, 
 seemed to add an overwhelming force to his earnest and 
 powerful eloquence. It is always the characteristic of 
 conquered races to seek a sanction from their masters. 
 It palliates their defiance of law, and gives their revolt 
 the one endorsement jt requires. And Father Hugo felt' 
 
A MONK IN TRINITY 161 
 
 that if he could remove this one great and inspiring fac- 
 tor in the turbulent elements that were seething around 
 him, they would soon separate and fall to pieces of them- 
 selves. 
 
 It was a strange and portentous event in the history of 
 Trinity, when a serge-clad sandalled monk passed under 
 its archway, and threw his shadow across the gravelled 
 quadrangle. Students turned around, and stared after 
 a figure, whose like had never before been seen within 
 these walls; the porters felt seriously alarmed at their 
 temerity in having allowed him to pass; a group gathered 
 in College Green, wildly conjecturing what was the cause 
 of so singular an apparition in such a stronghold of fierce 
 and undiluted Protestantism. There was a legend in 
 the college for many months after that the Professor, 
 who was nicknamed " Old Sol," rushed wildly to the Prov- 
 ost's rooms, and asked breathlessly: 
 
 " Has the inevitable arrived? " 
 and it was even said that the great picture of the Virgin 
 Queen was turned by some unseen hand with its face 
 to the wall. 
 
 Father Hugo was happily a foreigner; and thought little 
 of Irish convenances, and a good deal less of Irish criti- 
 cism or opinion. He had an object before him, and he 
 had to attain it. That was all. He found his way with 
 some difficulty to Albrecht's rooms, and boldly knocked, 
 and entered. 
 
 Ian Albrecht was sitting at a writing-desk, his head 
 sunk low on his hands. All the fires of enthusiasm that 
 burn so brightly and fiercely at eventide sink down to 
 white ashes under the cold stare of a sunless wintry morn- 
 ing; and just then Albrecht was experiencing the dread 
 depression of passionate natures, which alternate with 
 periods of high exaltation. He was thinking that Death 
 would not be altogether unacceptable. He raised his 
 head as the inner door opened, and stared at the brown 
 apparition, bareheaded, and barefooted that stood before 
 him. His eyes were so dim that he could not catch the 
 
162 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 outlines of the figure, and the face of the monk was but 
 a pale yellow blur. Father Hugo advanced and said 
 smilingly: 
 
 "Goot — mawnin'!" 
 
 "Good morning," said Albrecht, rising in bewilderment, 
 "please, be seated." 
 
 "Dank you," said the monk. "You are ver' surprise 
 to zee me?" 
 
 "Can I do anything for you?" said Albrecht cour- 
 teously. "Oh, I presume," he continued, as if some 
 vague idea of mendicancy were connected with the medi- 
 aeval figure, "you are collecting funds for some purpose. 
 I cannot do very much, but — " 
 
 "No," said the monk, affecting great sternness in a 
 moment. "I am goom on more important affairs. I 
 goom to ask you give me back my little shildrens." 
 
 Albrecht looked astonished at the remark, and began 
 to suspect queer things, but the friar went on, pointing 
 his finger at the delinquent: 
 
 "You have stolen my leetle shildrens. You have taken 
 them from me, dere fader, and you have handed dem over 
 to de devil." 
 
 "I beg pardon," said Albrecht, * quite courteously, 
 "there is clearly some mistake here — " 
 
 "No, no, no," snapped the friar, "dere is no mistek. 
 It is you, who have stolen away my leetle shildrens; it 
 is you that have put tears in their mudders' and sistares' 
 eyes, and in the hearts of their poor wives; it is you have 
 tuk them away from God, and the Holy Virgin and Saint 
 Josef; it is you who have dragged dem against their will 
 into dangerous and sinful gourses. You air a bad man; 
 you air a deevil! what care you, if they knock deree head 
 against a stone wall, and get dere eyes black? what care 
 you if dere wives and shildrens are starving? What care 
 you, if the gendarmes plunge dem in gaol? Vhill you 
 feed de leetle ones? Vhill you, me fines gentlemans, 
 vhill you go down and say: 'Twas not dese poor fellows, 
 it vhas I dat vhas to blame? Put de punishment upon mei 
 
A MONK IN TRINITY 163 
 
 and permit dem to go? Oh, no, you vhill save your own 
 skin, you vhill vhistle 'Champagne Charlie'! and 'Not 
 for Joe'! I knows you vhell. You are not Irish. You 
 are continongtal! You do come from de cradle of anar- 
 chy and socialisme; and you bring dese deveelish ideas 
 into Holy Ireland. But, mark you, you vhill fall; 
 you vhill gome to bad end. But you vhill drag my 
 leetle shildrens with you!" 
 
 Albrecht was sorely puzzled what to say. He could 
 not be angry; yet he had to make some defence. He 
 thought for a moment and said: 
 
 "I do not think there is much use in arguing the ques- 
 tion; we view it from different stand-points. You are 
 trying to block modern progress with your literal and medi- 
 aeval Christianity; and we are trying to wean the people 
 from you — " 
 
 "Dot is goot now!" interrupted Father Hugo, "dot is 
 candeed! You do not say: No! my friends, we leave you 
 your reeligion; we do not interfere with you, we are vhork- 
 ing on different lines, an' all vhill be the same in the end. 
 No, you are honest, you are candeed! You say, we vhill 
 destroy your reeligion first, and then we vhill save you. 
 Dot is goot! Now we understand each other. Go on!" 
 
 "You put it rather bluntly, Sir," said Ian, "but as you 
 say, I have the merit of candour. To be very open with 
 you, I consider your Church, with its eternal preachment 
 on the vanity of life and the value of a future eternity, is 
 the enemy of Humanity!" 
 
 "Den, you do not believe in God, or your soul?" said 
 the monk aghast. 
 
 "What you call God, I call goodness — the moral law, 
 the instinct of righteousness and duty, implanted in our 
 natures — " 
 
 "By whom?" asked the monk. 
 
 "By reason and the sense of mutual protection, and 
 the common welfare," said Albrecht. 
 
 "But why have not de brutes your descendants, no — 
 your, vhat is it? ancestors, also de moral sense?" 
 
164 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "It came in the evolution of things," said Albrecht, 
 evasively. "It is the common instinct now." 
 
 "And vhere does your instinct gome in here?" asked 
 the monk. 
 
 "In the protest against injustice," said Ian, rising up. 
 "In the defence of natural rights, and the avenging of 
 wrongs." 
 
 "And den?" said the monk. 
 
 "And then," replied Ian, "the raising up of the masses 
 of the people to wealth, enlightenment, education, now 
 the monopoly of the few." 
 
 "You pity de poor?" queried the monk. 
 
 " Yes," said Ian, with some emphasis. " I do not pity 
 them. I bleed for them." 
 
 "I pity de reech!" said the monk blandly. 
 
 "What?" cried Albrecht. 
 
 "I pity de reech," continued the monk, "and if I were 
 not poor myself, I would envy de poor. Yes, mein 
 vriend," he continued, coming over and laying his hand 
 on Albrecht's sleeve, "'tis de reech dot are to be pitied; 
 and de sooner dot is reckonised, de better. I hafe seen 
 all. I hafe sate under de gilded dome of de reech man 
 and under de bare rafters of de poor. I hafe eaten pdti 
 de foie gras and cold potatoes, drunk champagne out of 
 silvare goblets and cold tea from a cracked mug; and I 
 tells you, my dear young vriend, dat de dome often govers 
 hell, and de rafters lean down on Heafen. Would you be 
 honest Greevy or — Holthsworth? Goom now, tell me 
 dat!" 
 
 '"Twon't do, my dear Sir," said Ian, getting a little 
 worried at the monk's persistence. "The time for argu- 
 ment is over; the time for action has begun. All this 
 has been thrashed out a hundred times; but our minds 
 are now made up." 
 
 "Den you vhill force on de strike!" said Father Hugo. 
 
 "Certainly. Unless the Directors come to terms." 
 
 " And you know dot Engleesh money is behind it all? " 
 Baid Father Hugo. 
 
A MONK IN TRINITY 165 
 
 "There, Sir!" said Ian. "Please don't consider me 
 uncivil, if I say that this interview, unsought by me, must 
 now be terminated." 
 
 "It shall be as you wish," said Father Hugo, with 
 sudden dignity. "But, mark you, mein vriend, it vhill 
 end badly for you. 'If de blind lead de blind, shall not 
 both fall into de ditch?' But I forgot, you do not believe 
 in de Gospel of Christ!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do! He is with us. 'He hath pulled 
 down the mighty from their seat, and exalted the humble.' 
 I can cap text with text, as long as you care to quote." 
 
 Father Hugo looked him all over in amazement. He 
 could not understand him. He bowed, and said: 
 
 "I bid you, goot — mawnin'!" 
 
XVI 
 
 Two Interviews 
 
 Miriam Lucas was not so engrossed with her new 
 friends in Dublin, and the exciting circumstances of her 
 new life, as to forget old friends and old times in Glendar- 
 ragh. It was not her nature to forget; nay, her memory- 
 was but too retentive of the pain that comes from slights 
 and wrongs, and the deeper pain of remembered kindness. 
 Often, when Holthsworth had gone to his office for the 
 day, and she was free from his unwelcome attentions, she 
 would allow her mind to wander over the past, and recall 
 every feature of the well-beloved house and grounds, 
 and fields and sands and sea, now consecrated in the 
 light of memory. And she saw all things not in their 
 gloomy and wintry aspect, shrouded in sea-mist or half 
 blotted in sheets of rain, but as they looked in the early 
 springtime when all things were springing into joyous life, 
 or in the summer twilights, when the consecration of 
 peace fell on hamlet and cliff and ocean; or in the gentle 
 autumn, when the grey sadness of farewell was over all 
 the face of nature. How little people thought, as they 
 watched the pale, proud face of the girl in the splendid 
 brougham that stopped before some fashionable shop in 
 the public thoroughfares of Dublin, that her thoughts 
 were with fishermen and a fool; and that she was dream- 
 ing, dreaming of a lowly life of simplicity and even pov- 
 erty down there where the oak trees shook in the valley 
 before the south-western gales. 
 
 And if she were tempted to forget, her dear old friends 
 would not allow her. Once a week, regularly, Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite wrote to the lonely girl, such cheery, kind, 
 affectionate, epistles that they brightened almost half a 
 
TWO INTERVIEWS 167 
 
 day; and now and again came a letter to Anstie, from 
 her father or Declan Ahern, to assure her that all was 
 bright and cheery down there on the wintry sands, and 
 that the old man was as tenderly cared-f or as if she, her- 
 self, were there. And Anstie showed all these precious 
 documents to her young mistress; and they would talk 
 together over old times and places. But a deeper im- 
 pression would be forced on the mistress than on her 
 maid; for Anstie was enraptured with city life and all its 
 splendours, and — the young groom who kept Holths- 
 worth's chestnut horses so sleek and silky, was really very 
 attentive. 
 
 Then again there was trouble with the tenants on the 
 Glendarragh property. They positively refused to pay 
 their rents to anyone but Miss Miriam, whom they rec- 
 ognised as the owner, and the only owner of the estate. 
 Threats of law in solicitor's letters, writs, and all the 
 other coercive measures for extracting money from unwill- 
 ing pockets were of no avail. And, strange to say, Holths- 
 worth was unwilling to proceed further. He threatened 
 all manner of revenges and reprisals, but did not execute 
 them. 
 
 "The loss is yours," he said to Miriam, "these hinds 
 are supercilious and insolent. They do not plead poverty. 
 They simply say they won't pay me, as your poor father's 
 representative. They say they will pay you. Have you 
 given them (pardon the suggestion) any encouragement? " 
 
 "Not the least," answered Miriam. 
 
 "You know," Holthsworth continued, insinuatingly, 
 "that would be all right, but irregular; most irregular, 
 and even illegal. We do not know what complications 
 might arise; and to hold receipts for rent in your name, 
 who are not legally qualified to give them — " 
 
 "Is that so?" asked Miriam. 
 
 "Well, I presume so," said Holthsworth, shuffling. 
 "Until you can assume control of the property it would 
 be decidedly illegal to sign receipts." 
 
 "And when may I assume that control?" asked Miriam. 
 
168 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "We — el, that rests a good deal on — well, on circum- 
 stances; I was about to say on myself, but that would be 
 rude. But there is a clause, my dear Miriam, to the 
 effect that should you — it looks unkind to say it — but 
 we lawyers must be blunt, you know — contract a mar- 
 riage disapproved of, or, at least, against my wishes, you 
 may sacrifice certain privileges." 
 
 "That's easily settled," said Miriam. "I have never 
 allowed such a thought to enter my mind." 
 
 "I am so pleased to hear you say so," said Holthsworth, 
 rubbing his soft palms together with an air of great 
 satisfaction, like one who had escaped from a serious 
 difficulty. "I am very pleased indeed to hear such a — 
 such a — a loyal expression from your lips. It is a de- 
 cided pleasure for me to know that you will not marry 
 without my consent — " 
 
 "I beg pardon," said Miriam, flushing angrily, "I 
 meant that I was not contemplating marriage at all." 
 
 "I know. But, of course, you understand, my dear 
 Miriam, that that cannot be. You cannot remain a 
 dependent for ever — " 
 
 "Am I a dependent now?" she said. 
 
 "I don't meant that. You quite misapprehend me. 
 You are not left penniless by any means. But I mean 
 that you must assume your proper sphere in society, 
 sooner or later, as the wife of some eminent man, who 
 can throw around your life all that would make it blessed 
 and happy, and whose only solicitude would be to keep 
 away all jarring and discordant circumstances — " 
 
 He could not speak more plainly; but she instinctively 
 knew what he meant. She was silent; and this led the 
 fool on to his fate. 
 
 "If, let us suppose, now," he said, with dry, whitened 
 lips, "you were to get an offer of honourable marriage 
 — mind, I say, honourable, from a professional man of 
 good standing in the city, one, let us suppose, who is sought 
 after as financial Director of Companies, and whose name 
 is on every Board in the City, and who knows the ins 
 
TWO INTERVIEWS 169 
 
 and outs of every commercial enterprise, and who, besides, 
 would be devoted to you heart and soul, would you not 
 think it well and advisable — " 
 
 Something in the girl's face stopped him. It was not 
 disgust, nor aversion, nor surprise. It was the look that 
 was on the same face that evil night, when he had pledged 
 her health in that diningroom down by the sea, and the 
 red wine trickled through her father's fingers; and with- 
 out a word she had led the poor, helpless imbecile from 
 the place. 
 
 The same sensation flashed through him that had led 
 him to soliloquise and plot that night when left alone with 
 his wine; but, in a moment, it flamed out into anger, 
 aroused by the consciousness of his power. 
 
 "I know all now," he said hoarsely, "I was but experi- 
 menting on your feelings, and you have given yourself 
 away, Madame Miriam. And now hear me! You are 
 in my power, soul and body. I hold the latter; the law 
 gives it to me. I hold the former thus. You have been 
 nesting with rebels and conspirators in the City — men 
 sworn to the subversion of all law and order. It is not 
 usual for ladies brought up as you are, to herd with that 
 vile canaille. But," he added, with bitter sarcasm, "per- 
 haps you aspire to become an Irish Madame Roland, or 
 perhaps a Charlotte Corday — " 
 
 "Stop!" said Miriam, "one moment. There is no 
 necessity for that. The justice of the Eternal will pur- 
 sue you and seize you." 
 
 "Why do you name the 'Eternal'," he said, with cold 
 bitterness. "Neither you nor your associates believe in 
 God." 
 
 "That is one of your calumnies," she cried. 
 
 "Put it to the test," he said. "The next time you 
 meet your lover, either in the editorial sanctum, or at 
 Rathmines, or the next time you write him with note- 
 paper stamped with my initials, ask him, is it a part of 
 the Socialistic creed to believe in God or eternity, and 
 — await your answer." 
 
170 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 The girl was so utterly stunned by these unexpected 
 revelations of her inmost thoughts and secrets, she could 
 not speak. She felt herself more than ever in the power 
 of this hateful man. Clearly, she had been watched ar.d 
 followed; and every imprudence had knit more closely 
 the bonds in which he held her. She could not speak. 
 She flung herself on a sofa, all her native dignity crushed 
 and broken, and placing one hand over her eyes, she mo- 
 tioned him away; and because he refused to accept the 
 gesture, she said, in a pitiful, pleading voice: — 
 
 "If you believe in God, go; leave me!" 
 
 He went away, and entering his sanctum he lit a cigar, 
 and smoked in long, deep breaths. 
 
 " Yesy my Goethe," he said at last to himself, "you are 
 right. Doubt is only resolved by Action. I think that 
 citadel is taken. Now, let me see," he said, turning over 
 some letters which lay on his table. "The men go on 
 strike this evening. Good! Doubt always resolved by 
 Action! That clears the decks. 'Albrecht will be ex- 
 pelled from Trinity the moment the Senate can formulate' 
 — damn their formalities — as if there were not enough 
 proof against him to send him to Mountjoy. 'Father 
 Hugo all day at the works, begging, praying. The men 
 turned their backs on him.' Quite right. A lesson to 
 these intermeddling priests to mind their own business 
 which they are not at all disposed to do. 'Greevy has 
 sworn' — what? Oh, yes! I'll keep out of the fellow's 
 way until he is under lock and key. Now let me see the 
 little programme working itself out unto the end." 
 
 He laid the letters side by side and took up a pencil 
 and collated them. He then drew a little map on a blank 
 leaf, marking down detail after detail, until the whole 
 thing looked perfect. Then, he rubbed out one or two 
 items and substituted others. When all seemed per- 
 fect, he touched the bell. A servant appeared. 
 
 "When Mr. Elliott calls, show him up immediately," 
 he said. 
 
 He sat and smoked in silence for a long time. He had 
 
TWO INTERVIEWS 171 
 
 sunk into a kind of reverie, in which he was dreaming 
 of a blissful future, in which Miriam would be the cen- 
 tral figure. Suddenly, the door opened and Miriam 
 appeared. 
 
 "I am leaving Dublin immediately," she said. There 
 was a trace of the old hauteur in her attitude and voice. 
 
 " On a brief visit? " he said, raising his eyebrows. 
 
 "No, for ever," she replied. 
 
 "You are not," he said. "You stay in Dublin until 
 — certain events occur in the near future which will 
 clear matters for you. When your Watchman is suspended; 
 and your young Trinity friend, with his associates, is 
 clapped into gaol, or shot, you may have no further 
 business here. Then, we shall consider your future." 
 
 "Mr. Elliott is waiting, Sir," said a maid-servant. 
 "Shall I show him into the drawingroom?" 
 
 "No, show him up here," he said, waving a hand to 
 Miriam to withdraw. Elliott entered. He had not 
 waited to be shown up. He was already on the landing. 
 He closed the door of Holthsworth's study carefully, 
 and took the proffered chair. But a few times he looked 
 around at the door, to be sure that no spirit had entered 
 with him. 
 
 "Well?" said Holthsworth, sharply. 
 
 "The whole thing is working smoothly," said the man, 
 laying his hat on the floor, and taking out a bundle of 
 papers. " Newton has been spending money like water, and 
 the few who were holding out with Father Hugo have been 
 outvoiced by the others. Stenson, too, has been pouring 
 petroleum on the fire. He is honest, and in deadly ear- 
 nest. And Greevy — " 
 
 The man stopped. 
 
 "And Greevy?" said Holthsworth. 
 
 "Well, the report is abroad that Greevy has gone in- 
 sane. At least he talks like a madman. I think, Sir — " 
 
 The man stopped again. 
 
 "I think you ought to be careful. One never knows 
 what these half-insane men might do." 
 
172 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "True, very true," said Holthsworth, as if converted 
 to an opinion he had been doubtful about, "I'll watch 
 Greevy, and have him watched." 
 
 "Another thing, Sir," said the man, "if I may mention 
 a lady's name?" 
 
 "By all means," said Holthsworth. "But respect- 
 fully, Elliott, respectfully, as becomes ladies." 
 
 "I was going to say, Sir, that it would be well if Miss 
 Lucas was allowed to go on, that is, that you should not 
 dissuade her from encouraging the men." 
 
 "How? I don't understand!" said Holthsworth. 
 
 " You see, Sir, if they think they have a lady with them, 
 it will drive them on. And they think, already, that 
 Miss Lucas is not only a lady but a kind of prisoner of 
 yours whom you have got into your toils — " 
 
 "Go on! go on!" said Holthsworth, delighted. 
 
 "And if they think they are doing a fine thing for a 
 lady, as well as for themselves — " 
 
 "I see! I see!" said Holthsworth. "The damned 
 Don Quixotes!" 
 
 "That's it, Sir," said the man, chuckling. "If they 
 think there's a distressed lady in the case, they will go 
 through fire and water for her." 
 
 "Good!" said Holthsworth. "That's an ingenious 
 idea. I see what you mean. Those who won't make 
 fools of themselves for Newton's money will make mad- 
 men of themselves for my ward." 
 
 "That's it, Sir," said Elliott. 
 
 "But we must take care, Elliott, that she suffers no 
 harm. I would not wish for the world she should be 
 compromised, or even her name mentioned in such a 
 connection." 
 
 "Of course, Sir," said Elliott, "I know what you mean. 
 It would never do, considering Miss Lucas's future and 
 all that is before her and you to have her name connected 
 with a strike." 
 
 "Certainly. You understand me perfectly, Elliott. 
 You are a good fellow. You'll have a glass of wine? " 
 
TWO INTERVIEWS .173 
 
 He touched the bell, and Anstie appeared, a little too 
 quickly, he thought. He looked sternly at the girl, and 
 gave a quick, stern order. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Elliott, humbly. "Is that 
 Miss Lucas's maid?" 
 
 "It is," said Holthsworth, surprised. 
 
 "Is her name Carroll? Anastasia Carroll?" said 
 Elliott, consulting some papers. 
 
 "It is. We call her Anstie," said Holthsworth. 
 
 "I think, but I am not sure, that she was listening at 
 the door." 
 
 "You are quite wrong, Elliott," said Holthsworth, 
 frowning. "No servant here would dare do such a 
 thing. You have all the suspicions of your profession." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I have," said Elliott, humbly. 
 
 "I shouldn't have said it. But you are fumbling with 
 some papers apparently in connection with the subject," 
 said Holthsworth, with some anxiety. 
 
 "Oh, no; not at all," said Elliott, simply. "It is of 
 no consequence. I was deceived, of course; I was de- 
 ceived. Here's to your health, Sir. May you live long." 
 
 Next day Anstie, to her great surprise, was summarily 
 dismissed with a month's wages and her fare back to 
 Glendarragh. A few days later the young groom gave 
 notice; and, one by one, the old familiar faces seemed to 
 disappear from around Miriam, and she began to feel 
 how utterly alone and desolate she was. Yet, her strong 
 nature upheld her in the midst of her loneliness. She 
 met Holthsworth that day at dinner, and on subsequent 
 days, as if nothing had occurred. He was as tranquilly 
 polite as if Miriam had accepted his overtures. He was 
 playing a part, where he felt he should eventually suc- 
 ceed, and then — ? Miriam felt that she was the centre 
 of a problem that had to be solved. Her mother's his- 
 tory, her own position, their property and its ownership 
 — here were questions that demanded solution. Yes! 
 patience was necessary on both sides. And on hers also 
 
174 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 was a thirst for revenge on the evil man — a thirst that 
 promised to be satisfied; for were not all the hostile agen- 
 cies in the City converging towards him? 
 
 Sometimes her woman's heart failed her as she thought 
 what a serious struggle was this in which she, a mere 
 girl, was engaged with this strong, wealthy, unscrupulous 
 man. Sometimes she thought of Albrecht, with a cer- 
 tain tenderness and misgiving about his fate. What if 
 she were instrumental towards his ruin? Sometimes 
 she felt that she would go down in the struggle. She had 
 not quite cunning enough to meet this man on his own 
 ground. She felt that she could do a great thing, or 
 make a great sacrifice, if it were only once and for ever. 
 But the daily, hourly struggle against a force that seemed 
 insensible, so secret were Holthsworth's methods, so 
 tortuous his way; so cruel he was, and so kind; so des- 
 potic, yet so tender, appeared to her to be above her 
 strength. And then the misgiving would seize on her 
 imagination that she had plunged headlong into a wrong 
 and desperate course of action, where she was contra- 
 vening all laws, and defying all the forces that were ranked 
 on the side of decency and order. Once, or twice, so 
 great became her desperation, that she thought it were 
 better to give in at once, and succumb to Holthsworth's 
 wishes. But the idea of a life spent with this man filled 
 her with such utter loathing, that she dismissed the 
 thought at once. Anything, anything, but that. 
 
 After such temptations she always felt stronger and 
 more enthusiastic. Yes! to live for a great cause; with 
 the hope of seeing her way finally out of the great entangle- 
 ment; at best, to die for such a cause, and reach the end 
 of her despair — surely, this is best. .. After such trials 
 her step became more firm and buoyant. Her eyes took 
 on a new radiance. Alone and desperate! Be it so, 
 then! If victory, so much the greater! If defeat, so 
 little lost. Yes, forward, forward at any cost. 
 
XVII 
 
 Mother and Son 
 
 If Ian Albrecht were asked what exactly had given 
 his mind such a curious trend, that he should give up the 
 studies of his profession and break with all the traditions 
 of his class, as he had done, he would probably be at a 
 loss for an answer. Or, perhaps, after a few moments' 
 useless reflection, he would have sighed, and answered 
 tritely: — 
 
 "There's a Divinity doth shape our ends, 
 Rough-hew them how we will." 
 
 It is quite true he had been not only dabbling, but 
 plunging deeply in dangerous literature. He had been 
 a disciple of Jean Jacques, had passed on to Saint Simon 
 and Proudhon, had grown moderate, then extreme; then 
 moderate again; and all the time he was the quiet, gentle- 
 manly, modest student, taking no part in athletics, or 
 the amusements of fashion, going to church regularly, 
 and apparently cut out by nature to be a model clergy- 
 man, or to adopt some such quiet profession as that of 
 a Banker, or a Broker. That revolutionary ideas — ideas 
 of breaking up and reconstructing — and sympathies 
 with the vast, toiling masses, were seething beneath those 
 brown curls, and behind those brown, dim eyes, no one 
 could conjecture. The revelation came as a surprise to 
 his two intimate friends, as we have seen; and no idea 
 could be further from the imagination of his mother, the 
 one being to whom he was passionately attached on earth, 
 and whose sorrow, when the revelation would come, was 
 now the dread anticipation that made him sometimes 
 morose and sad; and yet had not the least effect in cooling 
 
176 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 his enthusiasm in what he believed to be a sacred cause. 
 For now, too, Ian felt that thrill of pride — shall we 
 call it noble? — that runs through every vein and nerve 
 when a young man knows he is an acknowledged leader 
 of men, that eyes are upturned to him for inspiration, 
 and hearts are beating for his call. 
 
 Earlier in life his ambition had taken another turn. 
 He had dreamed of being the star, the "bright partic- 
 ular star" of his own intellectual firmament. He had 
 read with kindling eyes of the career of that greatest of 
 Trinity men, William Rowan Hamilton, Fellow of Trin- 
 ity, and Mathematical Professor at nineteen; at the age 
 of twenty-seven, the leading light of his University. He 
 had heard of that dramatic scene when, at the dinner- 
 table, during the Session of the British Association in 
 Dublin, and in the presence of two hundred of the most 
 distinguished men in Europe, the young Professor was 
 called out by the Lord Lieutenant, and solemnly knighted 
 in recognition of his transcendent abilities. And he 
 burned with the passion of a noble emulation for such, 
 the greatest triumphs of the human mind. Sometimes, 
 too, he dreamed of rivalling the great intellects of 
 Germany, and of going down to posterity after a life of 
 concentrated study and a death surrounded with all the 
 pomp of a royal departure, as the founder of a great 
 school of philosophy, or, at least, as the author of one 
 immortal book. 
 
 But these dreams were soon dissipated. The idols of 
 the school were no longer worshipped; but the idols of 
 the market-place. No great question disturbed the 
 base tranquillity of the schools. Everything was tradi- 
 tional and stereotyped and fixed. The ideas of the world, 
 instead of being fluid and fresh, were fossils in adamant. 
 Enthusiasm had died out. The art of oratory was dead. 
 No man now, in bar or pulpit, would dream of reviving, 
 or emulating, the rhetoric that had made certain names 
 immortal, and built these bronze statues there in the 
 Green. And as for the students, if Plato rose from the 
 
MOTHER AND SON 177 
 
 dead, they would not throng, his lecture-hall, or Academe; 
 nor spend sixpence to buy a torch to carry the remains 
 of the great thinker to his grave. In a word, Ian saw 
 that all great causes had been, and were to the new gen- 
 eration, lost causes. There was but one that would yet 
 touch the human heart; and alas! it was the cause of the 
 proletariat, and the motive was — gain! ! ! 
 
 He huddled away that base word and thought, and 
 cloaked it with fine-sounding phrases. No, it was not 
 gain! It was the up-lifting, the resurrection of the great 
 toiling, sweating masses of humanity. It was the lev- 
 elling up of the race to one great normal standard of 
 perfection. It was the struggling and swelling and sweep- 
 ing onward of the irresistible tide of social evolution. It 
 was the voice of almighty nature, bidding him come and 
 aid the mother of men in her beneficent task of rounding 
 and perfecting humanity. There was no such thing as 
 disobeying that call. It came to him by night and day, 
 pleading, threatening, promising. It seemed as if the 
 waters had lifted up their voices in a mighty tumult, and 
 that the deluge was at hand. 
 
 Did he count the cost? He did. With face buried in 
 his hands, he went over the details of all he should have to 
 suffer and endure — the social ostracism, the probable 
 expulsion from his University, the estrangement from his 
 fellow-students and friends — above all, the violent rup- 
 ture of the sweet and happy relations with his beloved 
 mother. He was gifted with an imagination that saw 
 all these things in detail, and in all their concrete horrors, 
 and then — he coughed a little, and took out his hand- 
 kerchief. Only one little life, fast running to its end. 
 "Let it go out," he said, "in the splendours of a great 
 death for a great cause." 
 
 Did he think of Miriam? 
 
 Yes! Not, however, in any human sense, but as a 
 spirit linked with his in a sphere of thought and action 
 far removed from ordinary life. The idea of a home, 
 of domestic felicity, of the sweet surroundings of a life 
 
178 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 blessed by the companionship of a kindred spirit, never 
 occurred to him. He put these Elysian dreams, which 
 haunt the minds of most young men, aside as not worthy, 
 or not congruous to his circumstances and surroundings. 
 Miriam and he, old playmates, had now been brought 
 together again by the mysterious hand of Destiny; and 
 both were linked together for ever and evermore in the 
 sympathy of union of ideas, and a common sacrifice for 
 a great and holy end. 
 
 And yet, sometimes, his courage failed him, when he 
 thought of her. Was he right to drag her into the con- 
 flict, to ask her to perish with him? In the solitude 
 his chamber, he said 'Yes!' He was then only in the 
 presence of an idea. In her presence, he said 'No!' He 
 was face to face with a girl, not a woman, whom he 
 couldn't ask to share his sacrifice. No! life was nothing 
 to him. To her, it was opening up fair, and sweet, and 
 sunny. How could he drag down over that fair face the 
 curtain, whose shadows were already glooming and dark- 
 ening his own life? 
 
 For some time, in his weekly visit to his mother, he had 
 noticed a little restraint, a keeping back of something, 
 which is a hint that confidence had been rudely shaken. 
 
 Mrs. Albrecht lived at this time in one of those villas 
 at Sutton, that face the sea on one side, and are almost 
 washed by the sea on the other. The position gave a curi- 
 ous colouring to her thoughts, which were deeply imbued 
 with religion. She belonged to the sect called Plymouth 
 Brethren; and had been brought up in strict Puritanical 
 ideas which, notwithstanding wifehood and motherhood, 
 seemed to narrow and harden as the years advanced, and 
 the snows gathered on her forehead. She had met, and 
 been married to an Austrian colonel, who, in his turn, 
 was a member of that strange religious body called Hern- 
 hutters, around whom so much legend has been written, 
 and so much mystery has hung. It was the sympathy of 
 religion had brought them together — the link of psalm 
 and song and prayer, of holy Sabbaths, consecrated by 
 
MOTHER AND SON 179 
 
 prayer, and rigid, stern morals, governed by fear, and the 
 dreamy forecast of a "new heaven and a new earth" if 
 not realisable here below, at least to be seen and experi- 
 enced in the revelation of the holy book. Colonel Al- 
 brecht was shot down at Sadowa, just as he had ordered a 
 charge of his hussars; and his widow, and her only child 
 had come back to the Dublin of her childhood. Here, 
 on a slight pension, eked out with small means of her 
 own, she led a secluded life, mixing little in society, 
 except amongst the chosen. And here she elected to die, 
 leaving her epitaph written, ending with the symbolical 
 words: — ,, .„ 
 
 BETWEEN TWO SEAS! 
 
 This Sunday evening, when Ian was announced for his 
 weekly visit, she sat watching the twilight coming down 
 softly over the sea. Her Bible lay open before her at 
 Revelations. Her white, thin hand rested on the open 
 page, but her eyes were watching through the sinking 
 gloom a world of clouds and imagery, of ceilings of jasper 
 and chalcedony, and floors over which were gliding the 
 sanctified spirits of the elect. She was so absorbed in 
 her ecstasy that she heard, as if in a dream, the words 
 "Mr. Albrecht," and for some time, was but dimly con- 
 scious of the presence of her son. 
 
 He came over to where she was sitting abstracted; and 
 his dim eyes failing to observe her ecstasy, he stooped 
 gently and kissed her forehead. Then she turned and 
 said: — 
 
 " It is you. I had been dreaming ! " 
 
 The tremendous contrast between his wild, daring, 
 tumultuous fancies, the desperate business in which he 
 was engaged, and the sanguinary end to which he thought 
 he was hastening; and the sweet seclusion of this seaside 
 villa, and the heavenly peace that seemed to reign in 
 that room, and to surround that beloved form as with 
 the nimbus of a saint, smote his conscience, and he sank 
 into a chair opposite his mother with a certain conscious- 
 ness of guilt. 
 
180 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 She said, without looking towards him: — 
 
 " I sometimes wish that we had duly authorised teachers 
 — I mean," she added hastily, "not authorised of men, 
 but of God, who would expound His Word in wisdom." 
 
 "I understood," he said, without looking up, "that 
 the Spirit spoke where He listed." 
 
 There was a slight accent of sarcasm in his words, but 
 his mother did not perceive it. 
 
 "True," she said. "But sometimes human wisdom, 
 holpen by the Spirit, may be quicker to discern the occult 
 things that lie here. Now, here is a passage that giveth me 
 much vexation and travail of spirit." And she read: — 
 
 " These are the two olive trees, and the two candlesticks 
 standing before the God of the earth. But if any man 
 will hurt them, fire proceedeth out of their mouth, and 
 devoureth their enemies; and if any man will hurt them, 
 he must in this manner be killed. These have power 
 to shut heaven, that it rain not in the days of their 
 prophecy; and have power over waters to turn them to 
 blood, and to smite the earth with all plagues, as often 
 as they will. And when they shall have finished their 
 testimony, the beast that ascendeth not out of the bot- 
 tomless pit shall make war against them, and kill them 
 and overcome them. And their dead bodies shall lie in 
 the streets of the great city which spiritually is called 
 Sodom and Egypt, where, also our Lord was crucified." 
 
 "Now," she continued, holding her hands open on the 
 Book, "I can see part of the meaning, but the rest is 
 obscure. The beast is clearly Romanism — the beast of 
 Revelations; and the olive trees and candlesticks are 
 clearly the symbols of Religion and Society. But I cannot 
 see how Jerusalem, the City of God, can be called Sodom 
 and Egypt? Can you throw any light on the text, Ian?" 
 
 "No, mother," he said. "But may we not defer it, 
 and have some tea? I want to speak to you of something 
 else." 
 
 She looked surprised, but touched the gong, and ordered 
 the little servant, Rachel, to get some tea. 
 
MOTHER AND SON 181 
 
 Meanwhile, the shadows were deepening, and a more 
 than Sabbath silence reigned outside, where the dark waters 
 were heaving. A deeper silence seemed to hold the in- 
 mates of the glooming parlour, for neither Albrecht nor 
 his mother spoke. 
 
 When the tea came in, and the mother had in silence 
 handed some to Ian, he said: — 
 
 "Mother?" 
 
 She said, "Yes." 
 
 "I want to speak to you tonight about an oldtime story 
 that has recently come back to me. Do you remember a 
 little girl, a child, fair-haired and sunny, that used to be 
 a playmate of mine, long, very long ago?" 
 
 "Her name?" said the mother. 
 
 "Miriam, Myrrha, Mir — we had a hundred pet 
 names for her; and she was, you may remember, the sun 
 of our lives." 
 
 "There is but One, to whom that word can apply," said 
 his mother; "He Who is the Sun of Eternal Righteousness." 
 
 "I know! I know," said Ian, impatiently, "But 
 you remember Myrrha — Miriam Lucas?" 
 
 "Well," said the mother, emphatically. "I have 
 reason." 
 
 "I have seen her," said Ian. "She has come up from 
 the country and is in the city." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "No! Better she were! She is under the tutelage, 
 or guardianship of a creature named Holthsworth." 
 
 "Ian!" said his mother, in a tone of alarm and reproof. 
 
 "Yes, mother!" 
 
 "You should not speak thus. I know Mr. Holths- 
 worth, and have known him for years as a godly man. 
 Beware how you speak of the elect! What doth the 
 scripture say: 'Touch not mine anointed!' 'He who 
 touches you, touches the apple of mine eye!'" 
 
 "I meant nothing," said Ian, disingenuously. "But, 
 mother, for old times' sake, could you not bring Miriam 
 hither? Surely she was better under your protection?" 
 
182 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 " You know not what you are saying, my son," she re- 
 plied. "Here are secrets which must not be touched." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I understand," he cried, impatiently, 
 "there is some birth-taint, some secret; but that has 
 nought to do with so sweet and innocent a girl. Why 
 visit the sins of the fathers upon the children, and make 
 one generation responsible for another?" 
 
 " It is the law," she said. " We may not alter it. But, 
 if this child of evil has a chance of regeneration, by which 
 I mean a new birth unto Christ, then Mr. Holthsworth 
 is the one man, possessed of the Spirit, who may succeed." 
 
 " Poor Myrrha ! Little Myrrha ! Don't you remember, 
 mother, how you used to pet her and caress her, and say 
 she should always live here; and that Myrrha and I — " 
 
 He suddenly stopped. 
 
 "Yes," said his mother, after a pause, and in the same 
 level, even monotone, passionless, unemotional, "I remem- 
 ber all. But then came the revelation! I forbade the 
 girl this house; and the prohibition remains. And," 
 she continued, slowly, "if you value your mother's love, 
 which has never failed you, you also will leave that girl 
 to be dealt with, with judgment and — mercy!" 
 
 " You seem to imply that Myrrha — who seems to me 
 as pure as a snowdrop, and as innocent as when we played 
 here around the sands together is, as you say, a child of 
 sin?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said the mother. "She was born in 
 sin, and remains a child of sin!" 
 
 "Perhaps so. I don't understand. Tis beyond me 
 — the meaning" — he was going to say, "of sects," but 
 he added, "of religious schools. Myrrha — a child of 
 sin! Then who is sinless?" 
 
 "No one except by the righteousness of the Lord. 
 Doth not the prophet say that all our righteousness is as 
 filthy rags?" 
 
 "Yes! But there seems some deeper meaning in your 
 application of the words to Myrrha, mother? How is 
 this pure and beautiful girl a child of sin?" 
 
MOTHER AND SON 183 
 
 "Dost thou not know?" she answered. 
 
 "I neither know, nor believe it," he said. 
 
 "The a 'know that this girl was born of a Papist and 
 baptised in the Roman faith." 
 
 "Miriam, a Catholic — a Papist?" he exclaimed. 
 "You are mistaken, surely, dear mother. Myrrha — a 
 Papist!" 
 
 "Yes! Search no deeper, my son." 
 
 "Then she is sublimely unconscious of the fact her- 
 self," said Ian. "To my knowledge, she has no defined 
 faith, except in the sublime teachings of humanity." 
 
 "Do you remember, my son, that I once said to you, 
 that no earthly power should sever us two, except by our 
 own will; and that no will on our part shall sever us, except 
 it deal with two things?" 
 
 "I remember," he said. 
 
 "Well, I repeat it. Companionship with the godless, 
 the uprooters of social order, and companionship with 
 the Papists, the destroyers of religion — this alone can 
 create a gulf between us — a gulf," she added, in a low 
 voice, "which, if once made, shall never be bridged or 
 filled." 
 
 There was a meaning in the words which Ian did not 
 fail to comprehend. She knew a great deal — perhaps 
 she knew all. 
 
 Ian arose, and went over to where in the darkness the 
 figure and face of a soldier shone out from a dark panel 
 in the wall. 
 
 "My father died for a great cause," he muttered rather 
 than said. "Would that I could die like him in the 
 moment of glory!" 
 
 "It is not given to you to be like unto him," his mother 
 replied. '"Tis yours to walk the ways of peace, and to 
 go out blessed by all men." 
 
 "A thousand thanks for the word," he cried eagerly. 
 "And when I shall go out with the blessings of the poor 
 and the lowly, and all men in my ears, may I hope to have 
 my mother's blessing too?" 
 
184 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Certainly!" she said. 
 
 "May I have it now?" he cried, kneeling suddenly at 
 her feet. 
 
 She hesitated, divining some meaning in the words 
 and attitude which she could only dimly conjecture. 
 
 "Ian," she said, at length, "stand up! You mean some- 
 thing more than our ordinary parting tonight. What 
 is it?" 
 
 "This," he said, without rising from his knees. "My 
 life is running rapidly to its close. I feel I am going to 
 rejoin that spirit, my sister, whom I never saw. I can 
 pass down through the slow processes of decay to disso- 
 lution, each hour cutting away some vital force until all 
 is spent. Or, I can go out in one glorious act, of word cr 
 deed, or suffering. This is my choice. To die as father 
 died, in one brief pang of pain, but for a great cause, and 
 in the hour of victory.. This is my choice. How it shall 
 be I know not. But, far or near, something awaits me, 
 I care not, if it be noble and sublime. Can you refuse 
 your blessing now?" 
 
 Agitated by his words, not knowing what to think or 
 believe, distrustful of his motives, yet touched and moved 
 by his appeal, his mother stood for a long time silent, her 
 hand still resting on the Book, and her lips moving in 
 prayer. He lifted up his face, and said: — 
 
 "Mother, it is growing late. Bless me ere I go!" 
 
 And she laid her hands on his head, and then ran them 
 through the thick brown curls, as she was wont to do 
 when he was still a child, and raising her eyes to Heaven, 
 she blessed him; and then, when he had gone, she sobbed 
 out her heart in silence. 
 
XVIII 
 Fkom the Glen of the Oaks 
 
 Whilst these little events were transpiring in Dublin, 
 Life and Time, the great Twin-Brothers, were moving 
 swiftly and silently forward down in the hollow valleys 
 near the sea. Each grey or gloomy day came out of the 
 night, grew to its noontide, declined to its grave; and the 
 human figures seemed to be stagnant and motionless 
 beneath it, so quiet, so uneventful, so silent were their 
 lives. The great sea swung in and out in calm, rhyth- 
 mical motion, or in fierce autumnal or winter passion. The 
 fishermen put out their nets in a lazy way, careless whether 
 they caught their finny treasures or not; or they sat 
 smoking near their log-fires all day, only venturing out 
 now and then to scan the sky on stormy days, and then 
 return to the ingle-nook with the observation:— " 'Tis 
 dirty weather, no sign of clearing down there in the west." 
 Or perhaps, a silent trans-Atlantic steamer loomed sud- 
 denly up out of mist or fog or sheeted rain, and steered 
 slowly by, homeward, or outward bound, black hulk or 
 buff funnel shrouded in veils of mist; and an old salt would 
 say: 
 
 "The Cunarder is gone in. She'll have a dirty pas- 
 sage across if the weather doesn't lighten." 
 
 Down at the rectory, too, the days went by in that 
 silent, peaceful manner that were their wont in such a 
 tranquil place. John Crosthwaite spent half his day in 
 his little study, reading his Tillotson or Taylor, or some 
 Church Journal, that gravely disturbed his equanimity, 
 and brought an anxious look into his eyes by sundry hints 
 and observations about German hermeneutics, and such 
 terrible portents as the "Essays and Reviews" on the 
 
186 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 one hand, and secession to Rome on the other. Looking 
 out with dim reverent eyes from his seclusion (so deep 
 from a social standpoint that he saw no one but the humble 
 servitors around him; so deep from an intellectual point 
 of view that he saw nothing but the stars and his Bible), 
 he was troubled at the gradual, but certain upheaval that 
 he saw was going on in the restless world outside; and 
 his gentle spirit was almost wroth at the eternal restless- 
 ness and perverse curiosity of these human mites who, 
 instead of fixing their thoughts, like himself, on the 
 Eternal Stars, and the Eternal Word, went poking into all 
 kinds of dusty and secret recesses to dim the splendours 
 of the one, and challenge the truth of the other. 
 
 "If they would only let their old stones and codices 
 and palimpsests alone," he would mutter to himself, 
 "and take their telescopes and watch the Wheel of the 
 Universe, we would have more holy, and more learned 
 men." 
 
 Alas! how could the simple vicar know that there was 
 never yet a fool who wouldn't dethrone the Almighty in 
 defence of his own vanity. 
 
 The vicar's good wife also had her minor troubles. 
 These arose from her very excess of good-nature. She 
 utterly abominated] anything like pride, or exclusiveness, 
 or class-distinctions; and railed fiercely at these tradi- 
 tional vices in the circle where, by right of birth and her 
 husband's profession, she moved. And, on the other 
 hand, she lived in a state of chronic impatience with the 
 people around her, because they did not come up to her 
 level. If a child were sick, if a cow died, if a labourer 
 got hurt at a quarry, or at the harvest threshings, she was 
 the first to be present, arguing, compassionating, scold- 
 ing, rebuking, helping; and all the time, not only toler- 
 ated, but loved, because the people knew it was all for 
 them, and that "her heart was in the right place." 
 
 But these were only incidents in a smooth, tranquil 
 life that, cut away from the distractions of cities, moved 
 along in its calm, uniform peace towards eternity; and it 
 
FROM THE GLEN OF THE OAKS 187 
 
 would be difficult to find on this planet, perhaps, a quieter 
 and more peaceable existence than that of the good vicar 
 and his wife, although their congregation was certainly 
 limited, and the vast majority of the population were of 
 a different faith. 
 
 But just now a little incident, apparently insignificant, 
 was ruffling the peace of the vicarage. It was the return 
 of Anstie Carroll from Dublin. 
 
 That young lady was good enough to tell the villagers 
 that her visit was but a swallow-flight — a mere dip 
 down from higher latitudes, until she was ready to wing 
 her flight to that Paradise of good Irish — New York. 
 She came amongst the village folks an apparition of splen- 
 dour, which, although it was tinselled and meretricious, 
 had yet its own effect on their simple imaginations; and 
 she affected a metropolitan accent, which was a curious 
 and unpleasant amalgam of southern brogue, Dublin 
 slang, and the notes of high society. Some one had 
 the courage to ask her whether she had come back to 
 remain. She tossed her little head, and said grandly, 
 with an anticipation of her future: — 
 
 "I gue — ess not!" 
 
 Declan Ahern hung around her, as a faithful dog would 
 follow and watch his master's face. She was kind, com- 
 passionate. That was all. * | 
 
 She visited the rectory. Mrs. Crosthwaite had sent 
 for her. She utterly disliked the girl, her vanity, her 
 frivolity; but she wanted to know all that could be known 
 about Miriam. 
 
 Anstie, under her cold, clear glance, was modesty 
 itself. Mrs. Crosthwaite had no great faith either in 
 her modesty or her truthfulness. 
 
 "You have come back from Dublin?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes'm!" said Anstie. 
 
 "Left your situation?" 
 
 "Yes'm!" 
 
 "You're not returning, then?" 
 
 "No'm!" 
 
188 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "What do you propose doing?" 
 
 "I'm goin' to America, 'm!" 
 
 "Oh! And hadn't you a better place in Dublin than 
 you can ever expect in America?" 
 
 "I want to better meself, 'm!" 
 
 "Of course! Of course!" said Mrs. Crosthwaite mus- 
 ingly; but reading the face of the girl all over with her 
 eyes. 
 
 " You had no other reason for leaving, then? " 
 
 Anstie hung down her head. This cross-examination 
 was becoming unpleasant. This sharp, shrewd woman 
 seemed to know all about that young groom, and Anstie's 
 appointment to meet him in Queenstown, and her fur- 
 ther engagement to be married to him the moment they 
 landed in New York. 
 
 She drew the end of her parasol through the outlines 
 of the carpet on the floor. 
 
 "How is your young mistress?" 
 
 It was a happy question. It gave Anstie the loophole 
 of escape. She became instantly voluble. 
 
 "She's very well, Ma'am. That is, in health, Ma'am. 
 But she's not happy, Ma'am. Indeed she isn't. She has 
 her carriage and horses, and fine dresses, and a drawing- 
 room like the Queen's. And she can go to the theayter 
 whenever she likes, and to the opera, and to flower- 
 shows. An' she has everything she can wish for in this 
 world. But she's not happy, Ma'am. Indeed, she isn't. 
 Many and many a time she says to me, 'Ah! Anstie, if 
 we were only back in Glendarragh once more!'" 
 
 "But, surely," said her inquisitor, "if she has all you 
 say, and if Mr. Holthsworth is so generous and kind — " 
 
 "That's it, Ma'am! That's the whole thing. She 
 knows what he wants. And she hates him, she hates 
 him as the Devil hates holy water, begging your pardon, 
 Ma'am, because you are a Protestant — and she'll drown 
 herself, Ma'am, before she ever consents to marry that 
 — that hyanna!" 
 
 "I see," said Mrs. Crosthwaite, "I see. But has Miss 
 
FROM THE GLEN OF THE OAKS 189 
 
 Lucas no friends, no ladies who would come to her, and 
 help her in her difficulties?" 
 
 "Oh, law, no, Ma'am. He keeps 'em away. There's 
 an ould woman, or lady, in Dublin, who's living on his 
 charity; and she sees her. An' there's an ould juenna 
 in the house, and she sees her. An' whiniver she goes 
 out, the ould juenna goes with her, and takes her and 
 brings her home, until Miss Miriam doesn't want to be 
 going out at all; but sits all day in her room, readin' and 
 writin'." 
 
 "I see," said Mrs. Crosthwaite. "And now, Anstie, 
 wouldn't it have been nice of you to remain with your 
 young mistress in her great trouble? She'd like to have 
 some kind, friendly face about her." 
 
 " Indeed'n 'twould, Ma'am," said the girl, weeping, for 
 
 she did love her mistress, even with her shallow heart, 
 
 "and I would never leave Miss Miriam, Ma'am, but 
 
 ' there's quare things goin' on, Ma'am; an' 'tis a quare place 
 
 entirely — " 
 
 She stopped suddenly short. 
 
 "What queer things? Why is it a queer place?" said 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 
 "Well, you know, Ma'am, 'tisn't right or fit, or proper 
 for a girl to be talkin' about the place she have left," 
 said Anstie, with a proud sense of superior virtue. 
 
 "I know, I know," said the vicar's wife, impatiently. 
 "But you are aware that Miss Lucas has no one in the 
 world to look to but my husband and myself. And, 
 from what you say, this is a matter of life and death." 
 
 "Indeed'n it is, Ma'am," answered Anstie, now encour- 
 aged to full confidence, and with all her scruples quelled. 
 "Of course, you won't mention my name, Ma'am, but I 
 fear that Miss Lucas has got in amongst a bad set — " 
 
 "I know, I know," said the vicar's wife, impatiently. 
 "I have no doubt about it, nor about your description 
 of her guardian; but, so long as Miss Lucas does not want 
 to become Mrs. Holthsworth, no power on earth can 
 compel her." 
 
190 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Anstie opened her eyes widely, and then went on: — 
 
 "It isn't that alone, Ma'am, although that is bad 
 enough. But Miss Lucas has some gentleman friend's, 
 Ma'am; and I don't think they are all right — " 
 
 "What do you mean, girl?" said the vicar's wife, flush- 
 ing angrily. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean nothin', Ma'am," said Anstie, "only 
 that there's near bein' bad work in Dublin, Ma'am, in 
 the way of strikes and murder, an' Miss Miriam is in the 
 middle of it." 
 
 "Miss Miriam in the midst of strikes and murder!" 
 echoed Mrs. Crosthwaite. "I am afraid, my poor girl, 
 your wits are gone astray." 
 
 Anstie smiled in a superior way, as one who was sure 
 of her position. 
 
 "Indeed'n they're not, Ma'am," she answered. "Un- 
 less I am mistaken, Miss Miriam is in the thick of a big 
 conspiracy of the workingmen of Dublin; an' you'll hear 
 bad work one of these days." 
 
 "Have you any proof of what you're saying, girl?" 
 said Mrs. Crosthwaite. "Or is it only servants' gossip?" 
 
 "'Tis that too, Ma'am," said Anstie. "But some 
 young gentleman from Trinity College is very great with 
 Miss Miriam; and he's the head of the conspiracy; and 
 Miss Miriam does be writing to some paper every week; 
 and," the girl dropped her voice suddenly, and said in 
 a whisper, "they that knows says, that when the men 
 break out, Mr. Holthsworth will be the first to suffer." 
 
 Then the letter from Miriam, and the cutting from 
 the paper flashed suddenly across Mrs. Crosthwaite's 
 memory, and seemed to confirm the girl's curious tale. 
 
 "This is serious," she almost whispered to herself. 
 "Good God! who'd ever think of such a thing for Mir- 
 iam? I think I see it all now. But, tell me, what is this 
 young gentleman's name?" -~ 
 
 "Albrecht, Ma'am," said Anstie. "Ian Albrecht. I 
 ought to know it, because I have spelled it on Miss Mir- 
 iam's letters; an' 'tis a quare name. And they say, 
 
FROM THE GLEN OF THE OAKS 191 
 
 Ma'am, that his mother knows he's intimate with Miss 
 Miriam; and that she knew Miss Miriam's mother long 
 ago; and that there's a story abut her; an' that Mrs. 
 Albrecht has taken her Bible oath that if he ever marries 
 Miss Miriam, she'll never give him a penny, and she is 
 rotten with money." 
 
 "I see," said Mrs. Crosthwaite, as a good many lights 
 began to dawn on her, "but tell me, how does Mr. Holths- 
 worth regard all this? Is he not interested in Miss Lucas? 
 And does he know his life is in danger?" 
 
 "Oh, he knows all, Ma'am," answered Anstie, "for 
 he's as cute as a fox; and the men say in the kitchen that 
 he's playin' a deep game. And, sure, if he weren't as 
 clever as the Ould Boy himself, he has a fellow coming 
 to him every day to prime him with news. And what 
 we think, Ma'am, is this, that he's laving the thing go 
 on till 'tis ripe; and then — " 
 
 "Well, then?" said Mrs. Crosthwaite, noticing the 
 girl's hesitation. 
 
 "Then, Ma'am," said Anstie, "he'll swoop down on 
 them like an aigle; an' he'll get the men shot by the police, 
 and Mr. Albrecht hanged, and then — he'll have Miss 
 Miriam all to himself." 
 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite now was silent with grief, and sorrow 
 and anxiety. Making all allowance for Anstie' s exag- 
 geration and probable falsehoods, she concluded that 
 there might be some grave truth hidden behind the girl's 
 story. She remembered now having heard Miriam 
 speak of a Mrs. Albrecht and her little boy, Ian, the for- 
 mer a great friend of her father's, the latter her own 
 playmate. She also remembered the mystery that hung 
 around the history of Edwin Lucas and his wife; the 
 subtle suspicion that seemed to haunt society everywhere 
 that there had been some mesalliance or family stain on 
 the memory of the latter. She also remembered Mir- 
 iam's deep and intense feelings about her own ostracism; 
 and how easily that innate antagonism to society, which 
 seemed to have been born with her, might, easily, under 
 
192 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 her new circumstances, have been fanned into a flame. 
 Then, that newspaper, and those bitter articles — Yes! 
 the whole thing was clear. 
 
 "Anstie," she said, making her voice very gentle, "you 
 should have remained with your young mistress at any 
 cost. It is only under great trial we know and need our 
 friends. You should have stayed in Dublin, and kept 
 me and Mr. Crosthwaite acquainted with all these 
 things, so that we could help Miss Lucas. She is now 
 alone and unprotected." 
 
 Anstie wept again. She saw clearly that her young 
 mistress was in danger, and felt for her. The truth had 
 to be told. 
 
 "Indeed and indeed, Ma'am," she said, sobbing, "I 
 would never leave Miss Miriam, indeed I wouldn't, but 
 I couldn't help it. I knew that that man hated me like 
 poison, because I was the only Catholic in the house, 
 begging your pardon, Ma'am, but some people — not 
 you, nor the parson, nor Miss Lucas — but other people 
 don't like us; and the girls used to be at me about my reli- 
 gion, and wanting me to eat meat on Fridays, and saying 
 that I if gev a shilling to the priest he would forgive me, 
 no matter what I done. And I had an awful life there, 
 but I clung on to Miss Miriam, and we used be talkin' of 
 ould times, and Glendarragh, an' you, Ma'am, an' the 
 parson. But I knew all along, Ma'am, that that man 
 wanted to get me away out of the house, so that Miss 
 Miriam would be alone, and have nobody but spies and 
 informers about her. An' then, one day that other 
 fellow, Oylett, was with him — he was a detective, Ma'am; 
 an' I happened to be at the door, an' I wasn't listening, 
 Ma'am, indeed I wasn't. But I suppose he thought I 
 was. Because the very next day he called me in, gave 
 me a month's wages, and dismissed me without a line of 
 charakther." 
 
 "I see, I see," said the vicar's wife. "Are you leav- 
 ing soon? I have heard that you have a notion of 
 America?" 
 
FROM THE GLEN OF THE OAKS 193 
 
 "I am, Ma'am," said Anstie. "Me passage is paid; 
 an' I'm only waiting to hear from the ship." 
 
 " Well, I may want to see you again. The matter now 
 looks serious. By the way, did you ever tell Miss Lucas 
 about Mr. Holthsworth's plans to draw her into his 
 toils?" 
 
 "What plans, Ma'am?" said Anstie. 
 
 "What you have already told me. His plans to get 
 these people into trouble, so that he might carry out his 
 nefarious ideas!" 
 
 "Well, no, Ma'am. Because you see 'twas only ser- 
 vants' gossip; and Miss Miriam would never pretend to 
 me anything about her own goings-on; and, you know, 
 Ma'am, you could not speak to Miss Miriam always. 
 She might think I was taking too great a liberty." 
 
 "Yes, yes, quite so. 'The bird is in the fowler's net.' 
 We must extricate her, but it is no easy task. You must 
 help us, Anstie!" 
 
 "I'm sure I will do everything I can, Ma'am, for Miss 
 Miriam. But — I must go when I hear from the ship." 
 
 "Of course, of course," said the vicar's wife. 
 
XIX 
 
 The Great Strike 
 
 Yes! Father Hugo was defeated. His "littel shil- 
 drens" were snatched from his hands; his Confraternity 
 of the Holy Family was practically broken up, for al- 
 thought a few of the workmen, who professed themselves 
 enlightened enough to distinguish between the priest and 
 religion, still frequented the Church, the vast body, hon- 
 estly believing themselves to be rebels, were too much 
 terrified or ashamed to attend. Perhaps, too, they 
 feared his eloquence, which though broken and rugged, 
 had always behind it the magic element of sincerity and 
 truth. 
 
 For a few days after the strike had commenced at the 
 Railway Works, he had kept closely to his cell. He felt 
 the smart of his defeat keenly. His Confraternity was 
 the premier Confraternity of the City; his meetings were 
 always crowded ones; Ms processions were always City 
 attractions; his congregational singing was the talk of 
 City and Country. And now — they had turned their 
 backs on him, at the voice of socialist agents, and under 
 the spell of eloquence of a young Protestant, or Agnostic, 
 from Trinity College. It was maddening. For hours 
 he would walk up and down his cell, his fingers caught in 
 the rude white rope of his girdle, thinking, thinking, 
 how it would all end, and how his defeat could be 
 retrieved. But he had more than a mere personal inter- 
 est in the matter. It would be an injustice to withhold 
 the fact that higher motives swayed him. Deep down 
 in his priestly heart he felt for his flock. He saw how 
 they and their families would suffer — the long, weary, 
 idle days for the men; the temptations of the taverns, 
 where they would be compelled to meet, and talk rabid 
 
THE GREAT STRIKE 195 
 
 nonsense; the anxiety of the women, who would miss the 
 weekly wage, and miss it, more and more, as time went 
 by, and credit was refused, and article after article went 
 to the pawnshop; the hungry children kept from school 
 and learning the evil arts of vagrancy on the streets; 
 the abstention from Mass and sacraments on the plea of 
 want of decent clothes — he saw it all, and it touched 
 him deeply, and his passionate heart moaned aloud. 
 Then, how would it terminate? The men would never 
 yield; but as weeks went by, they would become mad- 
 dened with misery and want; and then — street-proces- 
 sions, fierce harangues, passions let loose, and the Hell 
 that follows. But worst of all, the good priest felt that 
 this was the first, and alas! successful essay on Irish soil 
 of the great, terrible propaganda of Socialism. He knew 
 what it meant. He had seen it in Germany, and Bel- 
 gium, and America. He had seen how its terrible, specious 
 doctrines bore fruit; and how, commencing with the reli- 
 gion of Humanity, it ended in the dethronement of God, 
 the sundering of families, the breaking up of all social ties, 
 and all the other evils incident to revolution. He was 
 maddened, moody, depressed. He bore in silence the 
 remarks of his confreres, who though they realised the 
 gravity of the situation, and felt deeply the mortification 
 of Father Hugo, could not refrain from being amused at 
 his vehemence and depression. 
 
 "I wash my hands with soap out of the whole busi- 
 ness," he declared. "I will have no more to say to them. 
 Let them follow their leaders now, and see what they 
 will get. Father Hugo turns his back on them." 
 
 But when pale, tear-faced women came into the little, 
 bare parlour of the convent to plead with him to inter- 
 vene, and tore from their bosoms the heap of blue pawn- 
 tickets, and told him of all their misery and pain, his 
 heart bled for them; and his quick, mercurial disposition, 
 accentuated by zeal and love, drove him from the peace 
 of his cell back into the battle-field again. 
 
 He saw very soon how utterly hopeless it was to induce 
 
196 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 the men to come back to work r Pride alone would pre- 
 vent them. But, behind that powerful motive there were 
 tremendous agencies that would not brook interference, 
 much less yield to it. Greevyi on whom all his hopes 
 were placed, seemed to have completely lost himself. 
 He was possessed by a homicidal mania towards Holths- 
 worth; and in indulging it, he cast away all religious feel- 
 ing and scruple. Stenson was a fanatic, who would 
 strongly resent priestly interference. Newton was a 
 hidden agent and unapproachable. 
 
 "There's nothing for it," said Father Hugo, "but to 
 beard the lion in his den." 
 
 Once his mind was made up about the prudence or jus- 
 tice of an action, Father Hugo felt no misgiving. He left 
 everything then to God. So he set out for Rathmines 
 one of those bitter winter mornings, the cold slush of the 
 pavement pools dashing on his bare feet, or pumped at 
 every step out of his loose sandals. He reached the 
 suburb about twelve o'clock; and made his way, by a 
 few inquiries to Holthsworth's house. The great, modern 
 mansion lay back from the road, and was approached by 
 a winding avenue that ran under some trees, and was 
 bordered by shrubs up to the door. The lodgewoman 
 stared a little at so strange a figure in such an unaccus- 
 tomed place; but was wise enough to make no remark. 
 
 As Father Hugo mounted the steps, he saw a young 
 gentleman with his hand on the door-bell. He knew it 
 could not be Holthsworth, whose appearance was famil- 
 iar to him. But he said in his own cheery way: — 
 
 " Goot-mawnin'." 
 
 Ireton at once jumped to the conclusion that this was 
 the same figure that had disturbed Trinity some weeks 
 before, and of whose lively interview with Albrecht, the 
 latter had given a vivid description. Swiftly, he ran 
 to the conclusion: 
 
 " Here is an ally that is not to be despised." 
 
 "Good morning," he said graciously; and, as the ser- 
 vant opened the door, he said to the latter: — 
 
THE GREAT STRIKE 197 
 
 "Mr. Holthsworth not at home?" 
 
 "No, sir!" said the maid. 
 
 The monk's face fell. 
 
 "Perhaps I could see Miss Lucas?" said Ireton, not 
 at all disappointed. 
 
 The name at once struck on the monk's imagination. 
 Here lived the unknown and terrible figure, whose burn- 
 ing words had sent all his "littel shildrens" towards the 
 abyss. 
 
 "It is Providence," he said to himself. "The man I 
 sought is not here. I will face this dreadful woman, 
 and try to bring her to reason. The lioness cannot be 
 worse than the lion." 
 
 He stepped humbly into the great hall, and folding his 
 hands in his great brown sleeves, he looked down on 
 the marble floor, which he had stained with his dirty 
 sandals. 
 
 The maid, a young Protestant girl, approached the 
 strange figure with some apprehension. She did not know 
 what to make of it. If Ireton had not been there, she 
 would have screamed for help; but his presence gave her 
 courage. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she said, "you have made some 
 mistake." 
 
 "No, my shild," he said, "I have not. Go tell your 
 young mistress that Father Hugo wants to zee her on 
 biziness. She vhill understand." 
 
 The girl looked at Ireton as if for a clue. He said: 
 
 "If you allow me to wait," he gave her a card, "per- 
 haps Miss Lucas would see this gentleman first?" 
 
 " You are ver' kind. I am ver' much obliged." 
 
 The maid ushered Ireton into the drawing-room; and 
 went upstairs to see her young mistress. 
 
 In a few minutes, Miriam came slowly down the broad, 
 carpeted staircase. Whatever description her maid had 
 given of this unusual visitor, she was hardly prepared 
 for the reality. She had heard, of course, of Father Hugo, 
 the monk, who was thwarting every effort of hers towards 
 
198 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 the uplifting and amelioration of the masses of the people; 
 but she had figured to her mind but a vague, shadowy 
 outline of a Catholic priest, such as the village pastor of 
 Glendarragh. The figure, rigid as a statue, the humble, 
 bowed head, the rough brown frieze, the bare feet, the 
 uncouth sandals, and the little pool of water that had 
 dripped from his wet habit and feet, gave her a little 
 shock of surprise, and, strange to say, remorse. For the 
 first time it dawned on her, that perhaps all her actions 
 hitherto, had been wrong, all her energies misapplied. 
 But, the moment he lifted his bowed head, and flashed 
 his eyes suddenly upon her, she recollected herself, and 
 said apologetically: — 
 
 "My maid has made a mistake, Father, she should 
 have shown you into the dining-room. Would you 
 please come?" 
 
 On his part, Father Hugo was equally mystified. He 
 had associated in his mind with the Fury who had writ- 
 ten those flaming articles in the Watchman, a picture 
 of some great Madame Roland, or else some hard-fea- 
 tured, middle-aged, soured woman, who was wreaking 
 vengeance against Society for personal disappointment. 
 He saw before him a gentle, beautiful girl, who needed 
 only a veil to become a picture of the Madonna. 
 
 Before he took the proffered chair, he said: 
 
 "There is some mistek! I wished to see Mees Lucas!" 
 
 "I am Miss Lucas," she said simply. 
 
 "But," he said, with dilated eyes, "you are very young 
 and bootiful!" 
 
 Miriam smiled at the simplicity. 
 
 "I am sorry we are in different camps, Father Hugo," 
 she said. "We both love the poor, but our ways of serv- 
 ing them are different." 
 
 Father Hugo was grievously puzzled. He had laid 
 down his plan of "campagne," as he called it; he had 
 determined to talk plainly to this Virago, as he had deemed 
 her; but lo! this was something he had never expected. 
 He did_not know how to proceed. 
 
THE GREAT STRIKE 199 
 
 "I can conjecture the object of your visit," said Mir- 
 iam, seeing his embarrassment, "but you know things 
 have gone too far now. One sharp struggle, and the 
 rights of the workingmen are safe for ever." 
 
 "The rights of the vhorking men?" he asked. "What 
 rights?" 
 
 "The right to shortened hours, higher wages, a decent 
 standard of living," she replied. 
 
 "Shortened hours for idlenesse, and loaving; higher' 
 wages for drink; and a decent standard of living — tell 
 me, Mees Lucas, can any man eat more than three meals 
 a day?" 
 
 "I suppose it would be enough," she said. 
 
 "Can any man wear more than one suit of clothes 
 at a time?" he continued. 
 
 "Hardly," she replied. "I dare say it would be in- 
 convenient." 
 
 "Then what more does man want?" said the monk. 
 "And what more do the reech possess?" 
 
 "You have touched the point," she said. "All men 
 are born equal. The rich have no rights which the poor 
 should not equally possess." 
 
 "Is that your doctreen?" said the monk. "All men- 
 are-born-equal ? ' ' 
 
 "I mean should be born equal," she replied. "I 
 would have no one branded by poverty, or sin, or hered- 
 ity, or shame. Let each soul work out its own salva- 
 tion, and be alone responsible." 
 
 "You are fighting against facts, Mees," said the monk. 
 "You are a dreamer, a fanatic. You have no reason." 
 
 " It is because I have reason, and what is more, experi- 
 ence on my side, that I have taken this strange part for 
 a woman," said Miriam, now somewhat excited. "You 
 are a priest; and there are no secrets from you. Now, 
 mark me! You say I am young and beautiful; you prob- 
 ably think that life is all sweetness to me; that everyday 
 is too short for my happiness, and night too long because 
 it keeps me from the day. Can you believe me when 
 
200 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 I tell you, that I never lay my head on my pillow, but 
 with a hope, and a prayer to the Invisible, that I might 
 never wake again; and that I never open my eyes at the 
 dawn, but with a shudder at the thought of my martyr- 
 dom. Yet, what have I done? I have never injured a 
 human being. I have been kind to the poor and suffer- 
 ing; and, until I came hither, I had at least the guerdon 
 of their great love. Yet, one fearful shadow is over all 
 my life. What it is, I know not. I only know it is there; 
 and men shun me for it; and women treat me as a leper. 
 If I go into a drawing-room, the people gather into a 
 corner, and leave me alone. If I go into any kind of 
 society, I am an 'outcast' and a leper. I seem to carry 
 around me an atmosphere of sin and contagion. Yet, 
 I am not conscious of any crime, nay, of any disqualificaD 
 tion. And what is it all? Some secret connected with 
 my mother that I cannot discover or unravel, some hid- 
 den sin that has come down upon me, and makes all men 
 shun me. Did I say all? No, I should say rather only 
 what is called society. The poor have never shunned 
 or loathed me. And hence have I proclaimed, even I, 
 with my feeble girl-voice, war against that evil thing, 
 and the righteous doctrine that no soul should suffer, or 
 be made to suffer, except for its own sins." 
 
 Miriam Lucas, cold as a statue in Society, enveloping 
 herself in all secrecy and mystery, laid bare her soul to 
 the poor monk. She felt that here was no need of cau- 
 tion; that here was naught but sympathy. And she felt 
 a certain kind of relief in thus disburdening herself to a 
 fellow-being. Hence, as she gasped out this strange 
 confession, broken and tortured by the pain and the 
 relief, she assumed a kind of sad humility to the eyes of 
 the monk, and he only interrupted the pleading avowal 
 by murmuring softly to himself, whilst the tears stood in 
 his eyes: 
 
 "Mem pauvre enfant! mon pauvre enfant!" 
 When she had finished, he said quietly, his hands 
 still folded in his broad sleeves: 
 
THE GREAT STRIKE 201 
 
 "You did say something about being a 'leper and an 
 Outcast' in society?" 
 
 "Yes!" she replied. "A pariah, a moral crMin, bearing 
 the burden of another's sins!" 
 
 "Where did you find these vhords?" he asked, fixing 
 his eyes upon her. "They are not your own." 
 
 "No!" she said. "But they are familiar. Yes, I 
 remember. I think I must have heard them from the 
 dear old vicar at — home ! " 
 
 "Do you remember of whom they vhere spoken," he 
 asked, "or the remainder of the quotation?" 
 
 "No, I cannot say that I do. I went seldom to Church, 
 that too was a piece of social hypocrisy. Because the 
 evil thing sanctioned it, I repudiated it." 
 
 "Would you allow me repeat the rest?" he queried. 
 
 "Certainly," Miriam replied. "But I cannot see to 
 what purpose." 
 
 "It was of the leper and the outcast it was written," he 
 said. "Lisden!" And he quoted the sublime prophecy: 
 
 "Surely he hath borne our infirmities and carried our 
 sorrows; and we have thought him as a leper, and as one 
 struck by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for 
 our iniquities, he was bruised for our sins; the chastise- 
 ment of our peace was upon him, and by his bruises, we 
 were healed. All we like sheep had gone astray, every 
 one hath turned into his own way; and the Lord laid on 
 him the iniquity of us all. He was offered because it 
 was his own will; and he opened not his mouth. He shall 
 be led as a sheep to the slaughter, and shall be dumb as 
 a lamb before his shearers, and he shall not open his 
 mouth.' " 
 
 The monk paused. 
 
 "Do you know of whom these vhords were spoken?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miriam, "at least I suspect they were 
 written of the man called Christ." 
 
 "The God called Christ," corrected the monk. "And 
 now, Mees Lucas, can you see what a noble lot is yours, 
 but you are protesting against it?'' 
 
202 MIRIAM LUCAS ) 
 
 Miriam was silent. 
 
 " You are one of that great band," continued the monk, 
 " who are shosen to bear the zins of others, and to zave 
 others by mutely atoning for their faults. Of course, you 
 can rebel against the call to such heroism; but then, you 
 come down to the level of ordinary people, and she, whom 
 you might otherwise save — " 
 
 "She?" interrupted Miriam. "Of whom do you 
 speak?" 
 
 "Of your mother," calmly replied the monk. "You 
 have spoken of some secret zin of hers. You are expiat- 
 ing that zin, and saving her. Do you not understand?" 
 
 Miriam stared the priest all over. Then, as in an in- 
 voluntary gesture, he pushed out one bare foot, still 
 soiled and grimy from the muck of the streets, and at 
 the same time, pulled out from his deep sleeve a wretched 
 cotton check handkerchief, and mopped his forehead 
 with it. Something in the abject poverty of his appear- 
 ance struck the girl's imagination, and she said: 
 
 " And for whose sins are you making expiation, Father? " 
 
 "For the zins of Society," he said. "I and all the poor 
 of Christ are seeking to make atonement for the holo- 
 caust of zin that zteams up and ever up, before the throne 
 of God. Do you think from all you know, and have 
 experienced, that God's hand could be stayed, except for 
 some segret power that wards it off? Vhell, that power 
 is the cry of the orphan, the tear of the widow, the zweat 
 of the ztrong man, the pains of the zick, mutely and 
 patiently borne." 
 
 "Then, you have no pity for the poor?" she almost 
 cried. 
 
 '"Tis the reech I pity," he said. 
 
 "But," she said in an agony of doubt and disbelief, 
 "there must be some secret consolation, some faith, some 
 hope, that makes such sacrifice tolerable?" 
 
 "Tolerable? No. Joyful and acceptable," said the 
 monk. 
 
 "I am bewildered by your words," Miriam said, deeply 
 
THE GREAT STRIKE 203 
 
 touched in spite of herself. "There is a secret some- 
 where. I cannot understand. I will think over your 
 words, Father. Have you any notes or book or letter 
 that may remind me of them?" 
 
 He loosed his cincture a little, and taking out a black 
 ebony cross, with a bronze figure of the Crucified, he 
 placed it gently in her hands. 
 
 "I will keep it," she said, "safely for you; and I will 
 return it — " 
 
 "Only when you have learned its lesson," he said, 
 bowing and leaving the room. 
 
XX 
 
 Society 
 
 Whilst Ireton in the drawing-room awaited the close 
 of Miriam's interview with Father Hugo, he had time for 
 reflection. And after he had turned over the leaves of 
 a book of prints, one or two albums, and a few illustrated 
 art-books, and studied the few old oil paintings that hung 
 upon the walls, and revolved in his mind what he should 
 say to Miriam, and how he would put it, and whether he 
 would persevere, or consent to be promptly and immedi- 
 ately discomfited, the thought suddenly struck him — 
 what a contravention of all social laws and customs it 
 was for him to be there, visiting a young lady alone, and 
 without the slightest reference to her guardian. And 
 swiftly on the heels of this thought came a number of rapid 
 questions: what right had he to be there? Why should he 
 break through the laws of society in this case? Would 
 he dare to do so in the case of any other young lady with 
 whom he was much better acquainted than with Miriam? 
 Why should Miriam Lucas be an exception? Would she 
 not have a right to resent it? And, supposing that her guar- 
 dian were just then to enter, and find him there, would 
 it not present Miriam in a false light to his mind; and 
 would not Holthsworth be perfectly justified in taking him, 
 and throwing him, neck and crop, down the stone stairs, 
 and out into the public road? 
 
 They were unpleasant suggestions; but only one of them 
 had much weight with this young man, who had studied 
 the theory of probabilities, and calculated that so far as 
 his own personal safety was concerned, he was indiffer- 
 ent. But he was keenly alive to the fact that in treat- 
 ing Miss Lucas in a manner quite different from that in 
 
SOCIETY 205 
 
 which he would treat any other young lady of his acquaint- 
 ance, he was not only violating the laws of society, but was, 
 unintentionally of course, yet by strict inference, acting 
 disrespectfully towards her. The thought was gall and 
 wormwood to him, because he was so deeply interested 
 in her (how much he did not know) ; and the terrific sus- 
 picion glanced across his mind that he and his comrades, 
 out of esteem for Albrecht, and with the most honourable 
 intentions towards both, were gravely compromising this 
 young and defenceless girl, who apparently knewnothing of 
 the terrible reprisals society makes for the slightest breach 
 of its rules and traditions. And at the same time the 
 thought recurred, that Miss Lucas had always seemed 
 to regard his own presence and intervention as an intru- 
 sion; and his acquaintance as a disagreeable necessity. 
 He anathematised his own impatience and generous 
 impulsiveness, which was always dragging him into dis- 
 agreeable situations; and he was looking at his watch 
 with the hope that the delay might excuse a precipitate 
 flight, when he saw the brown monk shuffling down the 
 steps, heard a brief colloquy in the hall, and the next 
 moment was face to face with Miriam. 
 
 Her pale face was quite unflushed. No emotion, 
 however great, seemed to be able to call up the blood to 
 that white, impassive countenance. But her eyes were 
 dilated and shining, and they seemed to look above and 
 beyond Ireton. And her lips were slightly parted, as if 
 in mute interrogation as to the object of his visit. She 
 held still in her hands the black ebony crucifix with the 
 brass figure of the Crucified, which Father Hugo had 
 given her; and it seemed to add to the mystery and won- 
 der that, to Ireton's eyes, always surrounded her as with 
 a halo of light. 
 
 The young man bowed deeply. She motioned him to 
 a chair, and sat down holding the crucifix in her lap. 
 She did not hold out her hand, or otherwise salute him. 
 It depressed him, as he remembered how cordial was 
 her greeting of Albrecht, when last he saw her; but he 
 
206 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 held fast his emotions, although he could not hide his 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "I hardly know how to commence, Miss Lucas," he 
 said, twirling his hat around and with eyes fixed on the 
 carpet, "how to explain my visit, which, I know, is uncon- 
 ventional; but Ashley and I are becoming very uncom- 
 fortable about Albrecht; and we decided that I should call 
 and ask your advice." 
 
 He stopped. Miriam said quietly: 
 
 "Mr. Albrecht is not ill?" 
 
 " No, not exactly that," stammered Ireton. " Of course 
 he is always ill, that is, not healthy. He has weak lungs, 
 as you know, and a strong predisposition to phthisis. In 
 fact, my own opinion is, that he has warded it off by the 
 exercise of public speaking; but then, the excitement is 
 killing him." 
 
 "Why cannot you and your friend, then, induce him to 
 give it up?" she said. 
 
 "We wish we could," said Ireton simply, "And we 
 are more concerned about other matters than his health. 
 There's his reputation. The College authorities have 
 got hold of the fact that he is a Socialist leader; and, 
 besides their natural hatred of such a person, they feel 
 the character of Trinity compromised. And when these 
 old fogies get hold of an idea, like that, they'll stop at 
 nothing. You see," said Ireton, philosophically, "it 
 is only when men persuade themselves that they're re- 
 sponsible for a great principle or a great institution, that 
 they bring out the rack and the gibbet." 
 
 "You think then that Trinity stands for tyranny and 
 injustice?" 
 
 " For conservatism and law," answered Ireton. 
 
 "Exactly. That is, for lies that are stereotyped, and 
 wrongs that are impune?" 
 
 "I am only stating facts," he said apologetically. "I 
 am not defending the action of the authorities. I am 
 only trying to save our common friend." 
 
 "From what?" she asked abruptly. 
 
SOCIETY 207 
 
 "From what?" he asked in surprise. "From punish- 
 ment, from disgrace, from expulsion, from ruin." 
 
 "These are vain words," she replied. "There is no 
 meaning behind them." 
 
 "But you don't understand, Miss Lucas," he replied, 
 amazed at her coldness and hardness. "If Albrecht is 
 expelled from Trinity, as he may be, it means the ruin 
 of all his life's prospects — his professional ruin, and 
 ostracism from his own class in society for evermore." 
 
 Miriam's eyes flashed out at this, but she said: 
 
 "Go on. I am following you!" 
 
 "Of course," Ireton resumed, "you don't you're too 
 young and too inexperienced to understand all this, but 
 it is a matter of life or death to us — " 
 
 He suddenly stopped; and flushed crimson with shame 
 and remorse. The recollection of all he had seen and 
 heard of Miriam Lucas suddenly flashed up across his 
 stupid commonplaces. . He was dumb with shame and sor- 
 row. He thought, too, that Miriam's face took on a pale 
 tinge of colour. There was an awkward silence, and 
 then he stammered: 
 
 "But these are trifles. The great thing is, that it will 
 mean a bad break between Albrecht and his mother." 
 
 "You say then," said Miriam, with cruel persistence, 
 "that ostracism from society — to be blamed and shunned 
 by his own class — not to be admitted, on any terms, 
 amongst them — I think I can imagine it," she said 
 musingly, "fine ladies, as in Byron's case, drawing up 
 their silken skirts lest they should touch the ground 
 contaminated by his tread. Is all that nothing?" 
 
 "No," said Ireton, boldly. "I only spoke compara- 
 tively. It is a great deal; it is a terrible trial; and you 
 alone can save Albrecht from it." 
 
 "Let me see," she said coldly, quite unheeding his 
 appeal, "I am puzzled about many things. As you say, 
 Mr. Ireton, I am inexperienced. I want you to clear up 
 one or two things for me." 
 
 "With pleasure," he said, "if I am able." 
 
208 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 He said in spirit, "Hang her, she is a Lamia"; but he 
 could not take his eyes from her face. She went on, 
 holding the crucifix still in her lap. 
 
 "If I understand aright," she said, "Mr. Albrecht has 
 thrown in his lot with the poor working classes to ele- 
 vate them, to emancipate them. He is an idealist, and 
 this means eccentricity; but it is a noble idea, is it not? " 
 
 "Well, yes!" said Ireton reluctantly. 
 
 "It is a beautiful, human, nay, Divine Idea. And 
 what makes it still more beautiful, it demands sacrifice. 
 Has not that sacrificial idea always haunted humanity 
 with its nobleness?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I believe so!" he murmured. 
 
 "There! We are agreed!" said Miriam. "All great 
 souls are called upon to make sacrifices. It is only, the 
 little souls, which the gods disdain to regard." 
 
 Ireton could only stare. 
 
 " But, then, the sacrifice must be for a noble and honour- 
 able cause," she continued. I 
 
 "Quite so, quite so," said Ireton hopefully. 
 
 " To sacrifice oneself for a paltry cause, would be mad- 
 ness; for an ignoble cause, a crime." 
 
 "I quite agree with you, Miss Lucas," murmured 
 Ireton. 
 
 "The whole question therefore is, whether the cause 
 to which Mr. Albrecht is devoting his life is a worthless, 
 or unworthy cause. What do you think?" 
 
 Thus challenged, Ireton did not know what to say. 
 He shuffled around, smiled inanely, and said at length: 
 
 "I cannot consider any cause worthless, or unworthy 
 to which Miss Lucas and Ian Albrecht are devoting their 
 lives." 
 
 " Very pretty," said Miriam. " You agree, therefore, 
 With me in thinking that the cause of the poor and down- 
 trodden is a noble cause to espouse. I am pleased to find, 
 Mr. Ireton, that you, too, are a convert to the theories 
 of Socialism." 
 
 "Oh, no, no," said Ireton, hurriedly, the dread word 
 
SOCIETY 209 
 
 echoing in his conscience, "I am far from that. I don't 
 want the fabric of society broken up, I'm for legitimate 
 agitation. Society must be preserved and protected. 
 Society must be maintained — " 
 
 "And by Society you mean the idle, wealthy, indolent 
 class, 'who labour not, neither do they spin,' and who 
 don't like the pillows to be taken from under their elbows." 
 
 Ireton wished himself back in Trinity. "What a fool 
 I was," he thought, " to come here ! " He grew desperate. 
 
 "Well, I see, Miss Lucas, that my mission is a failure. 
 Ashley and I counted on your influence to save Ian from 
 himself. I suppose there is no help now. We must 
 let him run his course. It means the gaol, if not worse." 
 
 "Mr. Albrecht will know how to control himself," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 "Yes," said Ireton, rising to leave, "but can he con- 
 trol others? It is easy to set the stone rolling down the 
 mountain side, but who is to check its ruinous career? 
 You don't know the Dublin workingman." 
 
 "Why cannot their priests control them?" said Miriam. 
 "Are they not omnipotent in Ireland?" 
 
 "Exactly. But where they have failed, who can hope 
 to succeed? That monk who has left the house was the 
 only man in Dublin who held the reins on the necks of 
 these madmen, and he has failed to hold them now." 
 
 "His theories are not yours," she said. "He says that 
 the people have no case at all. That the rich are to be 
 pitied, not the poor. And that some chosen souls must 
 take up the burden of the world's iniquities and bear 
 them. I can't quite grasp his meaning as yet. But it 
 seems nobler than yours. You say the people have a 
 great cause; but they must not fight, and no one may 
 succour them at the risk of personal expense of life or 
 means." 
 
 "I'm not competent to judge," said Ireton, irritated 
 at her cold, logical manner. "I have not studied the 
 question. I am a medical student. I keep aloof from 
 politics, which I detest. I came here to ask you to save 
 
210 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Albrecht. I thought you had some interest in him, hav- 
 ing known him from childhood. I have been mistaken. 
 I am very sorry for having intruded." 
 
 "It is no intrusion. You have done your best for your 
 friend, and — " she added, casting down her eyes — "mine. 
 Yes, mine," she said, with emphasis. "I have no secrets. 
 Ian Albrecht was my earliest playmate. We romped 
 together in those far off, happy days, when there was no 
 shadow of suspicion; and people appeared to be more kind 
 and gentle than now. We have met again, and the old 
 friendship has been renewed. But, were he fifty times 
 as dear to me as he is, I would not dishonour our friend- 
 ship by saying to him: 'Go back, and purchase peace 
 with dishonour!'" 
 
 "Then my unhappy mission is at an end," he said. 
 "What is to be, will be, I suppose." 
 
 He passed out from her sight, tHnking that whatever 
 friendship might exist between these two, there was no 
 love. No woman, who really loved a man, would sacri- 
 fice him thus. Was he annoyed, and disappointed? No. 
 He walked down that avenue with a singularly light step, 
 spoke to the old lodge-keeper with great cheerfulness, 
 and friendliness, boarded the tram-car with a light, elas- 
 tic leap. He tried to read; but could not. The paper 
 was a blurred mass of unmeaning type before his eyes. 
 
 "She's a Lamia," he said to himself, "not a being of 
 flesh and blood at all. Holthsworth will marry her; 
 and then one day she'll turn herself into a snake, bite 
 him, and disappear. I'm glad for Ian's sake." 
 
XXI 
 
 Tempted 
 
 Duking these eventful days, to all outer seeming, 
 Holthsworth went about as unconcerned about the events 
 that were agitating the whole City as if they were 
 happening in Japan or China, or as if he had no more 
 interest in them than the newsboys, who called out each 
 evening the events of the day. He had so many commer- 
 cial interests that this of the Great Railway, of which he 
 was the Chief Director, seemed but one and insignificant; 
 and the strike that was the talk of Ireland seemed but an 
 " incident " in his great and respectable career. He stopped 
 in Sackville Street, and chatted gaily to friends whilst 
 the eyes of groups of angry and half -starved men glowered 
 at him from the steps of Nelson's Pillar or the corners of 
 the by-streets. He called the newsboys, and bought 
 the Evening Telegraph or Echo, stopped and read it, and 
 smiled, whilst detectives watched him anxiously, and 
 hoped that he would take his cab or tram and hurry 
 out of their district. He visited his Club in Kildare 
 Street, chatted with his fellow-clubmen, and then has- 
 tened on to one office after another in the City, always 
 ending the day's work at the Railway Terminus. Some- 
 times, a deputation might be waiting for him, of gentle- 
 men interested in one branch or another of business that 
 had been brought to a deadlock by the strike. He re- 
 ceived them courteously, explained that he was but one 
 director, and could only express his own opinion; but he 
 was quite sure that the Directors were most anxious to 
 settle matters, if the men were reasonable, etc. — The 
 deputation were bowed out. Some said he was most 
 leasonable and courteous, and clearly meant well, if only 
 
212 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 these demagogues would let the people alone. Others 
 said that he wanted to crush the thing out in fire and 
 blood. One, who had been reading a little, said he had 
 the teeth and nails of Carker. The others said, 'Exactly' 
 or "Just so." 
 
 Mr. Holthsworth gave himself a holiday from business 
 on Thursdays. He thought it was due to him as a gentle 
 mental relaxation; and his medical adviser thought so too, 
 said something about a bent bow, and too much mental 
 irritation, and ordered rest. Holthsworth made Thurs- 
 day his Sabbath, because on Sundays he was deeply 
 engrossed in religious and theological matters, had to at- 
 tend two services, at one of which he always was called 
 upon to address the " brethren " ; and then there were meet- 
 ings and conferences and consultations, at each of which 
 he, a "burning and shining light," had to illuminate the 
 darker horizons of less favoured co-religionists. 
 
 So Thursday was his Sabbath, and on Thursdays he 
 spent l!:e morning lounging in his deep armchair and 
 reading; and after luncheon he ordered his carriage and 
 drove around the suburbs, but always through the City. 
 Miriam was his invariable companion. She hated the 
 loathsome parade, and, after a time, hated it more, be- 
 cause she knew it was part of the programme mapped 
 out by her wily guardian to show her how completely 
 she was in his power. Once or twice she rebelled, plead- 
 ing headache, etc. But he was inexorable. "The air 
 would dissipate the headache," "The drive was just what 
 she wanted," "He would order the coachman to go just 
 where she pleased" — and so, with one single female com- 
 panion, an aged female cousin of Holthsworth's, Miriam 
 had to bear being paraded along Dame Street, through 
 Grafton Street, under the windows of the clubs, beneath 
 the balconies of hotels; and everywhere she was stared 
 at as the future happy bride of that happy and most 
 prosperous man. And, on such occasions, Holthsworth 
 lavished on her all that princely munificence could offer. 
 The carriage stopped at the bookstores., and she was 
 
TEMPTED 213 
 
 invited to go in and order every new thing, no matter 
 how costly, that she could desire. It stopped before the 
 fashionable outfitter's, or milliner's, whose windows were 
 draped with great long tapestries of silks or poplins, woven 
 in the most expensive looms of France. It stopped at 
 the jeweller's, and the obsequious bald-head showed them 
 all that the artificer's science could effect in silver and 
 gold and stones. It stopped at great Banks, and Mam- 
 mon-marts, where Holthsworth entered alone, and left 
 Miriam to study the ragged proletariat shuffling by; 
 and everywhere, the great man was regarded as a god, 
 and clerks gaping through the windows thought that he 
 had found a Juno worthy of him. 
 
 And yet, unknown to Miriam, unknown to Holths- 
 worth, but feebly suspected by him, other eyes besides 
 those of the servitors of Mammon and fashion, were 
 watching both. Men at street corners nudged one an- 
 other and looked towards the carriage where the fair 
 girl sat. Sometimes, two- rugged mechanics, in Sunday 
 clothes, much the worse for the wear, would pass by, 
 and respectfully raise their felt hats to the astonishment 
 of Miriam's companion, to her own unconsciousness, 
 because on such occasions she wrapped herself in a kind 
 of stupor or dream, and seemed to be looking away into 
 far distances, until the report went abroad amongst 
 Holthsworth's fashionable friends that Miriam was idiotic, 
 and she was spoken of at five o'clock tea-tables as the 
 "beautiful idiot" whom Holthsworth was about to wed. 
 But gradually her face and figure became known to the 
 working classes of the City; and it was understood that 
 this girl, this child of fortune, this aristocrat, did actually 
 break through the horrid crust of caste and position to 
 sympathise with them. Strange stories began to get 
 afloat about her origin. She was the child of a working- 
 man, who had been adopted by Holthsworth through 
 some whim about her beauty. She was a foundling, 
 left at his door one winter's morning, and since then 
 reared in some Home or Institution. She was a Bird's 
 
214 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Nest child, trapped and inveigled from her wretched 
 mother, who had sacrificed her soul for gold. She was 
 a foreigner whose father had died in prison, because he 
 had written some terrible things against his Government. 
 Only in a few breasts was the real secret held, but all 
 these rumours tended to create in the hearts of the workers 
 a sympathy and love for this beautiful girl, of which she 
 was utterly unconscious. Then, at one meeting of the 
 strikers, it was hinted that she was a lady of fortune, and 
 a Catholic, whose person and property had been, by 
 some legal subterfuge, seized by Holthsworth, who used 
 his ill-gotten power as a lever by which he hoped to turn 
 the affections of the girl towards him; and then — the 
 Revolution had its heroine, and what more did it need? 
 And it had also a motive, now, more chivalrous than mere 
 wage-hunting. It was no longer a merely mercenary 
 movement. There was an element of romance in it; and 
 many who had wavered, or been lukewarm before, began 
 to feel that here, at last, was a motive, genuine and honour- 
 able. How to emancipate Miriam, how to establish 
 her rights, what far bearing the strike had upon her lib- 
 erty and happiness, but dimly dawned upon their rude 
 intelligences. They only felt that by striking at Holths- 
 worth they would serve her, and the mighty cause with 
 which they were identified at once. And, in striking at 
 Holthsworth they meant no physical violence. They 
 only thought that by perseverance they would somehow 
 break his influence and possibly cripple his resources, 
 and then — 
 
 There was one man, however, whose fingers itched to 
 get hold of Holthsworth's person, to crush him in a vice 
 of blood. That was Greevy. All along, through the 
 strike, this man, formerly deeply religious and punctil- 
 ious about his duties, seemed to be developing into a 
 madman. The thought of his child, driven to ruin by 
 this smooth-faced scoundrel, became an obsession. All 
 day long it haunted him. All night he lay awake, dream- 
 ing of revenge, and sank into sleep only to dream of 
 
TEMPTED 215 
 
 Tevenge, and its retribution. Sometimes, under the fer- 
 vent pleadings of Father Hugo, he would start back 
 from the abyss into which he was plunging; go to Confes- 
 sion, and make cast-iron resolutions that he would imi- 
 tate the "Man of Sorrows," and forgive, even as he hoped 
 to be forgiven. But then, a word, a look, a line in a news- 
 paper instantly woke up the fierce though slumbering 
 fires of passion, and the man went about with the dogged 
 determination to get even with Holthsworth, and to taste 
 the sweet justice of revenge. 
 
 One night, wet and stormy, Stenson and Greevy walked 
 home together from the meeting of the strikers. Both 
 were downcast and depressed. The men were losing 
 courage. The airy and proud defiance of the first few 
 weeks had evaporated. Hunger was beginning to pinch 
 the little ones. Credit was being stopped here and there. 
 The Sunday clothes worn by the men were gradually 
 becoming ragged. Blacklegs had been imported from 
 Scotland and England, and were working with impunity 
 here and there along the line. Clearly, victory was in- 
 clining towards the masters. Defeat, and such defeat, 
 was hovering above the men. 
 
 "If this goes on, Greevy," said Stenson, "it's all up. 
 The men are becoming chicken-hearted." 
 
 "So they are, so they are!" said Greevy. "Six weeks' 
 hunger would damp anyone's courage." 
 
 "They're not hungry, damn them," said Stenson. 
 "They have plenty of food still." 
 
 "But how?" said Greevy. "By pawning all they 
 have down to their wives' petticoats and their children's 
 frocks. And them as has got credit will pay damned well 
 for it!" 
 
 "Well, then, hadn't they better give in?" said Sten- 
 son. "They had no right to enter on the fight unless 
 they could carry it out to the bitter end." 
 
 "That's all right for you, Sir," said Greevy, reproach- 
 ing Stenson, yet maintaining his respect. "You're alone. 
 You have no wife to look hopeless at you whin you come 
 
216 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 back from doin' nothin'; an' no childher to drive you 
 clane mad with their hunger." 
 
 "That's true!" said Stenson. "But everyone knew he 
 would be called upon to make a sacrifice in a great cause. 
 They didn't enter on the fight blindfolded." 
 
 "No; but they were tould it would be a short one," 
 said Greevy. "The min didn't know the lingth of the 
 Directors' purses. They were tould that in a mont', in 
 six weeks, the bosses would give in." 
 
 "And so they would," said Stenson, angrily, knowing 
 that he himself had been guilty of the unconscious deceit, 
 "but for that scoundrel, Holthsworth. 'Tis he that's 
 stiffening the backs of the others. I know that more 
 than half the Board would have made terms with the 
 men but for him." 
 
 The two men walked on in silence. There was a deep 
 meaning in Stenson's words which he dared not explain 
 more fully. And Greevy understood that there was a 
 silent appeal to himself beneath the words. 
 
 "You had an old grudge against Holthsworth, Greevy," 
 said Stenson, at length, "but I am glad for your sake, 
 and all our sakes, that you have forgotten it." 
 
 Greevy was still silent. 
 
 "It is a good and Christian thing to forgive," continued 
 his tempter, "even though he wronged you as man was 
 never wronged before you. Because a man may be 
 wronged out of his wages, and out of his place, and he 
 could bear it. But it was only one like yourself could 
 bear the wrong where it strikes deepest." 
 
 Greevy's face was kindling, but he only said: 
 
 "You're shpakin' almost the very words of Father 
 Hugo himself, Mr. Stenson. Forgive as you hope to be 
 forgiven." 
 
 "Exactly," said Stenson. "And the virtue is all the 
 greater, when as in your case, it touches your honour 
 most deeply. Men don't mind the loss of a few pounds, 
 or a miserable situation, nor even a blow struck in anger. 
 But, when it comes to be pointed out as a coward, who 
 
TEMPTED 217 
 
 would not put himself in danger to avenge a frightful 
 wrong — " 
 
 "Who said I was a coward?" exclaimed the artisan, 
 turning fiercely on his companion. 
 
 "Not I, not I," said Stenson, meekly. "I know you 
 to be a brave man. But people will talk. And, you 
 know when the black blot of shame comes down on a 
 family, and people shake their heads, and say: 'He can 
 never lift his head again,' it is not like anything else, 
 that may be forgiven and forgotten." 
 
 "That's thrue, too," said Greevy. "And now you're 
 shpakin' as the devil does be shpakm' to me from time to 
 time." 
 
 "God forbid!" said Stenson, starting back at the allu- 
 sion. "I'm saying nothing to you but for your good. I 
 only say that when a man can forget his child's dishonour, 
 he can forget anything. But let us change the subject. 
 One thing now is certain. The men won't hold put much 
 longer. On the other hand if they give in, they'll be 
 spurned like dogs. I can imagine Holthsworth laughing 
 and showing his white teeth, when the last plank is 
 struck from beneath the men's feet, and they are at his 
 mercy." 
 
 "That hasn't come a-yet," said Greevy, "and with 
 God's help, it may never come." 
 
 "Well, we're near enough to it," said Stenson. "And 
 then, when he has crushed us under his heel, I suppose 
 he'll force that magnificent girl to marry him." 
 
 "Miss Lucas?" asked Greevy. 
 
 "Yes. She's in his power, you're in his power, we're 
 all in his power." 
 
 "It's a quare thing enough," said Greevy," that clever 
 min, like yourself, Mr. Stenson, can't find out all about 
 that lady. Everybody says there's foul play there; but 
 no wan can find it out and put a stop to it. He's a match 
 for the wurruld." 
 
 "He has the devil behind him, the scoundrel," said 
 Stenson, nettled by the allusion to his own incompe- 
 
218 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 tency. "And I suppose he has the law of the land, too, 
 which is the devil's handiwork." 
 
 " So it is ! So it is ! 'Tis a poor look-out," said Greevy. 
 
 "And yet," continued Stenson, as if speaking to him- 
 self, "one or two determined men could stop that 
 fellow's whistle." 
 
 "I suppose they could," said Greevy. 
 
 "If I were wronged as some others have been — you 
 know I have suffered nothing — these fingers bring me 
 in my three pounds a week as regular as clockwork — but 
 if I had been wronged, I think I'd be equal to the man 
 that crossed me. They think little of these things abroad, 
 especially in Catholic countries. If a man wrongs a 
 family, especially in its honour, he gets his choice, — 
 retribution or reparation, that is, a few days to make 
 satisfaction, and then, a stiletto between his shoulders. 
 No one is the wiser, and no one minds." 
 
 "Where is that?" said Greevy, kindling. 
 
 "Oh, never mind. These things won't do here. It's 
 in Spain or Sicily they do these things. But we can't. 
 We must hold our tongues and forgive." 
 
 "But what's wrong in one place can't be right in 
 another," said Greevy. 
 
 "Of course not, of course not," said Stenson. "And it 
 is always wrong to strike a foul blow. I'd like to meet 
 my enemy face to face and give him a chance. But, by 
 Heaven, when I'd shown him fair play, and given him a 
 chance for his life, neither God nor man would blame me 
 if I throttled him, and squeezed the foul breath from his 
 body." 
 
 The words were sinking in the heart of the poor 
 artisan, and kindling terrible fires there. 
 
 " Formerly, you know, it was the law amongst gentle- 
 men, when one of them wronged or insulted another to 
 give him a fair challenge." 
 
 "Was it now?" said Greevy. 
 
 "Indeed it was," replied Stenson. "Grattan fought 
 his duel, so did Fox, so did Curran. And — O'Connell 
 
TEMPTED 219 
 
 killed d'Esterre; but it was always in fair fight. And no 
 one blamed them." 
 
 "Weren't they arrested, or imprisoned?" asked Greevy. 
 
 "Of course not," said Stenson. "It was the code of 
 honour; and so long as there was no foul play, but they 
 met in the open, face to face, all was right." 
 
 "And is it right still, Mr. Stenson?" said the artisan, 
 with dry lips. 
 
 "Of course it is. Duelling is gone out of fashion, but 
 when you meet your man face to face, challenge him, 
 give him his fair chance, no man can blame you. Of 
 course," he added, "I'm not speaking of you. I'm 
 speaking of any man." 
 
 "Of course, of course," said Greevy. 
 
 "Over there in Germany, for example," continued Sten- 
 son, "in every College and University duels are fought, 
 sometimes three or four in a day. One student won't have 
 a glass of beer from another, or he calls him in a fit of pas- 
 sion, a 'Dummkopf,' that is, a fool; or something else hap- 
 pens; and in five minutes they're at it with their swords. 
 Sometimes a fellow gets killed, always someone is wounded, 
 but no one minds. 'Tis a fair fight, and no one can interfere. 
 But, we're a pack of children in this country. We have 
 never learned to use our hands except to work for others." 
 
 "That's thrue. By the Lord Harry, 'tis thrue!" said 
 Greevy. 
 
 "And then, what drives me mad," said Stenson, "is 
 this. The fellows talk as if they were going to pull down 
 the Bastille. 'Tis all talk, and talk, and talk. You 
 remember at the last meeting, when a certain thing was 
 proposed, it was met with dead silence. There's just it. 
 Oceans of talk; but no man has the courage to strike a 
 match. The next meeting I'll dismiss these cowards, 
 and gather in the schoolboys of the City. They'll do 
 what we want for the fun of it." 
 
 The two men paused. One had said enough. The 
 other had heard enough. They were about to part, when 
 Stenson called out: — 
 
220 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "One more word, Greevy!" 
 
 He walked side by side with the artisan for a while. 
 Then he said: — 
 
 "As I have told you, T haven't much hope of this 
 thing now. But you have been a grave man. You have 
 been ready to sacrifice yourself for the common cause. 
 I have a word to say to you. Look to yourself now! 
 You're watched. I suspect every word you have uttered 
 in righteous anger has been taken back to Holthsworth. 
 And that scoundrel neither forgets nor forgives. Look 
 yourself, Greevy. If we are beaten, you'll be the first 
 to suffer; and the others will say: 'Serve him right!' 
 Good-night!" 
 
 Late the following evening, when Mr. Holthsworth 
 drove through his open gates in his brougham under a 
 storm of wind and rain, he was quite unconscious of a 
 burly form that was hiding away in his thick laurels just 
 inside the lodge gate. There was some delay in opening 
 the gate, and the gaslamp shone down on his placid 
 features and his white shirt-front with ' the diamond 
 studs that the open breast of the heavy overcoat did not 
 cover. 
 
 A few minutes later the tram-car rolled up, and was 
 instantly boarded by a heavy, rain-sodden passenger. 
 There was still a delay; and then a cycle rolled out 
 from the lodge gates, and a man dismounted and entered 
 the tram-car, leaving his cycle on the footboard. He 
 stared with all his eyes at the other passenger, and then 
 said: — 
 
 "Have you got a light about you?" 
 
 The man produced a match-box and handed it to him, 
 with the observation: — 
 
 "I'm afraid they're wet." 
 
 "You have come a long way?" said his companion. 
 
 "Yes, all the way from Kingstown," was the answer. 
 
 They chatted gaily till the tram rolled under Nelson's 
 Pillar. , The cyclist remained behind. 
 
TEMPTED 221 
 
 "Where did my friend enter the tram?" he asked of the 
 conductor. 
 
 "The same place as yerself," was the answer. "Jest 
 at Mr. Holthsworth's Lodge." 
 
 "I thought so," was the reply. 
 
XXII 
 On the Trail 
 
 "It's all up," said Ireton to Ashley, when he returned 
 to his rooms after his unsuccessful interview with Mir- 
 iam. "She's mad, and he's mad, and the people are mad. 
 What the devil can a man do in a lunatic asylum, but 
 let them have their fancies?" 
 
 "I suppose so," said Ashley lazily. "This comes from 
 reading, you know. Albrecht has been reading Karl 
 Marx, or some such other firebrand. Miss Lucas has 
 been reading 'Society'; and the strikers have been reading 
 their pawn-tickets. Yes, my dear fellow, that art of 
 printing has been a great curse to mankind." 
 
 "I wonder how does Albrecht conceal all this from his 
 mother?" said Ireton. "He's an honest fellow, trans- 
 parent as his spectacles, and can't conceal anything. 
 He must have spoken to her about Miss Lucas, if not about 
 his political escapades." 
 
 "Of course. But the old lady is wrapped up in her 
 Bible, which is a kind of Sibylline book to her. She's 
 the Pythia, and here are the leaves by which all things 
 are judged. She has vision, and the gift of prophecy; 
 but can't see what's under her nose." 
 
 "But I can't see why Holthsworth does not tell her," 
 said Ireton. "They belong to the same conventicle. 
 He's one of their saints. A word from him to Mrs. 
 Albrecht would stop all." 
 
 "All what?" said his legal friend. 
 
 "Well, all intimacy between Miss Lucas and Albrecht 
 first. Second, all connection between Albrecht and these 
 damned ruffians. The fellow, if he liked, could save 
 Albrecht all round." 
 
ON THE TRAIL 223 
 
 "Do you think he wants to save him?" said Ashley. 
 
 "Why not? 'Tis his own interest, the only motive 
 power with any man." 
 
 "Stop that cynicism, Ireton," said Ashley, solemnly. 
 "You're getting into bad ways, my fine fellow. If you 
 commence in that way, you'll never saw bones rightly." 
 
 "That's all right, Ashley," said Ireton. "But, look 
 here. One word from Holthsworth about Miriam's 
 attachment to Ian, that is if there be any attachment, 
 which I doubt, would set the old lady afire, stop Ian from 
 seeing her, or holding any communication with her, and 
 he'd pitch up the whole thing in disgust." 
 
 "Thou innocent lamb," said his companion, "why 
 wert thou ever weaned from thy mother's side? Did 
 you never hear that such opposition, maternal or 
 otherwise, would only fan the flame of love?" 
 
 "I don't believe there is any love," said Ireton. "At 
 least the way she spoke to me would lead anyone to think 
 that she has only one thought in life, that is, to be revenged 
 on society through the mob; and that she was prepared to 
 go to the stake and take everyone else with her for that." 
 
 "Precisely. And dost thou not see, thou innocent, 
 that this ing&nue, this dreamer of dreams, is playing 
 Holthsworth's game well?" 
 
 "No, I don't," said Ireton. "I only see that — 
 surely Ashley, you don't mean that she is playing falsely 
 with Albrecht?" 
 
 "How?" said Ashley. 
 
 "You don't mean that she is in collusion with that 
 devil to ruin the companion of her childhood?" 
 
 Ashley laughed. 
 
 "No, mon ami, but I mean that that devil, as you are 
 pleased to call him, is playing a deep game with both. 
 He is driving Albrecht, Miss Lucas, and the whole mad 
 mob to destruction, and then — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And then — when he has crushed these unfortunate 
 workmen in blood and fire, for the matter is certain to 
 
224 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 end in rioting, when he has ruined or killed Albrecht, 
 when he has Miss Lucas compromised and in his power 
 — well then, he mil thank the Lord!" 
 
 It was all so clear that Ireton had nothing to say. 
 Ashley continued cynically: 
 
 " 'Tis the way all around. We lead on a witness, coax- 
 ing him to destruction, and then we turn on him. You, 
 men of blood, bring the fever to a crisis before you make 
 the grand coup, or you draw on, and force on, an abscess, 
 until it is just going to break, and then you drive in your 
 knife. The Church coaxes a poor devil into heresy and 
 then deprives him of his living. The young demoiselle 
 drags the old bachelor into a declaration, and then — 
 marries or mulcts him. It's the way of the world, my 
 friend!" 
 
 "Then you see no hope?" 
 
 "Absolutely none. We have failed as actors in the 
 play. Let us quit the stage, and get into the stalls. 
 Read that!" 
 
 "A love-letter?" 
 
 "Yes, from your astute, and most faithful sister, and 
 my future bride. The orthography is decidedly im- 
 proved, although the handwriting is colossal as usual." 
 
 Ireton took Maud's letter and read it, first with amuse- 
 ment, then with consternation. For, after a good deal 
 of childish nonsense, the little eavesdropper went on to 
 say, that she had overheard a conversation between her 
 mamma and Mrs. Crosthwaite, whom she described as 
 a "dowdy" whose gloves were frayed, and whose bonnet 
 had seen hard weather; and the conversation was to the 
 effect that Ireton and Ashley were in the habit of visit- 
 ing, in a quite unprecedented manner, a lady in Dublin, 
 whom Maud recognised as "The Lady of the Lea" against 
 whom she had warned her fiance so many times. Maud 
 went on to tell that there were some hot passages between 
 her mother and Mrs. Crosthwaite, the former maintain- 
 ing that Miriam was an utterly disreputable personage, 
 with whom no decent person could hold intercourse, and 
 
ON THE TKAIL 225 
 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite holding that she was infinitely removed 
 beyond the sphere of Messrs. Ireton and Ashley; and that 
 it was dishonourable and cowardly on their part to treat 
 her as they would not treat any other lady, and thus 
 compromise her before the world and in the eyes of her 
 guardian. 
 
 All this was told briefly, and in childish jargon; but it 
 disturbed Ireton very much. Clearly, affairs were becom- 
 ing complicated. He handed back the letter to Ashley. 
 
 "I suppose it is childish fancy?" he said. "What 
 could they know, down there, about a casual visit paid 
 here in Dublin?" 
 
 Ashley shook his head. 
 
 "It is too circumstantial to be fancy," he said. "It 
 is quite clear that interview did take place, and it must 
 have been a warm one, if I know anything about Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite. I am surprised your mother didn't write to 
 you, Ireton?" 
 
 "N — no!" said Ireton. "Perhaps, it means a visit. 
 If the thing took place, poor mother will become alarmed, 
 and run up to see all about us. But I still think it's fancy." 
 
 "You must allow her lover to have a deeper insight 
 into Miss Maudie's mind," said Ashley. "The reported 
 interview did take place, was duly reported to her gover- 
 ness, or in the kitchen, and was thrown into form by 
 one of these young lady-adepts, probably with the laud- 
 able purpose of giving both you and me some annoyance." 
 
 "I hope," said Ireton, "that mother won't come up 
 just now. My last medical is on, and I couldn't give 
 time, you know. And then, what would she do? Face 
 Miss Lucas, and call her names — " 
 
 "For shame, you unfilial ruffian," said Ashley. "Your 
 mother knows better. You will have an epistle and a 
 threat of cutting you off with a shilling, and then, all the 
 paternal property comes to me and Maud. Do you know, 
 I nave made an awful blunder, Ireton. I should have 
 anticipated the old lady, and written to your good 
 mother about your doings here in the City—" 
 
226 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "For God's sake, stop, Ashley. The matter is looking 
 serious enough. There's the worst of you lawyers, you 
 look upon life as a joke. Everything from a murder 
 case to a breach of promise is a comedy." 
 
 "Hark you, my friend," said Ashley, "that is a gross 
 libel upon an honourable profession. You quite mis- 
 take our legal sang-froid and its reasons. Life is not a 
 comedy. But we are taught to regard the affairs of every- 
 day life as so many 'incidents,' things that will happen 
 and must happen, but no more to be regarded than the 
 weather of yesterday, or the ticking of the clock on your 
 mantelpiece." 
 
 "That's all right," said his comrade, "but all that fine 
 philosophy vanishes, when you are brought face to face 
 with a difficulty. At any rate, you are right in one 
 matter. We must now get into the stalls." 
 
 "Can you?" said Ashley drily. 
 
 "Why not?" replied Ireton. "We are not implicated 
 in any way that I know of." 
 
 "But, will you?" said Ashley, smiling. 
 
 Ireton was silent. 
 
 "You won't, and you can't," said Ashley, holding up 
 his forefinger warningly. "You are caught in the toils, 
 my friend, and you don't know it." 
 
 "Toils, what toils?" stammered Ireton. 
 
 "The toils of that Lamia, as we once called her," said 
 Ashley. "The toils that she wove around you from that 
 day down in that Sleepy Hollow by the sea, when she 
 swung her sun-bonnet by the ribbons, and the dreaming 
 tide came in, etc., etc., etc." 
 
 "You seem to have a more lively memory of these things 
 than I have," said Ireton, looking not a little annoyed. 
 
 "I may seem to have, but I have not," said his com- 
 panion coolly. "You were smitten, Ireton, badly hit. 
 I saw it. You didn't. You felt it, and were unconscious, 
 as a soldier is unconscious of his wounds in battle." 
 
 "You are utterly mistaken, Ashley, utterly. I never 
 thought of Miss Lucas — " 
 
ON THE TRAIL 227 
 
 "But as a sister? Quite so. I understand all that." 
 
 "You don't perceive that you are offensive, Ashley. 
 For God's sake, don't let us break our friendship for such 
 mad fancies." 
 
 "I haven't the slightest intention of doing anything 
 of the kind," said Ashley. "Not the slightest. Quite 
 enough of fighting lunatics in the world already. If 
 we are also touched, as we all are, at least, let us be 
 harmless." 
 
 "You are quite wrong now in your conjectures," said 
 Ireton. "Utterly and absolutely wrong. I have always 
 thought Miss Lucas a superior being, one quite beyond 
 my ideas and feelings. I confess I'm interested in her, 
 but as a study, a mere study." 
 
 "Of course, of course," said his friend. "But a study 
 that somehow comes between you and your anatomies, 
 isn't it so? Well, never mind, old man. It is the way 
 of all flesh. I doubt if you will ever win; or, if won, that 
 she would suit your calling. But whoever thinks of these 
 things? Come, the day is clearing. Let us rouse up 
 Albrecht, and stump the city." 
 
 Ian was in his rooms, working hard at a great sheet 
 of paper that lay before him, and over which he bent 
 low as he wrote, his face almost touching the pages. He 
 rose languidly, as his friends entered, and bade them be 
 seated. He looked so weak, however, and his motions 
 were so feeble and constrained, that Ashley said: 
 
 "We came to take you out for a run, Albrecht. The 
 day is clearing up, you are stuck here all the morning, 
 and you must get out. But would you like it? Are 
 you able?" 
 
 Ian pushed his hand across his forehead with the old, 
 familiar gesture, leaning the other arm heavily on the back 
 of his armchair, and said: 
 
 "I think so. I was just finishing these few pages for 
 press." 
 
 "Damn the papers and the press," said Ashley. " Look 
 here, Ian, you must give up this infernal business. It is 
 
228 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 eating the heart out of you, man. I don't know what 
 the devil ever dragged you into it?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Albrecht, wearily. "You are 
 pushed on, on, on, by some invisible power that will brook 
 no opposition. You don't stop to reason, or ask what is 
 driving you onward. You only know that you must go 
 on, on, on for ever; and that every step gives fresh impe- 
 tus to your energies. Just now, however, I am engaged 
 in pushing the stone up the bill, knowing well that it will 
 slip from my grasp, and drag me with it to the bottom." 
 
 He spoke so sadly, so wearily that his friends could 
 almost have cried for him. But Ashley was only excited 
 to impetuous and unreasoning anger. 
 
 "But what, in Heaven's name, man, prevents you from 
 leaving the stone alone, and let it roll itself into everlast- 
 ing perdition? I don't ask now why you ever undertook 
 this uncanny work, so foreign to all your habits and our 
 traditions. But I want to know why don't you drop it, 
 drop it, and at once?" 
 
 "You were speaking of going out for a walk," said Ian. 
 "Come, then, let us go!" 
 
 He drew on a brown overcoat and yellow gloves, took 
 his umbrella, and led the way. 
 
 As he went straight across the City, new energy seemed 
 to be infused into his shrunken limbs and haggard fea- 
 tures; and his lack-lustre eyes seemed to kindle with a 
 new light. It was the touch of humanity, of crushed, 
 bleeding, trampled humanity, and felt the very moment 
 he came out from the selfish solitude of his rooms, that 
 sent the torpid currents flaming through every vein. 
 
 He walked between his two friends and in his usual 
 manner, head bent down and eyes fixed as if in perpetual 
 meditation on the ground. They spoke little, because 
 they were compelled to walk fast to keep up with Al- 
 brecht's impetuous strides. As they passed through the 
 main thoroughfare of the City, a few idlers at the foot of 
 Nelson's monument stared at them, pointed to Albrecht 
 and no more. Each policeman on his beat stared at the 
 
ON THE TRAIL 229 
 
 three figures curiously, making mental notes of Albrecht's 
 companions, for he was well known to them. His photo- 
 graph was in every pocket-book of every constable in 
 Dublin. Now and again, a few fellow-students passing 
 by, nodded familiarly, made a slight joke, and passed 
 on. And still, Albrecht, silent, dragged his comrades 
 onwards, until they reached the end of the street, where 
 it broadens into Rutland Square. Here they turned 
 sharply to the right, and plunged very soon into streets 
 that seemed to degenerate, as they moved onward from 
 second-class shops into third-rate, from third-rate to 
 mere hucksters' warehouses, from these into slums; and 
 the farther they progressed, and the more degraded 
 the aspect of the streets became, the more the popula- 
 tion seemed to increase, until by-lane after by-lane 
 swarmed with half-naked, dirty children, unkempt women, 
 and men, who lounged from public-house to public-house, 
 these being the only respectable features amidst the 
 general degradation. 
 
 Here Albrecht slackened his pace, and walked more 
 slowly, his dim eyes looking around from one scene of 
 misery to another. Suddenly, a skinny, withered hand 
 was thrust almost into his face, and an old woman 
 shouted: 
 
 "Wan copper for the luv of God, me fine gintleman. 
 I'm starving." 
 
 And in an instant, the three gentlemen were surrounded 
 by a howling, staring, threatening crowd, demanding 
 charity. Ireton and Ashley were frightened, and looked 
 around for a policeman. But there was none in sight, 
 and the mob of half-starved women became clamorous 
 and offensive. The men, who had been standing here 
 and there lazily smoking in the vicinity of the public- 
 houses, lounged up, and looked on, whilst the clamour 
 increased. 
 
 "I declare to God, yer 'anner, I never broke me fast 
 this blessed day!" 
 . . "Look at that, yer 'anner," holding up the skinny, 
 
230 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 emaciated hand of a child. "What'U put flesh an' bone 
 there, an' we tryin' to feed her on the black tay?" 
 
 "Ah, thin, sure 'tis thimselves are the fine gintlemen 
 intirely; an' they have a feel for the poor." 
 
 "Git back, ye b — ," said one of the rough men, shoul- 
 dering the women, who protested and cursed, "an' lave 
 the gintlemen pass. Don't ye see 'tis Mr. Albert?" 
 
 "Yerra, is that Mr. Albert? Oh yeh, sure we never 
 knew him. An' sure he's the good man intirely to the 
 poor," was the response. 
 
 The crowd parted, and the three friends passed on. 
 
 "I congratulate you on your acquaintances, Albrecht," 
 said Ashley. "But somehow I can't be enthusiastic 
 about the great unwashed. Toynbee won't do for 
 Dublin." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," said Albrecht, flushed from the 
 excitement and the implied compliment of his recogni- 
 tion, "but as you won't believe in God, I wanted you to 
 see there was a devil, whom you must acknowledge." 
 
 "Many thanks for your object lesson in faith and 
 morals," said Ashley, "though, by Jove, we were near 
 purchasing it dearly. I shouldn't care for such after- 
 noon lectures on the supernatural at the expense of my 
 gold watch and purse." 
 
 "They were quite safe," said Albrecht. 
 
 They soon merged into a better part of the City, where 
 one-story brick cottages, neatly slated were the rule. 
 They were the dwellings of the Railway Employes who 
 just now were engaged in deadly strife with their masters. 
 
 There was an air of stillness, as of death, around the 
 place, that seemed a chilling contrast to the swarming 
 lif e they had just left. No children played merrily around 
 the courtyard; no clothes hung on the wires, no women 
 appeared at the doors, or showed any sign of female occu- 
 pations. Not a human being was to be seen. Here and 
 there, a half-starved dog rose up, was too lazy or too weak 
 to bark at the intruders, but lay down lazily again. 
 
 Albrecht entered one house. Instead of a cheery wel- 
 
ON THE TRAIL 231 
 
 come, he was met by a sad and sullen look. The work- 
 man hung despondent over the fire-place; the wife looked 
 despairfully at the intruder; the children were huddled 
 into a corner, pale with hunger and weeping. The many 
 little articles of furniture, that usually catch the eye in a 
 labourer's dwelling Were absent. It was an empty house 
 and a desolate fireside. 
 
 Albrecht was too short-sighted to perceive the change, 
 and he said cheerfully: 
 
 "What news, Egan? Are we near the end?" 
 
 There was no reply. The workman never raised him- 
 self from his stooping posture. The wife looked out in 
 sullen, palsied silence into the court. 
 
 "Is this Egan's?" said Albrecht. "I can't have made 
 a mistake." 
 
 Still no reply. 
 
 He went over and shook the stooped figure lightly. 
 
 The man sprang to his feet with savage fierceness. His 
 eyes were bloodshot. His bony hands were clenched. 
 He faced Albrecht with such hot anger and ferocity that 
 the latter fell back. 
 
 "Is this Egan's?" he repeated "God d — and b — you 
 and your likes, it is; but it won't be his soon. How dar' 
 you come here, you perjured ruffian, who has brought me 
 an' me mates to ruin? We had enough and plinty till 
 you an' your likes come the way to timpt us. You tould 
 us we wor badly off, whin we had enough to ate and drink. 
 You tould us we wor slaves, whin we wor as free as yer- 
 self. You tould us we had inimies in them that wor 
 givin' us dacent wages. And you, all the time, havin' 
 the money of English Companies in yer pockets. Come, 
 get out o' this, you ruffian, or yer dead body will be taken 
 out. For s'help me God, if you shtand there a minit 
 longer, I can't keep me hands aff av you." 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Albrecht, in his polite, depre- 
 cating manner. "I shan't intrude longer. But you have 
 done me an injustice, Egan. If I have been mistaken, 
 I'm sorry. But I have taken no bribes." 
 
232 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Go, for God's sake, go," said the young wife with tears 
 in her eyes. "We arc both out of our minds with hunger 
 and want; and we'd rather be alone in our throuble." 
 
 Albrecht turned away sorrowfully with his friends who 
 had remained stupefied witnesses of this scene. When 
 he had reached the door, he thrust his hands violently 
 into his pockets, and finding them empty, he took out 
 his gold watch, with its heavy chain, and placed both 
 without a word on the kitchen table. 
 
 They had gone outside the block, and were hastening 
 homewards in silence, when the young wife followed 
 hastily and overtook them. 
 
 "You must take this back, Sir," she said, holding up 
 the watch and chain. "We dare not take them, and 
 shouldn't know what to do with them." 
 
 Albrecht protested. 
 
 "Your little children are hungry," he said. "Sell 
 them for whatever you can get for them. They're 
 useless to me." 
 
 "We couldn't do it, .Sir," said the woman. "They 
 are very valuable; and, besides, whoever would attempt 
 to pawn them, or sell them, would get into trouble." 
 
 "But, my dear woman," said Albrecht, "you and your 
 children can't remain hungry. Well, look here, will you 
 come up to Trinity this evening? No. Well, look here, 
 I'll order provisions for you and your family — where, 
 Ashley? I don't know where." 
 
 "Perhaps, if you would condescend to take a loan of 
 my purse, Albrecht, until this evening say, at the rate 
 of cent per cent interest on the contents, it would save 
 trouble all round." 
 
 "Precisely. You are always prompt, Ashley, in an 
 emergency," said Albrecht, taking Ashley's purse, and 
 throwing out some gold and silver coins into the palm of 
 his hand. "Here, Mrs. Egan, just take these home, and 
 get what you want at once." 
 
 But the woman shrank back amazed at the sight of the 
 glittering coins. 
 
ON THE TRAIL 233 
 
 "No, no, no," she said. "Just a few shillings, Mr. 
 Albrecht, till things mend. They must be near the end 
 now." 
 
 All the pleadings were thrown away. She took a few 
 shillings reluctantly, and under the pressure of starvation. 
 Albrecht returned the rest to Ashley; and they made their 
 way homewards, having taken the precaution this time 
 of securing a cab. 
 
 As they passed into the great thoroughfare, certain 
 sandwich-men walked slowly by, ringing bells, and an- 
 nouncing with stentorian voices the notices on their 
 placards: 
 
 "Monster meeting of strikers to-night at the Mechanics' 
 Hall, at eight o'clock. Great distress in the City! Final 
 decision of Directors! ! !" 
 
 Late that night, and when he was plunged in profound 
 slumber, Ireton got his first sick-call. It was to his 
 friend, Albrecht. When he entered his room in those 
 grey hours of the dawn that seem always sickly of them- 
 selves, he knew by the strange odour that filled the apart- 
 ment exactly what had happened. Ian was leaning over 
 the side of the bed, and a washhand basin on the chair 
 was partially filled with blood. It needed no professional 
 eye to see what had happened. Albrecht, after the excite- 
 ment of the day, had walked up and down his room all 
 night, revolving in his mind all that had happened. His 
 sense of responsibility, always keen, became well-nigh 
 insupportable. He would gladly have gone to the stake 
 for the great principles he had advocated. But to have 
 dragged others, and these the unreasoning and unthink- 
 ing multitude, through the furnace of affliction, was more 
 than he could bear. And so all night long the thought of 
 that angry, half-starved labourer, of his gentle, educated 
 wife, of those children, huddled together, and needing 
 food, haunted him with a terrible upbraiding and rebuke. 
 He reasoned, argued, pleaded against his own conscience, 
 alleging every reason in his defence as a skilful legist might; 
 
234 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 but every plausible argument was knocked into pieces 
 by the terrible fact that here was suffering, suffering which 
 the poor were unable to bear in patience, and that he was 
 at least, the partial cause. At last, wearied out, in brain 
 and body, he undressed and sought rest; but his emotion 
 had torn him asunder and there was a weight on his 
 breast that seemed to choke him, and break his ribs asun- 
 der. He fell asleep only to awake with a hot, burning 
 pain in his throat, and a curious salt taste in his mouth. 
 He touched his tongue with his forefinger. It was wet 
 and thick and clammy. He lit his candle. Yes! what 
 he had dreaded for so many months, had at last come to 
 pass. Like poor Keats, on an exactly similar occasion,/ 
 he said to Ireton: 
 "This is arterial blood, Ireton. It is my death-wound." 
 And then, after he had spat out another mouthful of 
 blood, he added: 
 "Thank God!" 
 
XXIII 
 
 True Colours 
 
 When her two strange visitors had left, Miriam went 
 straight to her room. With a reverence she could not 
 explain, she placed the crucifix Father Hugo had given her 
 on a little table, and took up a book to read. But some- 
 how, although her eyes wandered over the page, she 
 could not guard them from straying from time to time 
 to that singular effigy that was before her, and which 
 seemed so strange and yet so familiar an object in her 
 room. By degrees, and without the slightest conscious 
 effort, her memory began to summon up certain scenes, 
 where a similar figure was a central object. Then, she 
 remembered that she had seen it in the cottages of the 
 poor down in Glendarragh, where she glanced at it, and 
 passed by, in her ministrations of mercy. But these 
 were white chalk or plaster figures, with here and there 
 daubs of blood. But where did she see a brass crucifix 
 before? Then, from the dark background of the past, 
 so faint and shadowy that her memory almost failed to 
 grasp them, came luminous pictures of a face that was 
 always sad, and sometimes bathed in tears, and that used 
 to kiss passionately some such an emblem as this. And, 
 gradually, she began to remember that sometimes the 
 cold brass figure would be pressed against her own ten- 
 der lips; and how cold, and dead, and metallic it felt; 
 and then, how once she thought the rough nails had cut 
 her lips, and they bled, and she almost smiled as she 
 thought of her childish blood pressed out by the nails of 
 the wounded Redeemer. 
 
 She now put down the book, and shading her eyes, 
 gave up her thoughts to memory, shielding off intellect 
 
236 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 and will lest they should interfere with its operation. 
 But, suddenly, that face became a mere mist or veil 
 across the curtains of fancy. At the faint conscious 
 effort memory revolted and fled. 
 
 She took up her book again; and again, as an old long- 
 forgotten song, or the perfume of a wild-flower, summons 
 up all its surroundings and becomes the centre of a life 
 lived long ago, and long ago evaporated, so the thought 
 of that hard, brazen image conjured up again the same 
 sweet, sad face, and a certain garden where, as a child, 
 she tottered around. And then she closed her eyes, and 
 again memory refused to reveal any more secrets. Only 
 she remembered that she had heard about a terrible sick- 
 ness through which she had passed in her childhood — a 
 kind of fever, where life hung long in the balance, and from 
 which she recovered but slowly, and but slowly regained 
 command over her mental powers. Xhen came the days 
 of her childish romps with Ian Albrecht, and the school 
 lessons, and the prim, Quakerish ways of the house, and 
 the stern, Puritanical governess, and the long, dreary 
 Sabbaths, with their early dinners and the gloomy after- 
 noons where she, as a child, had to sit, sit, sit, in a corner 
 of a black sofa, her little hands folded in her lap, and 
 silence, deep, sepulchral silence, through the rooms and 
 corridors of the house. And there was no mother's hand 
 to clasp hers in protection and love, and no mother's voice 
 to soothe childish sufferings or give an assurance that 
 all these would end, and all would be well. The sweet, 
 sad face had vanished utterly from her life. 
 
 And then, the great map of her life unrolled itself from 
 the day when she bade good-bye to the great city and was 
 carried down to the desolate and gloomy, but oh, how 
 beloved! home by the sea. 
 
 But, as memory failed to bring out any clearer or 
 brighter the scenes of her mere infancy, she clung with 
 all the tenacity of hope to that emblem, which she knew 
 now was associated in some mysterious manner with her 
 mother. It was the first link in the chain of revelations 
 
TRUE COLOURS 237 
 
 which she was seeking to drag out of the great dark deeps 
 of the past. 
 
 That evening, after dinner, Holthsworth seemed to be 
 sunk in some deep melancholy. It was not a usual 
 feature in his character, or demeanour towards Miriam. 
 Day by day she had to experience an alternation of either 
 boisterous spirits as of one who was trying to conceal 
 great irritation, or of cool, savage audacity, and unveiled 
 threats of what he might, or could do, if his will were 
 thwarted. For, whereas, in public, Holthsworth was 
 all deference and politeness towards the girl whom Soci- 
 ety had already, in deference to his wishes, marked out 
 for his future wife, he brought into his gilded home the 
 atmosphere of a prison; and he made himself her indul- 
 gent, but tyrannical gaoler. 
 
 He had spoken little at dinner, and pushed away ner- 
 vously and impatiently dish after dish as it was offered, 
 as one too preoccupied with thought, or too engrossed in 
 care, to heed such things. The few observations he ad- 
 dressed to Miriam and his cousin, to save appearances, 
 were essentially commonplace, and were met by common- 
 places — the poor old dependent being too humble and 
 servile to venture an original observation, and Miriam 
 too proud to be aught but rigidly polite. When the din- 
 ner had at length dragged through, as he opened the door, 
 he whispered: — ■. 
 
 "I shall ask you for a cup of tea in the drawingroom 
 soon, Miriam!" 
 
 She bowed her head and passed on. She knew that it 
 meant one of the dread interviews. 
 
 Yet, she was quite surprised, and taken off her guard, 
 when, in half an hour, Holthsworth came in, and instead 
 of flinging himself unceremoniously into an arm-chair, 
 or assuming an attitude of contempt, he courteously drew 
 a chair to the tea-table, and was studiously and pensively 
 polite to his cousin and his ward. He was silent, started 
 sometimes, as if from a reverie, looked vacant and dis- 
 traity and asked to have a remark repeated. It was so 
 
238 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 unlike his quick, alert, imperious manner, that Miriam 
 conjectured at once that something untoward had hap- 
 pened, or was about to occur. 
 
 When tea was over, the other lady left the room, and 
 Holthsworth seemed plunged so deeply in his own thoughts 
 that Miriam argued that he would prefer to be alone. 
 She rose as if to leave the room. Then, he looked at her 
 in a haggard way, and said: — 
 
 "Miriam, stay a moment!" 
 
 She came back, wondering, and sat down. 
 
 "Would you play something for me?" he said, humbly 
 and sadly. "Anything, anything!" 
 
 "With pleasure," she said, going to the piano. "What 
 shall it be?" 
 
 "Anything, anything," he said again, as if seeking to 
 distract himself from some foreboding, or remorseful 
 imagination. 
 
 She played over a short Etude of Chopin's, and stopped. 
 
 "Thank you," he said. "Come hither. I want to 
 speak." 
 
 She came over and sat down. 
 
 He remained for some time in meditation, and then 
 said, in a half-tremulous way: — 
 
 "Miriam, I haven't been kind to you. Can you for- 
 give?" 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive," she said at once. "I 
 am used to unkindness." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "the world has used you badly. But 
 I — I should have known better." 
 
 She was softened by his compunction and replied: — 
 
 "I have nothing to complain of, so far as my material 
 comfort is concerned. You have surrounded me with 
 every luxury that a girl could desire. This I cannot for- 
 get, even though at times your manner may be harsh 
 and grating." 
 
 "'Tis all manner, manner," he said. "You, young 
 girls, who know nothing of the world cannot understand 
 the fires, the fierce fires through which we have to pass. 
 
TRUE COLOURS 239 
 
 And, alas! we bring with us into domestic life the irrita- 
 tion which friction with the world necessarily occasions." 
 
 "Yes," he said, resuming after a few minutes' silence, 
 "I have been unkind, God knows, unwittingly; but, then, 
 Miriam, you have not been — too gentle, you know. — 
 There, I shouldn't have said that," he cried, as if pulling 
 himself up. "You are not like other girls, as I am not 
 like other men." 
 
 It was so much of a soliloquy that Miriam did not 
 interrupt. 
 
 "Well," he said at length, "the punishment has come 
 home." 
 
 Again Miriam waited. 
 
 "I have been taunted with my solicitude about you, 
 Miriam," he continued, "in the little society wherein I 
 move. I have been chaffed about it in my Club — damn 
 the hounds! And," he laughed sardonically, "I have 
 been condemned for it in the wretched conventicle which 
 I frequent. I wonder they dare, for they know my 
 power, and — they know my will. But, so it is. These 
 wretches, whom I despise, and who know I despise them, 
 have actually dared in public, in public, to rebuke me 
 for harbouring you!" 
 
 He laid much emphasis on the me and you, as if they 
 stood alone against the world. At length Miriam said: — 
 
 "I am very sorry. I know I have been a burden and an 
 embarrassment to you. But you must do me the justice 
 of remembering that I have sought to spare you, if only 
 you would consent." 
 
 "True, true," he said. "I am imputing nothing to 
 you, Miriam. You have been always and strictly honour- 
 able. But I could not bring myself to do it. I could 
 not. I could not." 
 
 Again there was silence. 
 
 "See how it has been. Your father, my earliest and 
 dearest friend, places you under my protection; and as 
 if he foresees something, he is instantly snatched away. 
 Was I not bound to extend to you the protection he 
 
240 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 claimed? Could I do ought but what I have done? 
 Perhaps," he said, shifting uneasily in his seat, "I have 
 not been so circumspect as I might have been. I have 
 allowed my feelings to betray themselves. And that 
 was not right. No! that was not honourable." 
 
 There was something in the abject appearance of the 
 man that touched Miriam. She thought that this was 
 the better self that was now being revealed. Perhaps, 
 she had judged him rashly. Perhaps, under a repulsive 
 demeanour, there may have been hidden nobler feelings 
 that just now were revealing themselves. Her own 
 generous impulses moved forward to meet his. 
 
 "You have done me too much honour," she said, "in 
 asking me to share your home permanently. But I 
 knew this could never be. But I did not know that the 
 shadow of my shame, whatever it is, followed you!" 
 
 "There now, there now," he said, deprecatingly, "you 
 must not allow that to distress you. I hope I am made 
 of tougher metal than to heed the gossip of old tabbies 
 around a tea-table." 
 
 "But you have just said that it was beginning to grow 
 embarrassing," persisted Miriam. "Now, you know I 
 hate this life. I have been brought up in a simpler way, 
 amongst simple people. I hate all this dressing and un- 
 dressing, these theatres, these parties — all that staring 
 and jostling, and gossip and insincerity. As I say, I am 
 not used to it, and never shall be. If my presence here, 
 besides being a torture to me, is an embarrassment to 
 you, let me go. I ask for nothing more." 
 
 Poor girl! Like all emotional natures, she had already 
 pictured to herself a new home in Glendarragh — a 
 little place overlooking the sea, her flowers, her books, 
 her friends, her dog and — peace. And her voice took 
 on a tone of emotion that was most unusual with one who 
 held such cold, iron restraint over herself. 
 
 Holthsworth shook his head. 
 
 "It would be a terrible deprivation to me," he said. 
 "If I had not the pleasure, and — the misfortune, of sum- 
 
TRUE COLOURS 241 
 
 moning you here — I could easily have gone on in my old 
 bachelor life from day to day, speculating, money-making, 
 bargaining. It seems there is no other life than this for a 
 man of the world. But great as the trial would be, I would 
 gladly bear it, for your sake, Miriam, but it cannot be. 
 Your father's affairs are embarrassed. The rental on the 
 estate, small as it is, remains unpaid. There is no alter- 
 native but for you to remain here; and — " 
 
 He suddenly stopped, and passed his hand across his 
 eyes. Then he started, and said: — 
 
 "It may not be for long. I must tell you that you may 
 be sooner emancipated than you think. It is quite pos- 
 sible that my own life is not worth many days' purchase." 
 
 "What do you mean, Mr. Holthsworth?" said Mir- 
 iam, horrified at the allusion. 
 
 "Nothing more than this," he replied. "I am threat- 
 ened with instant and violent death." 
 
 "Death?" she cried. "By whom?" 
 
 "You can imagine," he said sadly. "You see when 
 human passions are let loose, no one knows where they 
 may rest." 
 
 There was something in this tone that made Miriam 
 shrink into herself. After all, she asked herself, is he but 
 playing one of his infamous parts. She became at once 
 suspicious and cold. 
 
 "I know that human passions are like wild beasts let 
 loose," she said. "But I should need much proof to 
 convince me that honest workingmen would be capable 
 of such infamy." 
 
 "You little know," he said, bridling up, but at once 
 falling back into the sad manner he had assumed. " What 
 do you know of the world of men? And, least of all, 
 what do you know of the proletariat?" 
 
 "This much," she said, with confidence. "That the 
 majority of them, all of them, are Roman Catholics; 
 and that their training and religion forbids them violence 
 such as you surmise." 
 
 "But what do you know of Roman Catholics?" he 
 
242 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 repeated. "They are a hidden, secret sect, with all the 
 fanaticism, and blind faith of the Suphis." 
 
 "That's not my experience," she replied. "They 
 appear to me to be rather too patient, too God-fearing. 
 I often wished their religion had taught them more man- 
 liness." 
 
 "There! we won't discuss the abstract," he answered. 
 "This is specific. I have been watched and followed. 
 Not many nights ago a would-be murderer, named Greevy, 
 was hidden in the thicket near the lodge, and followed. 
 And I know I'm a marked man. And, good God!" he 
 suddenly exclaimed aloud, losing his apparent equanim- 
 ity, "for what? Because I have saved the property of 
 the shareholders from confiscation. Because I have 
 helped (I am but one man) to resist unjust and iniqui- 
 tous demands. Because I have defended the Rights of 
 Property against unjust oppression. Let them come on, 
 the assassins, let them come on! They'll find one man 
 at least who won't flinch before them." 
 
 The desperate energy which he flung into these words, 
 combined with the pensive sadness which had marked 
 his previous expressions, made an impression on Mir- 
 iam's mind, which she dared not express. After all, she 
 thought, have I been mistaken? Have I allowed my own 
 wrongs to grow and overshadow all principle? Can it 
 be, after all, that this social upheaval is not fully justi- 
 fied, and that the classes who rule have reason and judg- 
 ment as well as might on their side? It was a dismal 
 suspicion, a painful awakening. And with it came the 
 cognate thought, Perhaps I have wronged this man? 
 Perhaps I have been sacrificing my own best interests, 
 and, what is worse, perhaps I have wrought much mis- 
 chief to satisfy a girlish whim! Then the letter from 
 Glendarragh came back to her memory, and she was on 
 the point of expressing her deep solicitude for her guar- 
 dian, and her horror at the contemplated crime, when he 
 broke in: — 
 
 "There, I should not have disturbed you about such 
 
TRUE COLOURS 243 
 
 things. These things are not for girls. But I needed 
 someone to whom I could disburthen my mind, and whom 
 have I in the world but you, Miriam? No one. I am 
 friendless and alone. But, as I am in peril, I may tell 
 you that I have arranged all my affairs, and yours, so 
 that in any eventuality, your future is secure." 
 
 "I am greatly obliged," she said. "And yet, I cannot 
 bring myself to believe that there is danger. I heard of 
 Greevy. He has a personal grievance, I heard, apart 
 altogether from his feelings in this matter." 
 
 He threw a suspicious glance at his ward, which she 
 was not slow to notice, and which again chilled her into 
 suspicion. 
 
 "An imaginary one," he said. "Or rather, a pretended 
 one. He has not got on to his liking at the works, and he 
 has built up a grievance about a silly chit of a girl who 
 was some years ago in my service, and took it into her 
 head, against my advice, to elope with my coachman. 
 But this is all pretence — all pretence!" 
 
 "The girl is on the streets of Chicago," said Miriam. 
 "That's a cruel fate. A father must feel it." 
 
 "It's only the inevitable, the inevitable," said Holths- 
 worth. "One case out of a million." 
 
 "But that one case touches one heart deeply," said 
 Miriam, as the spectre of this unfeeling dogmatism about 
 fate and accident rose before her. "She was his pet 
 lamb; his, and no other's." 
 
 "Yes, yes, to be sure," said Holthsworth. "There's 
 too much made of these things. These Catholics seem to 
 think that all Hell is opened when a girl falls." 
 
 "And so it is," said Miriam solemnly. "I cannot agree 
 with Catholics in their worship and their faith. I think 
 both puerile. But — " 
 
 "You shouldn't think so," said Holthsworth. "I 
 may think so. But you shouldn't." 
 
 She thought he was going to add "Because you have 
 such strange sympathies with them," or "Because they 
 appeal so strongly to you." He was looking at her in a 
 
244 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 strange manner. His pretended anger and despondency 
 had vanished. He had risen up, and was confronting 
 her in an attitude of expectation. 
 
 She put the fatal question: — "Why?" 
 
 "Because," he said, calmly, and as if it did not matter 
 much, "you are a Roman Catholic. You were born and 
 baptised in that faith." 
 
 She flushed up. The whole character of the man was 
 again revealed to her, as a hidden thing is suddenly lighted 
 by a flash of lightning. 
 
 "It is untrue," she said. "I care not. But you are 
 again deceiving me." 
 
 "It is God's truth," he said, moving towards the door. 
 "Ask no further." 
 
 Then, as if this were of no consequence, and as if he did 
 not see that the girl was stricken into stone, he added, 
 taking a letter from his pocket: — 
 
 "By the way, here's an invitation to Mrs. Stoddard's 
 for the 14th. She particularly requests the honour of 
 Miss Lucas's presence. I'm afraid I cannot go. But 
 please yourself, Miriam, and write in your own name." 
 
 He had flung aside his hypocrisy and was Holthsworth 
 again. 
 
 "Thank God," she said, "at least I did not judge him 
 rashly." 
 
XXIV 
 
 In the Toils 
 
 Stunned and overwhelmed under the first revelation of 
 the mystery surrounding her birth, Miriam sought the 
 solitude of her room, and gave herself up to the varied 
 and conflicting emotions that now agitated her. She 
 could not conceal from herself the fact that Holthsworth, 
 in making that revelation, wished to overwhelm her with 
 contempt. Whatever his motives were in originating the 
 conversation, it was quite clear that the allusion made 
 by Miriam to the sad fate of Greevy's daughter had stirred 
 up the evil elements of his nature; and that he had chosen 
 his revenge. Had he succeeded? 
 
 Undoubtedly, her first feeling was one of great humil- 
 iation. She had been educated in the belief that the 
 Catholics were a class apart — very excellent people, 
 and sometimes lovable, but removed by some invisible 
 but insurmountable barrier from the society in which 
 she had been moving. And even though, occasionally, 
 Catholics of a higher grade seemed to be admitted into 
 the sacred precincts of social life, it was always regarded 
 as an act of toleration and generosity. Hence, in her 
 own affection for the poor people amongst whom her early 
 life had been thrown there was a sensation of patronage 
 and condescension, such as one might show to favourite 
 servants, who might be admitted into secrecy and confi- 
 dence, but still, were a class aloof and apart. 
 
 On the other hand, when her better feelings began to 
 assert themselves above the first shock of surprise, a curi- 
 ous feeling of tenderness and sympathy began to thrill 
 her. After all, she thought, perhaps it explains every- 
 thing. Perhaps it is the very instinct of this religion 
 
246 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 that makes me so sympathetic with the masses of the 
 people. Yes, there is some tenderness, some sweetness, 
 some charity in my heart that I have not hitherto been 
 able to explain. These people are my people, and their 
 God is my God. 
 
 But is it true? Again the horrible duplicity of Holths- 
 worth rose up before her. She had tested it and discov- 
 ered it several times. Perhaps, for some sinister object, 
 he is lying again. And how am I to discover it? Is it 
 the key to the other mystery? 
 
 Then she argued that clearly, if this were the truth, 
 her unknown and mysterious mother must also have 
 belonged to the banned and proscribed religion. But, 
 this would not account for all. There must be something 
 else behind it. And there is no use in challenging Holths- 
 worth. He can keep an impenetrable silence when he 
 pleases, unless he is stung into a revelation. 
 
 Then she suddenly remembered that he had spoken of 
 Greevy, and his dreadful intention. Was this, too, an 
 invention? She had heard of Greevy. She knew that 
 he had been injured in a manner that only the most 
 patient forgive. But could it be that crime, and crime of 
 the worst kind, was really in the minds of those men? 
 She had not calculated on that. She wished them to 
 fight, fight desperately for their rights, but no crime! 
 Had the movement gone beyond control? Where would 
 human passion, once liberated, find its term? Had she 
 helped, by her fiery words, to push the movement into 
 anarchy and crime? 
 
 The thought made her shudder. Her woman's nature 
 shrank from bloodshed; and she well knew, the deeper 
 these men plunged into illegal ways, the deeper was 
 she involved, and the farther was she in the power of 
 Holthsworth. 
 
 She determined to solve the question; and to convict 
 her guardian of falsehood. 
 
 Next day, she sought a pretext for going into the City 
 alone. She went straight to the office of the Watchman 
 
IN THE TOILS 247 
 
 and obtained Greevy's address. It was not far to seek, 
 and Greevy, too, was at home. 
 
 Like so many more of his comrades in this desperate 
 fight, he was now cowed and disheartened. Miriam found 
 him brooding over the fire-place, his unlighted pipe lying 
 on the kitchen table, and a copy of the Watchman on the 
 floor beneath him. 
 
 He rose from the straw chair when he heard the light 
 footstep behind him, and doffed his hat. Miriam said: — 
 
 "Greevy?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss," he replied, standing reverentially in her 
 presence, and too reverential to offer her a chair. 
 
 "I am pleased to find you at home," said Miriam. 
 "I want to say a word to you." 
 
 He then made a motion towards the chair. 
 
 "I understand," she said, "that you, like so many 
 others, are suffering sadly in this strike. Yet, I think, it 
 must end soon." 
 
 "If you could say that, Miss," replied Greevy, "to a 
 few houses besides mine, it would mane a dale to them." 
 
 "I'm only hoping and guessing," she said. "It cannot 
 go on much further. But, I understand,, you have a 
 personal grievance apart from the public, — the work- 
 men? I mean, you have been wronged in your own 
 family." 
 
 He flushed up. 
 
 "I have, Miss," he said. "But 'tis a thing we don't 
 like shpakin' about. I had buried it away, until this 
 throuble came; and it seems to be meetin' me now wher- 
 ever I turn." 
 
 "It is not right," said Miriam, "to introduce a private 
 grievance into a great public cause." 
 
 "I beg your par'n, Miss," he said. "I don't folly 
 you." 
 
 "I mean," she said, "that, when men are struggling 
 manfully for a great cause, or principle, it would lessen 
 them to drag in private troubles." 
 
 Greevy shook his head. He meant that he didn't 
 
248 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 altogether understand what was said to him, and that he 
 didn't quite agree with what he understood. 
 
 "Thim that are wronging us," he said, "says somethin' 
 like that. They purtend they are defindin' themselves, 
 whin they're only seekin' to be revinged." 
 
 "Even so," said Miriam. "But we expect more from 
 the men than from their masters and tyrants." 
 
 "If you said that in the beginning, Miss," said Greevy, 
 "I'd folly you. But whin you're driven to the wall, 
 and there's nothin' before you but starvation or the 
 workhus, you feel different." 
 
 And he waved his hand round the desolate kitchen to 
 show by its utter bareness and poverty, that the shadow 
 of starvation was already there. Miriam looked, and 
 her heart sank within her. It was a gruesome sight. 
 Fireless hearth, empty shelves, bare walls — yes, all had 
 gone the usual way, to the Pawn Office. And the man's 
 face was pinched and worn, as if with hunger. 
 
 "It is aisy to prache to the poor, Miss," he continued. 
 "But we'd like to see those that prache practise also. 
 Tis all patience, patience, patience with us. 'Tis all 
 revinge, revinge, revinge wid thim." 
 
 "I understood your religion was your teacher, Greevy?" 
 she said. "I understood that it had remedies and con- 
 solations where everything else failed?" 
 
 "That's thrue, too, Miss," said the artisan. "But, 
 God help us, that last prop has been shtruck from ondher 
 us. We were misled into believing that our holy religion 
 it was that was makin' us children or cowards. We're 
 reapin' the consequences now," 
 
 And Miriam's conscience smote her. Had she not 
 written some such things as these in the hours when she 
 too revolted against wrong, and forced herself to think 
 that it was this perpetual insistence upon eternity, this 
 eternal undervaluing of time, that was keeping the masses 
 in subjection? Lo! what an evil crop had arisen from a 
 too busy pen. 
 . "At least, Greevy," she said, rising up, "at least I 
 
IN THE TOILS ^49 
 
 want one assurance from you. I have been on the side 
 of the workers hitherto; but I never dreamed the strike 
 would degenerate into crime. Can you tell me that no 
 matter how great your provocation, the thought of — 
 of — murder never entered your heart?" 
 
 The strong man shook under the dreadful imputation 
 — under the dreadful word that his uneasy conscience 
 had tried to interpret into something else. He felt as 
 a culprit feels who, blinded and maddened by passion, 
 suddenly beholds his enemy dead at his feet, killed in a 
 paroxysm of crime; and suddenly wakens to see the 
 dread thing and its consequences. He blinked his eyes, 
 and let them fall under her steady stare. But he was 
 dumb. He dared not deny; he dared not affirm. He 
 dared not explain. Stenson's fine morality and its strat- 
 egical virtue seemed too base, too cowardly now. It 
 would never do. It was too hollow. It would only bring 
 down upon him the more withering contempt of this 
 girl, who' seemed to be reading his thoughts. 
 She waited and watched. Then she said: — 
 "I put the question unfairly. I know that angry thoughts 
 will surge up in the mind under great trial or provocation. 
 And, perhaps, thoughts of personal violence. What I 
 meant to ask you was this — did you ever contemplate, 
 seriously, Greevy, the revenge that is worst in all eyes?" 
 He looked down, abashed. She said, coldly: — 
 "Good-morning! I bear my share of the blame." 
 
 She went home, and passed straight to her room. She 
 flung her hat on the bed, and without removing her 
 jacket, sat down, her mind a prey to such horrible anguish 
 as she had never hitherto experienced. A great gulf 
 seemed to have opened suddenly beneath her feet; and 
 she felt she was losing hold, bit by bit, of anything that 
 could save her. It seemed clear to her now that she had 
 embarked on a perilous, if not criminal course; and she 
 bitterly censured herself for her folly, her imprudence 
 in yielding to ignorant impulses, where reason and pru- 
 
250 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 dence should have restrained her. After all, why should 
 she, a mere girl, inexperienced in the ways of the world, 
 why should she have dared assume a course directly 
 against the advice of everyone that had a knowledge of 
 the world and the ways of men? And here was the end 
 — a tacit co-partnership with men who had blood on 
 their souls, and may soon have blood on their hands. 
 It was horrible. , And how was she now to escape? 
 Clearly, but one way; and that was to seek her guar- 
 dian and make an honourable confession of her impru- 
 dence and folly. This meant throwing herself on his mercy; 
 and that meant throwing herself into his hands. This 
 was too horrible. She might have wronged him, done 
 him injustice, pained him; but there must be some other 
 reparation. But what? No, there was no other rep- 
 aration, and no escape from the toils but one. She 
 must withdraw at once and for ever from all communi- 
 cation with the classes who, by their crimes, had now dis- 
 honoured her; and she must explain to her guardian that 
 she had been wrong, had been obstinate, rash, unthink- 
 ing, and that she had done him injustice in thought and 
 word. Or she must fly, fly away for ever from the City, 
 and the walks of men. There, there was nothing but 
 hopeless entanglement for her for evermore. 
 
 Then, for the first time, she began to consider seriously, 
 What, if she were the wife of Holthsworth? It would 
 solve every difficulty. The stain of birth would be 
 blotted out; her religion settled without scruple; her 
 position in society acknowledged; her imprudence con- 
 doned; her future assured; the difficulties with her ten- 
 ants settled; Glendarragh rebuilt; all the old happy 
 relations renewed. Yes! every argument was in favour 
 of it, if reason only could guide. But then, certain things 
 arose up before her mind, certain things she had seen and 
 heard. And her quick fancy began to picture her future 
 with all its daily details. And an unutterable feeling of 
 loathing seized her, and she almost screamed out: — 
 
 "Anything but that, oh, my God! Anything but thatl"' 
 
XXV 
 
 "Revelations" 
 
 The morning Albrecht had had the violent hemorrhage, 
 of which we have spoken, two of the chief dignitaries 
 of Trinity were closeted together in close conference. 
 For a long time they and other senior members of the 
 governing body had been grievously troubled by vague 
 reports that came to them, sometimes anonymously, some- 
 times directly, but always in an obscure, indeterminate 
 manner, which gave them no opportunity of interfer- 
 ing legally. They were old men, and cautious, cau- 
 tious for the reputation of the College, which would be 
 seriously imperilled if any suspicions of seditious or 
 illegal conduct were to get abroad; cautious of the law, 
 which might be appealed to against them; cautious even 
 of their colleagues, for they well knew that a new soul 
 had come into Trinity, and that men's ideas were broad- 
 ening out, not only on religious subjects, but also on 
 social and economic matters, where it had been a tradi- 
 tion that principles were absolutely immutable. Hence 
 they dared not act, nor even interfere, lest interference 
 should provoke opposition, and opposition should call 
 for action. Now, action is the one thing those vested 
 with authority dread most; for you may see the. end of 
 apathy, but the consequences of even one act no man 
 can foresee. 
 
 Hence these old men had steadily refused the earnest 
 solicitations that had been pouring in upon them to 
 summon Ian Albrecht peremptorily, and challenge him 
 to defend his action in taking so leading a part in a move- 
 ment that seemed to shake the foundations of social 
 order. But they were uneasy; and the sudden illness 
 
252 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 of this student, with its likelihood to prove fatal, came 
 at an opportune moment to relieve them. 
 
 " I don't know whither we are moving," said the elder of 
 the two. "A few years ago such things would have been 
 impossible. And even now, I cannot understand it." 
 
 "It is the march of democracy," said the other. "Do 
 you know, Sir, there is more than people think in the 
 philosophy of clothes. I knew long ago, when I saw your 
 men attending Sunday service in shooting jackets and 
 leggings, that it was all over." 
 
 "Tis rather a comical view of a serious situation," 
 said his senior, with some asperity. 
 
 "Comical? But 'ridentem dicere verum quid vetat'?" 
 responded the other. "But, in truth, the matter is only 
 a symbol, and a sign of the steady deterioration of soci- 
 ety. When the frock-coat vanished, the levelling up and 
 the levelling down commenced. We haven't seen the 
 end." 
 
 "I suppose so," said the other, musingly. "But we 
 must stop the disintegration here. Think of Trinity a 
 hotbed of Socialism!" 
 
 "It's not quite as bad as that, Sir," said the other. 
 "The clique is limited even to one. I understand that 
 Ashley and Ireton have no sympathy with Albrecht, 
 although they continue comrades." 
 
 "I should hope not," said the senior professor. "Here 
 is a letter from Ireton's mother. These good people 
 seem to think that this is a foundling hospital, or a nurs- 
 ery for sick children. By the way, who is this lady, 
 Miss Lucas, of whom she appears to have such a feminine 
 horror?" 
 
 "A very beautiful girl, up from the country, who is 
 here under Holthsworth's protection. You know Holths- 
 worth, Sir? He is a Director on half-a-dozen companies." 
 
 The other nodded. 
 
 "Well, it appears this girl, too, is tainted with Social- 
 ism. Holthsworth is her guardian, but she is quite of an 
 independent style of thinking; and it is said she can write 
 
"REVELATIONS" 253 
 
 vitriolic articles for the low papers of the city. But I 
 wasn't aware that Ireton had much to say to such things. 
 He is a good young fellow, and I shall look him up." 
 
 "Do so. And just tell him that his mother has some 
 information; and that, if he cares to consult his future, 
 he had better be particular about his company." 
 
 "Very good," said the other. "And I suppose the 
 sooner Albrecht goes home the better." 
 
 "Yes. Let me see. Yes! The sooner he is placed 
 under his mother's care the better — chance of recovery 
 has he from his indisposition." 
 
 And so it happened that just at this crisis in our history, 
 Ian Albrecht was lying on the sofa in his mother's par- 
 lour — wan, and feverish, and uneasy. The kind doctor 
 said that the pulmonary trouble did not quite account 
 for his fever. The temperature naturally should be high; 
 but there was some complication that he could not dis- 
 cern. This rapid pulse, this dry heat, and laboured res- 
 piration indicated some other trouble. Quite true! but 
 that was not for the doctor's ears, nor for any ears. Those 
 secrets are only for Him, to whom there are none, for He 
 is All-Seeing; and alas! Ian Albrecht had no speech in 
 that direction. If he could have felt that he had failed 
 nobly in a noble cause, probably his mind would have 
 been at rest. But he had his own misgivings; and recently 
 his conscience had been challenging him at least with 
 imprudence. And then, that last interview with the 
 wretched and starving workman woke him up to the 
 startling reality that he had led on unhappy and ignorant 
 men into ways where every step was fraught with suffer- 
 ing for them, whilst he, by reason of his wealth and posi- 
 tion, had passed unscathed. And, now, came this most 
 inopportune illness, just at the time when perhaps he 
 might be called upon by the exigencies of the situation 
 to offer himself in sacrifice. What could he say if, in 
 the crisis of the strike, he should be absent? How would 
 these poor, unhappy men deem of him, who led them face 
 to face with the enemy, and abandoned them there? He 
 
254 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 dared not divulge his secret to his mother. He couldn't 
 depute Ireton or Ashley to convey his message. They 
 would promptly refuse to have anything to say to the 
 strikers. Then he remembered that the last evening be- 
 fore his first attack, the great meeting was to be held in 
 the Rotunda, where the final resolutions were to be taken. 
 He asked to see the morning paper. Yes! It was just 
 as he supposed. Violent and inflammatory speeches; 
 long quotations from Marx and Lassalle; secret hints 
 at violence; and the whole rapturously applauded by 
 what the writers described as "an assemblage of gaunt, 
 hungry, hirsute revolutionaries — the men who would 
 erect a hundred barricades in twenty-four hours, and die 
 behind them." 
 
 It did not cool his fever nor moderate his pulse. His 
 was not only an equivocal position in the eyes of the 
 people, but it was one of self-loathing and self -contempt. 
 
 He took up the paper again, and ran his eye down 
 the long columns of speeches. Then he noticed within 
 brackets, here and there, after "cheers" and "hisses," 
 an occasional question — "Where are thim that ought 
 to be wid us?" or, "Where's the Trinity man tonight?" 
 His heart stood still for a moment, then leaped on furiously, 
 and the hemorrhage returned. The nurse was very angry; 
 and soundly rated little Rachel for her imprudence in 
 giving Albrecht the paper. And then, with ice and ergo- 
 tine, she tried to stop the flow of blood. 
 
 "If this occurs again," she said to him warningly, 
 "I cannot answer for your life." 
 
 "Would to Heaven it was Death!" he said. "Then I 
 should not be dishonoured." 
 
 Death, however, is slow in coming to those who seek 
 it. He is much more rapid with those who flee from 
 him; and for many weary days Albrecht lay between life 
 and death, the little spark being sedulously kept alive by 
 ceaseless and unremitting care. But the one thought for 
 ever burned in his heart — Could he make some repara- 
 tion to these poor fellows by warning them away from 
 
"REVELATIONS" 255 
 
 violence, and from precipitating themselves against the 
 armed forces of the law? 
 
 He thought of Father Hugo, the friar who had cast 
 his shadow on Trinity; but he remembered his mother's 
 terrific prejudices. It would have given her a fit to see 
 Father Hugo under her roof. He thought of Stenson; 
 but mistrusted him. Then, one day, the idea suddenly 
 flashed upon him of summoning Miriam to his bedside 
 and confiding in her. These rough men would do for her 
 what they would do for no one else, not even for Father 
 Hugo; and — it may afford the long sought, long desired 
 opportunity of bringing Miriam and his mother once to- 
 gether again. The thought seemed to give him new life. 
 The little dying flame flickered up suddenly under the 
 inspiration; and the nurse was surprised at his renewed 
 strength. 
 
 But then — how to communicate with Miriam? He 
 dared not whisper it to his mother. She would indig- 
 nantly refuse. But, if he could bring them face to face, 
 Miriam's beauty would disarm all the other prejudices, 
 and then — well then, he could communicate his tes- 
 tamentary wishes; and he was sure to have them carried 
 out. 
 
 He penned the following letter: — 
 
 Sutton, Tuesday. 
 
 Miriam, — I am unwell. I think I am dying. For our old 
 childhood love, I wish to see you before I die. I have to make 
 reparation by preventing a greater crime, and this can be done only 
 through you. Do not disappoint me. j 
 
 He despatched the letter, and waited. But these days 
 he could not help unconsciously studying the thoughts 
 of his mother as she bent over him in those little offices 
 that only maternal love can suggest. Sometimes, he 
 would catch himself studying her features with his dim 
 eyes, or trying by a pressure of the soft hand within his 
 own to ascertain how far her mother's affection could be 
 tried. He would dream, and dream, that she was gener- 
 ous and soft and kind, and would treat Miriam with mag- 
 
256 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 nanimity; and then, there would issue from her lips some 
 dread sentence which, uttered ever so softly, would imply 
 that there was no relenting there, when once her opinions 
 were formed. 
 
 And she, his mother? Well, here, too, the chords of 
 maternal sympathy were touched, although they had 
 grown dull and flabby under other influences. For, after 
 all, he was her child, her only one; and no matter how 
 high she soared in the empyrean of her own visions, she 
 was dragged down to earth by this sole human tie, which 
 she dared not break. And yet, there was much restraint 
 between them. He did not think as she did on religious 
 matters. Much reading and little thinking had unsettled 
 his early convictions; and he had come to that pass when 
 he would grow impatient when his mother, in her calm, 
 visionary, self-forgetting way, would sit by his side, and 
 read and expound in her own dogmatic manner her 
 "Paul," or her "Revelations." He would much have 
 preferred a page of Carlyle, or Goethe, or a verse from 
 Clough or Matthew Arnold; but he dared not say so. He 
 had to listen in silence to threats, and denunciations, 
 and "Woes" against the wicked and impenitent. These 
 roused his anger, but he suppressed it. But, when the 
 same gentle, sad voice whispered in its silvery accents 
 the promises of eternal life — "And there shall be no 
 curse any more; but the throne of God and of the Lamb 
 shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him. And 
 they shall see His face; and His name shall be on their 
 foreheads. And night shall be no more; and they shall 
 not need the light of the lamp, nor the light of the sun, 
 because the Lord God shall enlighten them, and they 
 shall reign for ever and ever " — ah, then! the old sweet 
 lessons would come back and touch him with their tender 
 pity and reverence, and he would say: — 
 
 "Read on, Mother! Read on for ever! How I should 
 like to die with these words in my ears." 
 
 And he would turn round and watch the slight figure, 
 the pale face, crowned with silvery hair; the staid, black 
 
"REVELATIONS" 257 
 
 dress, with its only ornament, the gold brooch that held 
 the miniature of his father — and the thin gold chain 
 that wound itself round her neck; the white, soft, thin 
 hands, lying on the coverlet and the Book; the white cuffs, 
 the solitary gold ring; but above all the grey, solemn 
 eyes, that, uplifted to the heaven, seemed to have lost 
 the light of earth, and to be filled with the sacred efful- 
 gence of the light that streams from the Lamb. At such 
 times, Ian thought that perhaps he would have done 
 better had he remained away from the noise and tumult 
 and distractions of his life, and remained here, alone 
 with his mother and her Bible, the sea, and God. 
 
 And it was on such occasions the deepest remorse would 
 enter his soul for the deception he had practised towards 
 her. At other times he stifled the thought by the assur- 
 ance that he had done right, that he had acted according 
 to his lights, and that he was bound by no law, human 
 or divine, to acquaint his mother with his principles or 
 movements. If she challenged him, he would avow 
 them. But he was not bound to make revelations, where 
 he was sure to be misunderstood. But on those quiet, 
 solemn evenings, when his mother read by his bedside 
 whilst the nurse was sleeping, or taking her meals, he 
 felt otherwise. He felt he needed to make a confession 
 — a full, free acknowledgment that he did not think 
 as she did about the Bible and faith; and that he had 
 put his principles in practice by flouting all the ordi- 
 nances of the society in which they moved, and by mixing 
 his lot with the poor and the labouring classes. 
 
 One evening, when he felt his strength growing less, and 
 his breathing more laboured, and he thought the next day 
 might not possibly dawn for him, he said to his mother: — 
 
 "I want you to read again that passage from 'Reve- 
 lations.' You know what I mean." 
 
 Nothing loth, she took up her Bible, that always lay 
 beneath her hand, searched for the passage, found it, 
 and read it, in her slow, solemn, musical way. 
 , f 'Jt is really beautiful," he said. "It carries out so 
 
258 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 perfectly the ideas of all great thinkers that in the end 
 evil shall be no more, but that all shall be gathered into 
 the bosom of the Unknown and the Infinite." 
 
 She listened, only half pleased. 
 
 "And then," he gasped, "all our dear, old friends, our 
 childhood's companions, all that we loved and honoured 
 shall be again drawn together, and clasped in the links of 
 Eternal Love." 
 
 "Not all," she said, coldly. "Only the Elect." 
 
 The word struck chilly on his heart. 
 
 "But all are elect, Mother," he said, breathing hardly. 
 "There is no exception in the one, great Restauration." 
 
 "You have not read the Book of Life, my dear son," 
 she answered, "with profit. Or you have forgotten its 
 chaste lessons. It is written: 'Blessed are they that 
 wash their robes in the Blood of the Lamb, that they 
 may have a right to the tree of Life, and may enter in by 
 the gates into the City."' 
 
 "Yes! Quite so," he responded. "That is, all, all 
 who have sinned and repented." 
 
 "Listen," she said, almost with a shriek. 
 
 "'Without are dogs and sorcerers, and unchaste, and 
 murderers — '" 
 
 He started violently. 
 
 '" — and servers of idols, and everyone that loveth 
 and maketh a lie.' You see there that outside the gates 
 of Eternal Life are those who persist in evil. Hence," 
 she added, after a pause, "I have forbidden you to see 
 the reputed daughter of Edwin Lucas, for she — " 
 
 "Do you mean Miriam, Mother?" he cried, in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes!" she said. 
 
 "The reputed daughter? She bears her father's name." 
 
 "There," she replied, "we have better things to think 
 of. Shall I read you from the Psalms, or from Isaias?" 
 
 She did. But she read to a distracted auditor; whose 
 mind was far away from the sweet singer and the mighty 
 Prophet, and was busy about other things. 
 
XXVI 
 A Dying Message 
 
 There was to be a pleasant party at Mrs. Stoddard's 
 the evening of the 14th of April. There was to be a din- 
 ner for a chosen few, and a dance afterwards. It was 
 one of the few places to which Miriam cared to go, for 
 she found that Mrs. Stoddard, although belonging to the 
 Evangelical party, had none of the Puritanical, straight- 
 laced, bigoted ideas that sometimes characterise that 
 school. She was a kind, benevolent woman, and in some 
 mysterious manner, she had a great sympathy for this 
 girl who, although surrounded by every appearance of 
 splendour and luxury, was yet evidently constrained and 
 unhappy. She, too, had heard all about the mystery of 
 Miriam's birth; and her relations with Holthsworth; 
 but she was one of those fine characters that take indi- 
 viduals for what they are, and heed little the adventi- 
 tious circumstances of birth or position. A few times she 
 had drawn Miriam so closely to her by little acts of 
 womanly kindness, that the latter was about to open up 
 her soul, and pour all her sorrows into the heart of this 
 sympathetic woman; but experience had chilled her into 
 a restraint that sometimes chid herself at the same time 
 that it repelled others. 
 
 All the morning she was busy clearing away correspond- 
 ence so that nothing could interfere with her in the after- 
 noon; and just after luncheon, she was about going into 
 the City for shopping, when Ian's letter was placed in 
 her hands. 
 
 It was a surprise, and an unpleasant one, but she 
 didn't hesitate. She drove into the City, caught an out- 
 going train, and a corresponding tram-car; and very soon 
 
260 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 was over the Hill of Howth and down at the village of 
 Sutton, 
 
 It was a fine April afternoon, sunny and warm; and she 
 wished she could linger long down there where the soft 
 waves came in so smoothly and so regularly, or up on the 
 heather-clad cliff, that seemed as remote from the great 
 city and the busy hives of men as if it were placed along 
 the Atlantic coast in Galway or Mayo. But there was 
 no time, and Miriam had begun to understand that her 
 life, at least, was not to be spent in languid dreaming by 
 lake or sea, but in the Sturm und Drang of a strenuous and 
 arduous existence. Yet, it may be doubted, if she ever 
 felt so unnerved, so doubtful of herself, as just at the 
 moment when, after making a few inquiries, she found 
 herself at Mrs. Albrecht's door. 
 
 Ian had been very ill all the night previous, and this 
 morning he was plainly losing strength rapidly. The nurse 
 was extremely anxious, particularly as he seemed feverishly 
 desirous of something, some presence, some pressure of the 
 hand, some message of sympathy, before the curtain should 
 finally drop over his wasted life. She had told Mrs. 
 Albrecht that he could hardly survive till evening; and 
 that he seemed as if his mind were not quite at rest. 
 
 "I think, if he could see a clergyman," she suggested. 
 "Perhaps Mr. Albrecht has something to say." 
 
 The mother gave a little sob when the fatal announce- 
 ment was made; but she instantly suppressed it, and 
 said: — 
 
 "If you mean any secret trouble or sin, you are mis- 
 taken, Nurse. My boy never had any secret from his 
 mother. And for the rest, he has the Book of Life. I 
 shall read a little unto him and soothe him." 
 
 The nurse did not object, although she had her doubts 
 about the effect on the dying man. 
 
 In the afternoon, the nurse had to announce that Ian 
 was growing visibly weaker. The pulse was so languid 
 and intermittent, and the breathing so laboured, that 
 she thought he had not long to live. 
 
A DYING MESSAGE 261 
 
 "And he looks so anxious, as if he were expecting some- 
 one. I would suggest again, Mrs. Albrecht, that you 
 should send for his clergyman." 
 
 "I shall pray with him, and he shall have peace," said 
 the mother. 
 
 It was while she knelt by his bedside, his thin, hot hand 
 clasped in hers, that Miriam was announced. 
 
 "A young lady, Ma'am, has called to see Mr. 
 Albrecht." 
 
 A flush passed across the features of the dying man, 
 as he said: — 
 
 "Yes. Go, Mother, and see her! " 
 
 Miriam, pale, but quiet and collected, rose slowly as 
 Mrs. Albrecht entered, and fixed her quiet, solemn gaze 
 upon her. 
 
 "I have called at Mr. Albrecht's request to see him," 
 said Miriam. "I am grieved to hear that he is so un- 
 well." 
 
 "Be seated," said Mrs. Albrecht, with a look of dis- 
 tress. "I was not aware that Ian had lady acquaint- 
 ances in the City." 
 
 "Ours is an acquaintance of long standing," said 
 Miriam. Then, as no look of recognition came into the 
 face of Mrs. Albrecht, she said: — 
 
 "You may not remember me. I am Miriam Lucas." 
 
 Then the eyes of the woman which should have been 
 filled with the light of eternity on which she, in imagi- 
 nation, was ever gazing, took on a baleful expression. 
 
 "Always lying, and the makers of lies," she said, 
 without looking at the girl. "Servers of idols, and makers 
 of idols — how the evil thing comes down from genera- 
 tion to generation." 
 
 "If you mean that I have come here to tell you a delib- 
 erate falsehood," said Miriam, "I have only to take my 
 leave. I came here, not on my own initiative. It has 
 pleased you and others to forget old times, and old friend- 
 ships, and under some base pretext to exclude me from 
 a society where I was once welcomed, as a child. But 
 
262 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 you will admit, I presume, that I have never sought you, 
 nor cared much whether you sought or avoided my ac- 
 quaintance. I am here today at the dying request of 
 your son. I have no more to say." 
 
 "You imply, then, that my son Ian, has met you; 
 and now solicits a final interview?" 
 
 "I have met Mr. Albrecht twice, at his solicitation," 
 said Miriam. "I did not seek him. He sought me 
 simply because we were both interested in a project for 
 the bettering of the poor and the equalisation of the 
 wealth of the world." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, girl," said Mrs. 
 Albrecht, with a frown, "nor the meaning of your words. 
 But they sound ominous. 'The equalisation of the 
 wealth of the world.' I have heard something like that 
 from the trials of criminals." 
 
 "You may have read something like it in that Book," 
 said Miriam, pointing to the Bible. "If you open it at 
 the Acts of the Apostles, fourth chapter, thirty-second 
 verse, you may find it. But I cannot wait until you con- 
 sult the oracle. You object to my seeing Mr. Albrecht. 
 Very well, then. I bid you good afternoon!" 
 
 The woman, like one stupefied, or in a dream, made a 
 motion to her to stay. Then, when she had collected 
 her thoughts, she said sadly: — 
 
 " I won't discuss the matter. These things are for other 
 times and other places. What I deny is this, that Ian, 
 my son, between whom and me there never has been a 
 secret, has had secret and surreptitious meetings with 
 you, and for illegal purposes." 
 
 "Very well, Madam," said Miriam, rising. "I have 
 no wish whatever to interfere between you and your 
 son. As I have told you, I never sought him. You 
 know that I never sought you." 
 
 "What I deny is this," repeated the unhappy woman, 
 clinging to some faint hope that she could disprove what 
 Miriam said, and save her confidence in Ian, "that my son 
 did act in contravention to my wishes in meeting you." 
 
A DYING MESSAGE) 263 
 
 "Then I understand you forbade it?" said Miriam. 
 
 "Most certainly." 
 
 "On what grounds, may I ask?" said Miriam. 
 
 "Please don't press me for an answer," said Mrs. 
 Albrecht. "You are unhappy enough. Why should I 
 add to it?" 
 
 "Not more unhappy than the majority of mankind," 
 said Miriam. "So far as I can see, the book of human 
 life is written over with 'tears, lamentations, and woe.'" 
 
 "Yea," said Mrs. Albrecht. "The sins of the fathers 
 are visited on their children to the third and fourth gen- 
 eration." 
 
 It seemed to console her a little. She always seemed 
 happy after repeating "woes" and maledictions. Mir- 
 iam moved towards the door. 
 
 "One moment," said Mrs. Albrecht. "Admit you 
 were deceived when just now you said that Ian had com- 
 municated with you, unknown to me." 
 
 "I cannot say whether it was with your knowledge or 
 otherwise, Mrs. Albrecht. But this is Mr. Albrecht'a 
 letter. Take it to him, and let him explain." 
 
 The unhappy mother took the letter, and going to the 
 window read it over carefully. Then, folding it in a 
 kind of unconscious way, and rolling it between her fin- 
 gers, she remained for a long time gazing through the 
 window. What a terrible conflict of emotion was ra- 
 ging through her breast, Miriam little suspected. She 
 thought of herself, of her awkward position, of the humil- 
 iations to which this woman, like all her tribe, would 
 subject her. Then, suddenly, she thought of her own obli- 
 gations, and that she must hasten home to prepare for 
 the evening, when the little servant appeared, and said 
 timidly: — 
 
 "Nurse says, Ma'am, that she fears Mr. Ian is dying. 
 Will you please come?" 
 
 The woman turned round slowly, and Miriam saw a 
 dark face and strained and sunken eyes. These few 
 minutes had concentrated in their brief space the agony 
 
264 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 of a lifetime. Her faith in her boy, in his integrity and 
 honour, in his trust in her and their mutual confidence, • 
 lay shattered at her feet. She said, in a tightened 
 voice: — 
 
 "Mr. Albrecht has desired to see Miss Lucas. Per- 
 haps Miss Lucas would oblige him." 
 
 She had opened the door, and Miriam passed out, not 
 knowing whether she was acting for the best. She felt 
 that her own dignity demanded her immediate withdrawal 
 from the house; but then, the words of Ian's letter came 
 back. Why should she, for the sake of a little pride, 
 deprive him of some last relief and consolation? She 
 followed Rachel across the hall, and upstairs to the cham- 
 ber where the dying man lay. 
 
 The nurse started a little and looked a question of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "I am an old friend," said Miriam. "Mrs. Albrecht 
 has sent me." 
 
 "He is wandering somewhat in his mind," whispered 
 the nurse, and looked a sad harbinger of death. 
 
 Miriam came over and gently stooped. Then the 
 tears started from her eyes at the sight of the dread change. 
 For Ian's cheeks had sunk in in dreadful hollows, so that 
 his cheek-bones seemed to cut the skin. The thick brown 
 hair was matted in curls on his forehead, and his eyes 
 shone with a kind of sightless lustre. He held out one 
 hot hand and grasped hers. 
 
 After a moment, he shut his eyes, and began to mur- 
 mur indistinctly, and with many pauses: — 
 
 "Thou art come, indeed — thou hast rejoined me; 
 Thou hast dared it; but too late to save. 
 Fear not now that men should tax thy honour, 
 I am dying: build (thou may'st) my grave." 
 
 "He is quite delirious," whispered the nurse. "He 
 will hardly recognise you." 
 As if to contradict her, he said at once : — 
 "Miriam? Myrrha?" 
 
A DYING MESSAGE 265 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Ian, I am here." 
 
 "Come closer, bend down." 
 
 She leaned towards him gently. 
 
 "You can hear, Myrrha?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said. 
 
 "My dying message!" he whispered. "Save the 
 men!" 
 
 Then he paused for breath. 
 
 "I foresee," he resumed, after a moment, "a great 
 trouble impending. The men will rush upon their fate. 
 Save them!" 
 
 She waited long; and as a fixed look or stare seemed to 
 come into his eyes, the nurse peered down anxiously. 
 After a long time he turned his wide eyes again towards 
 Miriam, and murmured: — 
 
 " I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage, 
 Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair." 
 
 and then suddenly stopped. 
 
 "Myrrha!" he said at length, after a long and trying 
 pause. 
 
 "Yes, Ian, I am here." 
 
 "Save — " he said, and no more. The large, brown 
 eyes had turned upward, and but half the pupils were 
 visible, and these glazed by death. 
 
 "It is over!" said the nurse, wondering very much why 
 his mother did not choose to be present to receive his 
 last sigh of farewell. She was more surprised when going 
 downstairs to communicate the sad intelligence, she 
 found Mrs. Albrecht still standing at the window, and 
 gazing out towards the sea in an abstracted manner. 
 She almost dreaded to approach her, so trance-like seemed 
 her attitude, and said: — 
 
 "I fear, Ma'am, Mr. Albrecht is no more." 
 
 "He is dead?" queried the mother. 
 
 "Yes, I fear so," said the nurse. 
 
 "It is well!" was all the mother said, and turned to 
 the window again. 
 
266 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 But Miriam, her heart torn with anguish for that death- 
 bed spectacle, for that callous mother, for her own humil- 
 iation, hurried home, through hill, and field, and city; 
 and her anguish was only soothed by the thought of that 
 farewell message from the dying lips: "Save!" Yes! 
 there now was her mission — her vocation. All things 
 else should be subordinated to this. Save! There was 
 urgency and earnestness in that sad injunction. Clearly, 
 some crisis was pending, and immediate action became 
 imperative. She determined that evening, as she drove 
 with her guardian to dinner, to broach the matter to him, 
 and to make an appeal to him to have pity and to spare. 
 
 The maid who brought tea to her room said: — 
 
 "Mr. Holthsworth has left word, Miss, that he cannot 
 go to Mrs. Stoddard's this evening. But he particularly 
 desired that you should not remain away." 
 
 There the first plank was stricken from beneath her 
 feet. No matter! He was sure to remain up for her 
 until she returned, for lately he was scrupulously atten- 
 tive to these particulars. Then, she would throw her- 
 self at his feet if necessary, and beg him to spare the 
 unhappy men, now placed by an evil fate at his mercy. 
 
XXVII 
 
 A New Nebula 
 
 John Ceosthwaite was in great trouble. He had 
 long ago made up his mind that not "to admire, or desire" 
 was the sum of all earthly philosophy; because it was the 
 only way to keep from care; and "curis vacare" was the 
 summum bonum in this valley of tears. But it happened 
 in the eternal cussedness of things, that those black cares, 
 should have actually sought out, and found this seques- 
 tered parsonage in its valley near the sea, and swarmed 
 on the quiet soul of one, who, by nature and education 
 was least qualified to endure their presence. Parson and 
 astronomer, he looked only from his books to the skies; 
 from his skies to his books; from books and skies to the 
 few souls that Providence had placed under his spiritual 
 care. 
 
 His good wife was his shield against the world. Her 
 strong character met all the slings and arrows of fate and 
 turned them harmlessly aside from him. Hence, he had 
 no trouble about domestic matters — bills and servants 
 and taxes, and rates. He was too gentle to make many 
 enemies; he was too humble to be disquieted about adverse 
 criticisms as to sermons and parochial duties. He smiled 
 away little attacks, for there will be wretched little wasps 
 everywhere, who must try their stings on some victim; 
 and on such occasions, he had only one serious task — 
 to soothe the magnificent scorn of his wife. 
 
 "After all, my dear," he would say, putting the tips 
 of his fingers together, and smiling in a deprecatory way, 
 "what does it matter? People will talk. And they must 
 talk about something. And surely, the best thing they 
 could talk about is a sermon. It shows they're interested." 
 
268 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Interested?" sniffs Mrs. Crosthwaite. "Interested? 
 Well, John Crosthwaite, your charity is becoming pain- 
 ful. Interested? yes. But you would like intelligent 
 interest, would you not? You'd like people to follow 
 you with some knowledge and some understanding of 
 what you're saying. But these people — pah! Why 
 they're incapable of understanding anything beyond the 
 
 vulgarity of a third-class novel. Why that Mrs. B 
 
 who was so kindly satirical the other day, always writes: 
 'Believe me, yours truly,' with an 'ei,' and 'true.' And 
 she sits in judgment on you, and Jeremy Taylor." 
 
 "But, my dear, you know, that orthography is not 
 essential. Some great men spelt very badly; and, in 
 fact, spelling is an arbitrary thing, changing from gen- 
 eration to generation — " 
 
 "That's quite enough, John Crosthwaite. I was 
 taught long ago, and I was taught rightly, I believe, that 
 one mistake in spelling or pronunciation condemns a 
 person as illiterate, without benefit of clergy. But, 
 there's the comedy. It is always those backward people 
 that are so free with their opinions. Educated people 
 never criticise. You remember dear Miriam — how 
 slow she was to express an opinion; but how worthy it 
 was when uttered." 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes," murmured John Crosthwaite. "Poor 
 dear, Miriam! I wish she were here!" 
 
 "Then, I'm going to bring her here, and at once, John 
 Crosthwaite," was the reply. 
 
 "Of course, you will, my dear! You were always so 
 good. , And it will be so happy once more to see her 
 sweet face again." 
 
 "What an innocent you are, John Crosthwaite! And 
 you haven't the least curiosity to learn why I have taken 
 that resolution?" 
 
 "Of course not, my dear. I know 'tis only your good- 
 ness and kindness of heart — " 
 
 "H'm! Yes!" 
 
 And Mrs. Crosthwaite began to reflect for the hundredth 
 
A" NEW NEBULA 269 
 
 time, whether she ought tell her husband all that she 
 feared or suspected. 
 
 "I know," she thought, "that I might as well whisper 
 it to the first baby I'd meet in its mother's arms down 
 there in the village; or even to Coppal himself. But I 
 think I'll tell him. He won't understand; but I'll have 
 an easy conscience." 
 
 And she did. She told him all she had heard, and all 
 that she feared — Miriam's sad history, her solitary life, 
 her fate linked with that of Holthsworth, the great city, 
 her loneliness, and all the many ways in which a young, 
 unsophisticated girl, even though possessed of a strong 
 character, might be inveigled into dangerous ways. And 
 above all, the treachery of Holthsworth, whom Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite thoroughly disliked. 
 
 "I can never get over my distrust of that man," she 
 said. "I didn't like his sleek pietism in Church. Men 
 don't put on those airs of sanctimoniousness, unless 
 there is something to conceal — " 
 
 "My dear!" 
 
 "Yes! yes! I know what I'm saying," would resume 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite. "I know, and respect manly piety. 
 In fact, I don't see any reason why men shouldn't be as 
 pious as women, and a good deal more so. But you see 
 there was something slimy about Holthsworth — " 
 
 "My dear!" 
 
 "Well, there! I fling the creature aside. But, imag- 
 ine this lady in Queenstown, presuming to say that Mir- 
 iam, Miriam, was unworthy to be noticed by such tall 
 aristocrats as her son! Just imagine it! Why, the won- 
 der is (and this is one of the reasons why I am so anxious 
 to see Miriam), that she condescended to look at the 
 creature at all. If only that little girl were more explicit. 
 But these servants are so cautious, so frightened." 
 
 "Is it not better, my dear? Is it not right that they 
 should hold fast the secrets of their households?" 
 
 "Of course, I'm not disputing that plain fact, John 
 Crosthwaite! I don't ask girls to betray the secrets of 
 
270 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 their families. You shouldn't have insinuated such a 
 thing—" 
 
 "My dear— " 
 
 "Oh, yes, but you did. You should know me better 
 by this time. But, no matter. When men will inter- 
 fere in these domestic matters, they must make mistakes. 
 But, if I could see that girl again — " 
 
 "And why not, my dear? Cannot you send for her? 
 She will be pleased to come." 
 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite drummed on the table with her fingers, 
 as much as to say, what a hopelessly silly creature was her 
 good husband. Then she rose up with a sigh: — 
 
 "I fear not. That is the reason why I must go. Now, 
 John Crosthwaite, will you promise to take care of your- 
 self while I am away? Will you promise not to set fire 
 to the curtains?" 
 
 John Crosthwaite nodded. 
 
 "Not to remain out when the nights are frosty and 
 cold? You know that last attack of asthma is lingering 
 over you yet?" 
 
 "But, my dear, how can I pursue my investigations? 
 I know I am just on the eve of discovering a new aster- 
 oid. There's a disturbance in the planetary system — " 
 
 "There will be a much worse disturbance in your 
 system, John Crosthwaite, if you won't take my advice. 
 I may be away for a week; and when I return, I don't 
 want to find an invalid before me. Do you understand? " 
 - "I do, my dear. But, surely, when the evenings are 
 fine, as they are now, I may go out for an hour." 
 
 "Why, there's a sharp frost every night as yet," she 
 replied. "No! Put off your investigations till I return 
 with Miriam. Her bright eyes will see more than yours, 
 John." 
 
 "So they will! So they will!" said her obedient hus- 
 band. "Yes, you are always right. Only bring Miriam 
 back, and all will be right!" 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, do you know what I'm think- 
 ing? " said his wife with a frown. 
 
A NEW NEBULA 271 
 
 "No, my dear. Something good and kind, I know." 
 
 "I'm thinking, John, that I am jealous; and shall be 
 more jealous when Miriam returns." 
 
 "No, my dear. You couldn't be. Bring back Mir- 
 iam, and we shall be so happy. But take care of your- 
 self. Tis a long, weary journey, and I'm told there are 
 great dangers in those big cities." 
 
 "Never fear. Will you promise not to fall in love with 
 Miriam, if I bring her?" 
 
 "Why, my dear, I'm head over heels in love with her 
 already," said John Crosthwaite. 
 
 "Oh, you bold, bad man," said his wife, kissing him. 
 "There! I'll tell Miriam, what you said, and how jeal- 
 ous it has made me. Good-bye!" 
 
 She came back again. 
 
 "You're not to change your flannels till I return, 
 remember, no matter how warm the days may be!" 
 
 "No, my dear!" 
 
 "Well, good-bye!" 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear; and take care of the draughts 
 in those trains. Sit with your back to the engine!" 
 
 "Of course, of course. Well, good-bye!" 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear!" 
 
 She had gone to the outer gate, and the driver of the 
 long car that was conveying her to the train was becom- 
 ing impatient. But she returned. 
 
 "Oh, I was near forgetting. The pastilles are in the 
 drawer at the right hand of the dressing-table. You'll 
 be sure to burn them, if the attack comes on. Won't 
 you?" 
 
 "To be sure, my dear. To be sure!" 
 
 "And I have warned Hetty to have some hot water 
 always ready against an emergency." 
 
 "Very good, my dear. You're very thoughtful." 
 
 "Well, you see, when I'm dealing with a big child I 
 must be. You won't hesitate to ring up Hetty, if the 
 fit is bad?" 
 
 "No, my dear!" 
 
272 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Oh, but you will, I know. You'll be afraid to ring!" 
 
 "Not I, my dear. I afraid of Hetty, well, well, to be 
 sure!" 
 
 "Well, good-bye! This bad man is cursing. He says 
 we'll be late. Good-bye!" 
 
 "Good-bye!" 
 
 "Any message to Miriam?" 
 
 "Of course, great love; and to come on at once!" 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, I am jealous." 
 
 "Not you, my dear." 
 
 "Well, good-bye!" 
 
 "Good-bye! You're a baby, John. But I shall be 
 glad to get back to my big baby again." 
 
 Now from all this one may easily conjecture how it 
 was that John Crosthwaite that very evening, as he 
 watched the sky between Spica and Coma Berenices, did 
 verily discover a new nebula. 
 
 Although, his wife had gone only a few hours, he 
 thought it his duty to write to her, to hurry home immedi- 
 ately. And, he also penned a note to Miriam, to whom 
 he enclosed his wife's letter, urging her to make neither 
 demur nor delay, but to accompany his wife instantly 
 on her arrival, for that the place was lonely and intoler- 
 able without both. And, as he wrote, the good man laid 
 down from time to time his pen, and leaned back in his 
 chair, and gave himself up to meditation. And, as he 
 thought of the fair girl, so stately, so proud, so beautiful, 
 and of her fate to be cast amongst strangers, with whom 
 she could have no sympathy, the letters that he formed 
 became blurred under his eyes, and he had to put his 
 pen aside. 
 
 "Bless me!" said John Crosthwaite, "my eyes are 
 getting dim with age! I must see an oculist when they 
 return. I suppose it is watching the stars, and using only 
 one eye, that affects the sight so much." 
 
 A few times in the evening before the post departed, 
 he essayed again to write; but somehow, he always failed. 
 Clearly, his eyes were becoming tender. 
 
A NEW NEBULA 273 
 
 Later in the evening, Hetty came in, and said: — 
 "Barter is after finishing in the garden, Sir. He wants 
 
 to know will you require him again." 
 "Let me see. What kind is the night, Hetty?" 
 "Very clear and fine, Sir. But the Missus, Sir — " 
 "I know, I know, Hetty. I'll be careful. I will 
 
 indeed." 
 "But if you take cold, Sir, the Missus will blame me." 
 "Never fear, never fear, Hetty. I'll take all the blame. 
 
 'Tisn't freezing, is it?" 
 " No, Sir ! At least, I don't think so. I'll ask Barter." 
 
 The loneliness of the parlour and drawing-room was 
 unbearable. He took down book after book from his 
 shelves, glanced at them, and put them back. The 
 very favourite authors, whom he always opened with 
 such delight for their quaint wisdom, and happy insight, 
 and felicitous expression, appeared to pall upon his spirits. 
 
 "Strange," he said, "this never occurred before. Im- 
 agine my putting back old Sir Thomas Browne and 
 Abraham Cowley without looking at them. Yes! I 
 fear that my eyes are failing; and yet I am not so old." 
 
 Barter said there was no frost; and the skies were fa- 
 vourable for observation; and John Crosthwaite, well- 
 muffled by Hetty, went out to the shed which he called 
 his Observatory. It was constructed of a very few 
 rough planks with a corrugated iron roof, through which 
 the powerful telescope protruded. The old man sat 
 down; but instead of wheeling around the light framework 
 on which the telescope rested, he gave himself up to 
 reverie. 
 
 "How helpless," he thought, "we are without human 
 fellowship. Here am I now, John Crosthwaite, who, it 
 is no vanity to say, hath a well-stored mind; and, should 
 it be vacant, and inclined to prey upon itself, here are 
 books, and studies, and all the divertisements that arrive 
 from letters. And here is the mighty panorama of 
 Nature, each feature becoming more clear and defined 
 
274 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 through this wonderful glass. And yet it is solitude: 
 and I am alone. What's that Abraham saith: — 
 
 'O Solitude, first state of human kind I 
 Which blest remained, till man did find 
 
 Ev'n his own helper's company. 
 
 As soon as two (alas!) together joined 
 The serpent makes up three.' 
 
 Out upon you, Abraham! That is only historically true, 
 it hath no symbolism, nor meaning. Come back, my 
 wife; come back, Miriam! There shall be no serpent, 
 only the angel guarding Paradise here!" 
 
 The old man remained a long time silent, ponderinp, 
 with a silent weight at his heart, which he could not 
 shake aside. At last, he raised the telescope and drew 
 it around the horizon. It rested on a point far down in 
 the south-east, where one great star glittered as if burn- 
 ing out all its fires, before it fell into the sea. Just above, 
 was the faint coruscation of a tangled mass of small 
 stars, hanging down through the pale darkness. It 
 was a pretty sight; and, many another night, John 
 Crosthwaite watched it with ever-increasing delight. 
 But not now. That dread weight at his heart drew him, 
 as it does all mortals far from the splendours which the 
 Creator has hung in the empyrean to show them that 
 there alone should be their thoughts. But to-night, 
 some strange appearance seemed to dim their splendours, 
 and yes, no! a faint cloud seemed hung between the con- 
 stellation of the Virgin and the starry fleeces of Berenice's 
 hair. 
 
 "Why, bless my soul!" said John Crosthwaite, "I 
 didn't know there was a nebula there. I must note 
 that, and write to Knowledge about it." 
 
 And he jotted down in his note-book this discovery. 
 
 "At 9.30 on the evening of April 15th I noticed with 
 my four inch telescope a new nebula, circular, about 1° 
 51' in length, and about 23| ' in width. It appeared about 
 
A NEW NEBULA 275 
 
 2° above the bright star Spica, a of the Virgin, and seemed 
 transverse with the Coma Berenices." 
 
 He read it over several times, although he thought the 
 letters looked blurred. 
 
 "Strange," he said. "My sight seems failing rapidly. 
 When they return I must go at once to Cork." 
 
XXVIII 
 
 'Unus Mobiatub Pbo Populo!" 
 
 "Fatheb Hugo," said the gentle Prior, entering the 
 little cell, and seating himself humbly on the straw pallet 
 that served as bed for the mortified monk, "the time has 
 come when I must place you under obedience, and order 
 that you take no further part in settling, or trying to 
 settle, this unhappy strike. The subject has come 
 before the Chapter again; and the Chapter are quite 
 agreed in thinking that you have done an apostle's share; 
 and that no further good can result from your interfer- 
 ence. You have not succeeded with these unfortunate 
 men! Is not that so? " 
 
 Father Hugo glanced at the brown sleeve of his habit, 
 but said nothing. It would be difficult to determine 
 whether a proud man under rebuke, or a zealous man 
 under a disappointment, is the more miserable. But 
 Father Hugo felt his defeat keenly. He knew the Prior 
 was right; but he clung to some faint hope that he would 
 succeed at last. 
 
 "Everyone admires your zeal," continued the Prior 
 (Father Hugo made an impatient gesture of deprecation), 
 "but you know, we all know, that zeal has its limits. 
 Is it not St. Bernard that says that Prudence is the 'char- 
 iot of the virtues,' the 'auriga virtutum,' which carries 
 them all, and without which none can accomplish its pur- 
 pose? Well, now, Prudence dictates that, everything 
 having been done, that could be done, we must desist 
 from further interference." 
 
 Father Hugo remained still silent. 
 
 "Besides you know, that apart from other considera- 
 
"UNUS MORIATUR PRO POPULO!" 277 
 
 tions, the honour of the order is concerned. 'Tis a cen- 
 sorious age, and you know how the enemies of the Church 
 and religion are only too eager to grasp at any little — 
 well, indiscretion, that may be tortured into an offence 
 against society — " 
 
 "But, my dear Father Prior," said the humble monk, 
 "all my vhork has been for this Zociety and against the 
 heresy of Zocialisme." 
 
 "Precisely. But no one minds arguments. Your 
 sympathies, like those we all entertain, are with the 
 people, the workers, the poor, the suffering; and the 
 world will not heed your reasons, when it is well known 
 your sympathies are elsewhere." 
 
 "But, mein Gott," said the poor monk, flaring up, as 
 honest minds will, when they find every motive misin- 
 terpreted, every action misunderstood, "can we not lofe 
 the poor, and keep them within the bounds of reason at 
 the zame time?" 
 
 "You can. But, as I have said, if you love them, 
 their enemies must hate you, and accuse you of every 
 abomination. If you restrain them, they themselves 
 will take this as an act of coldness, unsympathy, or even 
 hostility. You may remember how our Lord himself 
 was misunderstood — every word watched, every ges- 
 ture noted, every action misinterpreted." 
 
 "But He did not care, and why should we?" 
 
 "Well, well," said the Prior rising up, "there's no use 
 in arguing with you, Father Hugo. You're too subtle 
 for me. But, remember your obedieDce." 
 
 And the Father Prior left the cell. 
 i Father Hugo remained, sunk in thought. 
 
 However magnificent his work might be seeking to 
 right the wrongs of the oppressed, there was a deeper 
 principle, underlying all his religious life — a principle, 
 which admitted of no contradiction in thought, no pre- 
 varication in practice; and that was the principle of obedi- 
 ence to his superiors. That had been drilled into his 
 soul by his novice-master, before he had yet assumed 
 
278 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 the habit; it had been taught in every book of meditation 
 he had ever read; it had been insisted upon vehemently 
 by preachers at the annual retreats, until it became so 
 established, that it was a violence to nature even to 
 admit the possibility of its being violated. "And 
 now — " the penitent monk thought, as he looked at his 
 habit, "I have been on the point of undoing the work of 
 a lifetime, of proving false to my principles, of violating 
 my vows, and all — because of the vain delusion that I 
 could rein in a parcel of madmen by my feeble protesta- 
 tions, or touch the hearts of those, who were as hardened 
 in injustice as the Egyptian King." 
 
 He started up suddenly; and actually ran along the 
 corridor to the Prior's room, where he tremblingly knocked. 
 There was no reply. He gently opened the door. The 
 Prior's cell was empty. He rushed down stairs to the 
 library. The Prior was not there. To the Church. 
 The Prior was not there. He questioned some of the 
 Fathers whom he met, if they had seen the Prior. No! 
 No one had seen him. He went down to the kitchen. 
 The aged lay-brother, with the face of a St. Joseph, was 
 bending over the pots on the range, his spotlessly white 
 apron contrasting with his brown habit. No! The 
 Prior had not been there. 
 
 Just then the electric bell from the hall-door began to 
 tinkle; and, in a few moments, a younger lay-brother 
 came in, to say there was a man at the door, a messenger, 
 to ask Father Hugo, for God's sake, to go up at once to 
 
 the Terminus, because there was a report that an 
 
 attack would be made there that night; and groups of 
 men, in twos and threes, were seen wending their way 
 thither. The monk reflected for a moment. The words 
 that had been on his lips, and which he was about to ad- 
 dress to the Prior: "Pardon, Rev. Father, and — pen- 
 ance," seemed to die away suddenly. There was a swift 
 conflict in his mind between the call of duty and the 
 superior monition of obedience. Then, by a sudden 
 leap of thought, he reasoned that the absence of the Prior 
 
."UNUS MORIATUR PRO POPULOl'J 279 
 
 was providential; that this call was from God for His poor, 
 and that it was one of those rare occasions, when even 
 due obedience may be set aside. With the new words 
 on his lips: Deus vult! Deus vult! l he leaped up the 
 stone stairs, had a hurried consultation with the messen- 
 ger at the door; and a moment after, was rushing through 
 the streets, heedless of everything but the one dread that 
 now possessed his mind, that he might be too late to 
 save. 
 
 The passengers on the 9 o'clock train from Clontarf 
 that night were surprised to find the train brought to a 
 standstill on the rails about a mile from the Terminus. 
 Those who were curious enough to look out announced 
 that the whole terminus and all the adjoining buildings 
 were ablaze in front, whilst a lake of fire seemed to break 
 away to the south, and to be carried across the line in a 
 northerly direction. It was an appalling sight, even 
 though the fears of the passengers had exaggerated its 
 extent. The buildings were not ablaze; but some thou- 
 sands of sleepers, saturated as they always are, with tar 
 or creosote, were on fire; and it seemed only a question 
 of time for the conflagration to reach the terminus and 
 wrap every building in one sheet of flame. 
 
 By degrees, the engine-driver crept slowly up, and drew 
 in his train just in front of the conflagration. Over an 
 extent of some acres, hissed, and glowed and crackled the 
 blazing timbers, whilst the flames threw a lurid light on 
 the dark, lowering clouds above, and on the figures and 
 faces of a vast multitude of men and boys who, outside 
 the zone of danger, had gathered from all quarters of the 
 3ity to watch the strange, and unwonted sight. A few 
 fire-engines had thundered up; but remained unused, as 
 nothing could possibly save the property in the grip of 
 such awful flames. Some policemen, on the outskirts of 
 the crowd, tried to keep back many, who through curios- 
 ity, were placing themselves in proximate danger of the 
 1 God wills it! God wills it! 
 
280 . MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 fire; and there hung over all that strange silence, when men 
 are too appalled to speak, and the voice of the elements 
 alone can be heard. 
 
 Such was the spectacular effect presented to the pas- 
 sengers in the train, which now moved slowly in to the 
 terminus. But beneath it, was a something more tragic 
 — the pent up passions of men raging fiercely for an out- 
 let in some mad outburst of crime and madness. 
 
 When Father Hugo arrived breathless on the scene, 
 his quick eye saw at a glance that this was the work of 
 incendiaries; and he was not slow to form a conclusion 
 that the incendiaries were the very men against whose 
 passions he had been reasoning and appealing for some 
 weeks past. 
 
 "This is the crisis," he said to himself. "May God 
 help me through it ! " 
 
 He threw a glance across and around the lake of fire 
 that roared beneath him. He saw firemen, policemen, 
 reporters grouped here and there. The firemen's helmets 
 blazed red in the firelight, and the buttons on the police- 
 men's tunics shone like splinters of flame. The pressmen 
 had their note-books out, and were busy with their descrip- 
 tions of the unusual and terrific scene. They wrote by 
 the light of the conflagration, heads stooped down over 
 their books. 
 
 But it was not these the eyes of Father Hugo sought. 
 They quested for other objects; and at last, they rested 
 on a group, that were also watching the fire with little 
 apparent interest or concern. These men were gathered 
 on a pile of railway timber on the side next the railway; 
 and with some swift intuition that thither his work lay, 
 Father Hugo stepped down from the stairs of sleepers 
 where he stood, and made his way towards them. 
 
 Greevy stood a little apart from the others, his great, 
 muscular frame outlined clearly, as the blaze shone and 
 reddened his whole front. His hands were sunk deep in 
 his pockets; and he stared across the sea of fire with that 
 sightless look that one sees in the eyes of the insane. 
 
"UNUS MORIATUR PRO POPULOI'J 281 
 
 Apparently, he saw nothing although the flames crackled 
 beneath him, and the fire made red shadows in his eyes. 
 He was even unconscious of Father Hugo's presence, 
 although the priest stood quite close to him for some min- 
 utes before he spoke. 
 
 At last, Father Hugo touched him on the arm, and 
 said: — 
 
 "Greevy!" 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances the man would have 
 started from his stupor, stepped back, doffed his hat 
 respectfully, and said: — 
 
 "I beg your reverence's pardon!" 
 
 Now, he stood stolid as a bronze statue, and moved 
 neither hand nor foot. 
 
 Again, the priest laid his hand on his arm, and said: — 
 
 "Greevy, don't you know me? What's the matter?" 
 
 Then Greevy, without turning round, said sullenly: — 
 
 "Well. What do you want?" 
 
 "Greevy, I'm zurprised at you," said the priest. 
 "Goom home at once, or you'll damn your soul here." 
 
 "I'm damned already," he replied. "And my child 
 on the streets of Chicago is damned. But," he added 
 with emphasis so terrific the priest leaped back in terror, 
 "there'll be another damned and in hell to-night before 
 the clock strikes twelve." 
 
 Then Father Hugo's temper rose; and he caught the 
 strong man, and shook him. Greevy could have tossed 
 him into the fire as easily as he could cast a stone, or splin- 
 ter; but he only braced himself on his feet and stood 
 still. 
 
 "Is dis what I taught you, you scilerat, you bad man, 
 you fool," Father Hugo said. "Is dis what all my zer- 
 mones, my legtures, have goom to? Where is your fait, 
 your love for the goot Gott? Where is your rosary, 
 your love for the blessed Mudder? Didn't I often say 
 that you were my Saint Josef, my modele vhorkman, my 
 pattern, my example to the odder mens? And now, 
 now, here you are — a robber, an incendiaire, a petroleur, 
 
282 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 a murderer? Oh, Vhilliam, Vhilliam, did I ever tink, it 
 would goom to dis? Oh, tink of your fadder, tink of your 
 mudder, tink of your wife, and leetle shildrens. Tink of 
 leetle Alees, who climbs up on your knees an' kisses you whin 
 you gooms home from vhork in the evenings; and leetle 
 Jimmy, who serves my Mass in the mornings. Vhere are 
 you goin' to leave all dem? To the vhorkhouse, to beg- 
 gary, to the streets of Dublin? Shame on you, you big 
 man, to be led by the nose like a fool by dem ruffians vrom 
 England—" 
 
 He was quite unaware, during this burst of earnest 
 eloquence, of boy-messengers, running to and from the 
 station to another group, a little further on, who apparently 
 were watching the conflagration out of mere curiosity. 
 He did not hear, amid the roar of the flames, and the 
 echo of his own voice the impatient question, put again 
 and again: — 
 
 "Is he come?" 
 
 And the muttered remark, when negative after nega- 
 tive was received: — 
 
 "Curses on him. Is the fellow going to stag, after 
 bringing us so far?" 
 
 Nor was he aware of detachment after detachment of 
 sightseers and onlookers, who crept away quietly from 
 their places on the heaps of unburnt sleepers, and seemed 
 to converge towards where they were standing. For be- 
 hind them in the deep shade of night, unbroken by any 
 reflection from the conflagration, and amidst a silence, 
 that was made more deep by the crackling of the fire in 
 front, were being massed a large body of workers, who 
 seemed to be only waiting for the man and the hour, to 
 face some perilous task. In the little group of leaders, 
 who still showed themselves clear in the firelight, were 
 men, who had faced danger before. Some of them had 
 seen the inside of prison walls, during periods of great 
 political agitation, and had learned to despise the law and 
 all that it could do. All were dangerous and determined 
 men, and recked little of consequences when a great cause 
 
"UNUS MORIATUR PRO POPULO!" 283 
 
 was at stake. And the vast masses of the proletariat 
 that moved beneath in the shadow, were men made des- 
 perate by hunger, and still more by the hunger their wives 
 and children had endured during these last weeks. And 
 there they were told was the stronghold of the enemy — 
 the buildings where capital reigned, the modern Mino- 
 taur devouring the substance of their children, and cast- 
 ing the refuse to the dogs. To-night we shall see in fire 
 and terror, in smoke and ruin, the palace of the monster 
 razed to the earth; and all Dublin shall awake to the 
 tocsin of alarm, rung from every steeple in the city, and 
 pealing abroad that the reign of plutocrats and labour- 
 grinders was at an end for ever. 
 
 The last train from the North had entered the station, 
 and discharged its burden of passengers and goods. The 
 quiet that comes down on a railway platform, probably in 
 comparison with the bustle and hurry that reign there 
 during the coming and going of trains, seemed almost 
 ominous in view of the stir of life around the conflagra- 
 tion raging quite near. The few, very few porters and 
 clerks, who, in defiance of the excommunication launched 
 against them by the strikers, still clung to their posts, had 
 apparently disappeared. The gas-lamps flickered noise- 
 lessly, an engine puffed and snorted in a neighbouring 
 shed. Now and again the tinkle of a telegraph bell could 
 be heard from the office, and that was all. 
 
 Only those in the secret knew that in all probability 
 within a quarter of an hour, that quiet platform would 
 be the scene of a short but appalling struggle, and that 
 those rails and gangways would be strewn by the quiver- 
 ing bodies of the dying, or the still corpses of the dead. 
 
 Father Hugo was still pleading with all the eloquence of 
 a heart that trembled for the safety of a human soul with 
 the good but misguided man that stood before him. The 
 tears ran down his thin, worn face as resting his hand on 
 the strong man's arms, he argued, reasoned, expostulated. 
 And, at length, he seemed to prevail. At the repeated 
 mention of the names of his little children, which the 
 
284 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 good priest uttered again and again; and especially the 
 name of little Alice, who was her father's favourite, the 
 breast of the strong man heaved with emotion, and his 
 eyes began to glisten in the firelight, although he still 
 stubbornly kept his feet rooted to the pile of timbers on 
 which he stood, and his hands rooted in their pockets. 
 
 At last, and just as the priest thought he had won his 
 glorious battle, a messenger ran swiftly forward from the 
 direction of the railway station, and whispered a message 
 to the group standing by. Instantly, one of these came 
 over, and whispered in Greevy's ears: — 
 
 "The hour has come, and the man!" 
 
 Greevy did not stir. A terrific conflict was going on 
 in his breast — the eternal fight between the eternal 
 enemies. He saw on the one hand, ruin to body and, 
 what was more terrible to a man of such intense faith, 
 eternal and irreparable ruin to his immortal soul. On 
 the other, the sense of cowardice in the face of danger, 
 and the indelible brand that would make him for evermore, 
 a pariah and an outcast to his fellows. Yet he thought, 
 cannot I go away, away, to seek my child in America, 
 and to earn an honest livelihood there. It was an unfor- 
 tunate thought at an unhappy moment. The remem- 
 brance of his child's misfortune rose up and steeled his 
 heart against all rational or fine feelings. And he felt 
 at the same moment that go where he would, the excom- 
 munication of his tribe would follow him. 
 
 Just then, as his soul wavered and flickered faintly 
 towards the wrong, a second messenger came, and said, 
 more sternly: — 
 
 "The hour has come, and the man!" 
 
 The place seemed now almost deserted. The differ- 
 ent groups had passed silently over towards the station; 
 but from the last group came back in a hiss of venomous 
 contempt the one word: — 
 
 "Stag!" 
 
 Greevy seemed not to hear it. Then, again and again, 
 the contemptuous words smote upon his ears: — 
 
f'UNUS MORIATUR PRO POPULO!',' 285 
 
 "Stag! stag! stageen! stageen!" 
 
 The words struck his hot spirit as lightning would 
 strike dynamite, and with one terrible oath, ending in 
 "Hell and Damnation!" he tore himself away from the 
 friar's grasp, and leaping down the stairs of the piled 
 timbers, he ran after his fellows. 
 
 Father Hugo had caught the skirts of his coat to detain 
 him forcibly. The sudden leap forward of Greevy jerked 
 the priest backward, and losing his footing, he rolled 
 down the steps of tarred planks, and into a deep bed of 
 red-hot smouldering timber. 
 
XXIX 
 
 Defeated 
 
 That no part of the body politic suffers without entail- 
 ing suffering on the other members is a truism that is so 
 familiar it is generally lost upon the minds of men, espe- 
 cially when passion has seized them. Men will not per- 
 ceive what physicians call sympathetic action in the great 
 agglomerate, called society. But the Directors were 
 beginning to feel it; and to understand that victory may 
 be too dearly purchased; and that revenge may be bought 
 at too high a price. Hence, it was not Holthsworth alone 
 that was anxious to push matters to a crisis; but he had 
 assumed the mastery, as strong natures will, and then 
 the weaker elements began to complain and repine that 
 things were not hastening on to a conclusion as rapidly 
 as they would desire. A few times, the better portion 
 argued that it would be well to come to some settlement 
 with the strikers, and end a contest that seemed fraught 
 with disaster all round. But to this, Holthsworth would 
 not listen. His pride would not brook the idea of a settle- 
 ment. Yet, he was driven on from behind, and stopped, 
 as by a wall of adamant in front. Something, therefore, 
 should be done, and he did it. He drove the unhappy 
 men, starved and desperate, into a position from which 
 there was no retreat. 
 
 With just a slight sinking of the heart, because she had 
 lost the opportunity of carrying out Ian's dying wishes 
 for the moment; and with some sense of bereavement in 
 Ian's death, Miriam drove on to the eight o'clock dinner 
 at Mrs. Stoddard's. Here, for a while at least, under 
 the sympathetic and kindly attentions of her hostess, 
 
DEFEATED 287 
 
 she felt a relief from the troubles that seemed to be gather- 
 ing around her. 
 
 "We. are so glad you came," said Mrs. Stoddard, stand- 
 ing back a little, after the first greeting, in order the 
 better to admire Miriam. "We should be miserable 
 without you. And, dear, tell it not in the streets of Gath, 
 I am glad you are alone." 
 
 "You are always too kind, Mrs. Stoddard," said Mir- 
 iam. " You know I hate these dinner parties everywhere 
 but here." 
 
 "I told Mr. Stoddard so," replied the kind woman, 
 "and it put him into ecstasies. He said it was all van- 
 ity on my part; but he was pleased, I can tell you. And 
 now, we'll have no one here but a few more intimate 
 friends, whom you'll like. I know you don't care for new 
 faces; so we have no one for dinner but those whom you 
 have met. Oh, there's just one. Mrs. Ireton has come 
 up from the country for a day or two; and she is coming, 
 and her son, a Trinity graduate." 
 
 A shade of displeasure seemed to cross Miriam's fore- 
 head for an instant. Then she said: — 
 
 "I'm not sure if I have met Mrs. Ireton before; but I 
 have met Mr. Ireton once or twice." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so. At College garden parties, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 Miriam was about to explain; but the good woman 
 went on: — 
 
 "He's a nice young fellow, and with excellent prospects. 
 I don't care so much for Mrs. Ireton. She's a little vain, 
 you know, of something or other in these pedigree matters, 
 as if men and women were horses or cattle. You have no 
 idea, my dear, how absurd these country people are about 
 family, etc. It is astonishing how insignificant they be- 
 come when they get up here, under bigger shadows. But 
 you'll like Ireton. Oh, yes, you have met him. Shall 
 I ask him to take you in to dinner?" 
 
 "Oh, please, no!" pleaded Miriam, anxiously. "Any- 
 one, anyone else, please!" 
 
288 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Just as you please, dear. I must leave you for an 
 instant. Look at the portrait of Mrs. Potter. It's the 
 latest." 
 
 They were hardly seated at dinner when Miriam almost 
 regretted that she had declined Hugh Ireton as escort. 
 For she had been placed side by side with a little creature 
 who simply tortured her with platitudes about society; 
 dinners, Castle Balls, etc., until, towards the end of din- 
 ner there was a pause. Then he suddenly aroused her 
 attention by saying, abruptly: — 
 
 "I hope Mr. Holthsworth will get back safe from to- 
 night's expedition." 
 
 Thrown suddenly off her guard, she murmured some- 
 thing; and he continued: — 
 
 "Oh, these things are not for ladies' ears. Holthsworth 
 would be the last man to speak of things that would 
 alarm. It was so considerate of him to send you here. 
 It is so like him." 
 
 Now, stunned and bewildered, and only knowing that 
 in some vague way there was some grave crisis pending 
 tonight, she feared to ask further, when suddenly it was 
 noticed that there was a startled whispering amongst 
 the maids who attended at table; and after some fright- 
 ened questioning, Miriam heard Mrs. Stoddard saying: — 
 
 "A huge conflagration up towards the north-west, 
 near Clontarf. It looks, they say, as if half the city were 
 on fire." 
 
 Miriam, now thoroughly apprehensive, and remember- 
 ing what Ian had said, turned suddenly to the man at 
 her side, and trying to level her voice, she said: — 
 
 "What is it? This fire has some connection with what 
 you were alluding to?" 
 
 "I guess so," he said, with the air of one who had had 
 a great secret committed to his keeping. "Your good 
 guardian has laid his traps well, and the fools are now 
 falling into it. Ah, he's a rare diplomatist!" 
 
 "But how — how? I don't understand," said Mir- 
 iam. "What is a trap? What does it all mean?" 
 
DEFEATED 289 
 
 "Why, just this," he replied. "The thing is out now, 
 and there's no longer a secret. We business men, you 
 know, must keep our secrets, even from our fair friends. 
 But the cat is out o' the bag. You see, this strike was 
 going on too long to be comfortable. The railway was 
 suffering. People afraid to travel, you know, etc. Well, 
 matters should be brought to a head. Mr. Holthsworth 
 found that funds were coming from England — an Eng- 
 lish company, that wanted to paralyse Irish trade — and 
 were paid through a fellow called Newton. In fact, it 
 was this Newton, and a fellow called Stenson, the editor 
 of a vile, radical rag, The Watchman, here in the City, 
 that were keeping out the men. Well, when patience 
 was exhausted, Mr. Holthsworth nobbled this Newton, 
 the supplies were stopped, the fellows brought to short 
 commons. Then it was proposed, cleverly, I think, 
 that they should terrorise the Directors by violence. 
 Well, they are terrorising them, you see now. But, 
 to-night will see the end of the strike." 
 
 "I don't understand. How? This seems but the 
 beginning of greater mischief?" said Miriam, anxiously. 
 "If these poor men burn down the station, it means 
 something like a revolution in the City!" 
 
 "Not by any manner of means!" said the fellow. "Be- 
 cause your brave guardian — oh, if we had only a hun- 
 dred brave men like him! — is just now snugly hidden in 
 one of the secret apartments of the station, with fifty 
 armed police; and the moment Sir Rioters put a match 
 to the buildings, they will be blown into Hell!" 
 
 The terror of the thing helped Miriam to swallow her 
 disgust and anger; and then, Mrs. Stoddard said: — 
 
 "Perhaps we can see from the verandah!" And all 
 rose and went out. 
 
 Yes. Clearly a conflagration was raging away up 
 towards the north, probably two or three miles away. 
 Were it another time of the year it might have been taken 
 for one of those burning, lurid sunsets, that are wrapped 
 round in purple and yellow splendours whilst the cloud? 
 
290 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 in the zenith take but a faint pallor of pink or azure from 
 the far glories beneath the horizon. For all the sky was 
 red and yellow, as if splashed in these colours from a caul- 
 dron of fire that raged beneath; and now and again, from 
 the level monotone of the horizon, jets of flame burst up, 
 and instantly subsided to be followed by fresh outbursts 
 of fire where the fresh fuel was flung in. 
 
 The guests gathered on the verandah gave vent to their 
 alarm in all kinds of absurd surmises as to the locality, 
 the cause, the extent of the conflagration. Gentlemen 
 with half-burnt cigars in their hands, pointed out places 
 where the fires would reach if unchecked; and various 
 were the conjectures as to whether it was accidental, 
 or the work of incendiaries, or the beginning of some 
 dread outburst of crime that would paralyse the world. 
 
 " There certainly is some evil work brewing for some 
 time past in the City," said an old gentleman who had 
 pulled up the collar of his dress coat around his neck to 
 guard against a chill. "The authorities are aware that 
 Anarchists have got into the City; and I'm told that, 
 quite unnoticed, a good many leading men are escorted 
 by private detectives." 
 
 "Yes, yes! the old story," cried an impatient stock 
 broker. "Toleration and patience carried too far; and 
 then futile attempts to check murder and arson." 
 
 "And an incendiary Press!" cried a third. "I have 
 seen but one number of a vile rag called The Watchman; 
 but I assure you I'm amazed that we have not had an epi- 
 demic of crime in the City." 
 
 "What fools these are," whispered the creature that 
 had escorted Miriam to the dinner-table, and who still 
 regarded himself as her protector, as she shivered near 
 him. "How little they know! But you are cold, Miss 
 Lucas! Let me get your wraps." 
 
 "If you please," she said, in a low voice. "The maids 
 know — No! I must get them myself, many thanks. 
 They are in a special place." 
 
 He pleaded. But she passed on into the house. Hugh 
 
DEFEATED 291 
 
 Ireton, wrapped in thought, was standing alone at a win- 
 dow. She stepped up to him. 
 
 "Mr. Ireton, do me a favour!" 
 
 "With pleasure," he said. 
 
 "Call me a cab as quickly as possible; and — let no 
 one know!" 
 
 "Certainly!" he replied, not a little surprised at her 
 condescension, for she had hardly noticed him during the 
 evening. And there was a suppressed excitement in her 
 tone and manner, that seemed very strange in one who 
 was always so cold and almost supercilious. He stepped 
 out of the house, crossed the garden, and after a few 
 minutes returned, and informed Miriam, now cloaked 
 and furred, that all was ready. She looked very beauti- 
 ful there under the gaslight, her face uplifted as if under 
 the spell of some inspiration, her eyes dilated, and her 
 lips partly open, as if she were about to speak and chal- 
 lenge the world. 
 
 "The cab is ready," said Hugh Ireton. "May I escort 
 you?" 
 
 She said nothing, but passed across the garden, Ireton 
 at her side. He saw her into the cab, and closed the 
 door. 
 
 "What address?" he said, in answer to a look from 
 the driver. 
 
 "Where the fire is raging," she said. "And tell him 
 quick! quick! lives are depending on it." 
 
 Then, taking no notice of Ireton's astonishment, she 
 said, hastily: — 
 
 "Ian died to-day. I was with him. He left me a mes- 
 sage. I go to fulfil it." 
 
 "Then," said Ireton, unlocking the door, "I go with 
 you." 
 
 "No, no, no," she cried, detaining his hand. "This 
 is an occasion of great peril. I go alone." 
 
 "Just the reason," he cried, passionately, "that you 
 need a protector. Oh, Miss Lucas, Miriam, don't you 
 remember what Ian said many months ago, when we 
 
292 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 first met — that I, that you — Oh, my God! I cannot 
 say it now. But, please, let me go, Miss Lucas. You 
 dare not go alone. There is danger. Let me share it! 
 If only for poor Albrecht's sake!" 
 
 She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then quickly 
 made up her mind. Holding out her hand, she said 
 gently: — 
 
 "Not now, Mr. Ireton; not now! This," she said, 
 pointing to the horizon, "is our work for good or ill. I 
 must accomplish my mission alone." 
 
 "One word, then," he said. "If you need me at any 
 time, will you summon me at once?" 
 
 She hesitated for a moment. Then said: — "Yes!" 
 
 He thanked her, and the cab rolled away. 
 
 The sudden fall of Father Hugo into the pit of blazing 
 timbers had attracted to that point the eyes of all the 
 spectators; and a hundred willing hands were promptly 
 extended to rescue him. He was fearfully burned about 
 the head; and his hands were almost scorched to a cinder. 
 His thick habit seemed to have resisted the action of the 
 fire. It was scorched badly, but had not taken fire, 
 except in the one place, where, fallen on his side, the 
 rough frieze was burned away, and the flesh was raised 
 in one painful and terrible blister. 
 
 There were a hundred anxious and angry questions as 
 to how he had fallen. Some said he was thrown in; others, 
 that he fell; others, that the sleepers had rolled from be- 
 neath him. One said he had seen a struggle, and that 
 the man who had flung in the devoted priest had sud- 
 denly disappeared in the darkness. But his charred and 
 insensible form was gently and reverentially raised by 
 the people; and carried, amid a tumult of tears and mourn- 
 ings, to the monastery, whence he had set out, alas, under 
 disobedience, a few hours before. 
 
 It was quite true that the man with whom he had 
 struggled had plunged into the darkness. As if stung 
 
DEFEATED 293 
 
 by remorse, and now wholly given up to an evil spirit, 
 Greevy marched forward at the head of the rioters to- 
 wards the railway station. When they were quite close, 
 he gave the order to halt ; and then, a form came out of 
 darkness and assumed the command. In a few rapid 
 words he appointed the different groups to their deadly 
 task — Some were to enter the goods store, seize the 
 petroleum, and the barrels of carriage grease, and set 
 the stores on fire. Some were to cut the telegraph 
 wires, and then the gas pipes, setting the latter ablaze. 
 Some were to enter the different rooms of the station, 
 and were to wreck everything, but were to abstract 
 nothing. And some were to remain outside to give warn- 
 ing of the approach of help or the police. It was hoped 
 that the work of destruction could be accomplished before 
 these latter appeared; and then the wreckers were to 
 scatter in every direction. 
 
 They were moving forward cautiously, so as to attract 
 no attention from behind, little dreaming that the real 
 peril was before them, when they were confronted by an 
 apparition that made them pause. For, just beneath 
 the first gaslamp outside the station, stood the figure of 
 a woman, tall, her head uncovered, and something in her 
 hair gleaming beneath the gaslight. A rich crimson 
 cloak, furred and hooded, clothed her, round and round, 
 as with a royal robe, adding in its every fold dignity and 
 majesty to her figure. When the first of the band of rioters 
 was about to pass, she said, in a low decisive voice: — 
 
 "Stop!" 
 
 The silence, the majesty of the figure, and now the 
 wondrous loveliness revealed beneath the light, made 
 the men pause, and gather around her. She stood still 
 as a statue for a moment. Then she said, in the same 
 low, imperious tones: — 
 
 "Do you know that you are rushing to destruction?" 
 
 There was a momentary pause of surprise. Then the 
 nameless, unknown leader came up, and said : — 
 
 "What's the matter? Why don't you go forward?" 
 
294 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "They shall not go one inch further," said Miriam, 
 "if I can help it." 
 
 "And who the devil are you, to stop men in their 
 work?" he asked. 
 
 But he was instantly collared by Greevy, and held, as 
 in a vice. 
 
 "Hould your tongue," he said, "or I'll dash out your 
 brains." 
 
 "Every moment is precious," said Miriam, still speak- 
 ing in a low tone. "I have come from the bedside of 
 the dead with orders to save you. You are betrayed. 
 Newton has taken money, and has stopped your supplies. 
 Starvation has driven you here — " 
 
 "By G — , you're right, woman or angel," said a man 
 whose withered face told of long vigils of fasting and 
 hunger. "It is as aisy to die shtandin' as in our beds 
 wid our childre howlin' around us for bread." 
 
 "Starvation has driven you here," repeated Miriam. 
 "And — " she paused, and then slowly added, "there 
 are fifty armed police hidden here this moment. If you 
 proceed, you will be shot like dogs." 
 
 "Yes," sneered the fellow whom Greevy had silenced. 
 "Go back, cowards, at the voice of a girl, retreat and give 
 up your work. And that girl, Holthsworth's — " 
 
 He did not say the word, for the huge hand of Greevy 
 had smote him on the mouth, and he spat blood into 
 the darkness. It was the darkness, too, that mercifully 
 covered the hot blush that flushed the face and neck of 
 Miriam. She stepped over the glistening rails and stood 
 irresolute on the platform. 
 
 When Greevy struck his leader or captain on the 
 mouth, he did not know what he was doing. He felt 
 impelled to smite and strike something, he cared not 
 what. From the moment he had torn himself from the 
 grasp of the friar, and had seen that this act of rebellion 
 would probably cost the latter his life, he strode forward, 
 as if possessed by Satan, and was prepared to do anything 
 evil and desperate. And yet, there was a remnant of a 
 
DEFEATED 295 
 
 chivalrous spirit in the act. In some blind way he under- 
 stood that this girl, who had spoken to him so imperiously, 
 so contemptuously, a few days ago, was on the side of right; 
 and that, if she deprecated crime, she was full of sym- 
 pathy for the men who were suffering. In this spirit, 
 he now strode forward and said, or rather, hissed: — 
 
 "Some d — d coward said a few minutes ago that I 
 was a shtag. Very well ! Now, let us see who's the shtag, 
 and who's the brave man. This lady — I know her well, 
 and I know she's on our side — sez we are sowld, that 
 there's a thraitor amongst us, and that Holthsworth has 
 his min hid in there to fire the minnit we appear. Well! 
 Now you shtay here; an' I'll go forward and see! If 
 they're there, they'll arrest or shoot me. I'll make them. 
 If they're not there, an' if I come back safe, you can do 
 the night's work on which you are set. Is that fair?" 
 
 And they said it was fair. 
 
 Meanwhile, Miriam, her face burning with anger, had 
 gone forward, and, passing swiftly from shade to shade 
 made by the few lamps that were still lighting, she was 
 about to pass under the archway that led out to where 
 her cab was waiting, when she was suddenly accosted: — 
 
 "Miriam! What? You here?" 
 
 She turned round, and was confronted by her guard- 
 ian. He was in a towering rage, for somehow he felt 
 that his evil designs were baffled, and he said, angrily: — 
 
 "What brings you here? Didn't you go to Stoddard's? " 
 
 "Yes!" she said, quietly, though her feelings were 
 wrought up to a point of desperation. "I did go." It 
 was from something that was said there that I am 
 here!" 
 
 "Something you heard? What was it? What could 
 you want here? Do you know where you're standing? 
 And what might be done any moment in your presence?" 
 
 " Yes ! " she said. " I know all. Nothing shall be done 
 because I have prevented. But I know now, what I 
 always knew, but sought to stifle the knowledge, that 
 you are a cruel, hard-hearted, unfeeling brute. I. know 
 
296 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 that you not only drove these unhappy men into that 
 dreadful strike — " 
 
 " Tis a lie !" he cried, furiously. " It was you, and your 
 accomplices created the strike." 
 
 "It was you," Miriam went on, unheeding, for now the 
 great crisis in her life had come, "that stopped the funds 
 that were supplied from England, and drove these crea- 
 tures, their wives and children to starvation." 
 
 "Quite true!" he said, cynically. "By G — , you are 
 right now." 
 
 "And it is you that have come here with murder in 
 your heart tonight. For it is murder to decoy misguided 
 men into violent and illegal acts, in order to have a pre- 
 text to shoot them down. But I have foiled you. I 
 have warned them, and they will now disperse to meet 
 you again!" 
 
 Almost speechless with rage, he gasped out: — "You 
 did! You! You have always foiled me, damn you! 
 But for the last time tonight. Go home at once. I 
 shall follow and meet you there." 
 
 And he pushed her rudely, so that she stumbled and 
 almost fell. 
 
 The next moment, Holthsworth felt a grip of steel 
 around his neck. Greevy, who had crept up behind, 
 had suddenly seized him, and with a strong effort of his 
 muscular arms, had bent his neck backward until he 
 thought it broke. He then flung the wretched man on 
 the metals beneath the platform. 
 
 "Lie there, you dog," he cried. "I have killed you, 
 but God will forgive me, although I have sent one more 
 devil to hell!" 
 
 The whole thing passed so swiftly that the officers of 
 the law had no time to interfere. But no sooner had 
 they seen the double act of violence, than the word of 
 command rang out; and in an instant the fifty constables, 
 in their helmets and greatcoats, and with their light 
 rifles in their hands, were on the platform. Greevy was 
 instantly seized and handcuffed. The miserable form of 
 
DEFEATED 297 
 
 Holthsworth was raised from the deep trough of the per- 
 manent way, and carried to the station-master's room. 
 Miriam had vanished. The strikers, who had watched 
 the scuffle from the darkness, and seen Miriam's warning 
 verified in so unexpected and terrible a manner, dispersed 
 in the darkness with hot curses on their lips, and deadly 
 vengeance in their hearts. 
 
 An hour later, six constables marched with shouldered 
 rifles through the streets of Dublin. The strong, mis- 
 guided, generous man was a manacled prisoner in their 
 midst. 
 
 Next morning, all Dublin woke to the cry of a terrific 
 conflagration, the work of incendiaries; and a still more 
 terrific attempt at murder perpetrated in their midst 
 
XXX 
 
 Pursued 
 
 When tender and willing hands had raised Father 
 Hugo from his couch of fire, and taken him reverently and 
 sorrowfully to his convent, he rapidly recovered conscious- 
 ness, although the doctor pronounced his chance of life 
 very doubtful, owing to the terrible shock he had received. 
 His first cry was for the Father Prior. His first word, 
 when the Father Prior appeared, was one of humility — 
 a plea for pardon. He knew he had violated his obedi- 
 ence; and he was almost paralysed with dread at the 
 thought that he might pass to judgment unshriven of 
 that sin. 
 
 "I did wrong to disobey," he said, humbly, "aDd the 
 anger of God followed me and smote me. I crave your 
 pardon, Reverend Father, and absolution." 
 
 And the Prior said: — 
 
 "Hath any man condemned thee?" 
 
 "No-o!" said the patient, feebly. 
 
 "Neither shall I condemn thee," said the Father Prior. 
 "But, because, dear Brother, there is a sterner tribunal 
 before us than mere human judgments, I will ask Father 
 Celsus to come, and administer the last Sacraments. 
 I would ask you, dear Brother, most particularly to exam- 
 ine your soul, as to whether there may not have been some 
 merely human motive in your late attempts to amelio- 
 rate the condition of the people. Alas! the highest and 
 holiest functions and offices are tainted and vitiated by 
 self. Self -idolatry, self-seeking, self-love — who is free 
 from them? Who can say that he can perform any act, 
 even the least, without the eternal thought of self? And 
 if that evil thing enters into, and makes void and worth- 
 
PURSUED 299 
 
 less the holiest and sublimest actions, it may well be that it 
 would also become even the chief motive when we engage 
 in enterprises that drag us out of the safe and pleasant 
 security of the cloister, and place us under the curious 
 and incontinent stare of the multitude. To be seen of 
 men, to have our names, that should only be known to 
 our Divine Master, bruited abroad in the Press, and on 
 the lips of men; to be flattered, and thanked, and praised, 
 especially for generous and noble work — ah, yes! all 
 this is pleasant to the lower self; and there are few that 
 can stand above on the cold heights of perfection without 
 yearning for such delightful, and yet transitory, and fleet- 
 ing, and ignoble rewards. I do not presume, dear Brother, 
 to judge you. But I have been following your public 
 life with more or less anxiety for some time. The old 
 saying, Qui bene latuit, bene vixit, 1 has occurred to my mind 
 frequently when I saw how famous and honoured you 
 had become; and I used to say: 'Is Brother Hugo now as 
 happy — no, is Brother Hugo now as dear to Our Lord, 
 as when he was the simple and unknown director of the 
 poor in his confessional or in the convent parlour? Is 
 Brother Hugo, the champion of the labourer, the tribune 
 of the people, the enemy of capitalists, the eloquent 
 defender of the weak; or, as some others would put it, 
 for we measure all human character by our own inter- 
 ests, — Is Brother Hugo, the preacher of peace, the 
 restraining power over the angry proletariat, the expos- 
 itor of Church doctrines, the enemy of Socialism — Is 
 he as happy, as peaceful, as radiant as when he spoke 
 only of God and the soul, and allowed these vexed ques- 
 tions to be settled by the powers that control the angry 
 passions of men? ' Alas! I know not! But, dear Brother, 
 it is not a question of happiness now, but of principle. 
 It is the question, did Brother Hugo, in all his public life 
 and manifestation, seek his own glory, and not the glory 
 of God? Was he stunned by the applause, and deafened 
 by the adulation of men? Or had he always and ever 
 1 He has lived well, who has led a hidden life, . 
 
300 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 before his mind the thought, that we, consecrated Sol- 
 diers of Christ, must never, never, never, have a single 
 thought but of His honour; and that we are the vilest 
 traitors if ever we place the idol of self in the niche that 
 belongs alone to God?" 
 
 "Father," said the dying monk, faintly, "I have sinned 
 against heaven, and before thee!" 
 
 "Therefore, too, is thy sin remitted, Brother," said 
 the Prior. "But thou knowest better than I what re- 
 mains to be done. Let us use the remaining days, or 
 hours, whatever they may be, in such a way that we may 
 avert the anger of God, and mitigate the punishments 
 that await us all." 
 
 "Father," said the dying monk, "you will pray, and 
 make all the Brethren pray for me, and — " 
 
 "Well, Brother?" 
 
 "I want to — to make amends for any scandal I may 
 have caused the community. When I am about to 
 receive the last Sacraments, you will grant me a favour 
 for Our Lady's sake?" 
 
 "Well?" said the Prior. 
 
 "You will get the lay-Brothers to lay me in ashes on 
 the floor and in the presence of the entire community I 
 will confess against myself my injustice before the Lord!" 
 
 "It shall be so!" said the Prior, leaving the room. 
 
 And so, when Father Celsus had heard the dying monk's 
 confession, and given him absolution, the morning after 
 the catastrophe at the railway station, gentle and rever- 
 ent hands raised the agonized frame from his hard couch, 
 and placed it on a bed of ashes on the bare floor of his 
 cell. Then the great bell tolled out, the one bell that 
 was never rung except when the whole community was 
 called together; and the brethren filed in from cell, and 
 chapel, and school, and when the dying monk's room was 
 full, the others remained in prayer in the corridor out- 
 side. But not so far as to be unable to hear the sobbing 
 confession of the monk, as he again, in public, detailed 
 the faults of his life, and craved pardon from one and 
 
PURSUED 301 
 
 all, if he had ever given the least scandal or disedification 
 to them. And their stifled sobs mingled with his, because, 
 as in Heaven, so too on earth, spirits bow down before 
 the only sublime spectacle this broken and ruined human- 
 ity of ours can show — a contrite and humble heart. 
 
 Just as the Brethren were dispersing, the tinkle of the 
 electric bell was heard downstairs; and soon after a lay- 
 Brother came up, and approaching the Prior whispered 
 that a lady craved an interview in the parlour. He went 
 downstairs, and seeing the lady, he motioned her to a 
 
 "I came," she said, "to restore to one of your priests 
 this," holding out the crucifix that Father Hugo had 
 given her. 
 
 It was Miriam. 
 
 "Can you remember the name of the priest," he asked, 
 "or was there any message with it?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said. "His name was Father Hugo. He 
 is interested in the working classes." 
 
 The Father Prior, with folded arms, looked down on 
 the floor. 
 
 "He came to me once on a mission," continued Mir- 
 iam, "and, after some conversation he left me this. I 
 am going away, and I want to return it." 
 
 "Then you haven't heard?" said the Prior, lifting his 
 eyes slowly to her face. 
 
 "No," she said. "I have seen terrible things; but 
 have heard nothing of the Father." 
 
 "He is dying," said the Prior. "He was cast into the 
 fire last night, whilst endeavouring to keep back some 
 unhappy man from ruin; and we expect every moment 
 will be his last." 
 
 "Then it must have been earlier in the evening," said 
 Miriam, as if musing. "You don't know the man's 
 name?" 
 
 "Yes! they say 'twas Greevy — one of our oldest Con- 
 fraternity members, and once an honest, hard-working, 
 nay, even holy man; but brought into evil courses, and 
 
302 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 alas! unto this by evil associations. But you must pardon 
 me, Madam. That bell calls me. I suppose it is the pass- 
 ing bell of our Brother." 
 
 "Then you won't accept this?" said Miriam, whose 
 horror at the thought of Greevy's crime was over- 
 whelming. 
 
 "Did Father Hugo leave you any message with it?" 
 said the Prior. 
 
 "Yes! he said something about keeping it till I had 
 learned its lesson," answered Miriam. 
 
 "Then you have learned it?" said the Prior. 
 
 "No! no! no!" she said passionately. "I am tortured, 
 puzzled, maddened. There's some horrible mystery 
 somewhere, everywhere, that I cannot penetrate. But 
 Greevy — I know him — he never committed that crime ! " 
 
 "When human passions are let loose," said the Prior, 
 bravely, still looking on the ground, "there is no safe- 
 guard, no guarantee that they can be checked. But you 
 can read the account of the whole proceedings in this 
 morning's paper." He pointed to the newspaper, which 
 was lying on the reception-room table. "You will par- 
 don me; I must go." 
 
 And Miriam, with eyes distended in horror, read the 
 account of last night's proceedings, retailed as it was with 
 all the graphic and lurid particulars of the reporters' 
 fancies. Then, she followed as in a horrid dream the ac- 
 count of her own participation in the matter. Her name 
 was not given, but there were hints and innuendoes enough 
 to make it clear that she had been engaged too, in this 
 most mysterious conspiracy; or, as it was feebly conjec- 
 tured elsewhere, had gone to the Station out of her deep 
 love for her guardian, and her solicitude that he should be 
 saved from a horrible fate, which, in a secret manner, 
 had only been made known to her. 
 
 This was too dreadful. She felt sick and dizzy as she 
 laid down the paper. The very thought alone that she, 
 Miriam Lucas, who hated publicity of any kind, even to 
 be stared at by unknown admirers in the street; who 
 
PURSUED 303 
 
 loved only retirement and seclusion; should suddenly, 
 and without any fault of her own, be precipitated before 
 the eyes of the brutal public, and this in so ambiguous 
 and hateful a manner, was maddening. She asked her- 
 self, for the hundredth time, what had she done? For 
 souls like hers seem to think that suffering and trial are 
 the consequences of ill-doing only; and that a Nemesis, 
 following with sails over the sea and wheels on the land, 
 only pursues the criminal and the base. She had not 
 yet learned the lesson of the Sacred Figure, whose nails 
 now tore her hands, as she grasped the effigy in a kind of 
 desperation, as a something that could no longer be sep- 
 arated from her. 
 
 A lay-Brother opened the door and looked in. She 
 gasped something. He came back smiling. 
 
 "Would you get me some water?" she said, with dry 
 lips. 
 
 He returned in an instant with the water, which she 
 drank freely. 
 
 "Can I do anything else for you, Madam?" he said. 
 
 "Yes!" she said. "Would you please call a cab." 
 
 "Certainly," he said, passing out. 
 
 Her brain was now throbbing wildly, but the cool 
 draught seemed to bring her back to the present, as she 
 became conscious of where she was. She looked around 
 the room. It was quite bare, except for a Prie-dieu, on 
 which was hanging a purple stole. Right over it was a 
 large crucifix, the figure of white plaster against a black 
 wooden cross. There were a few large oil pictures of 
 mediaeval saints, that seemed to have been disinterred 
 from ancient monasteries on the Apennines, or Swiss 
 convents buried under their snows. But there was one 
 picture that seized and held her imagination. It was 
 that of a nun. A face that was unnatural by its very 
 beauty, was turned upwards to some unseen presence, 
 the eyes liquid in their perfect serenity, and yet trans- 
 ported by the vision of some unearthly glory; the slight, 
 rounded chin, wrapped and supported by the white coif 
 
304 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 that encircled the face; and one hand holding a "burning 
 Heart, whose crown of thorns was bedewed by the red 
 drops that issued from the ghastly wounds, incised and 
 scarred here and there on the surface. It was beautiful, 
 she thought, and horrible; ghastly, but spiritual; sweet 
 but tragic; and it shadowed forth the existence of some 
 far-away, undreamed of world, some realm of mystery 
 and miracle whose laws and customs, whose joys and 
 sorrows, intensely tragic as they seemed, were yet quite 
 unlike anything that had passed into her existence hitherto. 
 Who was this girl, this woman, she thought? The aure- 
 ole around her brow answered, "a saint." What secret 
 presence fascinates her with her own too spiritual and 
 perfect loveliness? What is she offering, and to whom? 
 And what is the symbolic meaning underlying that un- 
 earthly sacrifice, with its blood and thorns, its flames and 
 wounds? She watched it long and eagerly, her breast 
 heaving with emotion, until she was recalled to life by the 
 lay-Brother announcing the arrival of the cab. 
 
 She rose wearily, and felt as if she were a criminal 
 passing beyond the bounds of sanctuary, and liable to 
 be struck or smitten by fierce enemies outside. 
 
 "Thank you," she said to the monk, as he held the hall- 
 door open. "I hope Father Hugo will recover." 
 
 "He is dead," said the monk. 
 
 The announcement, though expected, struck her again 
 with sudden pain. It was the shock of being told that a 
 something, which we hoped would be possibly averted, 
 had rudely forced itself into our existence. Numbed 
 and stupid, she had barely consciousness to utter the 
 number and name of the private hotel where she had 
 been staying. She sank back into the cushions — a 
 heap of misery. 
 
BOOK III 
 
, XXXI 
 
 HOLTHSWORTH ReMVIVUS 
 
 It was the interest of Holthsworth, as he rapidly recov- 
 ered from the shock he had received that momentous night, 
 to hush the matter up as much as possible, partly because 
 it connoted his utter defeat, and partly because the epi- 
 sode of Miriam's interference might give rise to awkward 
 questionings and still more awkward suspicions on the 
 part of the public. As he lay in his bed of pain, for the 
 shock of Greevy's assault seemed to have injured his brain, 
 and caused a partial paralysis of his lower members for 
 some days, he reflected with ever-increasing bitterness of 
 feeling, that every advance towards gaining the affections 
 of Miriam, seemed only to create aversion on her part; 
 and he remembered, with a certain sense of self-reproach 
 for his stupidity, that the attractions he held out to her, 
 such as wealth, position, etc., and which would have 
 fascinated ninety-nine out of every hundred of his ac- 
 quaintance, were regarded by her as arguments against 
 any alliance whatsoever with him. He saw that all was 
 in vain now; he guessed she would never return to his 
 house, or place herself under his protection. In the de- 
 pression caused by his suffering, he felt that some vast 
 ruin had broken into his life, which would be unhappy 
 for evermore. That dream of a home blessed and adorned 
 by Miriam's presence, was at an end. But, because it 
 had become part of his life, for emotions of this kind seem 
 to grow into and entangle themselves with the very es- 
 sence and nature of the souls of strong personalities — he 
 felt that his life had been rent asunder, and that only the 
 ruins lay at his feet. 
 
 When, however, his physicians, who feared some spinal 
 
308 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 or cerebral lesion from the shock of Greevy's assault, 
 became convinced that nothing vital had been touched, 
 and that rest and sedatives would speedily bring around a 
 vigorous constitution, his old energy asserted itself; and 
 during the hours of his enforced confinement to his bed- 
 chamber, he plotted and spun every web of intrigue for 
 revenge on the one hand, and success on the other. And 
 every recollection of defeated stratagems, and revealed 
 and discomfited intrigue, only nerved his pride to further 
 effort to get even with his reputed foes in the end. 
 
 Hence, he deemed it wise to conceal as far as possible 
 from public comment his defeat at the hands of his ward, 
 whilst his native pride made him still more anxious to 
 keep out of the public courts and the Press the particulars 
 of the vulgar assault to which he had been subjected. He 
 contrived to bring around remand after remand of Greevy; 
 and, at length, declined to prosecute, thus saving him- 
 self from exposure, and gaining a certain reputation for 
 magnanimity. 
 
 With regard to Miriam, he didn't know whether he 
 wished her to remain, or to fly the country for ever. 
 Strongly drawn towards her, he yet felt that his suit was 
 unavailing; and, as he could not bear the thought of 
 seeing her married to another, he was rejoiced to find 
 that she had left the city for ever. He concluded that 
 she had gone back to Glendarragh; but this idea was 
 soon dissipated. She had fled the country. 
 
 "Like mother, like daughter!" he muttered, when he 
 heard it. "The laws of Nature are inexorable." 
 
 And then, a happy idea struck him. "Glendarragh is 
 mine now! She dare not return! I shall see that those 
 hinds accept me now!" 
 
 He was in this mood, when one day, a lady was an- 
 nounced. He was convalescent, but still in a dressing- 
 gown, and had not yet left his chamber; but on inquiry, 
 he determined to waive ceremony and see her. She would * 
 solve one or two doubts, and open up one or two straight 
 paths into the jungle of the future. 
 
HOLTHSWORTH REDIVTVUS 309 
 
 "It is very kind of you to call, Mrs. Crosthwaite!" he 
 said, as he walked feebly across the room to greet her. 
 
 "H'm!" said that matter-of-fact lady. "I was sorry 
 to hear of your — accident, since I came to the city. 
 But, to be candid, I came up from the country to take 
 back Miriam with me!" 
 
 His face clouded for a moment; but only for a moment. 
 Then, he smiled, showing all his white teeth, and said, as 
 he sat quietly in an arm-chair, and averted his eyes from 
 his visitor: — 
 
 "I'm afraid your quest is in vain, Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 Miriam is not here!" 
 
 "Then you can tell me where she is?" 
 
 "Alas, no!" he said, in a tone of melancholy. "I 
 understand she has left the country for good. Of course, 
 you know all?" 
 
 "I know aboslutely nothing!" said his visitor 
 emphatically. 
 
 "And perhaps it might be as well if you remained in 
 ignorance," said Holthsworth, in the same melancholy' 
 tone of voice, that betrayed however a little heat and sar- 
 casm behind it. 
 
 " That is for you to determine, Mr. Holthsworth," she 
 said. "It is needless to say that Mr. Crosthwaite and I 
 are deeply interested in Miss Lucas, and would be pleased 
 if she made our humble house her home for ever!" 
 
 "Then," said Holthsworth, smiling, "there must have 
 arisen some occasion, which necessitated your visit to the 
 city on such an errand?" 
 
 "Yes!" said the vicar's wife. "We heard that Miriam 
 was unhappy here; and we heard she was in danger from 
 certain acquaintances she had unhappily made; and we 
 thought there was but one way to remove the evil, and 
 that was, by taking her promptly from such surroundings." 
 
 Holthsworth was silent for a moment. He had lifted 
 the tassel of his dressing-gown, and was playing with it 
 in an abstracted manner, and as if he were but feebly 
 interested in the conversation. 
 
310 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "You have heard rightly, Mrs. Crosthwaite," he re- 
 plied at length. "Miriam was unhappy here; and 
 Miriam was in danger. But I hope you will accept my 
 assurance that I did all in my power to alleviate her 
 unhappiness and to avert her danger?" 
 
 "I have no doubt of the fact, Mr. Holthsworth," she 
 said. "But it often occurs that the very means we some- 
 times take to avert a danger, will plunge people into it." 
 
 "How? I don't understand!" he said. 
 
 "Then, there's no use in my explaining," she replied. 
 "But, perhaps you could clear up one or two things 
 for me." 
 
 "By all means," said Holthsworth, "if it is in my 
 power." 
 
 "It has been said," said his visitor, "that Miriam had 
 some gentlemen visitors, who were not desirable." 
 
 "Well, I'm afraid it is true," Holthsworth replied, as 
 if the admission were wrung from him most reluctantly. 
 
 "In what sense were they undesirable?" asked Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite. 
 
 "Surely, a lady of your birth and experience need 
 hardly ask such a question," Holthsworth said, with a 
 certain air of condescension. "Can you imagine any 
 circumstances, where it would be prudent for a young 
 lady of Miriam's attractions to receive young men 
 alone?" 
 
 "But Miriam was under your protection!" persisted 
 his visitor. 
 
 "Ye-es!" he said slowly. "But you hardly need to 
 be told, Mrs. Crosthwaite, that Miss Lucas had a will 
 of her own, and an imperious one ! " 
 
 "Perhaps so!" replied Mrs. Crosthwaite. "But then, 
 if you found your charge not amenable, was it not your 
 duty to get rid of the responsibility? Remember it was 
 you who assumed it." 
 
 "There are circumstances," he said coldly, "which 
 lead men, sometimes men of experience, to take steps 
 blindly, and then they cannot retract." 
 
HOLTHSWORTH REDIVIVDS 311 
 
 "Or will not?" she said. 
 
 "Or will not!" he echoed. 
 
 His temper was rising under the cross-examination. 
 After a pause, he said, with some bitterness: — 
 
 "You may not be aware, Mrs. Crosthwaite, that I 
 have been an invalid, and am just allowed but a few 
 words of, conversation. And you may not be aware 
 that I have been assaulted — murderously assaulted — 
 by Miss Lucas's friends and clients, and in her presence? " 
 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite was slightly incredulous; but ex- 
 pressed her horror. 
 
 "Yes!" he said, mournfully. "It was over there at 
 
 Station. I had secret information that an attack 
 
 was about to be made on the Company's property by the 
 strikers and rabble of the city, and I took precautions to 
 prevent bloodshed. Let me say, that that strike with 
 all its possibilities of murder and outrage, was mainly 
 due to certain articles which appeared in a wretched 
 Socialist paper, called the Watchman, to which, I regret 
 to say, Miriam was one of the chief contributors. I 
 have culled out all her articles. They would interest 
 you as showing how far an enthusiastic, but misguided 
 temperament might lead." 
 
 He had risen, and was about to search for the extracts, 
 when his visitor interrupted: — 
 
 "There is no need to trouble yourself," she said, "espe- 
 cially as you are not quite — ahem — strong. But you 
 might inform me whether Miriam's visitors were also 
 connected with this unhappy business?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly!" he said. "One, the ringleader, hap- 
 pily for himself and his mother, died just before the 
 emeute commenced. The others took no active part in 
 the matter; but were sympathetic. But you have not 
 quite heard the end. I don't know if you will be shocked; 
 but, according to all our principles, it was unseemly that 
 Miss Lucas should have left the dinner-table of a friend, 
 hired a cab, witnessed the arson of the Company's prop- 
 erty, led the rioters right up to the precincts of the sta- 
 
312 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 tion, went forward to reconnoitre accompanied by the 
 violent ringleader of the strikers, who, the moment I 
 came forward to remonstrate with her, seized me and 
 attempted to murder me." 
 
 "Then you were also at the Railway Station?" said 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite, opening her eyes. 
 
 "Yes! I was there to protect the Company's prop- 
 erty," he said. 
 
 "It was a brave thing to go there, unprotected and 
 alone," she said. 
 
 "I feared nothing," he replied. "When God and jus- 
 tice are on our side, there is nothing to fear." 
 
 "And this man — this would-be murderer — was he 
 arrested?" 
 
 "Yes, promptly. But I have declined punishing him. 
 It would mean penal servitude; and after all, these poor 
 fellows were not to blame." 
 
 "It was fortunate that the police were on the prem- 
 ises," said Mrs. Crosthwaite, "and that you were not 
 quite unprotected." 
 
 He winced a little. 
 
 "It was prudent to take precautions," he said. "It 
 saved bloodshed. If I had not had a strong force behind 
 me, that night would have been a night of bloodshed 
 and ruin." 
 
 "You are a very brave man, and a very considerate 
 man," said Mrs. Crosthwaite rising up. "Do you know 
 that I think it quite regrettable that you never attempted 
 to assume closer responsibilities over poor Miriam." 
 
 "How? I don't quite understand," he said. 
 
 " I mean that you never asked her to be your wife," 
 she said. "It would have settled so many things, that 
 seem now to be in inextricable confusion. Look at our 
 own affairs now, down at Glendarragh. We are all at 
 sixes and sevens about the property. And you say 
 Miriam has left the country? " 
 
 "I know it. But don't be uneasy about Glendarragh, 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite," he said, with a meaning smile. "I 
 
HOLTHSWORTH REDIVIVUS 313 
 
 have only been waiting to get matters right here, in order 
 to attend to my property there." 
 
 "Ah, then," said Mrs. Crosthwaite, "that solves many 
 difficulties. Then Glendarragh is your property, How 
 pleased the tenants will be!" 
 
 "Well, if they are honest, and pay their legitimate 
 debts, they won't find me a harsh landlord," he said. 
 "But, of course, I shall claim my legitimate rights." 
 
 " Of course. And you have no idea where Miriam might 
 have gone?" 
 
 "None whatever," he said. "The authorities were 
 anxious to detain her as witness against Greevy; but I 
 saw how painful it would be to her to have to appear in 
 open court. I kept them from taking any action, until 
 I was quite sure she had gone beyond their jurisdiction." 
 
 "Then you won't insist on her return?" said the lady. 
 
 "N-no," he replied. "It would be too absurd to 
 demand her extradition." 
 
 "Not even if you were to make her your wife?" she 
 said. 
 
 "You are facetious, Mrs. Crosthwaite," he said, with 
 his hand on the bell. 
 
 "No, I am only very sad and disappointed," she said. 
 
 She had reached the hall, when she turned and said: — 
 
 "You knew Miriam's, that is, Miss Lucas's mother?" 
 
 He seemed to be taken back by the question, but 
 waived it aside with the answer: — 
 
 "Slightly." 
 
 "Was Miriam somewhat like her?" 
 
 "Well, yes! The same imperiousness, the same impet- 
 uosity, the same — " 
 
 "Great, and generous, and noble heart," supplied Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite. 
 
 "N-no!" he said, drawlingly. "I was going to say 
 something else!" 
 
 "Then say it!" she said, somewhat angrily. 
 
 "The same tendency of — rushing on — to inevitable 
 ruin," he added. 
 
314 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite was genuinely alarmed; but she did 
 
 not show it. 
 
 "Not inevitable," she said, "if I can help it!" 
 "That will be noble, and — interesting!" said Holths- 
 
 worth. "A woman against Fate, and — Heredity!" 
 
[XXXII 
 
 Coyote 
 
 A certain clever artist has etched Modern New York 
 as a vast desert in some mountain wilderness in the 
 Sierras — its long streets the canons, tortuous and deep 
 and narrow — earth fissures torn open by some cata- 
 clysms of Nature, and walled by sloping or perpendicular 
 precipices, here and there notched by windows on which 
 the sun never shines, so high are the walls, so narrow the 
 spaces between. Far down in the depths, a current of 
 lite is flowing, now slowly, now swiftly; and eyes of 
 men are pale and colourless, as of creatures, who cannot 
 see the light; and whilst the noise of traffic, the rumble of 
 waggons, the jangling of street-bells, the tramping of 
 multitudes make a muffled thunder far below; you may 
 sit in one of the lofty apartments at the lips or edges of 
 the canon, and enjoy a silence and solitude as deep, as 
 that where the rattlesnake coils his hideous scales beneath 
 some world-old tree; or the mountain lion sleeps on some 
 bed of colossal fern. The etchings give one the idea of 
 some far-off, old-world, desolate scene — a picture from 
 primordial time, where if a human figure were drawn, 
 it would be that of an Aztec priest, or some Indian chief, 
 petrified into silence and apathy, instead of the bustling, 
 pushing, reckless and undignified New York, the type of 
 progress and modernity. 
 
 High up on the very lips of this street-canon, in a close, 
 narrow office, artificially heated, and this day raised 
 into a kind of sickly warmth by the long level rays of a 
 wintry sun, Miriam was seated. The office was well 
 lighted, for it was free from the shadows which the tower- 
 
316 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 ing walls created far below; and the snow, which lay 
 thick on the opposite roofs, and which the wintry sun 
 illuminated into a kind of golden, dazzling radiance, 
 threw its light into the room, and made even the smoked 
 and sooty ceiling above the gasjets, tremble with unac- 
 customed colour. Yet, high as the office was, the win- 
 dows afforded but little prospect. There were higher 
 roofs towering over each other like snowy Alps, pinnacle 
 upon pinnacle; there were lower roofs, also snow-covered, 
 on which one looked giddily, as upon a lower cation ledge, 
 whence the blackness of the cation in its deeper depths 
 might be measured. There were a few hideous letters 
 of some half-blotted advertisement visible if you opened 
 the window and craned your neck to the view. And 
 that was all, if we except a strip of grey-blue sky that 
 seemed as if cut with a scissors to form a paper roof above 
 the houses. If you opened the window, you perceived 
 at once a conglomeration of many smells, which the 
 frosty air was powerless to annihilate — odours of stables, 
 where posting-horses were kept; odours of a German res- 
 taurant — of fats, and soup, and rich pastry; a strange 
 pungent odour of asphalt, up from the broken pavement 
 of the streets; and a faint odour of bad cigars, that seemed 
 to come from some niche or nook in the canon beneath. 
 But all these Miriam kept carefully secluded by closed 
 windows. On her desk, not the dainty walnut or rose- 
 wood desk, that should hold the stationery of such a 
 dainty lady, but on an ink-stained, rough, and well- 
 chipped desk, was a fragile and narrow but beautifully 
 coloured glass vase, filled with water, in which a bunch 
 of fern, and a few sprays of lily of the valley were drink- 
 ing, and giving out in return that exquisite perfume that 
 makes one sigh no longer for roses of Sharon, or their 
 still farther Eastern sisters that languish by day, and 
 dream by night in the fragrant gardens of Shiraz. 
 
 Miriam was alone — alone with her work, and alone 
 with her thoughts. The former was absorbing, because 
 it was journalistic work, which fell into her hands in some 
 
COYOTE 317 
 
 happy fortuitous manner after sundry sad experiences 
 in the great city, and which now not only gave her the 
 means of subsistence, but had become to her a most 
 acceptable vocation. The journal for which she worked 
 was one of the leading Democratic papers of New York, 
 and was just then sounding the mighty tocsin, afterwards 
 taken up and echoed by the fainter chimes of the New — 
 and Old World — the sound that called for the organisa- 
 tion of the masses against the classes, for the redistribu- 
 tion of the world's goods, for labour against capital, for 
 wages against unearned increments. The policy of the 
 paper appealed to her instinctive love for the people, her 
 old spirit of antagonism against the upper classes of 
 society, her ideas of equality, or of a superiority, that 
 could only be claimed by talent, or industry, or virtue. 
 Therefore, she wrote not only for bread, but for principle 
 — for a cause; and she had always felt, that to live and 
 labour for a great cause is the ultimate vocation that leads 
 to the emancipation of the soul and the illumination of 
 the intellect. Yet, her work was not so absorbing, but 
 that from time to time, she could lay down her pen and 
 reflect. And these reflections always ended in the con- 
 clusion, that society, or social order seemed to be hanging 
 together so loosely that, like an avalanche on the Alps, 
 its most dangerous elements might be liberated by a word, 
 and precipitated in ruin upon the world. She had read 
 somewhere how the Alpine guides in the high Towers 
 of Silence forbade the clients even to cough, lest the 
 least sound should bring down from far heights a thunder- 
 cloud of destruction. And she thought: what if these 
 words I am now writing should loosen the mad passions 
 of men, and throw society into the agony of pitiless revo- 
 lution? For the thought of her former experience would 
 come back; and she shuddered as she remembered the 
 tragic death of Father Hugo, the physical ruin wrought 
 on her guardian, Holthsworth, and the long imprisonment 
 of poor Greevy. And her fine sense of honour also smote 
 her with the reflection, Is it right or honourable for me 
 
318 \ MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 to sit up aloft here, and with one touch of that electric 
 power, the pen, set loose upon humanity the terrible 
 elements that for ever underlie it, and that are so potent 
 for good or ill? 
 
 And following close upon that thought, another would 
 suggest itself. Is there no other way than this to remedy 
 great wrongs? Has it come to this, that the accumulated 
 wisdom of three thousand years, for that seems to be the 
 period in which humanity has been awake from its pri- 
 meval slumbers, has never yet been able to devise a theory 
 that would equalise the burdens of the race, except the 
 theory of violence and revolution? Where is the wis- 
 dom of Plato, the learning of Aristotle, the superhuman 
 science of Bacon? Where is the political foresight, the 
 cabinet wisdom of all the generations of thinkers to whom 
 the world has built monuments of bronze or marble, if 
 here at the close of the nineteenth century, nothing re- 
 mains for the adjustment of social relations but the bullet 
 or the barricade? She had seen enough of violence to 
 dread its manifestations; and her woman's heart shrank 
 from further experiences. And yet — there was the great 
 problem yet to be solved; and what a failure is human 
 wisdom and foresight! 
 
 She took up her pen, and bit it. Her thoughts this 
 cold January morning had run into a new channel; and 
 one into which she could pour the vials of a woman's 
 wrath. 
 
 She had written half way through, determined to get 
 the article into the night's issue of the Journal, when the 
 clock struck the midday hour, and she went home to dine. 
 
 As she walked quickly homeward along the pavements 
 of the great city, she noticed and pitied the men and boys 
 who in their shirtsleeves this wintry morning were 
 shovelling the snow away from side-walks and from the 
 high steps that led up to the front doors of stately man- 
 sions; and she also noticed, and it appeared strange that 
 it should be for the first time, the occupants of these 
 mansions standing or sitting in the great bay-windows,' 
 
COYOTE 319 
 
 with all the air, in dress and manner, of people whose 
 lines in life are cast in pleasant places. Somehow this 
 morning the contrast seemed most striking; and Miriam, 
 watching with side-glances those stately ladies with their 
 white hair smoothed under dainty lace caps, or their 
 daughters in costly costumes, toying with the flashing 
 rings that covered their white hands, or the young men, 
 pale and calm with the faces of Greek gods; and then, 
 the working proletariat of the streets, with their pinched 
 and deep-lined faces, their ragged garments, their sullen 
 looks — thought — Yes, here is the terrible object-lesson 
 of everyday life; here in concrete form is the terrible prob- 
 lem under which the world has ached from the beginning. 
 And am I, she thought, I, an inexperienced girl, going to 
 solve it? And is it left for me to work out the solution 
 of such a world-riddle as this? 
 
 She was turning the corner of the street, and looking 
 abstractedly before her, when suddenly she was startled 
 from her reverie by a shower of snow that was flung over 
 her face and dress and boots. She turned around half- 
 angrily to hear a group of young city-gamins, who like 
 their elders, had been employed in cleaning the side-walks, 
 laugh loud at a wretched boy, who, shamed and fright- 
 ened at what he had done, had let his shovel fall, and stood 
 staring at Miriam, a picture of despair. He was rubbing 
 his red hands up and down the legs of his tattered trousers, 
 when a policeman, who had seen it all, came up; and whilst 
 the youngsters shouted: 
 
 "Quick, Coy, or you'll be copped," and the shivering 
 fellow whimpered: — 
 
 "S'helpme God, Miss—" 
 
 The policeman said: — 
 
 "Do you wish to give thi3 fellow in charge, Miss? 
 He's a bad 'un!" 
 
 A little crowd had collected around the group; and 
 Miriam, anxious to get away, said boldly: — 
 
 "No, officer. I think I'll take him into custody my- 
 self, with your permission." 
 
320 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 And instantly, seizing the boy by the wrist, she led him 
 onwards towards her lodgings. 
 
 He was too paralysed with dread and surprise to resist; 
 and when, in after years, he was asked what had come 
 over him — him, the most agile and quick-witted street- 
 boy in New York, he could only say: — . 
 
 "Do you know them fellers that at the theayter makes 
 passes over your eyes and nose, and put youse asleep; 
 and makes youse sing and dance and curse and swear, 
 without youse ever aknowing of it. Well, that's her! 
 She 'ypnertised me wit her eyes!" 
 
 That was just it. Miriam Lucas did actually hyp- 
 notise the poor little street waif; and though she held him 
 in custody, and drew him along by her side through the 
 crowded streets to the amusement of many onlookers, 
 it was quite unnecessary. He would have followed her 
 like a dog from end to end of the great city. 
 
 She took the boy to her rooms on the third flat of a 
 row of houses, that had no pretences to distinction, but 
 seemed to have been built as artisans' dwellings. Bewil- 
 dered, stupefied, paralysed in his faculties, he followed 
 her up the stairs; and when she opened with her key the 
 door of her sitting-room, and bade the shivering little 
 wretch to go near the fire, he went meekly, and lay down 
 on the hearth-rug like a dog. 
 
 "Now," said Miriam, "you remain here, until I return. 
 You shall touch none of those things," she said, pointing 
 to her papers and little treasures on her writing-table. 
 "But get well dried and warmed by my return." 
 
 She went out again, locking the door behind her, and 
 entered a neighbouring Italian restaurant, where she had 
 been accustomed to have her early and modest dinner. 
 On leaving, she took with her two or three little meat- 
 pies, smiling at the thought of their possible ingredients, 
 but well knowing that a hungry boy will not be too 
 fastidious. 
 
 When she entered her room softly, she found the lad 
 fast asleep before the fire. She put down the meat-pies, 
 
COYOTE 321 
 
 took off her hat and cloak, and sat down to study the 
 little waif, whilst with a broad, soft pencil she drew a 
 rough sketch of him on tinted paper. 
 
 He was by no means prepossessing, poor little waif of 
 humanity. A sharp, thin face was attenuated by cunning 
 into the lineaments of a fox or weasel; and the tousled 
 hair fell down in wisps on a forehead that was narrowed, 
 and slightly furrowed by the thought necessary for such 
 a nomadic existence. The open mouth showed clean, 
 white teeth; but there were deposits of dirt on his neck, 
 beneath his ears, and on his thin, red hands that now 
 were firmly closed, as if in his dreams he held something 
 that the rapacity of his fellows would take from him. 
 The white skin of his breast was unspotted; and Miriam 
 felt a little sob of pity rising in her heart as she saw how 
 the tattered shirt was held together across his chest with 
 a piece of twine. Outside the shirt was a ragged jacket, 
 seamed and torn and pieced together rudely; and his 
 trousers were torn into ribbons that hung down wet and 
 dirty from his work in the snow. He slept so deeply, so 
 profoundly, that Miriam had not the heart to wake him, 
 although her duties called her back to her office. She 
 laid down the meat-pies near his hands, so that he could 
 not fail to see they were meant for him; and went out into 
 the cold streets, locking the door again behind her. 
 
 When she reached her office, she put aside the article 
 she had been writing for the evening paper; and, taking 
 up her pen she drew a sketch of the street-arab, in his 
 unutterable degradation and misery, and then the com- 
 fortable, well-fed, well-to-do spectators, that made the 
 Editor shiver a little, when he read it, and hand it to the 
 compositor, with a shrug: — 
 
 "This beautiful devil will ruin us, I guess!" he said. 
 
 But no! That article sent up the circulation to the 
 hundred thousand; and Miriam was requested to con- 
 tinue her genre painting in pen and ink. For this purpose, 
 she had liberty to absent herself from the office; and she 
 saw the dark side of city life; and drew her silhouettes of 
 
322 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 humanity with a firm pencil, but with the shadows very 
 deep and dark. 
 
 "Art always intensifies," she said; "and one must 
 preach with emphasis to make the world listen. The 
 world is under an opiate. It is dead to the cries of 
 humanity." 
 
XXXIII 
 
 Woman's Mission 
 
 When she returned home that evening, and switched 
 on the electric light in her room, she half expected that 
 the boy would be gone. There was an ill-defined odour 
 of uncleanness in the atmosphere of the room, and she 
 shuddered at it, and left the door partly open so that the 
 free cold air might play through the apartment. But 
 the boy was there. He sat on the rug, watching the dy- 
 ing embers in the grate, half-stupefied, not knowing what 
 to think or do. The meat-pies were at his feet untouched. 
 The first word Miriam said was: — 
 
 "I brought these pies for you. Why haven't you 
 eaten them?" 
 
 "Because," said the little fellow, humbly, but with a 
 wistful look on his face, "youse told me I wasn't to swipe 
 nothink. An' I didn't. So 'elp me Gawd, I didn't." 
 
 Somewhat shocked, Miriam, knowing that this was 
 no time for a homily on swearing, said, kindly: — 
 
 "I meant the articles on the table. I bought these 
 meat-pies for you. Now go on and eat them." 
 
 He took them up, not eagerly, nor hungrily, but with 
 a hesitating and leisurely manner, as if he were not quite 
 sure that he had permission to eat such dainties. He 
 broke off small pieces of crust and put them into his mouth, 
 watching Miriam's face all the while in a puzzled manner. 
 
 "Now, quick," she said at last, "get through these 
 things quickly. I want you to help me make up the fire 
 and get things for tea. Do you know how to do any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "I does," he said, his mouth half full of food, "I knows 
 leap-frog, and I knows how to wheel — would youse 
 like to see me wheeling?" 
 
324 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 He thought he should make some return for such ben- 
 efaction. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I know what it is," said Miriam. 
 "But I doubt if this is the place for it." 
 
 "An' I knows the straight tip on Jolly Beggar; cos why 
 — the big toff, whose leathers I shines, I heard him a-sayin', 
 'Go twenty on the Beggar — '" 
 
 "What in the world is the Beggar?" asked the puzzled 
 Miriam. 
 
 "Ah, go cheese yesself !" said the boy in disgust. "Ye 
 don't git over me in dat way." 
 
 Miriam smiled and busied herself in getting tea ready. 
 The boy munched on, half afraid that he had committed 
 himself by his rudeness. 
 
 "Does your mother know you're learning such things?" 
 Miriam asked at length. 
 
 "Mudder? I has no mudder," said the boy. "Why 
 youse a reg'lar guy." 
 
 Clearly the food was working a change in the tempera- 
 ment of the boy. 
 
 "I suppose so," said Miriam, meekly, in answer to his 
 last observation. "Now have some tea." 
 
 She had laid out her own dainty china set on the table, 
 but had taken the precaution to give the boy his tea in 
 the large slop-bowl, partly because she thought he would 
 like a larger quantity, and partly for other reasons. But, 
 in a moment, she grew ashamed of her fastidiousness, in 
 this respect, and she took one of her smallest cups and 
 handed it to the waif. He gulped it down at one draught. 
 
 "Nah," said he, "that ain't no good. Say, where does 
 youse buy your tea?" 
 
 She was amused, but forbore replying. 
 
 "Will you have more tea?" 
 
 "That ain't nice tea," he said, grinning. "Ef youse 
 loikes, I'll show youse old Bettini's stand. Ah, that's 
 tea! Five cents for all you kin carry away wit youse, 
 and grub and 'lasses into the bargain. Say, youse has 
 no 'lasses now, has you?" 
 
WOMAN'S MISSION 325 
 
 '"Lasses," said the bewildered Miriam. "What are 
 
 "Ah, git along, youse knows nothink," said her guest. 
 "Gi' me five cents, and, golly, I'll have a gorge that'll 
 do till Christmas!" 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Miriam, disappointed, "that I 
 cannot do better for you. Would you like to remain 
 here always?" 
 
 "Oh, crikey," said the waif. "Wot fer? Nah," he 
 continued, with disgust, "wot would the newsies do, and 
 the sweepers? Wy, old Snoozer wouldn't live, if he didn't 
 see me at my purfession." 
 
 "Who is old Snoozer?" asked Miriam, beginning to 
 repent a little of her benevolence and missionary zeal. 
 
 "Youse don't know? Youse knows nothink. Wy, 
 everybody knows old Snooze, wot sleeps on his beat, 
 reg'lar every night; and we comes up, and shouts: 'Spec- 
 tor, bobby!' Ah, ef you could a seen him! "lis the jol- 
 liest go youse ever seed!" 
 
 And the boy giggled with uncontrollable laughter, 
 almost choking himself with the food and the tea. 
 
 Miriam swiftly made up her mind that this should 
 promptly end. She remained silent for a few minutes, 
 revolving in her mind how far she could strain her prin- 
 ciples, and conquer her disgust. The boy solved her 
 dilemma by rising up and saying: — 
 
 "I guess I'll now make tracks fur home. Say, Miss, 
 youse owes me 'arf a dollar!" 
 
 "For what?" said Miriam, in surprise. 
 
 "I guess I'll make it a dollar, though," said the boy, 
 reflectively. "One 'arf dollar fur unlawful detention; and 
 one 'arf dollar fur loss of waluable time at my purfession." 
 
 "Then you can earn a dollar a day?" asked Miriam. 
 "You are no object of compassion." 
 
 "Of wot?" said the boy. 
 
 "Of pity, of compassion!" said Miriam, beginning to 
 feel some remorse about her newspaper article on "Street- 
 Waifs." 
 
326 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "I don't know wot youse sayin'," said the boy. "But," 
 he added, generously, "thim gollywogs was good — not 
 'arf as good as old Bett's — but I guess I'll leave youse off 
 with 'arf a dollar." 
 
 Miriam was very near crying with vexation and dis- 
 appointment, i 
 
 "An' look 'ere," said the boy, "youse only got to say, 
 ony toime as youse wants me, send Coy to me! and Coy 
 will come." 
 
 "I'm just thinking," said Miriam, "what a mistake I 
 made in not handing you over to the constable!" 
 
 "Fer wot?" said the boy, bridling up. 
 
 "For misdemeanour on the public streets," she said. 
 "Now go! And never let me see your face again!" 
 
 Just a little surprised at such feminine firmness, the boy 
 flew downstairs, and Miriam was left to purify the unclean 
 atmosphere and make sundry reflections on the possibil- 
 ity of raising up the "submerged." 
 
 "After all," she reflected, and it was a wonderful effort 
 after humility, "I may be wrong. Perhaps so great 
 inequality does not exist in the world after all. Do the 
 masses need elevation? Or are they quite satisfied to 
 remain as they are? In all ages men have laboured for 
 the resurrection of humanity; and humanity seems sink- 
 ing deeper and deeper into its graves of degradation. It 
 seems noble — this idea of universal regeneration. Is it 
 possible? And," Miriam blushed with humility at the 
 thought, "is it not Quixotic for a young girl to throw her- 
 self into such a contest, where brave men have been 
 worsted?" But then a voice said: — 
 
 "Work onwards and upwards. The reward is not 
 success. The laurel is not for triumph, but for effort, 
 even if defeated." 
 
 Meanwhile she had her bread to earn, and she felt it 
 was not quite ignoble to make money even whilst she 
 thought she was benefiting humanity. But she had her 
 dark hours, and who has not? dark hours when she felt 
 she could not look back on the past without regret and 
 
WOMAN'S MISSION '327 
 
 remorse, nor on her present with pleasure, nor on her 
 future without misgiving. The old dreams of her home 
 down by the sea, the thundering storms and tempests 
 that lashed the old house at Glendarragh; the angry and 
 tumultuous seas — the same seas sleeping in silence under 
 the evening sunsets and canopied by the gorgeous dra- 
 pery of sunlit clouds, or wrapped into rippling silences 
 beneath the glamour of summer moons; the cliffs, solemn 
 and grand, fronting with the strength of adamant and the 
 silence of eternity the fury of aggressive seas; summer 
 days, when a soft veil of haze drew down on the sweet 
 seas, and tempered the quivering air, and sheltered the 
 aching eyes; autumn days, when the grey, melancholy 
 clouds drew down and shaded with their subdued lights 
 land and cliff and sea; the dark blots of the tarred boats 
 silhouetted against the greys of sea and sky, and making 
 the melancholy deeper and more luxurious; the gentle 
 and imperceptible decay of nature in October, when the 
 oaks in the valley began to change their foliage, and the 
 background of the sea was mottled with red, and yellow, 
 and pale-gold patches, flung from the palette of nature; 
 above all, the quiet, humble fisher-folk, so far removed 
 from the Sturm und Drang of existence, and, therefore, 
 capable of living for love's own sake; and then — the dear 
 old clergyman, so refined, so tender, so humble; and his 
 strong, brave wife — 
 
 "Oh," said the lonely girl, as she sat at her dreary 
 office-work and looked out on the wintry desolation that 
 fronted her windows, "what evil fate drove me from that 
 haven of happiness? What sin did I commit that I should 
 be driven forth, like Hagar, into the desert to nurse the 
 wretched babe of my own enthusiasm for an Idea?" 
 
 And the vision of the present, and the vistas of the 
 future were not more pleasant than this sad retrospect. 
 She did not shirk work; nay, she desired it; but she felt 
 it was precarious. True, it was a vocation rather than a 
 profession; but the most zealous apostle needs bread, 
 and, in these days, men do not go forth on an apostolate 
 
328 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 without scrip or staff. She had stipulated that she should 
 not be interfered with — nay, that she should be absolutely- 
 alone during the intervals of her labour; and thus she was 
 spared any possible friction with her brethren of the Press. 
 But this added to her sense of loneliness and insecurity. 
 For this latter feeling now became a constant source of 
 anxiety. She had not been trained to uncertainties, 
 nor had she ever learned that probability is the most 
 that we can expect in this world. Her nervous tempera- 
 ment demanded security; and the future seemed to hold 
 out no promise. She knew she was dependent for her 
 subsistence on a whim. Most of the great masses of the 
 employed in America and elsewhere know that also; but 
 they have been brought up under grey, doubtful skies, 
 and have learned to take no thought for the morrow. 
 To the lonely girl, the morrow was always the doubtful 
 day. 
 
 For several evenings after her experience with the 
 street-waif, Miriam found her solitary lodgings more 
 lonely. Degraded as the type was, it was still a piece of 
 humanity; and this girl, who had enrolled herself in the 
 cause of humanity, had found the abstraction tiresome, and 
 yearned for a closer relation with the types whence she 
 drew her inspirations. The memory, too, of the humble 
 people amongst whom her childhood and youth were 
 spent, made the lower classes dearer to her. She had no 
 further acquaintance with her Press colleagues than busi- 
 ness arrangements necessitated. She was one of those 
 strange beings that yearned for, and spurned, fellowship 
 with their kind; and which in turn alternately attracted 
 and repelled everyone with whom they came in contact. 
 
 Nevertheless, her work went on. She walked the 
 mighty City fearlessly, by night and day, saw its most 
 repulsive aspects, saw also the glitter and glare that 
 absorb and paralyse the mental and moral faculties of 
 the inexperienced; and then gave little etchings in words, 
 that bit like acids, and entranced the reading multitudes 
 by the presentments of their own vices and follies that 
 
WOMAN'S MISSION 329 
 
 she exhibited in the terrible mirror of truth. For, strange 
 to say, there is nothing so entrancing to the human imag- 
 ination than pictures of loathsome things. They make 
 the just Pharisaical; they endorse by example the flagi- 
 tiousness of the wicked. 
 
 Yet, her heart sickened under her work. She felt that 
 a woman's mission was to console and bless, to lift up and 
 strengthen and purify, not to lay bare human deform- 
 ity or to probe too deeply into human infirmity. She 
 thought that a lady-surgeon was an anomalous and unnat- 
 ural thing; that the soul of woman is of too delicate a 
 texture to be torn asunder by the sight of physical deform- 
 ity. Yet, her own work was not the less indelicate, be- 
 cause she exposed moral ulcers. Realism is not for 
 woman, who is called above all others to the pursuit of 
 the ideal. 
 
 Hence, her conscience was troubled by her rejection 
 of the little street-waif whom she had summarily expelled. 
 She had a hope that he would come back again. Street 
 boys are not sensitive, she thought; and the recollection 
 of the fire and the meat-pies might bring him back, even 
 though there were no gratitude towards herself. 
 
XXXIV 
 
 Explanations 
 
 Mrs. Ibkton sat in a deep, low arm-chair in the re- 
 cesses of her bay-window, that faced the harbour, where 
 the morning sun was now making golden dimples when 
 the surface was fluted by the wind. A man-of-war, a 
 guard-ship, lay, massive and heavy and immobile right 
 in the midst of the narrow bight that separated Haul- 
 bowline from the mainland; sundry little steam-yachts, 
 with a pennant flying at the stern, shuttled to and fro 
 between the guard-ship and the town; and just now, at 
 the breakfast hour, the sound of music was wafted up- 
 wards from the deck of the battle-ship, whilst, in horrid 
 rivalry, a black Italian brought his organ and monkey 
 beneath the window. Mrs. Ireton was not in a mood to 
 appreciate the music that stole upwards from either 
 source. There had been another scene at breakfast, 
 only a few minutes before. 
 
 For some time there had been a tacit understanding 
 between Hugh Ireton and his mother that no further 
 allusion should be made by either to Miss Lucas or her 
 past history. There had been one most painful inter- 
 change of ideas on the subject on Hugh Ireton's return 
 from Dublin, when his mother, triumphant and scornful, 
 flung in his face the dread facts that had transpired about 
 Miriam and her associates. And the woman had the vic- 
 tory. There was no gainsaying the fact that, however 
 honourable her motives had been, Miriam Lucas had, 
 by her pen, stimulated this outbreak of lawlessness in 
 the City. Her articles on Socialism and Society were 
 read, and shuddered at. But apart from that, there were 
 the sad facts, that she appeared to have linked her own 
 
EXPLANATIONS 331 
 
 destinies with those of a fanatical and dangerous class; 
 and had thwarted every effort of her legal guardian to 
 raise her to his own rank in society and save her from 
 criminal and dangerous sympathies. 
 
 Hugh Ireton had to listen, with bowed head and angry 
 face, to all this, poured out, a vitriolic stream, with all 
 the suavity of good breeding — all the sadness of one who 
 was so far removed above it, and only touched it because 
 it was a melancholy duty, imposed by the wilful obsti- 
 nacy of her son. Once or twice he had tried to inter- 
 pose in Miriam's defence, only to find himself more 
 thoroughly defeated. He had risen from table with the 
 words: — 
 
 "Mother, if we are to remain together even during the 
 short space that shall elapse before I secure my appoint- 
 ment, there must be a truce to this." 
 
 To which his mother replied: — 
 
 "It is an unsavoury subject. It is no wish of mine to 
 dwell upon it, except where duty obliges." 
 
 Hence the matter was quietly avoided, although it 
 originated and kept up that polite coolness that seems 
 to exist in most families where there is one subject that 
 has to be kept under lock and key in the sketelon-closet. 
 Hugh Ireton knew that it was the daily, never-ending 
 subject of those feminine conferences that take place 
 over the tea-cups in the afternoon. But, as he never 
 attended on these occasions, they did not interest him. 
 
 On this beautiful summer morning, however, the pain- 
 ful subject had suddenly cropped up in a letter which 
 Miss Maud suddenly alluded to, making her own wise 
 comments thereon. The letter had come the evening 
 before from Ashley, and, amidst much nonsense and child- 
 ish love-making, he wrote that he had news of the "Lady 
 of the Lea" and that Maud was to tell her brother imme- 
 diately. The brother did not seem much pleased or im- 
 pressed by the information. He frowned on the child, 
 who took his displeasure calmly enough. She had read 
 out solemnly: — ' ~ *~~"" ^ 
 
332 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 " ' Tell your dear brother that there is a clue — ' What 
 is a clue, Mamma?" 
 
 "A clue, child, is a — something you catch hold of to 
 lead you — well, somewhere!" 
 
 "Oh, I see, Mamma. So when I catch Maysie's hand, 
 that's a clue!" 
 
 "Well, ye-es, you know, not quite. Go on. Who's 
 this letter from?" 
 
 " From Arthur. He sends you all kind of love and greet- 
 ing; and he says, tell your dear brother that there's a 
 clue to the — the — myst — myst — mystery of 'The 
 Lady of the Lea.' " 
 
 "And who might the 'Lady of the Lea' mean?" asked 
 the mother, looking anxiously at her son. 
 
 "Some childish nonsense between Arthur and this 
 young lady, I suppose," said Hugh. "It's a song Ashley 
 used to sing when down here," he went on rapidly, try- 
 ing to drown the eager revelations of his troublesome 
 sister — "something about 
 
 " ' She was young and she was fair, 
 The Lady of the Lea. 
 
 I suppose he has got her photograph for this young 
 lady!" 
 
 "Why, don't you know?" said Maud, her eyes wide 
 open in surprise. 
 
 "I think Ashley ought to stop all this nonsense with 
 Maud now. She is growing, and her little head is weak 
 and silly enough already without being turned by these 
 amorous epistles. Besides, little girls should be busy 
 with their dolls, and picture books; and they should not 
 be writing silly letters to grown-up men!" 
 
 Maud was staring at him with all her eyes. 
 
 "But don't you know, Hughie? This isn't about me 
 at all. Arthur says there's a clue — " 
 
 "Very good! Keep your clue, and let him keep it. 
 If it leads you into sense-land out of nonsense-land, so 
 much the better!" 
 
EXPLANATIONS 333 
 
 "But this is about the 'Lady of the Lea,' Miss Lucas, 
 you know!" blurted Maud; and she was surprised at the 
 thunder that gathered on her brother's face. 
 
 "Miss Lucas?" repeated her mother, ominously. 
 "Well, go on, Maudie, if I am not intruding on sacred 
 precincts, perhaps you would tell us the clue!" 
 
 " ' I have found the name of the rightful heir to the 
 Glen — Glen — Glen — 'here's a big, hard word," she 
 said, holding the letter towards her brother. 
 
 He took the letter and looked over it. He flung it 
 back, contemptuously and angrily. 
 
 "Glendarragh, I suppose!" he said. 
 
 "'Estate,' " continued Maud. '"That rascal, Holths- 
 worth, had no more claim on it than you or I. Now, the 
 trouble is to find the Lady herself. But I'm on the track, 
 and will call you to aid me when necessary — '" 
 
 "Is that all?" said Hugh. 
 
 "That's all about you," said his sister. "There's a 
 good deal more about me." 
 
 "Of course," said her brother, deeply mortified. 
 
 "You may go down and read it at your leisure," said 
 her mother to Maud. "But send no reply until I shall 
 have seen it." 
 
 And Maud, dimly conscious that there was something 
 wrong somewhere, glanced anxiously at her brother, on 
 whose face the thunder was still gathering, sidled humbly 
 from her chair, and went out. 
 
 There was a painful pause. Hugh Ireton cut his bread 
 into crumbs, and affected to eat. His mother busied her- 
 self, with some show of ostentation, about the teapot and 
 cosy. Then she said: — 
 
 "So this wretched affair is not at an end?" 
 
 "It appears not," said Hugh, in a sulky manner. 
 
 "You are still interested in this girl?" 
 
 "Yes!" Then, after a pause, he added: "She is not 
 interested in me." 
 
 "I suppose not!" said his mother, coldly. "I should 
 say that a girl — a woman, whose associates are commu- 
 
334 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 nards and dynamitards, would hardly care for decent 
 acquaintances." 
 
 "How often have I to tell you, mother," he said, lift- 
 ing his eyes for the first time, "that you are completely 
 deceived about Miss Lucas? She feels she has been 
 wronged, and is therefore embittered; but she has said 
 and done nothing that could deserve such remarks." 
 
 "Then all the talk in Dublin meant nothing," replied 
 his mother. "I am sure I may be deceived, but better 
 heads than mine have decided that she is a lady with 
 whom the less we have to say the better. Even Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite — " 
 
 Her son looked at her inquiringly and anxiously. 
 
 "Even Mrs. Crosthwaite," pursued his mother, "who 
 really sets at nought the manners and customs of good 
 society in many of her actions, even Mrs. Crosthwaite has 
 begun to fear that she has been wrong in her confidence in 
 Miss Lucas." 
 
 "Did Mrs. Crosthwaite say so much?" queried Hugh, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Not to me," said his mother. "But I have it on 
 excellent authority that she has ceased her interest in 
 that girl." 
 
 "I hope you are mistaken, mother," said Hugh, who 
 felt that if the good minister's wife had lost faith in the 
 motherless and friendless girl, all was over. "That's a 
 matter I must look into and be assured of." 
 
 "Then, you disregard my wishes!" said his mother, 
 losing temper at the assumption that Mrs. Crosthwaite's 
 judgment was placed before her own. "You attach 
 much importance to this lady's ideas, and none to 
 mine!" 
 
 "No, no, I didn't mean to imply that," said Hugh, 
 hastily. "But you know, mother, you were always 
 prejudiced against Miss Lucas." 
 
 "Justly, I believe," said his mother, tartly. 
 
 "Well, justly or unjustly — it makes no matter; but 
 you were always prejudiced and Mrs. Crosthwaite was 
 
EXPLANATIONS 335 
 
 her dearest and fastest friend. It follows that if Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite has had reason to change her opinion, things 
 are more serious than I thought." 
 
 "Far more serious!" said his mother. "But, then, 
 young men must set up their weak judgments before that 
 of experienced and impartial seniors. Let us end the 
 discussion, however." 
 
 "I didn't originate it," said Hugh. 
 
 "Let us end the discussion," said his mother. "These 
 little episodes are becoming a little too frequent of late; 
 and they hardly help me! Suppose we agree to regard 
 the subject as a forbidden one!" 
 
 "By all means," said her son, knowing right well that 
 on the first opportunity his good mother would introduce 
 it again. 
 
 Hence was Mrs. Ireton sad and melancholy this beauti- 
 ful summer morning there in her low armchair in the 
 deep recesses of the bay window above the sea. Her 
 feminine vanity was piqued by the preference of her 
 son for this half-outlawed girl; her maternal feelings were 
 outraged, because he seemed to make so little of her judg- 
 ment and to rely so much on his own misguided notions. 
 And yet, above pique and disappointment, would come 
 her solicitude for her boy, and her mother's anxiety lest, 
 by some thoughtless sentiment, he might be led to imperil 
 all his future prospects in life. 
 
 "If he could only secure this appointment," she thought, 
 "and get decently married — " 
 
 Then she suddenly thought: — 
 
 "I wonder would Ellen Lester look this way?" 
 
 She sank into a brown study on the question of Hugh 
 Ireton's future. Then she sighed deeply, and finally 
 took up her peerage and read: — 
 
 "Sherle. — Sir Ralph, of Sherle Manor, Co. Kilkenny, 
 J.P. and D.L. for the County Kilkenny. Bom 1808, 
 died 1878. Married Elizabeth, third daughter of Richard 
 Charles Blount of Bloomfield, Herts." 
 
 Meanwhile, Hugh Ireton had sped to Cork, and a very 
 
33G MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 short interval found him closeted with Ashley in one of 
 these detached villas that look down upon the silver Lee 
 from the heights of Montenotte. 
 
 Ashley was still in his dressing gown, although he had 
 breakfasted. He was smoking lazily, and lazily reading 
 some wretched novel. 
 
 "Hallo!" he cried, as Ireton, breathless after mounting 
 the hill, stood still gasping without speaking. "If you 
 go on this way, Ireton, your heart will get badly affected; 
 and you know it is badly affected enough at present. 
 Sit down, and don't speak for five minutes." 
 
 "I came up about your message in Maudie's letter," 
 said Ireton. "The little vixen blurted it all out; and I've 
 had another scene with the mater." 
 
 "About the 'Lady of the Lea'?" said Ashley, lazily. 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "I thought you told me that subject was tabu?" said 
 his friend. 
 
 "Yes, of course! But that's only in theory. It comes 
 on as regularly as the influenza." 
 
 "I think I must break off my engagement to that 
 charming child-goddess of yours. She is one to whom 
 I could never confide marital secrets." 
 
 "Well, to come to business," said Ireton. "You have 
 got a clue?" 
 
 "Well, yes. And the singular thing about the matter 
 is, that what we were seeking through the labyrinthine 
 mazes of the law, was under our eyes at any moment we 
 were pleased to open them." 
 
 "You don't say so?" 
 
 "I have said so, man ami," replied Ashley. "I think 
 I have patched and pieced the whole affair together; 
 and, although the joints don't fit smoothly as yet, it makes 
 a fair picture enough." 
 
 "I am all ears," said his friend. 
 
 "It is not a question of auscultation," said Ashley. 
 "Put up your stethoscope, my friend, and try use your 
 reasoning faculties." 
 
EXPLANATIONS 337 
 
 "For heaven's sake, Arthur, stop this infernal badi- 
 nage, and let me hear what you have to say!" 
 
 "Well, to commence! Can you remember our dear 
 friend Ian ever saying that Miss Lucas's mother was a 
 Papist?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly. His mother taunted him with the 
 horrible baseness more than once!" 
 
 "Very good. Now I have ascertained that this estate 
 in and around Glendarragh (what a frightful name) was 
 in the possession of an old Catholic family, on whom, by 
 reason of their oppression and cruelty of their serfs, a 
 frightful curse had come." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" said Ireton. "I remember hearing that 
 doctor down in Sleepy Hollow say that the crows would 
 never build in the trees around the house." 
 
 "That would be no curse, but a blessing," said his 
 friend. "Do you remember hearing him say that no child 
 would be born there, and that every owner would die a 
 violent death?" 
 
 "Yes! I think that old doctor — whose place, by the 
 way, I am now seeking — " 
 
 "And have no chance of obtaining," put in his friend. 
 
 "No matter! I shall try," said Ireton. "But I was 
 saying that he mentioned something of the kind that day 
 we went first to Sleepy Hollow!" 
 
 "Very good. Here, now, is one set of facts. The sec- 
 ond is, that the secret of the disappearance of Miriam 
 Lucas's mother — you see I am speaking too familiarly 
 perhaps of the lady in your presence, but I am using 
 legal phraseology — is connected in some way with her 
 religion." 
 
 "How?" inquired Ireton. 
 
 "That I don't know as yet, but I hope to find out. 
 By the way, would not the fact of the 'Lady of the Lea' 
 turning out a full-blown Papist rather damp your ardour? " 
 
 "Miss Lucas is nothing of the kind," said Ireton. 
 "But, look here, Arthur, that's all rot about differences 
 of religion. We, Trinity men, are gone beyond all that," 
 
338 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Of course," said Arthur, carelessly. "But what 
 about our maters, and our sorors, and our grand-maters, 
 who have not had the benefit of our enlightenment? They 
 can make it unpleasant, I can tell you, just because they 
 are so purblind." 
 
 "All I care for now is to see Miriam. I'm just off to 
 Glendarragh to kill two birds with one stone — to try 
 my chancesof the dispensary; and to see Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 She'll throw light on the subject. By the way, the mater 
 said that even they had dropped Miriam." 
 
 "Well, see for yourself," said his friend. 
 
 "By the way, I must call on the Parish Priest. He 
 holds the key of the situation. What do you call them 
 when you are speaking to them?" 
 
 "Oh, 'your honour' or 'your majesty,'" said Ashley. 
 "Anything will do. Some of them are not bad fellows." 
 
 "I believe so. Well, au revoir! I'll write my luck!" 
 
 "Good. And I wish it. But what about the Curse?" 
 
 "The 'Curse' be damned!" said Ireton, departing. 
 
XXXV 
 
 A Defence and Its Reward 
 
 Hugh Ibeton, on leaving his friend, Ashley, had two 
 immediate and urgent objects before him — the one, to 
 secure, if he could, and he was determined to leave no 
 stone unturned to accomplish his design, the position of 
 medical officer at Glendarragh, now endeared to him by 
 so many reasons; and the second, to ascertain from the 
 good rector and his wife any possible tidings of Miriam, 
 and to disabuse them of any misconception they might 
 have formed about her Dublin associations or actions. 
 He was a clever fellow, Al in his profession. Pie had 
 abundant means to start with, and set up a practice in 
 the city, or he could have, quite easily, entered the Army 
 or Navy, and with the assurance of rapid promotion. But 
 no! He felt in some mysterious manner that this young 
 girl's life, so weird, so strange, so romantic, was inextri- 
 cably woundup in his; and that he had a mysterious mis- 
 sion to rescue her and place her in her rightful position 
 as mistress at Glendarragh. He had now no doubt what- 
 ever that she was the legitimate owner of the place, and 
 that Holthsworth, with the fell design of securing her 
 hand by destroying her liberty, and placing her in a posi- 
 tion of dependence, had pretended to a right over the 
 place, which he did not actually possess. And then — 
 Hugh Ireton thought, as he sped along in the train, or 
 walked up and down solitary platforms waiting for a 
 change of trains — then, with a position, not of emolu- 
 ment, but of honourable toil, and with Miriam Lucas as 
 his wife, what would earth leave to be desired? 
 
 He dismissed the car that had taken him to within a 
 half-mile of the rector's cottage, and walked along in deep 
 
340 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 meditation. He had taken a detour of a mile or so, in 
 order to get a glimpse of Glendarragh House. It looked 
 wretched and ruined enough from the rear. Then he 
 went round to the front, and examined the appearance 
 of the building. It was very desolate. Broken windows, 
 gaping apertures, open doors. It made him shudder. 
 Then he ventured in. The thought of that blessed summer 
 afternoon when he entered that hall for the first time, the 
 chill that struck him, the lonely appearance of the place, 
 and then the sudden brightness that shone from the 
 apparition of'^this girl — all came back; but it filled him 
 with melancholy forebodings. 
 
 He left the dismantled house immediately, and strode 
 through the village and along the road that led to the 
 Rectory. The rector and his wife were at home. His 
 acquaintance with them was slight; but he had a friendly 
 greeting. He briefly explained the object of his visit. 
 In her own blunt, decisive fashion, Mrs. Crosthwaite 
 said: — 
 
 "You haven't the slightest chance of the dispensary, 
 Mr. Ireton. It has always been held by a Roman Cath- 
 olic doctor, and rightly, because the entire district is 
 Roman Catholic. John might vote for you, as he is on 
 the Dispensary Committee; but that is all." 
 
 "That's a bad job," said Hugh Ireton. "I thought 
 that the Committee professed to vote according to quali- 
 fications; and," pulling out a printed document, "I think 
 these are as good as may be expected." 
 
 The rector, with his usual gentle urbanity, took the 
 papers and read them. 
 
 "They are really excellent, my dear," he said, hand- 
 ing them to his wife. 
 
 "Not worth the paper they're written on," said that 
 matter-of-fact lady. "Don't you know as well as I, 
 John Crosthwaite, that this whole thing goes by influ- 
 ence? The candidate who can claim, or has secured the 
 majority of the Committee, will be elected, and no one 
 else. But, Mr. Ireton, what put this wretched Dispen- 
 
A DEFENCE AND ITS REWARD 341 
 
 sary in your head? You should start in Cork or 
 Dublin." 
 
 A hot flush mounted to Hugh's forehead. How could 
 he confess the attraction? He murmured something 
 about retirement, opportunities for study, etc. 
 
 "And your mother?" persisted the lady. "Surely, 
 she would never consent to your burying yourself down 
 here?" 
 
 "There is a good deal, my dear, in what Mr. Ireton 
 says," interposed the vicar. "There is a certain class of 
 disposition that prefers study and peace and retirement to 
 the bustle and emoluments of a great city." 
 
 "Quite so," said Mrs. Crosthwaite. "Like yourself, 
 who refused the canonry of St. Luke's, never considering 
 the feelings of your poor wife." 
 
 "My dear — " said the rector. 
 
 "But all this is not bringing us nearer to the poinL," 
 said his wife. "The question is, has Mr. Ireton a chance 
 of the dispensary; and, if he has, would it be desirable for 
 himself to undertake it? " 
 
 "I cannot speak of my chances," said Hugh. "But if 
 I get it, it would mean Heaven to me!" 
 
 Now that was a rather strong expression for a young 
 man; and it was not lost on the -shrewd intellect of the 
 rector's wife. 
 
 She looked at him a long time without speaking, as if 
 she were unravelling a puzzle, or trying to read his inmost 
 thoughts. Then she smiled, and turned to her husband. 
 
 "What can be the attraction for Mr. Ireton in this 
 place?" she said. 
 
 "Mr. Ireton is a student, my dear, like myself," said 
 the rector. "He wants to pursue his studies here unin- 
 terrupted by the claims and demands of society; and some 
 day he will make a great name." 
 
 "H'm," said Mrs. Crosthwaite. "You'd like to see 
 our garden, Mr. Ireton. I must get you some tea. John, 
 would you mind asking Maggie to have some tea when 
 we return?" 
 
342 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "By all means, by all means, my dear," said the rec- 
 tor, "Shall we say in a quarter of an hour?" 
 
 "Exactly," said the good woman. "Come, Mr. Ire- 
 ton, we'll look at the green-house first." 
 
 She entered the green-house with her guest, closed the 
 door carefully to see that she was not followed, and 
 instantly said: — 
 
 "You have some news of Miriam?" 
 
 "Yes," he said promptly, delighted at her happy way 
 of freeing him from all embarrassment. "We, that is 
 Ashley (you've heard of Ashley), has found that this 
 whole property belongs to Miss Lucas; that Holthsworth 
 has no claim whatsoever on it; and — and — " 
 
 "You want to make Miriam your wife?" 
 
 "Yes! but, please, Mrs. Crosthwaite, don't connect 
 the two things. God is my witness that I have no design 
 but Miss Lucas's happiness. From the day we met 
 here by accident for the first time, I felt that her future 
 and mine were in some strange way to be identified. 
 Ashley didn't like her. She chilled him, he said. And 
 I also felt some repulsion; but it was the repulsion of 
 attraction. Her history, her loneliness, her sadness, 
 made an impression upon me that cannot be blotted out, 
 but seems to deepen with the years — " 
 
 "Then you and Miriam understand each other?" said 
 the rector's wife. 
 
 "If you mean by understand," said Hugh Ireton, 
 "that I have ever made a declaration, and that it has 
 been accepted, I answer, No! I'm sure that Miss Lucas 
 knows that I have a deep interest in her; but that is 
 all." 
 
 "Then, why didn't you speak? Hadn't you abundant 
 opportunities in Dublin?" asked Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 
 "Quite the contrary," replied the young man. "We 
 met but once or twice; once, by accident, and once I felt 
 it a duty to call on her about some matter that interested 
 her." 
 t "I have been under the impression," said the rector's 
 
A DEFENCE AND ITS REWARD 343 
 
 wife, "that Miriam was in the habit of receiving period- 
 ical visits from Trinity men — " 
 
 "It must be that ruffian, Holthsworth, who spread that 
 vile calumny," said the young man, in the white heat of 
 indignation. 
 
 "No! I have had but little correspondence with that 
 gentleman. It was from another source." 
 
 "Then it is a lie," said Hugh. "In fact, we dared not 
 call upon her, because we were afraid of her; and Holths- 
 worth, for his own ends, kept her locked up from every 
 one, except a set of old psalm-singing tabby-cats — " 
 
 "You are profane," said Mrs. Crosthwaite, "and what 
 is worse, you are ridiculous. Tabby-cats don't sing 
 psalms." 
 
 Ireton laughed. 
 
 "You know what I mean," he said. "It was positive 
 cruelty to keep that splendid young creature immured 
 in his gilded cage, without a chance of seeing a bit of the 
 glorious world outside. No wonder she acquired morbid 
 tastes and ideas." 
 
 "Ah, yes, indeed," said Mrs. Crosthwaite musingly. 
 "To think of our little dove, our Miriam, developing 
 into such an anarchist — " 
 
 "Oh! please don't say that, Mrs. Crosthwaite," said 
 Ireton in anguish. "Like the other story, there's not a 
 word of truth in that. She simply wrote one or two things 
 for a felonious paper in Dublin, probably, to amuse her- 
 self, or through a mistaken notion of helping the working 
 classes; but I am fully empowered and authorised to tell 
 you, that it was Miss Lucas, who by sheer courage and 
 tact, averted a fearful riot and massacre in Dublin." 
 
 "Stop a moment," said Mrs. Crosthwaite, "John must 
 hear this. Come and have some tea, and tell me all. 
 But," she paused for a moment, "are you quite sure of 
 what you say? Quite sure?" 
 
 "Absolutely," said Ireton. "You'll acquit Miss Lucaa 
 of everything, like disorder, or sympathy with disorder, 
 when you hear the whole story." 
 
344 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "May God grant that we can also acquit ourselves of 
 foolish suspicions. Or rather," she added, "may I be 
 pardoned, for Mr. Crosthwaite was always loyal to 
 her." 
 
 And so, over the tea-cups, Hugh Ireton gallantly re- 
 trieved the fair fame of Miss Miriam, going into each 
 detail of her daily life in Dublin, her solitary hours, the 
 tyranny of Holthsworth, his machinations against the 
 unfortunate workmen on strike, his studied efforts to have 
 his name connected with Miriam's in the narrow circles 
 where he moved; his last attempt to provoke a riot, and 
 Miriam's plan to defeat him. He told all simply, but with 
 a certain warmth that was generous and becoming, John 
 Crosthwaite beaming with delight at this generous defence 
 and acquittal of his favourite, and his wife, with head 
 bowed and humbled. 
 
 When he had concluded, the rector's wife said, and 
 there were tears in her eyes; as she stretched out her hand, 
 and grasped her husband's: — 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, I have often said there is a fool in 
 this establishment, but it is not you, John!" 
 
 Instantly, the little party resolved itself into a Com- 
 mittee of Ways and Means — the only question now 
 being, where was Miriam? and how was she to be brought 
 back to her friends and adorers? They speculated, 
 guessed, devised, doubted; and like so many other com- 
 mittees, ended by deferring the matter for future con- 
 sideration, Mrs. Crosthwaite engaging to see old James 
 Carroll for possible news about Anstie; and Ireton deter- 
 mined to seek Arthur Ashley again, in whose sagacity and 
 judgment he had such perfect confidence. 
 
 Then, suddenly it dawned on them that they had com- 
 pletely forgotten the main object of Hugh Ireton's visit. 
 The subject was discussed again; and again it was decided 
 that his candidature for the Dispensary was a hopeless 
 enterprise. Would he see the priest? he asked. Yes, 
 of course, and be received with all possible courtesy; but, 
 
A DEFENCE AND ITS REWARD ,, 345 
 
 the religious test was inevitable. There literally was no 
 chance for Ireton there. 
 
 "But bring back Miriam at any hazard," said Mrs. 
 Crosthwaite; "and, perhaps, all will be well." 
 
 "Yes!" said the young man, rather sadly and hopelessly, 
 "that of course is the first thing. I shall let you know 
 every step we take." 
 
 "God bless you!" said John Crosthwaite, and wrote 
 at once in his diary: 
 
 "The eclipse of the sun, which has lasted so long to 
 the infinite detriment of all animal and vegetable life, 
 has lifted. The sun is shining out in all his splendour, 
 only a few wisps of clouds still overshadowing his 
 disc." 
 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite, with a woman's prophetic forebod- 
 ings, seeing obstacles everywhere, even where they never 
 could exist, walked with Hugh Ireton to the gate. At 
 parting, she said: — 
 
 "You have no idea of what a load you have lifted from 
 our spirits, Mr. Ireton. Just one word more! How will 
 your mother take it? Does she suspect, or know?" 
 
 "Yes! She knows a little, and suspects a great deal," 
 he replied. Then, after some hesitation: "We have had 
 some scenes over the matter; but I don't mind. I have 
 a great love for my mother, but I cannot accept her the- 
 ories of things." 
 
 "And you are right," replied the rector's wife. "There 
 can be no question of your duty towards your mother; 
 but on the other hand, there can be no question of your 
 loyalty towards your own principles." 
 
 "It's all this terrible exclusiveness," said Ireton, bit- 
 terly, "this rigid, and let me say, vulgar pride, that seems 
 to exist amongst what we are pleased to call 'society.' 
 There isn't a particle of Christian sentiment or feeling 
 anywhere!" 
 
 "You may be right," said Mrs. Crosthwaite, reflect- 
 ively, "but please remember, young man, that you are 
 
346 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 not called upon to reform matters; nor could you, even 
 if you would." 
 
 "I know that well, Mrs. Crosthwaite," he said. "I 
 am not going to bruise my knuckles against that solid 
 wall of prejudice; but that is just the reason why I am so 
 anxious to get away from city life, with all its artificial- 
 ities, and come down to a quiet place, like this." 
 
 "With such a life-companion as Miriam, of course?" 
 said Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 
 "Yes!" he said, with confidence. "That's my life- 
 dream. May it come true!" 
 
 "I hope so," she said seriously. "You seem to de- 
 serve it. In any case, count on my co-operation and sym- 
 pathy." 
 
 "A thousand thanks," he said gaily. "It is just what 
 I expected of you." 
 
 He was going away; but turned back for a moment. 
 
 "And you think I had better abandon the idea of the 
 dispensary?" 
 
 "I think you have no chance," she replied. "But 
 faint heart never won fair lady." 
 
 "By Jove, I'll try!" he said. 
 
 He had gone away some distance, half-elated and half- 
 depressed, and utterly uncertain how he was to proceed 
 in his candidature for the dispensary, when he became 
 aware, as he approached Glendarragh House, of a figure 
 that seemed to be watching him intently. It was not 
 a prepossessing figure, but seemed to be an ill-clad crea- 
 ture, half-groom, half-labourer, in very reduced circum- 
 stances. He seemed half-inclined, yet shy, to solicit 
 notice from Ireton; but, as the latter approached nearer, 
 there was an unmistakable look in the face of the man, 
 and an unmistakable meaning in the gesture that touched 
 his grizzled hair and shabby hat. 
 
 "Good-day!" said Ireton, shortly. 
 
 "Good-morrow, your 'anner!" said the man. "And 
 may every luck attind yer 'anner wherever you go." 
 
 Ireton thought this the usual preliminary to another 
 
A DEFENCE AND ITS REWARD 347 
 
 appeal; but something in the appearance of the man 
 made him hesitate to offer charity. 
 
 "You don't remimber me, yer 'anner?" said the man, 
 after a pause, and with an attempt at a smile. 
 
 "I can't say I do," said Ireton. "Did I ever meet 
 you before? " 
 
 "Oh, begor, you did, yer 'anner," said the man. "An' 
 'twas a lucky day for me I met you." 
 
 "How was that?" said Ireton, growing interested. 
 
 "Because," said the man, with the usual tendency of 
 the Irish peasant to prolong the agony, "only for yer 
 'anner and Miss Miriam I'd be in my grave to-day." 
 
 The name of Miriam not only aroused Ireton's sym- 
 pathetic attention, but gave a clue to the man's identity. 
 
 "You're not the man that cut himself?" he said. 
 
 "Begor, I am thin," said the other, with some pride 
 in the distinction. "I'm Dwyer!" 
 
 "By Jove," said Ireton, "I'm glad to see you so well. 
 That was a close shave, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Faith it was," said Dwyer, "only for Miss Miriam's 
 handkecher, and yer 'anner's help, I'd be under the 
 daisies to-day." 
 
 Ireton was moving away, when the man arrested 
 him. 
 
 "Wisha, yer 'anner, an' have ye any news at all of 
 Miss Miriam? Sure an' 'tis the lonesome place since 
 she went from us." 
 
 "Well, yes! I have heard some news quite lately," 
 said Ireton. "I know now, for certain, that this whole 
 place and property are hers." 
 
 "T'ainim an Dia," said the man. "An' you don't 
 say so? By Gor, but that will be the welcome news to 
 the people. Sure, we always sushpected that that Dublin 
 liar 1 had no call upon the place." 
 
 "No more than you!" said Ireton. "The thing is now 
 to find Miss Lucas, and bring her back." 
 
 "Wisha, then, yer 'anner, av it were to walk acrass the 
 1 Lawyer. 
 
"348 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 sea to find her, sure there are a hunderd min here that 
 would venture it." 
 
 "Well, who knows?" said Ireton. "By the way, I'm 
 thinking of comin' down here myself. Would you like 
 me for another operation, Dwyer?" 
 
 "Faith, yer 'anner, I don't think I'll cut meself agen 
 for the fun av it. But there's no man more welcome 
 than you'd be here!" 
 
 "Why do you think that?" said Ireton, quite sure that 
 this was the usual blarney of the natives. 
 
 "Why? Because we all knows that av any man can 
 bring Miss Miriam back to us, it is yer 'anner!" 
 
 Utterly dumbfounded, Ireton's heart gave a great leap 
 of hope at the words of the peasant. But he only said: — 
 
 "What reason have the people for thinking that?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Begor, no rayson at all but the best of raysons," said 
 Dwyer. "Sure we know all, yer 'anner, from Anstie 
 Carroll, ould James's daughter, who's gone to Ameriky." 
 
 Then a great light dawned on Ireton's mind. 
 
 "Then you think I'd have a chance of the dispensary 
 on that ground?" 
 
 "Faix, you wouldn't have a chance, but a sartinty of 
 it," said Dwyer. "There's not a man on the Cummitty 
 that wouldn't vote for you for Miss Miriam's sake." 
 
 "By Jove! I'll try my luck, then," said Ireton. 
 
 "Do, thin," said Dwyer, thankfully pocketing the coin 
 Ireton proffered him. "Sure, they're all saying now that 
 'tis you will take away the ' Curse' \" 
 
XXXVI 
 
 A Quest and a Rescue 
 
 Whence came the sudden and imperious impulse that 
 led Miriam to seek her long-lost mother in the heart of 
 the most intricate of modern cities, she did not know. She 
 only knew that in some mysterious manner it was re- 
 vealed to her that here — somewhere in the heart of this 
 restless city — it might be in high places surrounded by 
 ease and pomp; it might be in some degraded and debased 
 environments — she was to seek, and be united to her 
 mother. And, clearly, there was no means of making 
 even an initial search except through the Press. She had 
 thought of consulting some detective agencies, but then 
 reflected that this meant grave expense, and a probabil- 
 ity of failure; and just now her means were very low. She 
 then thought of seeking out some Catholic priest, who 
 might, perchance, have heard of her; but she dismissed 
 that idea again as impracticable. In the vast popu- 
 lation such as filled every artery and vein of this mighty 
 city, it was foolish to dream of finding one individual by 
 such means. At liast, timidly, and after having torn up 
 several copies, she drew up an advertisement, and posted 
 it in the New York Herald for insertion. It seemed so 
 hopeless a thing that, as she turned away from the pil- 
 lar into which she had dropped the paper, she could not 
 help smiling; and a rude fellow, passing by at the moment, 
 said aloud: — 
 
 "Lucky feller!" At which a policeman smiled also; 
 and Miriam, drawing down her veil, walked angrily 
 away. 
 
 For many weary days Miriam waited and watched, 
 scanning the long columns of notices and advertisements 
 
350 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 for some indication that her quest was successful. Just 
 as she had given up the search in despair, and had con- 
 cluded that she dare not go to any further expense, a 
 one-line notice caught her eye. It ran thus: — 
 
 "Miriam Lucas. — At last. Come to me. All will 
 be well." 
 
 It gave the address of an avenue and a street, very 
 far from her residence, and of which she had never heard. 
 The question then arose, what was now to be done? 
 Should she accept the notice or not? In the first wild 
 whirl of delight, she never balanced possibilities. There 
 was the cry from the unknown mother, whose face she 
 had all her life wished to see, whose voice would be music 
 in her ears. She gave herself up to a reverie, dreaming 
 of what this mother was likely to be. Would she appear 
 old and feeble, worn out with sorrow and suffering; or 
 young and buoyant, ruling, queenlike, over some fine 
 household, her grey hair smoothed down under her ma- 
 tron's cap, and her white hands glistening with costly 
 rings? Yes! That was the picture that was finally 
 accepted by the girl's imagination. She rejected every- 
 thing else, not only as sordid, but as unbecoming. 
 
 Then little whispered warnings began to rise and speak 
 to her reason. Take care ! This may be a trap, a city ruse 
 in a city of intrigue and horror, with vast terrible conse- 
 quences arising from it, that made her shudder and grow 
 cold with apprehension and disgust. Yet, whither was 
 she to turn? She knew no one in the City. She felt it 
 was one of those sudden crises when she should have to 
 depend absolutely on her own judgment, or fail utterly. 
 And then the old spirit of self-reliance, of lofty pride in 
 herself, and the assurance that there could be no danger 
 where there was no fault, led her to determine to run a 
 certain risk rather than fail utterly. Only one thing 
 she deemed to be prudent. She would wait to see if that 
 message were repeated, or put in different language, and 
 then decide. The invitation was repeated, and more 
 urgently than before. 
 
A QUEST AND A RESCUE 351 
 
 Meanwhile, Coyote had not forgotten the meat-pies 
 and the tea and the eyes that had hypnotised him there 
 in the snowy street. 
 
 "Well, you've come back?" said Miriam. "I thought 
 you had given me up as you did not get that half-dollar." 
 
 Coyote looked down at his bare feet, and shuffled them 
 over the carpet. He was embarrassed, quite a novel 
 experience with him. 
 
 "Well, never mind," said Miriam. "We'll make it 
 up. Do you know this place?" And she gave the 
 address that had appeared on the newspaper. 
 
 Coyote at once recovered himself, opened his mouth 
 wide, and put on an ambiguous smile. 
 
 "I guess 'tis out o' my beat," he said, "but I guess 'tis 
 a swelly place. Rummy though!" 
 
 Miriam's heart jumped at the word "swelly." Clearly, 
 her mother was moving in aristocratic circles. 
 
 "What is 'rummy,' Coy?" she asked. 
 
 "Wal, you see," said Coyote, looking all round the 
 room, up at the ceiling and down at the floor, as if seek- 
 ing an inspiration everywhere. "'Rummy' means, you 
 know, 'We won't go home until mawrnin',' and: 'How 
 are, ole fel'.'" 
 
 And Coyote imitated to perfection the voice and de- 
 meanour of a drunken gentleman. 
 
 "Coy, you're simply disgusting," said Miriam. "Tell 
 me plainly, is it an aristocratic quarter, or a mean quar- 
 ter in the City?" 
 
 "Wy," said Coyote, "'tis the toniest place in the hull 
 city. But ye'll want a hescort, Miss. Take me!" 
 
 "I'll think it over," she said. "Perhaps. We'll see." 
 
 But she finally decided to take no escort. This first 
 interview with her mother should be strictly private. 
 No one should witness it. It would be too sacred. 
 
 She dressed herself with unusual care for the occasion, 
 for she had decided that her mother was living in high 
 social circles, and should not in any way be made ashamed 
 of the relation she was claiming. For the same reason 
 
352 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 she determined to call at a society hour, and not in the 
 morning. 
 
 The short winter day was drawing rapidly to its close 
 when she left her humble lodgings and stepped out into 
 the mazes of the great City. She had not the remotest 
 idea of where the place of appointment was. Coyote 
 had mentioned accidentally that it was an avenue leading 
 to the river, and that was all. She came opposite a cab- 
 stand and beckoned. The man was instantly by her 
 side. She took out the newspaper cutting and read the 
 address. Then, a little timidly, she asked: — 
 "It is a highly respectable locality, is it not?" 
 "Wal, yes," he said, "none but tony people go there." 
 This satisfied all Miriam's lingering doubts, and she sat 
 back in the cab, watching the electric lights in the shops 
 and in the streets, and the crowds that were impatiently 
 sweeping by, and which seemed to engorge the narrow 
 passages where the avenues narrowed into streets. The 
 evening, or rather night, was bitterly cold; and although 
 she was warmly clad, Miriam shivered, but thought it 
 was rather from the excitement and apprehension of the 
 interview than from cold. The progress of the cab 
 seemed to be slow, the journey interminable. Sometimes, 
 when they came into open streets where fashionable people 
 dwelt, the driver urged his horse rapidly over the wooden 
 pavement; but in the narrow, congested quarters, where 
 the crowds were hurrying on business, he had to creep 
 slowly. After an hour's driving, Miriam looked at her 
 watch, and saw that it was six o'clock. She grew impa- 
 tient. These people — she meant her mother, would be 
 soon dressing for dinner; and it would be most awkward 
 to intrude. She was dreaming of the long-lost mother 
 as the centre of a brilliant circle of society; picturing the 
 great brownstone or stuccoed front, the wide sweep of 
 steps to the hall-door, the liveried footmen, the drawing- 
 door flung open, the majestic vista of rooms opening 
 into each other, and reduplicated in vast mirrors that 
 filled inter-window spaces on every side; the rare and 
 
• 
 
 A QUEST AND A RESCUE 353 
 
 costly furniture; the books, and vases, and bric-a-brac; 
 and then — the soft gliding over thick carpets of some 
 queenly woman, whose every gesture denoted refinement 
 and the ease of great wealth; and then — the half-sup- 
 pressed "At last!" Oh, it was beautiful, as all dreams of 
 youth, sanguine, painted on rose-coloured clouds with 
 pencils dipped in gold and scarlet colours and drawn into 
 every picturesque and noble outline by the fingers of 
 youthful and dreaming fancy. 
 
 They had gradually cantered out of the ruck and roar 
 of some crowded streets into a broad, smooth avenue, 
 over whose asphalt pavements the tyres of the cab 
 seemed to roll noiselessly; and Miriam drew herself to- 
 gether for she thought that here was her destination. 
 She scanned with eager solicitude the fronts of the splen- 
 did mansions that filled each side, and wondered whether 
 it was here or there, before that stately and well-lighted 
 palace, or before that dark and magnificent house that 
 seemed to shroud its splendours in reticent obscurity, 
 he was to stop. She woke up from her dream to find the 
 horse cantering down a by-street; and in a second he 
 stopped, and the driver, alighting, threw open the door. 
 The street was quite dark and deserted with apparently 
 blank walls on either side. Only a few yards off were the 
 broad spaces brilliantly lighted of the stately and fash- 
 ionable avenue through which they had just passed, but 
 here all was dark — darker even down the street where it 
 clearly sloped to the river, across whose broad and dark 
 expanses the electric arcs from the other side were flick- 
 ering faintly. 
 
 Miriam hesitated for a moment; and then asked: — 
 
 "Can this be the address?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss," said the driver, respectfully. '"Tis the 
 address you gave me. Here is the number." And he 
 pointed to a dark blue number on a white shield near the 
 door. 
 
 Then Miriam instantly concluded that this was the 
 private entrance to that palace near the corner; and with 
 
354 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 her old pride, disdaining to ask questions that might 
 reveal her timidity, she paid the driver and dismissed 
 him. 
 
 "Shall I wait, or call again?" he asked. 
 
 But Miriam, quite confident that this was now her 
 future home, and that she should in future roll in carriages 
 and not in hired cabs, said No, she would not require his 
 services again. He seemed to hesitate, as if about to say 
 something, but finally got on his perch and drove away. 
 There was not one soul in the dark and dreary street, and 
 as the sound of the cab-wheels on the pavement died 
 slowly away, Miriam shuddered a little, and then pulled 
 the bell. There was no immediate answer; and Miriam 
 concluded the family were at dinner, and the servants 
 occupied. Then she noticed an electric bell and touched 
 it. In a few seconds a young footman appeared, dressed 
 just as Miriam had dreamed, and she entered a narrow 
 corridor, dimly lighted with shaded electric lamps, and 
 furnished with costly elegance. 
 
 "Tell your mistress," she said, "that Miss Lucas, Miss 
 Miriam Lucas, is here." 
 
 The man stared, and then seemed to smile, which made 
 Miriam a little indignant; but he led her along the cor- 
 ridor to a glass door which he flung open, and ushered 
 her into a large and lofty hexagonal apartment, furnished 
 with luxury, but not, as Miriam deemed, with much 
 taste. But it appeared to be so filled with plants and 
 flowers that it seemed rather a conservatory than a 
 drawingroom; and at least it realised one condition of her 
 dreams for each side was a vast mirror; and on turning 
 around Miriam noticed to her surprise and slight alarm 
 that she could not tell at which side she had entered. 
 Yet, tired and feverish, she sank into an ottoman. Then, 
 in some strange manner, a drowsy but delightful feeling 
 crept over her, and she had sunk into a delicious slumber 
 when she was suddenly aroused by a rough hand on her 
 shoulder, and a voice, lowered to a whisper, but tremulous 
 with alarm: — 
 
A QUEST AND A RESCUE 355 
 
 "Miss Miriam! Miss Miriam! Wake up! wake up! 
 Oh, my God!" 
 
 Instantly, though she felt it difficult to shake off her 
 somnolence, Miriam woke; and the sudden alarm sent 
 heart-beat after heart-beat to the brain. She started 
 up from the deep luxurious ottoman, and saw, looking at 
 her with eyes distended in terror, her former servant, 
 Anstie Carroll. 
 
 For a moment she did not recognise her, the little crea- 
 ture was dressed out in such pretty gewgaws, and her 
 neck and arms were bare. Then, the girl anticipated 
 and said: — 
 
 "Great God in Heaven, Miss Miriam, what brought 
 you here? " 
 
 Now thoroughly alarmed, Miriam could only stammer : — 
 
 "Here? Why I came to meet my mother. She adver- 
 tised for me. What is it? What am I? And are you 
 Anstie?" 
 
 She had shown the girl the little newspaper slip. Anstie 
 glanced at it and fell to weeping. 
 
 "What do you mean, Anstie? What is this place?" 
 
 The word seemed to penetrate the girl like an electric 
 shock. Then she suddenly grew erect and strong. 
 
 "Come, Miss Miriam," she cried, fumbling in her 
 pockets for a key. "And come quietly as you value your 
 life." 
 
 She drew the trembling Miriam over to one of the 
 large mirrors. And there Miriam saw her own white 
 face, and the wretched finery of the girl who was now 
 apparently to save her from something horrible. Anstie 
 put a key into the panel of the mirror, and swung back 
 the heavy door of which it formed a part. She glided 
 through, dragging Miriam after her, along a corridor 
 similar to that by which she had entered, but much nar- 
 rower. At the end, she opened another door, and the 
 fresh gust of outer air swept in and chilled them. They 
 were standing on steps which were washed by the dark 
 waves of the river that lapped beneath. The silent 
 
356 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 terror of the whole thing, so utterly different to what she 
 had been fondly anticipating, almost paralysed the fac- 
 ulties of Miriam. She was speechless. She could only 
 obey. She stood staring like one in a dream across the 
 dark river, where nothing was discernible but the lights 
 that fell from the quays, and were broken into ripples of 
 gold upon the waters. Not so Anstie. Shivering in her 
 thin dress, and with chattering teeth, she drew from her 
 belt a whistle such as boatswains use. She first blew it 
 softly as if to catch the attention of some one near at 
 hand. Then, finding no response, she blew a sharp, rat- 
 tling note; and presently the sound of oars was heard, 
 and a boat, with one single occupant, glided beneath 
 the steps. 
 
 "Is that you, Owen?" she whispered. 
 
 "'Tis, Miss," came the answer, in an unmistakable 
 Irish brogue. 
 
 "I'm glad of it," said Anstie. "Because, Owen, I 
 know I can trust you." 
 
 "Av coorse, Miss!" 
 
 "I want you to take this lady — and she is a real lady, 
 not one of us — to the nearest slip, and get the safest 
 cab you can find to take her home." 
 
 "All right, Miss," came the voice. 
 
 Anstie gently motioned Miriam to descend; but Mir- 
 iam as positively refused, unless the girl came with her. 
 
 "I won't go without you, Anstie," she said. "I don't 
 understand it all, but you must come." 
 
 Anstie came closer and whispered in an agitated 
 tone: — 
 
 "Miss Miriam, 'tis no time for codraulin' or arguin'. 
 Your life is in danger, and so is mine. Be said by me, 
 and go. If you're safe, I'll feel that I have done one good 
 thing in my life, that may save my sowl from hell!" 
 
 " But, but, my mother — she sent for me — oh ! how can 
 I bear the disappointment? " wept Miriam. 
 
 Anstie drew the door to softly behind her, so as to cut 
 off all view of them from the house, and although the 
 
A QUEST AND A RESCUE 357 
 
 wretched girl was shivering in the deadly cold of that 
 winter night, she still urged Miriam to instant flight. 
 
 "Your mother is not here, Miss Miriam," she said. 
 "You fell into a trap. Beware of these newspaper notices. 
 And listen!" 
 
 Miriam paused. 
 
 "Go nowhere, and see no one in this dreadful city with- 
 out first advising with a priest. You're not wan of us; 
 but 'tis all the same. Take care, Owen! And, as you 
 value your life, do what I've tould you!" 
 
 '"Tis all right, Miss," said Owen, leaning one hand on 
 the steps, and pushing out his boat into the river. 
 
 For a long time Miriam was too bewildered and too 
 frightened to speak. The whole adventure was so sud- 
 den and so fearful, and it broke up her sanguine dreams 
 so sadly, that she was speechless and could hardly col- 
 lect her thoughts. She felt only that she was being speed- 
 ily borne with the current through the darkness. She 
 could not discern the boatman's face. She heard the soft 
 plunge of the oars, and the jerk that carried them for- 
 ward, and saw the lights at the other side racing through 
 the dark and sombre night. 
 
 At length, the intensity of the cold woke her up to con- 
 sciousness, and she drew her furs around her and shiv- 
 ered. Then she whispered through the darkness: — 
 
 "You're an Irishman, are you not?" 
 
 "Begor, I am, Miss. You've guessed right this time." 
 
 "Tell me," she said, with a certain peremptoriness, 
 "what place is that?" 
 
 "Ax me somethin' aisier, Miss," said the voice. 
 "Shure what do I know?" 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Miriam, not willing to distrust him. 
 "I thought you might have known." 
 
 This confidence disarmed the man, and he said: — 
 
 "I believe 'tis a place of amusement, where people do 
 be amusin' theirselves." 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Miriam, half relieved, "'tis a theatre 
 or a music-hall." 
 
358 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Exactly, Miss," said the voice, with a certain empha- 
 sis. "Tis a theayter, as you say, where the divil is 
 the chief play-actor; and 'tis a music-hall, where the 
 same gintleman plays the first fiddle. But here we 
 are, Miss! Now, take care! Them steps are shlippery 
 wid the frost. Put your fut there, look. And gi' me 
 yer hand!" 
 
 She put her little gloved hand in his great rough 
 palm, and ascended the slippery steps that glistened in 
 the light of the solitary lamp overhead. He then whistled 
 for a cab, which soon came rattling up. He gave a sharp, 
 searching look at the driver; but, instantly recognising 
 him, his face unclouded itself. 
 
 "Sharp night, Tim," he said. 
 
 "Sharp night," said Tim. 
 
 That was all. For Owen, opening the cab-door with 
 the courtesy of a gentleman, ushered Miriam in. 
 
 "Where to, Miss?" he whispered. 
 
 And Miriam, dissolved in tears, told him her address. 
 
 "You're all right now, Miss," he said, confidentially. 
 "Tim is one of ourselves." 
 
 Miriam thanked him; and just as he was about to turn 
 up, she laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "I knew that young girl that called you," she said. 
 "She was my maid in Dublin; and I knew her father in 
 her native village. Could you think of any way of get- 
 ting her away from that — that theatre, and let her come 
 to me?" 
 
 The man shook his head sadly. 
 
 "I fear not, Miss," he said. "I tried before now, and 
 failed. All I can do is, to get her the priest before Bhe 
 dies." 
 
 And Miriam sank back in the cab, appalled at the 
 thought; and then she reflected on her own imprudence 
 in yielding to the impulse of obeying an anonymous line 
 in a public journal. 
 
 "Yes!" she thought. "Life is surrounded by dan- 
 gers. But what wild beasts men can becomel" 
 
A QUEST AND A RESCUE 359 
 
 Her room looked lonely and bare when she returned. 
 It contrasted so terribly with all she had dreamed and 
 hoped for, that its poverty, hitherto bearable, became now 
 intolerable, accentuated as it was by comparison with 
 the fairy visions her imagination had conjured up. 
 
XXXVII 
 
 Baffled Again 
 
 Holthsworth sat in his library chair, thinking. 
 And he was thinking of the past, with certain regrets, 
 but without remorse; and he was thinking of the present, 
 with satisfaction; and he was thinking of the future with 
 that pleasing sensation that comes from the certainty of 
 victory. Although in the meridian of life, and somewhat 
 more, his was not one of those dispositions that covets 
 peace. He was a fighting man — one of those restless 
 and perturbed spirits that finds pleasure only in action, 
 especially if there is an element of hostility in it. He 
 could not brook defeat. And he had been defeated. He 
 had been defeated by Miriam Lucas; but there was the 
 satisfaction that the victory had cost her dearly. He 
 had been defeated by his own men on the railway strike. 
 But he had humbled them, and brought them and their 
 families to the verge of starvation. They would not 
 revolt again. Therefore, on the whole, he had hitherto 
 fared well. There was another struggle before him — 
 with those recalcitrant tenants down at Glendarragh. 
 He entered on the struggle with a certain kind of elation. 
 It was property, property, property against combinations 
 and communism and socialism. And down there by the 
 wild sea coast, there were none of those dangerous possi- 
 bilities that had arisen, and might always arise, from city 
 associations. They were a handful of poor, ignorant 
 peasants. He would easily imtimidate them, when he 
 took up the matter in grim earnest. They had been 
 hitherto defiant, because he had seemed to hesitate. He 
 would now show the iron hand. If they cowered beneath 
 it, all would be well. If they resisted, he would sweep 
 
BAFFLED AGAIN 361 
 
 them off the face of the earth; and come safe back to civ- 
 ilisation. He knew the law and its intricacies. He was 
 sure of success in either case. If he succeeded in extract- 
 ing their rents, well and good. He would rebuild Glen- 
 darragh, and live there in the pleasant summer time, when 
 the city became stuffy and disagreeable. He would keep 
 his yacht, and go around the coast at leisure, dipping here 
 and there into little harbour nooks, or lazily fishing for 
 nothing in particular, only to while away the long sum- 
 mer evenings, or the happy autumn afternoons. And he 
 would bring down his Club friends, just to show them 
 the aborigines, and to break their city hearts with visions 
 of such idyllic peace and languor. Only if Miriam! — 
 but that dream is passed. Let it pass! Life is nearly 
 full of such disappointments; but when the residue — 
 are there not glorious reprisals to be wrested from For- 
 tune, splendid reserves which the fickle jade dare not see 
 or touch? 
 
 He called on his agent — a solicitor living away far 
 down some alley which they still called a street. He found 
 him in his dingy office, with its dirty windows looking at 
 a blank, bare wall not three feet away; and its office fur- 
 niture of a few grimy desks, a bookcase, with its yellow, 
 calf-bound Law Books, a couple of high stools, and the 
 usual complement of lazy clerks. These brisked up and 
 drew themselves together, and looked attentive, as the 
 great man passed them; and then relapsed into idle con- 
 jectures about his visit, its purport, his history, etc. 
 
 "The old cock came out of that fight well," said 
 one. 
 
 "He had his comb badly broken," chimed in another. 
 
 "But why didn't he go against Greevy? Wasn't that 
 the fellow's name? " 
 
 "Didn't you hear? There was a girl in the case. 
 There always is, from the slicing and eating of an apple 
 to a railway strike and murder. And our friend is a pious 
 man. He does not like creating a scandal." 
 
 "These pious fellows are the devil incarnate* They 
 
362 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 can do anything and make it appear nothing. I think 
 I'll turn pious and godly myself." 
 
 "You'd be soon found out!" 
 
 "What matter if I can escape? Don't you remember 
 Uriah Heep?" 
 
 "He didn't escape!" 
 
 "Well then, Holthsworth?" 
 
 "Wait to see the end. 'Sh!" 
 
 The great man had come out from the dingy office. He 
 did not smile, but he said " Good-afternoon! " to the clerks. 
 He was not quite pleased with the interview. The lawyer, 
 knowing somewhat more of the country and its aborigines 
 than his client, recommended caution and compromise. 
 
 " You don't know these scoundrels," he said. " They'll 
 club together, and combine, and defeat you." 
 
 Defeat! The word was a blasphemy in Holthsworth's 
 ears. He threw back his head, and sniffed the battle 
 afar off. 
 
 "Defeat? There can be no question of defeat in the 
 matter. See! we have brought these strikers to their 
 knees here, although they were backed up by English 
 gold. , Surely it is easier to break up a combination of 
 illiterate peasants — " 
 
 "Ah! It is the illiteracy that makes them so danger- 
 ous," said the lawyer. "They have no imaginations; and 
 they cannot see beyond the day." 
 
 "How does that affect the matter?" asked Holthsworth. 
 
 "Don't you see that a people who cannot fancy the 
 future, or imagine the consequences of their rebellion, 
 must be hard to deal with. The soldier who 'thinks of 
 things' is a bad fighter." 
 
 "But, supposing that they can be made to 'think of 
 things'?" said Holthsworth. 
 
 "Then, that will alter the questioD!" said his adviser. 
 "But, you know, fighting comes after diplomacy. We'll 
 try all arts before the art of war." 
 
 "What do you propose, then?" said Holthsworth, 
 impatiently. He did not like these delays. 
 
BAFFLED AGAIN 363 
 
 "I'd advise you go down at once to that unnameable 
 place; get up a few Gaelic phrases; see the parish priest; 
 summon the tenants; boldly assert your proprietorship; 
 tell them Miss Lucas is gone, never to return; and that, 
 in any case, you, being legal guardian, are entitled to 
 sue for rents; demand full amount, all arrears to be paid 
 up promptly. They'll refuse. You hold out sternly. 
 Threaten eviction, etc. Parish priest intervenes. You 
 listen, sulkily. Then, in compliment to his Reverence, 
 and without prejudice, without prejudice, do you mind, you 
 consent to throw off a year's, or half-year's arrears. They 
 demur. You insist. They grow angry. You take your 
 hat to leave. Again, parish priest intervenes. You 
 cannot accept his Reverence's proposal. Mortgages, 
 rent-charges on the estate, etc. In fact, the rental not 
 at all equal to mortgages and annual charges! Meeting 
 threatens to break up. Parish priest again intervenes. 
 He is one of those men who ' think of things.' You demur. 
 It is not your own interest you seek but Miss Lucas's. 
 You have nothing to gain. And then, there are mort- 
 gagees, ladies of birth, reduced to extreme poverty, etc. 
 They are obstinate, smiling at your assertions with an 
 ignorant, incredulous smile. You invite them to make 
 an offer. You tell them that there are five and six years' 
 arrears accumulated. They make the offer — To pay 
 nothing, and get a clear receipt; and half rents in future. 
 The parish priest gets ashamed and loses temper, and tells 
 them they're a pack of d — d schemers. This improves 
 them. They offer half a year's rent down, if all arrears 
 are wiped out. They won't go beyond that — " 
 
 "But I will!" interrupted Holthsworth, in a temper. 
 "I'll sweep the whole vile brood into the sea!" 
 
 "That means trouble, expense, unpopularity," said 
 the lawyer, whose coolness was exasperating Holthsworth. 
 "And then — no man will take that land for ever; and — " 
 
 "Go on!" said Holthsworth, sternly. 
 
 "Well, you know, Mr. Holthsworth," said the man of 
 law, dropping his sarcasm., and taking a tone of genuine 
 
364 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 commiseration, "you are a wealthy man, and you don't 
 care. But Miss Lucas is poor. She has only that piece 
 of land and that house." 
 
 He wouldn't have said so much if he had read the gleam 
 of pride in Holthsworth's eyes. Why here was the very 
 thing he desired. 
 
 "You may leave Miss Lucas's interests in my hands," 
 he said. "I am her nearest relative, and her guardian, 
 and her father's agent. Trust me, I shall see that Miss 
 Lucas is not wronged by these hinds. They shall pay 
 her the last farthing, I swear it. But I shall accept your 
 advice. I'll go down and see the place again. But be 
 ready with those writs. They may be needful." 
 
 "Very good!" he said. "In whose name shall I issue 
 them? You know all!" 
 
 "Issue still in Miss Lucas's name," said Holthsworth, 
 sullenly. "The former demands were made in her name, 
 were they not?" 
 
 "Yes!" said the solicitor. "But go down. You will 
 learn many things that you can never know by letter." 
 
 "On second thoughts," said Holthsworth, "issue the 
 notices in my name. It will bring these fellows to their 
 senses sooner." 
 
 And he went down, having previously written the par- 
 ish priest to convene a meeting on such a day and at such 
 an hour. 
 
 It was unfortunate both for the tenantry and for Holths- 
 worth that the day when he visited Glendarragh was 
 one of those delicious days which, even in summer, do not 
 often favour our green isle, so fickle and uncertain is the 
 weather. As he drove along from the station his quick 
 eye took in at a glance the vast fields of waving corn — 
 wheat yellowing under the summer sun; fields of oats, 
 tossing their tasseled tops in the air, and the bearded and 
 fringed barley, with its bristles erect and rigid. The 
 potato-fields were more like flower gardens than vegetable 
 plots, so pretty were the white and pink blossoms, 
 
BAFFLED AGAIN 365 
 
 arranged, too, in alternate rows or drills, as if by design; 
 and the dark green of turnip and mangold contrasted with 
 the greys and yellows of haystacks, which seemed to have 
 grown from the meadows, where the fresh green grass 
 was already sprouting. Far above, the great dome of 
 azure was ringing with the song of larks; the merry rattle 
 of the hay-mower came from near and far-off, broken only 
 by the shriller music of corncrake or landrail, as they were 
 driven in to the ever narrowing square of the meadows 
 by the mower; and, once or twice, Holthsworth thought 
 he heard the mocking cry of the cuckoo, coming from the 
 left-hand side of the road — a presentiment of coming 
 evil, which, however, did not trouble his equanimity. 
 Then, on a sudden bend of the road, a vast triangle of the 
 deepest blue, with transverted base, seemed to be painted 
 across the pale azure of the sky; and Holthsworth felt, 
 with a certain legitimate pride, that all this was his, now 
 and for ever more. 
 
 He had so timed his visit that the tenantry were as- 
 sembled in the school-room of the village when he arrived. 
 He called, as a matter of courtesy, at the house of the 
 village pastor, was informed that he was down at the 
 school with his people, and he went directly thither. As 
 he passed Glendarragh House, "Desolation" seemed 
 to be marked across its fine frontage. He shuddered, 
 and turned aside. 
 
 He was received in solemn silence. The tenants, 
 numbering about fifty or sixty, were assembled in the rude 
 desks, where the children sat during school-hours. No 
 one rose when he entered, but the parish priest came for- 
 ward to greet him. A few words passed between them, 
 and Holthsworth stood up to speak. 
 
 He spoke fluently and freely, in a well-ordered and 
 temperate way, pointing out the fact that arrears extend- 
 ing over some years were due; that calls had to be met 
 on the revenues of the estate, that it was heavily mort- 
 gaged, etc. He appealed to their sense of justice and 
 the eternal fitness of things; and expressed a hope that 
 
366 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 all would now be well, and that there should arise no 
 necessity to have recourse to legal measures. 
 
 He sat down, confident that he had made a great im- 
 pression. The audience was as quiet as if they were in 
 church; and they appeared to listen, not only with atten- 
 tion, but with sympathy. Alas! how often has that 
 apparent meek acquiescence deceived more sagacious 
 thinkers than Holthsworth. 
 
 For, now, a little wizened old creature fumbled in his 
 breastr-pocket and drew out the frayed notice he had 
 received from the Dublin notary. 
 
 "This," he said, holding it up, "is a notice for rent. 
 It is signed Holthsworth, or issued in your name." 
 
 "Yes!" said Holthsworth, airily. 
 
 "Thin we take it, you are the raal owner of Glen- 
 darragh? " 
 
 " I am the legal trustee and representative of the land- 
 lords of the estate," he said. 
 
 "An' who may thim be?" asked the farmer. 
 
 "That's a matter of no consequence just now," said 
 Holthsworth. "I tell you I am legal trustee, and am 
 therefore empowered by law to press my claim for 
 rents." 
 
 "There must be some great saycret about the matther 
 entirely," said the farmer, "whin you won't tell us who 
 the owner is." 
 
 "My dear friend," said Holthsworth, soothingly, "you 
 have only to consider the legal aspects of the question. 
 So long as you are safeguarded from all responsibility, 
 what difference does it make to you who is the legal 
 owner? " 
 
 "Thrue for you!" said the farmer, turning around and 
 winking at his associates. "But the law in Ireland is a 
 mighty quare thing entirely; and shure it would be the 
 divil's own job if Miss Lucas turned up to-morrow or 
 next day and claimed our rents agin." 
 
 " I'll guarantee that Miss Lucas will do nothing of the 
 kind," said Holthsworth, whose temper was getting a 
 
BAFFLED AGAIN 367 
 
 little frayed in the combat. " If that is all you require to 
 soothe your conscience, it is easily settled." 
 
 "Begor, 'tisn't our conscience that's troubling us," 
 said the farmer. "If there wasn't somethin' else be- 
 sides our conscience, we'd have aisy minds enough." 
 
 "Wouldn't yer 'anner bring us a line or two from Miss 
 Lucas," said a wag, who knew, as only an Irish peasant 
 knows, all the intricacies of the situation, "to say that 
 we are to pay you, an' nobody else?" 
 
 "That's quite impossible, quite impossible," saidHolths- 
 worth, testily. " I tell you again that if you pay your rents, 
 I shall hold you quite immune from all further trouble." 
 
 "Where's the impossible?" said the farmer. "Sure 
 isn't Miss Lucas safe and sound in yer 'anner's house in 
 Dublin?" 
 
 "That's neither here nor there," said Holthsworth, 
 angrily. "There's no use in wasting time nor language 
 about the matter further. Will you pay your rents, or 
 will you not?" 
 
 "As for time," replied the farmer, with a long drawl 
 and an affected yawn, "sure there's no hurry at all, at 
 all. The evening is airly. An' as for language, sure 
 'tisn't often we haves the pleasure of convarsing with such 
 a civil gintleman, like yer 'anner." 
 
 Holthsworth was looking at the man in a puzzled way. 
 He couldn't make out whether the man was serious or 
 ironical. The faces of the others were as blank as that 
 of the Sphinx. Their only apprehension was that the 
 fun might terminate too soon; and they wanted to make 
 an evening of it. 
 
 Holthsworth turned around and whispered something 
 to the parish priest. The latter shook his head. 
 
 "Sure if it is the way ye wants to go to Confession to 
 his Riverence," said the first speaker, with a grin, "we'll 
 lave ye thegither. It wouldn't be right for us to be pres- 
 ent. But, from the way he shook his head, I'm afraid 
 his Riverence has put ye off." 1 
 
 1 Deferred absolution. 
 
368 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Here, for the first time, there was a loud roar of laughter. 
 
 Holthsworth took up his hat. 
 
 "Very good, my men," he said. "Perhaps you heard 
 the saying, 'He laughs best who laughs last!' You may 
 be laughing at the other side of the mouth when you see 
 me again. Good-evening!" 
 
 "Wisha, good-bye, and good luck, yer 'anner," said 
 another of the audience. "Sure we know what you mane 
 well. The next time you kem down, 'twill be to take up 
 Glendarragh, with Miss Miriam at your side, to lift the 
 'Curse.'" 
 
 Holthsworth scowled fiercely at the speaker, and strode 
 from the room. 
 
 The meeting was over much sooner than he expected, 
 or they desired. He was to dine at the rectory at seven 
 o'clock, and there were three hours yet to that time. He 
 went down to the beach to think over matters, and smooth 
 his ruffled plumage before dinner. 
 
 The tide was in, and there was a fuller swell and heavier 
 waves on the beach than was to be expected on such a 
 glorious and placid afternoon. He sat on the sea-wall, 
 thinking; but after a little while, his impetuous spirit, 
 excited by the events of the afternoon, became impatient 
 of such quiet indolence, and the sea was tempting. He 
 thought he should like to feel by anticipation the delights 
 of yachting in those halcyon days that lay before him 
 like a dream. He made inquiries, and strolled leisurely 
 over to Dave Ahern's cottage. The old men were smok- 
 ing or sleeping over the fire. Declan was mending nets. 
 All started at the apparition of the strange gentleman, 
 as his form blocked up the half door and hid the sunlight. 
 
 "Can I have a boat for a couple of hours?" he asked 
 peremptorily. 
 
 "Av coorse ye can, yer 'anner," said old Dave Ahem, 
 rising and removing the short clay pipe from his mouth. 
 
 "How much an hour?" Holthsworth asked. 
 
 "Wisha, we'll lave that to yer 'anner/' said the old 
 man in the usual Celtic formula, 
 
BAFFLED AGAIN 369 
 
 "No! No!" said Holthsworth, "that won't do! I 
 don't do business in that fashion." 
 
 "Well, as yer 'anner is so pertickler," said Dave Ahern, 
 "would you consider a couple of shillings an hour too 
 much?" 
 
 "All right," said Holthsworth. "I want a man to 
 row, you know — a strong man. This, your son?" 
 
 "Tis, yer 'anner," said the old man. "Drap thimnets, 
 Deck, and git out the oars." 
 
 The boy obeyed, apparently in a surly manner. 
 
 "By the way," said Holthsworth, "I had a young girl 
 from this place in my service in Dublin — Carroll — 
 Anstie Carroll. Do you know anything of her?" 
 
 "That's her father!" said Dave Ahern, casting an 
 anxious glance at his son. 
 
 "Oh!" said Holthsworth, "and have you heard of your 
 daughter lately?" 
 
 He addressed old James Carroll, who had risen wear- 
 ily from his sugan chair near the fire. 
 
 "Nothing!" said the old man. "Nothin' at all, sence 
 she wint across the says. May God reward thim that 
 put an evil hand on my child!" 
 
 "Well, you know," said Holthsworth, "the girl was a 
 little giddy and frivolous. She put her eyes on a young 
 groom of mine — " 
 
 "I think Deck is ready, yer 'anner," said Dave Ahern, 
 interrupting. "I'll go down and lend a hand in launch- 
 ing the boat." 
 
 Silent, but revolving dreadful things in his diseased 
 mind, the boy went forward, the oars slung on his strong 
 shoulders, and the rudder with its ropes in one hand. 
 Silent, he raised the boat from its sand-bed, and with his 
 father's help, pushed it forward into the tide. There he 
 held it, whilst his father and Holthsworth clambered in. 
 He then took the bow oar, so that his father being between 
 himself and Holthsworth, he could well observe the latter. 
 
 They pulled straight to sea, across the glittering band 
 
370 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 of sunlight that lay upon the calm waters. Holthsworth 
 gave himself up to a reverie. He dreamed of his yacht, 
 of its white, tall sails, a cloud of radiance against the sky, 
 of its red pennant fluttering in the ■mind, of the strong, 
 steeled keel leaning over and cutting the waves, and toss- 
 ing the furrows right and left as they swept behind her 
 rudder. And he thought if Miriam were there, the queen 
 of this little paradise, leaning back there on the luxurious 
 deck, her little hand toying with the hissing sea — 
 
 "How long since Miss Lucas left this place?" he sud- 
 denly asked. 
 
 "I suppose it must be three or four years," said Dave 
 Ahern. 
 
 "And do you think she'll come back?" he asked. 
 
 "Sure she must, yer 'anner," was the answer, "to lift 
 the 'Curse.'" 
 
 "Then you good people believe in that dreary old leg- 
 end?" Holthsworth said. 
 
 " Some do and some don't," was the reply. 
 
 When they had been out half an hour or so, Holthsworth 
 looked at his watch, and expressed his desire to return. 
 The men promptly turned the boat around and pulled 
 for home. 
 
 The long line of rock-bound coast was now before them, 
 broken only by the little bay in which the village nestled. 
 The white houses of the latter and the long sea-wall made 
 a pretty break on the green of the fields and the browns 
 and reds of the cliffs. And, far up along the village, the 
 broad front of Glendarragh seemed to shine in the evening 
 sun, no traces of its decay and dilapidation being visible 
 from the sea. Holthsworth watched it long and earnestly. 
 Yes! it was a pretty place — a little rural paradise, far 
 away from the tumult and noise, the dust and the fcetor 
 of cities. 
 
 He lightly jumped ashore, paid the fisherman, and drew 
 the boy aside. 
 
 "You're a silent lad," he said, slipping some coin into 
 the boy's rough palm. " J w^nt you to do me a favour." 
 
BAFFLED AGAIN ' 371 
 
 Declan held down his head. 
 
 "Can you write?" said Holthsworth. 
 
 "A little," said Deck, sullenly. 
 
 "Well, what I want you to do is this. Miss Lucas, 
 and possibly Anstie Carroll, the girl you know of whom I 
 spoke in the house, may return here — one or both. I 
 have some interest in them, and what I want you to do is 
 this: The moment either reaches the village, you will 
 write to me — I'll leave you my address — and simply 
 say on a postcard, 'Arrived!' That is all. Stay! I'll 
 do the thing myself!" 
 
 He took out a bundle of postcards, selected one, wrote 
 the few words hastily, and handed it to Deck. 
 
 "You need write nothing now," he said. "Just post 
 that. That's all! You understand?" 
 
 "Yes, I understand," said the boy. "But, as 'tis doing 
 a service to Anstie and Miss Lucas you are, I won't take 
 money for thim!" 
 
 He handed back the coin. He knew he had a dreadful 
 idea in his mind; but it should not be polluted by the 
 touch of money. 
 
 "Very good!" said Holthsworth. "But I'll make it 
 up for you. You won't forget?" 
 
 "Never fear," said the boy. "There are some things 
 that can never be forgotten." 
 
 And utterly oblivious or ignorant of the boy's meaning, 
 Holthsworth proceeded gaily to the parsonage. 
 
 A few days later the Dispensary Committee met in 
 the little hovel where the poor came for medical help, 
 and drugs were dispensed for their relief. Although 
 the parish priest, who was chairman, demurred a little 
 to the proposal that a Protestant should be elected to 
 a district almost exclusively Catholic, his protest was 
 official, and but half-hearted. Hugh Ireton was unani- 
 mously elected, and, as he returned thanks, he begged 
 a few weeks' respite, until he was able to get a house, 
 and other things. The Committee gravely winked at 
 each other, and granted the permission without the 
 
372 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 slightest objection. One old fellow demanded in fierce 
 tones of zeal for the public welfare, whether he would 
 get a competent substitute. This Ireton guaranteed for 
 the whole time of his absence; and the Committee winked 
 again. 
 
XXXVIII 
 In Blackwell 
 
 How easy is the descent to Hell, how few pause and 
 linger on the smooth slope that leads thereunto; how strong 
 must be the hands and how commanding the voice that 
 will stay the downward rush to destruction; and how 
 rare the charity that will risk the trouble of doing so, we 
 know well. In the great majority of cases there seems 
 to be no possibility of remedy, until the soul touches the 
 last, dread circle, from which, alone, there seems a pos- 
 sibility of emergence. 
 
 Poor little Anstie, the freckled village belle, was no 
 exception. It was easy to foresee where the fickle and 
 frail butterfly would break its wings and flutter and fall. 
 It had no love for base things; but it was flung amongst 
 them almost involuntarily, and was powerless to reas- 
 sert itself and rise. 
 
 The very night that she had helped Miriam to escape 
 from that horrid den, she was smitten with such fearful 
 remorse that her reason was about to give way. The 
 vision of that noble and lovable woman, whom the vil- 
 lagers used to compare to the Mother of God for her beauty 
 and goodness and dignity, in such terrific and perilous 
 surroundings, was such a shock to the feelings of the 
 wretched girl, that she passed from hysteric fit to fit dur- 
 ing that long and awful night; and wept, cried, prayed 
 for deliverance from the dread environments. It was 
 the majestic and holy figure of Chastity suddenly appear- 
 ing amongst loathsome demons, and awakening the slum- 
 bering,, but not extinguished instincts of the poor girl 
 to a sane and rational estimate of her degraded condition. 
 The very idea, horrible as it was, that Miriam could be 
 
374 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 entrapped into such a dreadful life, shocked the soul of 
 the girl into virtue. But could she help herself now? 
 Had she got the fatal impetus that could only cease with 
 her ultimate destruction? 
 
 She had been flung out incontinently immediately after 
 Miriam's flight; had struggled sadly against temptation; 
 had fallen, risen; fallen again; and at last found herself, 
 as if in a haven of refuge, in the largest female peniten- 
 tiary, just across the river, in New York. Hard as was 
 the discipline, and unpleasant the associations, she felt 
 a sense of home comfort and safety there; and then, she 
 made up her mind, that, cost what it might to her pride, 
 she would instantly on her release make for her village 
 home in Ireland, and at least try to die in the friendship 
 of God. 
 
 She was soon placed in the infirmary of the prison; 
 and, as she was well-conducted and amenable to disci- 
 pline, she got special charge of an old, refractory inmate, 
 an hahituee of the prison, named " Auntie Jennie." Auntie 
 Jennie seemed to have passed her life alternately between 
 the street and the gaol. She was now very aged and in- 
 firm, half-palsied from years and drink, generally passive 
 rather than resigned under her misfortunes; but some- 
 times fiercely aggressive and ill-tempered under provo- 
 cation. Yet the remains of ancient beauty and gentle 
 breeding were discernible in her pallid face and large grey 
 eyes; and in certain little daintinesses of manner that 
 were quite unknown amongst the other inmates of the gaol. 
 She had fine hands, and her long, tapering fingers, unsoiled 
 by labour, and neither parched nor withered by time, 
 seemed to give her perpetual occupation in keeping them 
 fair and clean and beautiful. She spoke but seldom, 
 and then with deliberation and with a gentle accent that 
 had not been picked up in the American land. But, that 
 gentle accent gave way whenever Auntie Jennie was 
 driven into a passion, which, alas! was often enough. 
 
 A certain confidence sprang up between the woman and 
 Anstie under unpropitious circumstances. The girl had 
 
IN BLACKWELL 375 
 
 had sleepless nights on the streets of the mighty city, 
 and her first night in the infirmary was broken by the 
 repeated coughs and moans of the old invalid. In the 
 grey dawn of a winter's morn, Anstie woke up from a 
 fitful slumber, her nerves on edge after a sleepless night; 
 and she turned over restlessly muttering a half -suppressed: 
 
 "Damn you!" 
 
 The woman arose, lifting herself feebly on her elbows, 
 and casting a look of intense disgust and scorn and anger 
 at the girl, she uttered an oath so dreadful that the latter 
 woke up to a perfect consciousness of horror and amaze- 
 ment. And, not yet content, the wretched woman con- 
 tinued to pour out such a torrent of vituperation against 
 Anstie, that the latter at last got up, and proceeded to 
 dress, muttering: — 
 
 "Mother of God in Heaven! how did I deserve this?" 
 
 "How dare you speak of God's Mother, you! and in 
 such a place?" said Jennie. 
 
 But the ejaculation seemed to soften the anger of the 
 wretched woman; and when Anstie was fully dressed 
 she heard the peremptory command: — 
 
 "Come here!" 
 
 Humbled and broken-hearted, the poor girl obeyed 
 the command, and came over to the bedside. 
 
 "Where did ye get that?" said Aunt Jennie, pointing 
 to the scapular around the girl's neck, and then fingering 
 it reverently. 
 
 The girl muttered something. 
 
 "Did you dare wear that when you sinned against 
 God and His Mother? " the old woman asked. 
 
 The girl hung her head. 
 
 "Weren't you afraid it would strangle you, and send 
 you soul to Hell?" persisted the old woman. 
 
 "I promised the priest never to leave it off till I died," 
 wept the girl. 
 
 "It has saved you," said Auntie Jennie, with some 
 tenderness. "Come here, girl, after breakfast. The 
 doctor will allow you. I want to speak to you." 
 
376 \ MIRIAM LUCAS '. 
 
 That was a memorable conference, for it seemed to 
 have lightened the horror of their lives. They came to 
 share some great secret which seemed to knit them 
 closely together. From that day, Auntie Jennie became 
 gentle and amenable; Anstie laboured with all earnest- 
 ness and by uniform good conduct to remit as much of 
 her sentence as she could. 
 
 Both were eager to get away from prison, for both had 
 a supreme object now before them, on whose attainment 
 their own happiness and that of others depended. A few 
 times Auntie Jennie, whose eagerness alarmed the prison 
 doctor, lest she should collapse from a diseased heart, 
 made some special entreaty to Anstie; but the girl, look- 
 ing around the prison ward, the prison clothes, the grated 
 window, shuddered and said: — 
 
 "No I No! Have patience. It would never do." 
 
 At last the day of Anstie's release arrived. Auntie 
 Jennie seemed to have grown younger by twenty years. 
 She was more careful than ever about her toilette, espe- 
 cially about her hands. She gave instruction after in- 
 struction to the young girl; then bade her good-bye, 
 after placing in her hands a packet, which had been 
 hitherto locked in the Governor's safe. 
 
 "Into her own hands, my dear," she said, in a quaver- 
 ing voice. "Into her own hands, only! Keep it till you 
 see her. Trust it to no one else! And tell her — " 
 
 Here she paused, and looked around her in a question- 
 ing manner. 
 
 "No — my God! it would never do," she said, lying 
 back on her pillows. "It would kill me and kill her." 
 
 Then, as if animated by some sudden hope, she said: — 
 
 "Tell me again what she is like. And tell me as if 
 your soul's salvation depended upon it. What was she 
 like as a child?" 
 
 "She was tall for her age," said Anstie. "She was 
 very white and pale, but she was never sick. She had 
 big eyes like— like yours, Ma'am; and the people used 
 to say that she could look at the sun." 
 
IN BLACKWELL 377 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes," said the old woman, impatiently, "I can 
 see it all. But, when she grew up, what was she like?" 
 
 She had asked the question a hundred times for the 
 three or four weeks that had elapsed since she became 
 acquainted with the girl. But she seemed to be never 
 tired of conjuring up the picture. 
 
 "She was taller and thinner," replied Anstie, "but so 
 lovely that we used to say, it would be the Blessed Virgin 
 Mary, only that she was a Protestant. Oh, Ma'am, 
 lave me go and find her for you." 
 
 "No, no, girl!" said the old woman, fiercely. "She 
 would cast me off. She would despise me." 
 
 "Oh, no, Ma'am," wept the girl, "you don't know Miss 
 Miriam. Why, the fool, Coppal, used to follow her like 
 a dog." 
 
 "Then she would take me to her, and nurse me in my 
 old age, and, perhaps we could go back to Glendarragh 
 together, and remain together for evermore. Did you 
 say that Mr. Lucas had never been found? " 
 
 "Never, Ma'am. He was blown over the cliff, and his 
 body was washed out to say, and he'll never come back — 
 never!" 
 
 "And Holthsworth — the evil genius of my life — did 
 you say the devil had him too?" 
 
 "So 'twas said, Ma'am, that he was kilt in a row in 
 Dublin." 
 
 "Then all's right. Now go, my good girl, and find Mir- 
 iam out, and let me know. But, on your soul, never hint 
 that you saw me here! Keep our little plan known only 
 to ourselves. Will you swear that you never knew me 
 in gaol?" 
 
 "I will, Ma'am!" 
 
 "And that I am a lady, by birth and education, and in 
 manner." 
 
 "I will, Ma'am!" 
 
 "And no matter how eager she may be; and if she is 
 my child she will be eager enough, she's not to see me 
 except as a lady?" 
 
378 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "All right, Ma'am!" 
 
 "Then swear all that. Kiss your scapular!" 
 
 And Anstie registered her oath on her scapular. 
 
 But again the craving in the mother's heart to see her 
 child seemed to supersede every legitimate feeling of 
 pride. 
 
 "I must see her! I must see her!" she cried, passion- 
 ately. "My God, if I were to die without seeing her! 
 And the doctor says my heart is weak and may snap at 
 any moment! Tell me, girl — you know my child — you 
 say you know her! Would she not cast me off, and despise 
 me, and scorn me if she saw me here?" 
 
 "Oh, no, Ma'am, she wouldn't," Anstie repeated for 
 the hundredth time. "I know Miss Miriam well; and she 
 would come to you, and take you with her, and nurse you, 
 and close your eyes when you came to die." 
 
 "Then, girl, I must see her here! And at once, mind 
 you, at once! I can't run the risk of never seeing my 
 child again. Go and bring Miriam hither, and may — 
 God — bless — you ! " 
 
 But before the girl could say her last Good-bye! to the 
 wretched woman, the latter again changed; and, dreading 
 the shock which the revelation of her extreme wretched- 
 ness would give her child, she finally determined that 
 Anstie should seek out Miriam, deliver the packet, assure 
 Miriam of her mother's well-being and happiness, and 
 promise that she should yet see the mother she had been 
 seeking in vain and for so long a time. 
 
 Full of the idea of doing one good act in her life, and 
 bringing happiness to one who had been her beloved mis- 
 tress, Anstie left the prison gates early one winter's morn- 
 ing, and sped, as rapidly as she could to the quay-stand, 
 where she knew the cabman would be found who had 
 driven Miriam to her lodgings that memorable night 
 of her escape. She had to linger and wait about the quay 
 the whole day, watching the boats coming and going to 
 the slip, chatting with the cabmen, some of whom were 
 rude, some sympathetic with the wretched girl. It was 
 
IN BLACKWELL 379 
 
 only when the pale wintry sun was sinking down beneath 
 the horizon, and leaving his last pink reflections on roof 
 and church-spire, that the cabman returned, and not only 
 gave Anstie Miriam's address, but, as it was in a distant 
 part of the city, offered to drive her thither. The girl 
 eagerly accepted. 
 
 "Third flat, first door to the right!" said the porter at 
 the door. "But I don't think Miss Lucas is at home." 
 
 Nevertheless Anstie bounded up the stairs, and on 
 reaching Miriam's apartments, she found a small boy 
 coiled up at the door just as she had seen Coppal in the 
 old house at Glendarragh. 
 
 "Is Miss Lucas in?" cried the girl in her excitement. 
 
 "Na," said the boy. "She ain't. What do youse 
 want Miss Lucas fer?" 
 
 "That's nothing to you," said Anstie. "I want to 
 see Miss Lucas at once." 
 
 "P'raps," said the boy, "ef youse had a forty-foot 
 tellerscope, and ef you could see in the dark like a cat, 
 youse might see Miss Lucas. But, ez it is — " 
 
 "Look here, sonny," said Anstie, diplomatically, "do 
 you care for Miss Lucas?" 
 
 "Care for Miss Lucas?" echoed the boy. "That's 
 not the word. She hippernotised me with her eyes, and 
 I sees nothin', nothin' but her, night and day." 
 
 "Well, shake up, sonny, and shake off the thing; and 
 tell me where she is. I have a most important message 
 for her." 
 
 "Then I'm afraid you can't deliver it," said the boy, 
 "except through the sounder." 
 
 "What sounder?" said the girl. 
 
 "The telleraphone!" said the boy. " Ef I don't mis- 
 take Miss Lucas has left this land of freedom for the ould 
 land, as me gran'mudder sez." 
 
 "Gone back to Ireland!" said Anstie, in amazement. 
 
 "Yaas! Gone back to Hoireland; and left behind her a 
 widder an' a horfan." 
 
 At first, paralysed by the idea, and seeing the utter 
 
380 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 hopelessness of carrying out her promise to Auntie Jennie, 
 Anstie was in despair. Then, a sudden gleam of hope 
 lit up her face, as she saw the chance offered her of carry- 
 ing out her commission, and reaching her own home 
 again. She at once determined that this was a chance 
 not to be lost. But alas! how was she, a poor, penniless 
 waif, to find the means of securing a passage homewards? 
 She had a vague notion that her ticket would cost at least 
 five guineas; and how were five guineas to be procured? 
 There was only one way; and she at once determined to 
 adopt it. But she wished to make sure that this was to 
 be no wild goose chase. 
 
 "Listen, boy," she said, sitting down on the step with 
 the street-waif. "You and me are about quits, I guess 
 in one way. But we both have a feel for Miss Lucas. 
 Now, look here, Miss Lucas has been seeking her mother 
 ever since she came to New York — " 
 
 "I knows dat," said the boy. "Tell me somethink 
 new." 
 
 "Well, I have found her mother," continued Anstie, 
 "and I want to bring them together again. Besides, I 
 have an important packet for Miss Lucas, which must 
 be given into no hands but hers. Now, it is clear that if 
 Miss Lucas is gone back to Ireland, I must follow her — " 
 
 "Then, why doncher?" said the boy. 
 
 "You little blackguard," said Anstie, in a passion, 
 "you know right well what I mean. I don't want to make 
 a fool of myself in following Miss Lucas where she isn't. 
 Once more, where is Miss Lucas? Where has she gone?" 
 
 "I tould youse all I knows," said the boy. "Ef youse 
 won't believe me, go and arsk old Hawkeye at the Cen- 
 tral." 
 
 There were many reasons why Anstie should not 
 approach Hawkeye. So she contented herself with asking 
 once more: — 
 
 "I don't want any Hawkeye. Do you say that Miss 
 Lucas is gone to Ireland?" 
 
 "I does/' said the boy, "an' what's more — " 
 
IN BLACKWELL 381 
 
 "Do you swear it?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, yaas, ef coorse, youse a Commissioner fer taking 
 Affy Davys. Where is the book?" sneered the boy. 
 
 "Say 'pon my sowl!" said Anstie. 
 
 "Na!" said the boy. "I have no sowl!" 
 
 "Then say, 'pon my mother's sowl," said Anstie. 
 
 "Na!" said the boy. 
 
 "Why won't you say 'pon my mother's sowl?" said 
 Anstie. "You're lying to me about Miss Lucas." 
 
 "I ain't, dang you, I ain't!" said the boy. 
 
 "Then, why don't you swear?" said Anstie. 
 
 "Because," whimpered the boy, "I has no mudder." 
 
 "Poor little beggar!" she said, putting a coin into his 
 dirty hand. "We're pretty like each other there!" 
 
 But she believed him. 
 
XXXIX 
 
 Absolved 
 
 There remained, therefore, only one thing to be done, 
 namely, to get back to Ireland as speedily as possible, 
 to see Miss Miriam, deliver her packet, and do everything 
 in her power to bring together those who had been yearn- 
 ing for each other for so many years. But five pounds! 
 Where was she to get five pounds? She pondered over 
 many a plan, which she no sooner formed, than she dis- 
 missed as foolish and impracticable. At last, pressed 
 onward by her anxiety to meet her young mistress, she 
 decided on what she regarded as a desperate thing. 
 
 Trembling all over with anxiety and apprehension, she 
 pulled the day-bell at a certain presbytery not far from 
 Fifth Avenue, and asked to see one of the priests. She 
 was ushered into a room by a trim servant, whose bright, 
 cheery face she envied, thinking, thinking, with the swift- 
 ness of shame, that she, too, might have been thus. The 
 girl was Irish, fresh from the old land, with the roses of 
 Ireland still on her cheeks. She was about the same age 
 with Anstie; but oh! the girl thought, what a gulf, what a 
 chaos between them! That girl in all the sweetness and 
 freshness of her innocence, ignorant of vice, knowing only 
 the simple and holy things of far off mountain-homes or 
 sea-cabins, like her own, over which seagulls screamed, 
 and in whose thatch sea-swallows built; and she, with 
 all the terrible and loathsome knowledge that comes from 
 the experience of sin. She lowered her eyes before those 
 of the little servant, and crept as on a broken wing, into 
 the parlour of the presbytery. 
 
 It was a bad preparation for the still more serious ordeal 
 of meeting a priest. She had not spoken to one since 
 
ABSOLVED 383 
 
 she had left Ireland. She had even been estranged from 
 them for some time previous, because that tender and filial 
 confidence that subsists between the priest and the inno- 
 cent members of his flock vanishes the moment the sheep 
 strays from the paths of virtue, and hate and fear very 
 often come to take its place. Anstie had not reached 
 that awful depth when a Catholic begins to hate and loathe 
 the very name of priest, because symbolical of the virtue 
 it has abandoned for ever. But a great dread of every- 
 thing supernatural possessed her soul; and here was the 
 embodiment of the supernatural standing now before her. 
 He was a man grown grey in the service of the Church, 
 and he had long ago lost that comprehensive charity that 
 looks without suspicion on the mendicant. He had 
 learned this cold prudence by experience, whilst the flame 
 of practical benevolence was not extinguished. He looked 
 the girl all over, muttered a slight H'm, and said: — 
 
 'Well?" 
 
 It was not spoken harshly, but in a business-like manner; 
 yet it blanched the cheek of the girl, and she held her 
 hands locked piteously and tremblingly before him. She 
 knew that he had read the book of her life. She could 
 not open her lips; but continued staring wildly at the 
 priest. Then he guessed at once that there was no decep- 
 tion there; and his voice took a milder tone. 
 
 "Sit down," he said, taldng a seat also, but averting 
 his face, "and let me know what you want. You are 
 not a member of our congregation?" 
 
 "N-no!" said the girl, hesitatingly. 
 
 Could this man ever believe her story, she thought? 
 She decided that it was impossible. 
 
 "Father," she said, faintly, "I shouldn't have come. 
 Let me go away!" 
 
 If she had pleaded in the most eloquent tones for pity, 
 she could not have succeeded better. 
 
 "No, no, my child," he cried at once, and looking 
 straight at her, "that won't do. You came here for a 
 purpose. Let me know it!" 
 
384 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "You won't believe me story when I tell you," said 
 Anstie. "And you can't help me. Let me go!' 
 
 "Oh, just as you please," he said rising. "But, at 
 any rate, as you have come hither, let me know who you 
 are; and what you intend doing!" 
 
 She stopped for a moment, moistened her dry lips, and 
 stammered: — 
 
 "lama fallen girl. I want to go back to Ireland — 
 to save my soul." 
 
 "And you came here for money?" he said, sternly. 
 "My good girl, don't you know that hundreds, like you, 
 come here for their passages home. The Bank of New 
 York wouldn't stand all these applications. I can do 
 nothing for you." 
 
 He turned to open the door for the girl; but something 
 in her wistful looks stayed his hand. 
 
 "You have given up your wicked life? What has 
 changed you, because your class" — how the dreadful 
 words cut Anstie like a knife — "seldom repent but on 
 their deathbeds." 
 
 She took some time to gather her words together. Then 
 she said: — 
 
 "'Twas the Mother of God, and Miss Miriam!" 
 
 "And who may Miss Miriam be?" he said, yielding to 
 some curiosity, and letting go the door-handle. 
 
 "She was my mistress in Ireland," said Anstie, "she 
 come over here to see if she could find her mother." 
 
 "Well?" said the priest, somewhat interested now. 
 
 "She advertised in the papers," continued the girl, "and 
 was trapped into a — a den. I was sent to see her and 
 drag her into sin. But it saved my sowl. I rescued Miss 
 Miriam, and was flung out on the streets myself." 
 
 "And what became of her?" said the priest. 
 
 "She wint back to Ireland," said Anstie, "just whin 
 I had found her mother in gaol." 
 
 "Then you were in gaol?" queried the priest. 
 
 "I was," she said. "And there I found Miss Miriam's 
 mother." 
 
ABSOLVED 385 
 
 "And it was just too late?" said the priest. 
 
 "It was," replied Anstie. "When I was let out, I 
 made my way to Miss Miriam's lodgings and found she 
 had just left, and gone back to Ireland." 
 
 "And you wish to follow her?" said the priest. 
 
 "Yes," said Anstie, but before the stern face that looked 
 at hers, her heart fell again. 
 
 "You are not a good hand at deception," said the 
 priest. "I have heard better made-up stories than' 
 that!" 
 
 "Then you don't believe me, Fa — Father?" she stam- 
 mered. The old familiar appellation seemed to choke her. 
 
 "Certainly not," he replied. "Who could believe 
 such a story as that? I meet impostors, like you, every 
 day!" 
 
 At another time, Anstie's furious temper would have 
 blazed up in defiance at the imputation. But she had 
 been terribly humbled; and, besides, she felt she had a 
 mission before her now. 
 
 "You should have left me go, when I asked you," she 
 said. "As you don't believe me word, lave me go now." 
 
 "Certainly," he said, opening the door for her. 
 
 She had gone out on the steps, when a sudden thought 
 seemed to strike her. She came back, and again con- 
 fronted the priest who had not left the hall. 
 
 "You're a hard man," she said, "an' if you wor to offer 
 me now all the money you have, I wouldn't tetch a cent 
 of it. But to show you I'm not a Hard nor an impostor, 
 look at that!" 
 
 She had fumbled in her breast, and drawn out a parch- 
 ment, neatly tied and sewn together. It was marked on 
 the back: Deed of Assignment from Jane Lucas, ne'e Holths- 
 worth, to her daughter, Miriam Lucas. Date and solic- 
 itor's name followed. 
 
 The priest took it carelessly, glanced his eye over it 
 and waited. 
 
 "I have sworn on my scaffler," said Anstie, "to deliver 
 that to Miss Miriam." 
 
386 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "It looks genuine," said the priest. "Wait!" 
 
 He went upstairs, and presently returned, with a roll 
 of greenbacks. 
 
 "I have been taken in so often," he said sternly, "by 
 your class, Irish girls coming over here to find their Hell — 
 why, in God's name, don't your Bishops and Priests block 
 that fatal river-mouth at Queenstown? — that I am dis- 
 posed to be always suspicious. Here, however — " 
 
 "I said I wouldn't tetch a cent of your money," said 
 Anstie, interrupting, "an' I'll keep my word." 
 
 The girl's attitude seemed to create a sentiment of 
 respect for her in the priest's mind. 
 
 "Very good!" he said, rolling up the notes. "But, if 
 you want to go to Ireland, I'll send you." 
 
 "I'll take no money from you," she said. 
 
 "If I get your passage ticket for you, will you go?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She hesitated, looking down at the floor, and with a 
 blush of shame and pride on her face. 
 
 "I don't want to be behoulden to you," she said, "but 
 I must see Miss Miriam, and — " 
 
 "Yes! there is no other way," he cried. "I'll purchase 
 your ticket. Be at the landing-stage on next Friday 
 morning; and I shall have all arranged with the agents." 
 
 She was turning away without even thanking him, 
 when he said: — 
 
 "You are not going to venture on the high seas without 
 making your peace with God, I suppose?" 
 
 She seemed to hesitate; but he said peremptorily: — 
 
 "Go straight to confession, girl, this very day, this hour." 
 
 "Where can I go?" she asked, wonderingly. 
 
 "Straight into the church," he said. "I shall send one 
 of the priests to you in half an hour." 
 
 "I can't," she said, pleadingly, the tears standing in 
 her eyes. " Tis years since I bent a knee to a priest." 
 
 "So much the more reason for going now," he said. 
 "You dare not go out to sea, and run the risk of being 
 lost in your present state." 
 
ABSOLVED 387 
 
 "God help me, I can't," she stammered. "Tis aisier 
 to be drownded than to tell any wan what I am, and have 
 been!" 
 
 "Nonsense, child," he said, gently taking her by the 
 hand. "Come now, I know all. You shall have no 
 trouble with me." 
 
 Two minutes ago, she almost hated and feared him. 
 Now, she followed him like a child. 
 
 Half an hour after, a young girl trod the pavements of 
 the great city with a step as light as a fawn's; for had she 
 not made her peace with God, and recovered her lost 
 innocence; and was she not about to say good-bye! and for 
 ever to the gas-lit, wicked, turbulent city, and to see 
 once more the green fields and the glorious seas, and the 
 ever changing, cloud-canopied, benignant skies of her 
 native land? 
 
XL 
 
 A New Heaven and a New Earth 
 
 When Miriam returned from Chicago, bringing with 
 her a portfolio of sketches taken from life, and written 
 not only for a literary, but a humanitarian purpose, she 
 had already convinced herself that for this hopelessly 
 diseased world there was no remedy within the range of 
 her knowledge, no specific for an incurable and inerad- 
 icable malady. She felt that hitherto she had been a 
 pathologist, not a physician; and she knew how easy it is 
 to discern and point out the woes of humanity, whilst 
 powerless to relieve or remove them. It was rather a 
 cheap thing, she thought — this business of for ever prob- 
 ing and searching into hidden and hideous things. It 
 was no great achievement to be able from personal obser- 
 vation to repeat the woes of Ecclesiastes. As to the 
 other question — how far a woman, a girl, could carry 
 the Atlantean load of human sorrow on her shoulders 
 — she had now definitely made up her mind. It was no 
 work for a frail woman. It needed a Reformer, a Revo- 
 lutionist, a Redeemer; and where was he to be found? 
 
 She went straight to the office of her paper, proffered 
 her sketches to the editor, watched him casting his hasty, 
 professional glance over them, nod approvingly. Then 
 she said: — 
 
 "This is the last of my work, at least of such work, 
 Mr. Calloway. To be candid, I am thoroughly sick of it, 
 and must seek to do something else." 
 
 "I am very sorry, Miss Lucas," he said, urbanely, 
 "and would ask you to reconsider that decision. These 
 sketches have already caught on; and more are looked 
 for. You are not pleased with the remuneration we have 
 offered you?" 
 
A NEW HEAVEN AND A NEW EARTH 389 
 
 " Tis not that," said Miriam, at once. " I am ashamed 
 to have to write such things at all for money. And I 
 cannot see what the public admire in them. Are they 
 not painful and harrowing subjects?" 
 
 " Precisely. It is because they are painful and harrow- 
 ing the public appreciate them. When you paint vice 
 in all its sombre colours, the Pharisee thinks and feels he 
 has a most admirable reason for his beautiful prayer: 
 'I thank God I am not like the rest of men'; and when 
 you paint misery and destitution, the man who picks his 
 teeth after dinner, is very happy for his own immunity. 
 When you draw with your graphic pen, a cancer case in a 
 public hospital, the healthy woman shrugs her shoulders, 
 and wonders why women should have cancers; and when 
 you paint rags, my lady hugs her furs and silks, that is, 
 if she can do so without crumpling them. You see then, 
 of what an amount of pleasure your rash resolution is 
 depriving the world. But, que voulezf " he cried, swinging 
 around on his office stool, and writing rapidly. "This 
 is your cheque, Miss Lucas! Should you reconsider your 
 determination, you know where to find me!" 
 
 "Thanks very much for all your kindness," said 
 Miriam. "But I suppose this would be of no use to 
 you?" 
 
 She handed him a carefully written manuscript of about 
 five thousand words. 
 
 He took it leisurely, smiled at the title, ran his eyes over 
 the contents, and shook his head. 
 
 "I fear not," he said musingly. "A New Heaven and 
 a New Earth," he continued, reading aloud the title. 
 '"Twould never do for my readers, Miss Lucas. They 
 don't want any such thing. They are mostly of the class 
 whose lines in life are cast in pleasant places. They don't 
 want anything, but to be let alone, and to enjoy their own 
 prosperity and — the misery of the multitudes. This 
 earth is enough for them. And as for Heaven — " 
 
 The good man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "But I'll tell you what I shall do. I have a friend, a 
 
390 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 dreamer of dreams, who sees sunsets, and 'the light that 
 never was,' etc., etc., and with your permission I'll send 
 the paper to him. He has a magazine of his own, full of 
 all kinds of precocities, and mayhap, he'll accept it. Does 
 it please you? " 
 
 "Yes!" said Miriam, rising up. "I want to see it in 
 print, even if no eye but my own should read it." 
 
 "And you will remember that you are to come back to 
 us, when you repent," said the editor. 
 
 "You are very kind," said Miriam. 
 
 She went at once to her rooms. Coyote was on the 
 step that led to the landing, asleep. She gently stirred 
 him. He rubbed his eyes, and woke up. 
 
 "Oh, youse come back, are youse?" he said, sleepily. 
 
 "I am," said Miriam. "I hope you have been a good 
 lad in my absence? " 
 
 "I has," said the boy. "I thot youse had gone away 
 for good; and would never come back." 
 
 "Oh! You did. And, of course, you were pleased 
 to think I should never return?" 
 
 But the boy began to howl piteously. 
 
 "There, there," said Miriam, soothingly. " I suppose 
 no one called in my absence? " 
 
 But the boy howled more piteously than ever. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she said. "You've been get- 
 ting into trouble again, I suppose?" 
 
 " I hasn't," he said, and then began to weep and mumble 
 again. 
 
 "There was wan of thim Maryannes wanted you," he 
 said, at length. 
 
 "And what did she want? and what are Maryannes?" 
 asked Miriam. 
 
 "She wanted nothin'," said the boy. "She said she 
 wanted to see you, and thin she wint away." 
 
 And Miriam, unconscious of the grave facts underly- 
 ing the boy's untruthfulness, dismissed the matter from 
 her mind. 
 
A NEW HEAVEN AND A NEW EARTH 391 
 
 Next morning, she set out to interview the editor of 
 the magazine, in which she hoped to see her Gospel to the 
 Gentiles, her proclamation of a "New Heaven and a New 
 Earth." 
 
 She found him in his private residence not far from a 
 Carmelite Church, and down near the quays. Unlike 
 most business men, whom Miriam had hitherto met, he 
 was of advanced age, and very much more of the type of 
 professional men in England and Ireland, than those of 
 the same grade and standing in America. He had very 
 gentle manners; and as he motioned Miriam to a seat, 
 she felt that this might be the spirit that understood hers. 
 
 He continued gazing at her for a few seconds, not in 
 any rude manner, but in a kind, sympathetic way, as if 
 he wished to know whether her workmanship, which 
 lay before him, was the output of a literary drudge, or 
 the inspiration of a fresh and superior mind. At last, 
 taking up the manuscript, he said: — 
 
 "This paper, my dear Miss Lucas, from a business stand- 
 point is worth absolutely nothing." 
 
 Miriam's face fell. She had not expected this. 
 
 He waited a little. 
 
 "I mean," he said, "that it is not the kind of paper 
 that would run the next edition of our magazine into the 
 hundred thousand." 
 
 "I expected to hear something like this," said Miriam. 
 True! But her hopes overruled her judgment. 
 
 "The public, that is the reading public," the editor 
 went on, "does not want a new heaven or a new earth. 
 The public is quite content with things as they are. The 
 world is a vale of tears; but people don't want to leave 
 the vale, so far as I can see. And Heaven is a beautiful 
 place. But people don't want to go to Heaven." 
 
 " I understand — the fear of death," said Miriam. 
 
 "No! Not even that," he replied. "But if you could 
 bring Heaven down on earth, you would hardly be thanked 
 by the multitude. The world is more satisfied with itself 
 than you think." 
 
392 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Satisfied!" said Miriam, in a tone of surprise and hor- 
 ror. "How can men be satisfied with the existing condi- 
 tion of things? Why it seems to me that every day, 
 every hour, reveals horror after horror in this Inferno!" 
 
 "Ah me!" said the editor, turning aside. In a few 
 moments, after a glance at the manuscript, he said 
 gently: — 
 
 "I have hurt you by saying that from a business stand- 
 point this paper is valueless. Allow me to make repara- 
 tion by saying, that from a literary standpoint it is of 
 superlative excellence?" 
 
 Miriam bowed her head gently. 
 
 "But," said the editor, placing his hand on the broad 
 sheets before him, "do you believe it all?" 
 
 It was now Miriam's turn; and she said, with all the 
 emphasis of a great faith: — 
 
 "Most certainly!" 
 
 Then she added, as the good man was looking inquir- 
 ingly at her : — 
 
 "It is so much a matter of faith and principle with me, 
 that should you be pleased to print it, I shall ask for no 
 remuneration!" 
 
 "You must allow me to have something to say in that 
 matter," said the editor. "But you have brought back 
 my youth again. 'Blessed are they that have not seen, 
 and have believed!'" 
 
 He seemed sunk in thought for a long time, his face 
 buried in his hands. Then, as if speaking to himself, 
 and not regarding Miriam's presence, he said: — 
 
 "How long have I been an infidel? Let me see — ten 
 — fifteen — twenty years! And now, this girl has con- 
 verted me again; has brought back my old faith in a new 
 humanity. Dear God, how I cherished the idea! How 
 I rejoiced over it! How I dreamed of it! How often 
 poor George and I debated it and built up our cloud- 
 towers, wrought by the ghostly hands of faith and enthu- 
 siasm! And I abandoned it: I became traitor! And now 
 out of the mouth of babes and sucklings the Lord rebukes 
 
A NEW HEAVEN AND A NEW EARTH 393 
 
 me! Is it too late? Can I roll back from the book of 
 eternity these twenty years; and begin once more?" 
 
 He bowed his head more deeply on his hands, and re- 
 mained thus a long time. 
 
 Then, as if becoming suddenly conscious of Miriam's 
 presence, he said meekly: — 
 
 "You will leave me this paper, Miss Lucas; and you 
 shall see it in print. The other matters we shall decide 
 again!" 
 
 He rose abruptly from his chair, and walked towards 
 the door. Miriam rose also and accompanied him. He 
 paused a moment, and running his eyes over Miriam's 
 face and figure he said tenderly: — 
 
 "God has made you very beautiful, child, in soul and 
 body. You make men mindful of the Eternal Beauty. 
 Yes! Yes! you are quite right. There is some great 
 principle of goodness and loveliness hiding somewhere 
 from us. It is souls, like yours, that prove it and reveal 
 it. We can only seek it blindly." 
 
 Softened by the good man's words, and conscious of a 
 fresh glow of enthusiasm, Miriam left the house, and 
 found herself immediately in front of a large Church, to 
 which an eager congregation was streaming. So far as 
 she could judge, the crowd consisted of very poor working 
 people, mostly foreigners, as she judged by their dress 
 and eagerness, and by the soft liquid salutations in Ital- 
 ian which they addressed to each other. The greater 
 part of them were not prepossessing. They were old men 
 and women, clad picturesquely enough, but not in the 
 smooth and perfect habiliments that belong to the edu- 
 cated classes. Nevertheless, as Miriam had thrown in 
 her lot with the masses, she never shrank from contact 
 with them; and their little ways, from which the more fas- 
 tidious would naturally shrink, seemed to have nothing 
 revolting to her taste or imagination. 
 
 She entered the Church with them. It was a morning 
 service held during an eight days' Retreat; and it was, 
 therefore, designedly short and simple. Miriam took 
 
394 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 a seat vacated for her by some young girl, who saw at 
 once that she was a stranger in the Father's House; and 
 during the Mass that was being celebrated at the High 
 Altar when she entered, she was engaged partly in trying 
 to save her dress from the contamination of the floor, 
 which, alas! was not scrupulously clean, and partly in 
 watching the eager and passionate gestures of the people, 
 especially at the Elevation and the subsequent prayers. 
 
 Just before Mass concluded, a young priest, dressed in 
 a brown habit, clasped by a white rope, from which a 
 brown Rosary hung, entered the pulpit; and when the 
 celebrant left the Altar, he held his hand aloft, and said 
 in a solemn tone: — 
 
 "Listen!" 
 
 Instantly, there was a deep hush on the vast multi- 
 tude, and after a pause that seemed to intensify the silence, 
 he went on: — 
 
 " I am not going to preach to you a sermon. I am going 
 to read for you the words of the Prince of Preachers. 
 Listen! Mark them well! Let each word sink into your 
 hearts, and inflame them with the fire which He came on 
 earth to enkindle! 
 
 "Little children, yet a little while I am with you. A new 
 commandment I give unto you: That you love one another, 
 as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By 
 this shaU all men know you are my disciples if you have 
 love one for another." 
 
 "If you love me, keep my commandments." 
 
 "I will not leave you orphans. I will come to you." 
 
 "If any one love me, he will keep my word, and my Father 
 will love him, and we will come to him, and make our abode 
 with him." 
 
 "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as 
 the world giveth, do I give unto you. Let not your heart 
 be troubled, nor let it be afraid." 
 
 "Abide in me; and I in you!" 
 
 "As the Father hath loved me, I also have loved you. 
 Abide in my love." 
 
A NEW HEAVEN AND A NEW EARTH 395 
 
 " This is my commandment that you love one another, as 
 I have loved you." 
 
 "Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down 
 his life for his friends." 
 
 "This is eternal life, that they may know thee, the only 
 true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent." 
 
 "I pray for them. I pray not for the world, but for them 
 thou hast given me, because they are thine." 
 
 " They are not of the world; and I also am not of the world." 
 
 "Sanctify them in truth. Thy word is truth." 
 
 "And not for them only do I pray; but for them also, who 
 through their word shall believe in me. That they all may be 
 one, as thou, Father, in me, and I in thee, that they also may 
 be one in us, and that the world may believe that thou hast 
 sent me." 
 
 "And the glory which thou hast given to me, I have given 
 to them, that they may be one, as we also are one." 
 
 "I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made 
 perfect in one; and the world may know that thou hast 
 sent me, and hast loved them, as thou also hast loved 
 
 "I shall add nothing to this," continued the preacher, 
 "but to say, that herein is contained not only the secret 
 of eternal life, but the secret of human happiness, the wel- 
 fare of the race. Certain would-be reformers and phi- 
 lanthropists have from the first days of Christianity sought 
 to improve on these words of Eternal Wisdom, and have 
 failed. Today, too, certain doctrinaires, well-meaning, 
 perhaps, dream of a new world, built on cloud-castles of 
 benevolence and well-doing. In vain! Eternal Wisdom 
 hath spoken, and men cannot improve on its teaching. 
 Love one another! Shrink not from vice, or poverty or 
 shame! Love one another. If you are weary, seek some- 
 one more weary, and pillow that head on your bosom! 
 If you are poor, seek some one poorer, and share with him 
 your crust! If you are sick, seek out some one more 
 afflicted; and, in consoling him, strengthen yourself I 
 
396 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 If you are in sin, rescue the sinner, and you make your 
 peace with God ! Despise no one ! Remember the legend 
 of Christ and his tender reverence for even the dead 
 dog, whom his disciples loathed. 'Yea! what beautiful 
 teeth he hath!' Love one another: hence alone cometh 
 the Vision of the Seer — 'There shall be a new heaven 
 and a new earth!'" 
 
 Miriam almost leaped from her seat at the words; and 
 with a heart bursting from emotion, she followed the 
 crowd into the street. 
 
XLI 
 
 Found 
 
 When Miriam left the Carmelite Church, she did not 
 follow the crowd back through the thoroughfares of the 
 city; but to hide her emotion, and to get a little leisure for 
 thinking, she turned aside into a quiet street that seemed 
 to lead down to the river. It was deserted, and its deep 
 silence led her further and further down, until she inhaled 
 the odours of the sea, and stood watching the waters 
 which lapped against the quays at her feet. There was 
 a ferry-slip here; but just now, no boat swung with the 
 tide; and Miriam, engrossed with her reflections, stood 
 gazing down at the deep, black waters, whilst the eyes of 
 her soul were turned inward over surging ideas and emo- 
 tions that had been raised, as a mountain tam is raised, 
 by a feeble breath. Every word of the preacher came 
 back, with all their sweet, sad significance. She knew 
 they were the farewell words of Christ to his disciples, 
 on that memorable evening, when he was about to go forth 
 to his agony. She saw the equinoctial sun setting in the 
 west behind the hills of Moab; and the sudden darkness 
 coming down over the city, and entering the supper- 
 chamber, and flooding it as if to shroud the Divine Figure 
 and to veil the tender Face, so that only the sweet accents 
 of Love and Sorrow could be heard. She placed herself 
 in imagination in that dim sanctuary of sorrow; and al- 
 lowed each word, repeated by a faithful memory, to smite 
 and sink into her soul and be absorbed there. For "it 
 was night." Far away the palace of Herod was shown by 
 the lights that twinkled here and there in its walls; the 
 temple fires across the valley were burning faint and red 
 against the night; the sounds of the city were dropping 
 
398 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 off, one by one, swallowed up in the great silence; and, 
 only the voice of Kedron, musical in the dusk and dra- 
 pery of the night-folds, came up — a voice of Nature, 
 beating time, as from the beginning, with the voice of 
 God. And out of the darkness, and across the noisy cen- 
 turies, Miriam heard the mysterious accents that spoke 
 not to a few illiterate fishermen only, and a taxgatherer 
 up from the city-marts; but to that vast aggregate of 
 beings, passion-rent, turbulent, and troubled, that are 
 gathered together on the surface of the earth, under the 
 generic title of humanity. It was to these that Jesus 
 spoke from the supper-chamber. This was his last leg- 
 acy to his race — the final word, that was to solve all 
 human riddles, reconcile all spiritual antagonisms, supply 
 the defects in human economics — the gospel of the 
 learned, the philosophy of the poor, the religion of all if 
 "they wish to be His disciples." 
 
 How simple and how sublime it all appeared to the 
 mind of this girl, which had been agitated for so many 
 years in trying to sound the depths of human woes, and 
 to devise a final remedy. How empty now sounded the 
 old familiar scientific phrases — labour, capital, industry, 
 unearned increments, grafts, monopolies, trusts, wages, 
 dividends, investments, economics, pluralities, and all 
 the vast verbiage of mart and factory, of stock-exchange 
 and cattle-yard, of railways and steamboats, with which 
 men, cozening their reason, and cheating themselves, 
 seek to hide the mighty issues that will come surging up, 
 clamorous for settlement, which no human legislation can 
 effect! She saw suffering and revolt, government and 
 cruelty, avarice with its illicit gains protected by law, 
 robbery and violence and disaffection stamped out by law; 
 and she saw that the terrible internecine struggle has no 
 end, can have no end, because if it break into the orgies of 
 revolution, it only leaves the struggling masses spent and 
 sickened for a generation; and the successful classes para- 
 lysed with terror, or frantic in the hysterics of revenge. 
 And she saw generation rise up after generation, fighting, 
 
FOUND 399 
 
 dying, and forgotten, leaving behind them their watch- 
 words and handing down their standards to reel through 
 the smoke and flame of another battle; and all the time 
 here is the Truce of God, the Charter of Everlasting 
 Peace: — 
 
 "A new commandment I give unto you, that you love 
 one another as I have loved you." 
 
 And then came back the preacher's" comment: — 
 
 "Look not upwards but with reverence; look not before 
 you but with esteem; but look beneath you to rescue and 
 to love!" 
 
 She woke up from her reverie to hear the plash of oars 
 in the distance, and looking across the dark waters, she 
 saw a large ferry-boat leaving the precincts of Blackwell 
 Island and coming towards her. It was apparently 
 crowded, for she saw the two oarsmen straining violently, 
 and the gunwale of the boat seemed to rise but a few inches 
 from the water. And, presently, she heard hoarse voices 
 of women raising snatches of some street-song, or shouting 
 at each other, whilst peals of laughter seemed to rise in 
 applause of some jest more vile than another. Miriam 
 was about to leave the pier, when the curious passion for 
 studying the lower elements of society that had made 
 her so successful a journalist, restrained her; and she 
 leaned against the strong iron pillar around which in 
 rough weather the ropes of the ferry-boat were fastened. 
 She was speedily seen by the occupants of the boat, and 
 rude, obscene jests were flung at her — at her beauty, 
 at her dress, at her aristocratic bearing, until the prow of 
 the boat struck the ferry-steps, and one specimen after 
 another of degraded womanhood, in youth and age, 
 struggled to get on shore, and swore and cursed and struck, 
 as if the boat were about to capsize. There was hardly a 
 face whereon vice had not left its hideous scar — bold, 
 fearless, defiant faces, seamed by passion, or discoloured 
 by animal vices. One was beautiful, as of a fallen arch- 
 angel, with great large, lustrous eyes, through which there 
 shot a baleful fire, and a pallid complexion, through which, 
 
400 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 when she came near, were seen the little red threads of 
 veins that denoted early dissipation. She came over 
 leisurely to where Miriam was standing, as if to insult 
 her; but something in the attitude of Miriam seemed to 
 touch her; and she went back to the boat to help out the 
 last of the discharged prisoners, an old woman, haggard 
 and pale, her grey locks hanging down in elfin dis- 
 order on her face and neck. She was cursing with mar- 
 vellous volubility her younger companions, who had so 
 lightly left her, and was being helped feebly over the 
 thwarts of the boat by the ferry-men — a lump of rags, of 
 shrivelled humanity, of degraded and dishonoured old age. 
 
 When she had been helped on to the lower step of the 
 slip, she turned around, and stooping down, she dipped 
 her soiled hands in the tide, and washed and wiped them 
 carefully; and Miriam saw, with some amazement, that 
 they were singularly white hands and small and carefully 
 kept from wrinkles or soilure. Impatient at the delay, 
 the young girl who had proffered her assistance went away, 
 and one of the ferry-men playfully shouted: — 
 
 "Now, Auntie Jenny, old girl, you must be quick. 
 Passengers will be coming on, I guess, and we must keep 
 the slip free!" 
 
 She answered him with an oath; but he helped her up 
 the steps and on to the pavement. 
 
 "I guess she'll be here again soon," he said to his mate. 
 "I suppose she'll die in the jug." 
 
 And she seemed like it. She tottered along, dragging 
 her old, tattered shawl and trailing it after her in the mire, 
 until exhausted she sat down on the kerbstone, and began 
 to arrange her wisps of grey hair. 
 
 Miriam had been watching the whole proceedings in- 
 tently, but with a sad and sorrowful heart. She thought 
 she had never seen anything so repulsive before in all her 
 experience; and the words almost broke from her lips: — 
 
 "Can it be that Christ died for such as these?" But 
 immediately she dismissed the question as almost blas- 
 phemous, for the words came back; — 
 
FOUND 401 
 
 "Yea, what beautiful teeth!" 
 
 She choked down her repugnance, and went over to 
 where the old woman was sitting. They were alone in 
 the deserted street. The ferrymen were in their boat, 
 and invisible. There was no eye but the eye of the "High 
 and Holy One, who inhabiteth Eternity" to witness the 
 meeting of daughter and mother. 
 
 She stood over the wretched figure for a moment, hesi- 
 tating, doubting, wondering what she should do. The 
 old woman had not heard the light footfall behind her, 
 and was watching her hands, and muttering: — 
 
 "I guess I must have a half of malt first somewhere." 
 
 She was fumbling in the pocket of her dress for a coin, 
 when Miriam's hand rested on her shoulder, and the 
 woman looked up in surprise. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, glancing furiously at Miriam. "You 
 want to nag me again, do you?" 
 
 "Come with me!" said Miriam, very kindly, with a 
 slight tone of peremptoriness in her voice. 
 
 "Come with you?" repeated Auntie Jennie. "I guess 
 not, my bird of Paradise. I'm on the right side of the 
 law, I guess, as yet." 
 
 "I am not arresting you," said Miriam. "I see you 
 are old and feeble. I have a home. I want you to come 
 with me." 
 
 " Eh? Oh, you are one of these Salvation Army lasses, 
 that sings and prays. No! I've had enough of praying 
 over there in the jug." 
 
 "You won't come?" pleaded Miriam. "I am alone. 
 I have a fairly comfortable home to offer you. You are 
 old and feeble. I will see after your wants and nurse you 
 back to health." 
 
 "I guess you're after something else, my lass," said the 
 old woman. "You may be one of Pinkerton's women 
 now. But, what do you want with a poor, feeble, old 
 drunkard? I've done no other crime?" 
 
 "You quite mistake," said Miriam, feeling herself by 
 some invisible but irresistible power drawn close to this. 
 
402 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 sad creature. "I simply want to help. Do come with 
 me!" 
 
 "Well, then, if you want to help, just give me half a 
 dollar to buy a pint of malt. There's nothing else I need 
 so much. You see, my lass, prayer isn't in it with the 
 hard stuff." 
 
 And she turned away, coiling her grey old locks around 
 her white fingers. 
 
 Miriam, pained, disappointed, and disgusted, was 
 about to relinquish her purpose when the old woman 
 seemed to relent. 
 
 "Here, my lass," she said, "give us a hand. Who 
 knows, my bonnie lass, but I've found a good thing at 
 last?" 
 
 "Then you'll come with me?" said Miriam. 
 
 " Yaas. I guess I will. Just to see your diggings, you 
 know. After that, I can decide. Are you willing?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Miriam, beginning to feel that the first 
 steps in the redemption of a soul were not so easy as she 
 had supposed. She drew the old woman's arms in hers, 
 and walked slowly along, helping the tottering steps, 
 the old woman hobbling by her side, and muttering: — 
 
 "Well! here's a guy!" 
 
 When, however, they reached the open thoroughfare, 
 their progress became more difficult. For Auntie Jennie 
 was a well-known character in the city; and, as one after 
 another of the city gamins came by, he stopped to express 
 his opinions about the old street-drunkard and her novel 
 companion. It became so remarkable and so humiliating 
 in the end, that Miriam hailed a cab, and drove rapidly 
 with her burden to her residence. 
 
 The old woman, worn by prison life and discipline, and 
 the sad experiences she had passed through, had to be 
 helped upstairs by the strong arms of Miriam; she 
 had hardly reached the rooms in the flat, when she utterly 
 collapsed. In the hour of utmost depression and misery 
 a sudden change took place. Her manner became mild; 
 for her mind began to wander afar, 
 
FOUND 403 
 
 Lying on the bed in the room next to Miriam's, she 
 commenced to babble of old times and places; and strange 
 expressions came to her lips which seemed to show that 
 in some remote, far-off time she had moved in very high 
 circles. And always in the intervals of delirium, she 
 would watch her hands, and fold them together, and then 
 again call up reminiscences that seemed to have grown 
 pale and faded long ago; but now came back under some 
 strange action of the brain, vivid and clear as when the 
 events themselves had occurred. And, once or twice, 
 she uttered a name and an expression that made Mir- 
 iam turn pale, and clasp her hand beneath her heart to 
 still its beatings. 
 
 As the day advanced, Miriam summoned a physician. 
 He promptly declared that the life of Auntie Jennie hung 
 by a thread. 
 
 "Her heart is hopelessly diseased," he said, "and might 
 snap at any moment." He recommended Miriam to 
 send for a clergyman, who promptly came. 
 
 His services were brief; and, as he folded his stole and 
 ritual together, he came into Miriam's room and said: 
 
 "You are a relative, I presume, of Auntie Jennie's?" 
 
 He knew the old woman well. 
 
 "No!" said Miriam. "I simply picked her up from 
 the streets this morning. She had just been dismissed 
 from Blackwell Penitentiary." 
 
 " Her career of sin and sorrow is about to end," he said. 
 "But she has some things troubling her mind, especially 
 a paper, which she gave a young girl in the penitentiary 
 to be handed to her daughter. She hasn't spoken of it 
 to you?" 
 
 "No!" said Miriam. "She has been quite incoherent 
 in her language since she came hither; and I didn't care 
 to interrogate her!" 
 
 "There appears to be no remedy, then, for the matter," 
 said the priest. " But God will bless you for your extraor- 
 dinary kindness to the wretched woman. 1 When the 
 end comes, can you send me a messenger? I shall relieve 
 
404 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 you, through one of our charitable societies, from any 
 further burden in relation to her." 
 
 Miriam promised to send Coyote. 
 
 "Oh, and you have made the acquaintance of that 
 street-waif too," he said. "Very good! I shall make 
 everything easy for you." 
 
 He was turning away when he suddenly remembered 
 that he did not know her name. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, "may I ask your name and 
 address?" 
 
 "Miriam Lucas," she said, adding the number of her 
 rooms. 
 
 "Strange!" he cried, taking out his notebook and writ- 
 ing. " You said — I mean — it is a coincidence that 
 Auntie Jennie, as we know her, is also Lucas! Her name 
 is Jane Holthsworth Lucas, and I think she must have 
 been an Irish lady of some position." 
 
 His head was bent low over his notebook, else he would 
 have seen the girl trembling from head to foot. She was 
 summoning up every energy of soul and body to meet 
 her greatest trial. Yet, with tremendous self-possession, 
 she bowed the priest from the room, and then flung her- 
 self into a chair, to catch at the silence in which alone she 
 felt she could have strength to face the problem. The 
 woman was moaning in the next room; the cars were rum- 
 bling in the street. But Miriam heard nothing, only the 
 heavy beating of her own heart, and the throbbing of the 
 veins in her temples. 
 
 After a long time, and a good deal of deliberation, the 
 final issue of which was, that she was nursing an illusion 
 — a weak fear caused by the very dread and horror of 
 the possibility of such a revelation, and that she should 
 promptly dismiss the horrible thought, she rose up, and 
 entered Auntie Jennie's room. The old woman was 
 propped up by pillows, and looked as if she were free from 
 pain; but, in the waning light, Miriam saw the dark 
 purple of congestion gathered upon lips and cheeks, and 
 the changed colour in her eyes. She was pulling at the 
 
FOUND 405 
 
 counterpane, picking up strands and threads of cotton 
 and dropping them to contemplate her hands. She 
 coughed a little, and, when Miriam woke up her slumber- 
 ing attention, it was evident, as is so often the case of the 
 dying, that the whole of her recent life with all its acces- 
 sories and circumstances, had been blotted out, and that 
 in memory she was again the young girl, the happy wife, 
 the exultant mother; and then the tried and persecuted, 
 and at length, the fallen woman. 
 
 "Let me help you now to take a drink, a mere sip of 
 milk," said Miriam, lifting up the pillows, so that the 
 invalid might drink. 
 
 "Ah! thanks," she cried, leaning back on the pillows 
 refreshed, yet weakened by the exertion. "You are 
 kind. But my heart is weak now. Edwin — you knew 
 Edwin Lucas — he was my husband — used to say: 
 'Jennie, Jennie, you are too excitable. Some day you'll 
 bring on heart-trouble.' And then, when Myrrha, Mir- 
 iam, my darling babe was born — it was worse. Because 
 how could I rest, rest, with such a child? Ah, Myrrha, 
 little Myrrha, what you cost me, with your wild, impetu- 
 ous ways! And that little stammer — I thought I could 
 have it cured! But no! You are crying, Madam, 
 why are you crying? Is it the dawn, or the night? " 
 
 For Miriam was now sobbing as if her heart would 
 break, as the dread revelation slowly unveiled itself be- 
 fore her; and every allusion riveted the conviction that in 
 this abandoned and wicked woman, the street-drunkard, 
 the gaol-bird, she had found her long-sought mother. 
 And yet, even here was compensation. Death, the 
 Merciful, had rolled up the panorama of her degraded 
 life, and hidden it away from memory; and lo! the latter 
 drew up in vivid and beautiful colours the fresh and 
 beautiful dream of the morning of her life. 
 
 Miriam lit her candles; and turned up partly the gas- 
 jet near the bed. Then she went back to her own room, 
 and brought in her wraps. The night of a sleepless vigil 
 was before her. 
 
406 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Presently, however, Auntie Jennie fell into a troubled 
 sleep, during which the deep, stertorous breathing was 
 broken by snatches of words, as if they welled up from 
 some deep recesses of the past, athwart which had long been 
 rolled the tombstone of forgetfulness. Each word was, 
 to the vigilant sense of Miriam, a fresh revelation; and 
 unconsciously, but yet unerringly, she began to piece 
 together the broken fragments, as one would piece together 
 shreds of a letter hastily torn, but yet decipherable. And 
 when, in the deep hush of midnight, Auntie Jennie awoke, 
 looked around, asked for a drink, seemed conscious for a 
 moment, and then slid into a delirium again, Miriam was 
 able to gather so much from her ravings that the whole 
 story of her life grew up before her, and became rounded 
 into a hideous drama of persecution, suffering, sin and 
 sorrow. And then and there, too, Miriam, having seen 
 the whole, and examined it with a judicial mind, absolved 
 that poor, sinful mother now moving on to Eternity; 
 and even thanked Providence that she was made instru- 
 mental in soothing and succouring her in her last moments. 
 
 For now it was made clear to Miriam Lucas that that 
 mother was one of the large and unhappy class who have 
 been more sinned against than sinning; who have been 
 tried by injustice, and have sunk sadly beneath the trial. 
 The night wore on to the dawn; and, absorbed in the evo- 
 lution of the drama of her mother's life, Miriam Lucas 
 was unconscious of her own helplessness and loneliness. 
 
XLII 
 
 On the Wings of the Storm 
 
 It was only when the grey dawn stole in through the 
 one window of the apartment, and the gas-jet was extin- 
 guished, and the face of the dying woman was yellow 
 and purple under the cold day-light, that Miriam began 
 to feel her own terrible loneliness, here in the great city. 
 And, almost for the first time, her stern sense of self-reli- 
 ance began to give way; and she yearned for some strong 
 hand to hold her up, some friendly soul on whom her 
 woman's heart might lean. And she thought with a pang 
 of regret of Glendarragh and her loving, simple friends, 
 and then, the memory of Hugh Ireton came back, and his 
 tender solicitude, and his reverent care, and his manly 
 offer to help her whenever she needed it, and would call 
 upon him, without a hint or suggestion that he would 
 ask aught in return. But, these things were now afar 
 off across the immeasurable ocean; and here she was in 
 the great, bustling, rumbling city — alone with a crim- 
 inal and an invalid; alone, with the terrible revelation 
 that this criminal and invalid was her mother. Can there 
 be a deeper depth of sorrow or trial, she thought, than 
 that wherein she, who had so loved the stricken and sor- 
 rowful of her race, was now plunged? Or, is there some 
 awful mystery behind it all, which she was slowly unfold- 
 ing and unravelling? In her distress, she yearned for the 
 companionship of Coyote, the street-Waif; but she had 
 not seen him since yesterday, when he appeared so fright- 
 ened, and howled so piteously. And then another phase 
 of the mystery presented itself — the visit of this girl, of 
 whom Coyote spoke, and the allusion to the message or 
 packet which her mother must have given her. Yes, it 
 was all weird, and strange, and wonderful. 
 
40S MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 During the day Miriam watched, waited, and listened 
 for further revelations; but the ravings of the dying 
 woman were so incoherent, that she could gather little 
 from them, except that in some way she, was related to 
 Holthsworth; that the first trouble in her married life 
 arose from the fact that she had changed her religion; 
 that Miriam, in her earliest infancy, had been baptised 
 in her mother's faith; and that this led to a final breach 
 that had never been healed, but had issued in a separation 
 with disastrous results to both husband and wife. All 
 the petty details of the persecution to which she had been 
 subjected, both by her husband and Holthsworth, who had 
 him under complete control, seemed to come back to 
 the memory of the dying woman, who raved and rambled 
 and ever stopped her raving to ask a hundred times: 
 "Who are you?" Was it delirium, or the instinct of the 
 maternal heart, that prompted the question, which Mir- 
 iam, however, refused to answer, until far out in the day? 
 
 In the afternoon, the physician called again. He 
 barely expected to see his patient alive. 
 
 "She has had marvellous vitality," he said. "It is 
 strange how these poor criminals, who seem to despise 
 all health regulations, are able to defy disease and death 
 so long. According to all law, Auntie Jennie should have 
 died twentjj^years ago." 
 
 He examined her heart again, whilst the old woman 
 protested vigorously. 
 
 "I will not suggest the hospital again, Miss Lucas," he 
 said. "It is too late. She cannot possibly survive this 
 night. And the heavy, sultry atmosphere is oppressing 
 her, like the rest of us. We shall have a thunder-storm 
 in an hour!" 
 
 He injected strychnine in the arm; and it was pitiful 
 to see the smile of vanity that lit up the dying woman's 
 face, when he said: — 
 
 "She has beautiful hands, has she not?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Miriam simply. "She was evidently a 
 gentlewoman!" 
 
ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM 409 
 
 Auntie Jennie caught at the words; and her heart was 
 beating steadily, and her brain was clearing under the 
 influence of the drug. 
 
 "You are right," she said. "The Holthsworths of 
 Glendarragh held their heads high, even though the Curse 
 hung heavy over them. I am the last — the last — of 
 the race, unless Miriam — are you Miriam?" she suddenly 
 asked. 
 
 There was no reply. The physician looked at the 
 young girl, and then at the patient. 
 
 "It would be strange if Miriam — little Myrrha," 
 continued the old woman, "should come back to me at 
 last. Very strange! And yet — why?" she almost cried, 
 looking inquiringly from one to another. 
 
 "There," said the physician, soothingly. "I shall 
 send you a cooling draught. The hot air is stifling you." 
 
 "The hot air?" she said. "Am I then in Hell?" 
 
 Miriam shuddered The doctor said: — 
 
 "I think I must send you a nurse from the hospital 
 even for the few hours she has to live. You look worn 
 and tired." 
 
 But Miriam begged that he should not. She would 
 watch by her patient to the end. 
 
 "Very good!" said the physician. "At least," he 
 whispered, "when all is over, you must allow me to send 
 some of our people to perform the last offices." 
 
 "Yes! most certainly," said Miriam. "I shall gladly 
 avail of that offer." 
 
 When he departed, and Miriam again bent over her 
 patient, she was again met by the eager question: — 
 
 "Who are you? And why am I here?" 
 
 "You are here because I choose to nurse you," said 
 Miriam. "Now rest, dear, and — cannot you say some 
 prayers of your Church?" 
 
 " ' Your Church? ' " repeated the dying woman. " Then 
 you are not Miriam, my Miriam? She wouldn't have 
 spoken thus!" 
 
410 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "No matter!" said Miriam. "See! I shall pray with 
 you, if you like. Come! Let us say the 'Our Father' 
 together!" 
 
 And she repeated the holy words with the invalid. 
 
 "Say the 'Hail Mary' now," said her mother. "Or 
 better, take out your beads, and say the Rosary for me!" 
 
 "Alas! I cannot," said Miriam, weeping. "I was 
 never taught it." 
 
 "Ah, then! you are not Miriam, my little Miriam," 
 said her mother. "For I taught Myrrha all her dear 
 little Catholic prayers. Come, Myrrha, come! Now, 
 put your little hands together, and close your eyes. There ! 
 Say now after me: 'Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord 
 is with thee!' Go on, child! I fear, little one, you don't 
 love your prayers. You want your doll, or Ian to play 
 with. But, you must not play any more with Ian, dear- 
 est, because his mother hates Catholics. It is their reli- 
 gion, dear, to hate, to hate! Ha! You are crying: and 
 you are not Miriam!" 
 
 "But I am! I am!" cried the girl, in a paroxysm of 
 weeping. "I am Miriam — Miriam Lucas! and you are 
 my long-lost — Oh! my God! help me to say it! — you 
 are my mother!" 
 
 "Oh!" said the dying woman. "How strange! And 
 did you get my packet from Anstie Carroll? I gave it 
 to that girl for you. It was my will, my deed. I gave 
 you — but you are not Miriam Lucas! I gave Miriam 
 all my rights in Glendarragh! You know Holthsworth 
 wanted to defraud me of it; but he could not, he could 
 not. It was mine, mine; and I have given it to Miriam. 
 Who had a better right, I should like to know! Hark! 
 what is that?" 
 
 She had heard the first faint rumblings of the thunder 
 in the distance, and the blue, broad flashes were playing 
 athwart the window. 
 
 "It is that eternal roar of the city," she said, "and that 
 beastly electric light. Ah! for a sound of the sea beneath 
 the cliffs at Glendarragh!" 
 
ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM 411 
 
 Then the action of the drug on the heart ceased; and 
 the current of life running feebly through the brain, her 
 thoughts began to wander again. 
 
 "Holthsworth! He wanted me to marry him, and take 
 me away from Edwin. But no! no! And there was a 
 Curse! No child should ever be born there; and no song 
 of bird should ever be heard. And Edwin — someone 
 said he was dead. Not dead; oh no! unless Holthsworth 
 killed him. I'll go back, and take away the Curse. What 
 was it to them, if I became a Catholic? But Myrrha! 
 Well! was I going to allow my child to be damned and 
 unbaptised? It was all Holthsworth! He wanted Glen- 
 darragh. He wanted everything! 'What hands you 
 have, Jennie! They are whiter than unveined alabaster!' 
 Ah! but they struck him, struck him on the face, the 
 coward! Ha! Ha! A woman's little hand can do 
 strange things, I guess! But, where am I? And who 
 are you? There's that d — d electric flare again." 
 
 The deep-mouthed thunder rolled high above the city; 
 and the flashes played swift and blue across the sky. 
 
 "That's the roll of the sea," she said, "down there on 
 the beach. How hollow it sounds. I hope none of the 
 men are out tonight; or the Curse might fall. It is so 
 bad to be cursed, especially the curse of the sea. That's 
 awful! There's no curse, like the curse of the sea! Hark! 
 again, how the waves thunder on the beach! And that 
 light is their crests as they break! God grant that there 
 is no one out tonight!" 
 
 And Miriam was praying softly — praying in some 
 dumb, dim way, to some unseen and unknown Power, 
 who, she felt, held her destinies in Its Hand. It was all 
 so strange, so terrible. She looked at her watch. It 
 pointed to eleven o'clock. She remembered the doctor's 
 words: — 
 
 "She cannot possibly survive the night!" 
 
 She felt that she ought to pray for, and with, the invalid 
 in this supreme hour; but she knew not how. She leaned 
 over and said: — 
 
412 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "Who called? Who said 'Mother'?" cried the dying 
 woman. 
 
 "I — don't you know me — Miriam Lucas — your—" 
 she gasped at the word — "your daughter?" 
 
 "No! no!" said the dying woman. "That's impos- 
 sible! Oh! How I am suffocated! There is something 
 here filling up all my breast, I cannot breathe! But — 
 you — are — not — Miriam ! No ! " 
 
 She stopped to gather breath, for her poor, withered 
 chest was heaving pitifully, as she tried to gasp out her 
 words. 
 
 "Look!" she said. "You are good — and — kind 
 — and you — are — a lady. I want to tell you some- 
 thing! Miriam was here; but — she — is — gone — 
 home — home! She sought me everywhere; but — 
 how — could — she — find me — in this city? She's 
 gone home; but — hark! she'll — come back again; 
 and — we shall all — go home — together. There is 
 the — thunder of the surf again! What — does it — say? 
 The Curse — of Glendarragh! The Curse of Glen- 
 darragh!" 
 
 Quite exhausted and worn by the effort, she lay gasping 
 on her pillow, which Miriam gently raised, whilst she 
 moistened the dying lips with a little eau-de-Cologne. 
 
 The minutes slowly succeeded one another now, broken 
 only in their flight by the peals and reverberations of the 
 thunder; and the lightning flashes, now become vivid and 
 red as the storm grew in intensity. But Miriam had no 
 nerves now to be affrighted by the storm. She was face 
 to face with so terrible a drama, that the play of Nature 
 was unheeded, although the house seemed to rock to its 
 foundations. 
 
 A little after midnight, the final change came. Several 
 flashes of lightning in quick succession lighted up the 
 death-chamber, and seemed to quiver around the bed 
 of the dying woman. And then peal after peal of thunder 
 
ON THE WINGS OP THE STORM 413 
 
 rocked the house, and shook the windows, and then 
 grumbled away far down the sky. And on the echo of 
 the last peal of thunder, the soul of Auntie Jennie seemed 
 to go out, as she muttered: — 
 
 "The Curse of Glendarragh! The Curse of Glen- 
 darragh!" 
 
 And Miriam Lucas sat still there in the darkness and 
 the midnight, pondering on Fate and Destiny, and the 
 ways of mortals in this world; and thinking how strange 
 and tragic was her own life, and how different from the 
 ordinary lot of womanhood; and wondering how a life, 
 cast in such untoward circumstances was likely to end. 
 
 In the morning, hospital nurses were at the door, accord- 
 ing to the doctor's promise; and swiftly and deftly they 
 took the arrangements of Death from the hands of the 
 stricken girl; and early in the day, a priest called from the 
 neighbouring church, to carry out the promise made by 
 his confrere that the Purgatorian Society of the Parish 
 would assume all further responsibility about the obse- 
 quies of the dead. 
 
 This priest, advanced in years, and brusque in man- 
 ner, after announcing his intention to relieve Miriam from 
 all further responsibility, suddenly asked her: — 
 
 "Might I ask if you are acquainted with a girl named 
 Carroll?" 
 
 Miriam said yes! that the girl had been her servant in 
 Ireland; and that she had met her here. 
 
 "She is now on her way to Ireland, if she has not already 
 reached it," said the priest. "She had a packet for you, 
 which I saw. It was a deed duly executed by your mother, 
 and transferring some property to you. She showed it 
 to me, because I was somewhat incredulous about her 
 history as she narrated it!" 
 
 "Who could have told her that I had gone back to Ire- 
 land?" asked Miriam. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," said the priest. " But I should 
 say — I presume you are a Roman Catholic, Miss Lucas? " 
 
414 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "I don't know," said Miriam. "My mother," she 
 pointed to the dead woman, "has plainly said, that I was 
 baptised in that faith. In fact, it has been the cause of 
 her misery and sin. But I have been brought up without 
 religion — except the religion of Christ!" 
 
 "Oh, well, that is Catholicity!" said the priest. 
 
 "I'm not sure," said Miriam. "I know nothing of 
 creeds. But it was the words of Christ spoken by one of 
 your priests, that led me to the place where I met my 
 mother. I had been separated from her in childhood, and 
 had been seeking for her since I came to know aught of 
 her history." 
 
 " You cannot regret having met her thus? " he said. 
 
 "Oh, no! no," said Miriam. "It was not what I ex- 
 pected; but, perhaps, it was best." 
 
 "I knew Auntie Jennie well," he said. "She was 
 more sinned against than sinning. But alas! That is 
 no excuse. It is so true of all. It is a world of hate!" 
 
 "But the message that I heard, and the message that 
 led me to my mother, was a message, nay, a command of 
 love. Why is not that command obeyed? " 
 
 "Because it would upset all ideas of modern civilisa- 
 tion," said the priest. " And everyone takes it for granted 
 that that must not be done. We mustn't go back, not 
 even to Christ!" 
 
 "I cannot understand," said Miriam, wearily. 
 
 "Nor can I," said the priest. Then, as if anxious to 
 avoid the subject, he added: — 
 
 "I take it that you leave all arrangements for interment 
 in our hands, Miss Lucas?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said. "I am utterly helpless." 
 
 He was going away, but suddenly recollected something. 
 
 "By the way, there's a young street waif over in the 
 hospital. He has pneumonia. How he got it, I cannot 
 conjecture. Weather has no effect on these half -naked 
 gamins. But he is calling for Miss Lucas; and the doc- 
 tor says he is feverish, as if he had something on his mind. 
 I wonder could you see him?" 
 
ON THE WINGS. OF THE STORM 415 
 
 "Certainly!" said Miriam. "I suppose it is Coyote. 
 May I leave everything here in your hands?" 
 
 "Certainly," he said. "The remains will be removed 
 to our Church in the evening. To-morrow, we shall 
 have Mass said; and the interment can take place in Cal- 
 vary, immediately after, or if you desire to postpone it." 
 
 She locked her rooms; and, having received directions 
 from the priest, she went straight to the hospital. 
 
XLIII 
 
 Anstie Carroll's Return 
 
 The same terrific storm, that had blown up from the 
 southwest on which the soul of Auntie Jennie had gone out 
 had swept away some old sashes and windows in the house 
 at Glendarragh; but otherwise, left it intact. Its massive 
 walls and heavy roof could resist a fiercer impact. It 
 brought back, however, to the minds of the villagers 
 that other hurricane, which swept over sea and land that 
 evening, when Anstie Carroll and Declan Ahern were 
 swept out to sea, and when old Mr. Lucas, the last tenant 
 of the fated mansion was lost. And the people, as .they 
 cowered over their fires that awful night, spoke in whis- 
 pers of the "Curse of Glendarragh," and many a conjec- 
 ture was made about the old man, who had so suddenly 
 disappeared from human view, and the sweet young girl, 
 who was lost to them, and of whose fate no record had 
 reached the village. In their simple lives these were 
 events of historical importance, that were referred to again 
 and again as the greatest and most solemn facts within 
 their experience. 
 
 James Carroll and Dave Ahern, now very old and feeble, 
 crouched over the wood-fire in the cottage of the latter. 
 The wind howled dismally outside, and moaned dismally 
 down through the wide, open chimney, sometimes even 
 catching the sparks, and scattering them over the hearth, 
 whilst now and again, drops of rain fell and hissed on 
 the burning embers, and threw up little jets of steam 
 amidst the curling smoke. Declan was mending nets 
 under the light of a paraffin lamp in a corner, thinking of 
 many things. 
 _ " 'Tis quare that Anstie should be in me head so much 
 
ANSTIE CARROLL'S RETURN 417 
 
 tonight," said old James Carroll, after a long pause. 
 "Sometimes I do forget her altogether; and thin she comes 
 back; and I think I see her right before me. I suppose 
 'tis the gale that reminds me of her so much tonight." 
 
 "Whisht," said Dave Ahern, throwing his thumb over 
 his shoulder towards Declan. "Sure 'tis a bad nigh in- 
 tirely," he continued, deftly turning the conversation; 
 "a bad night intirely for thim that are on the say." 
 
 "Nothin' under a liner could live in that gale," said 
 James Carroll. "You couldn't keep a vessel's head to 
 the wind without smashing her helm into smithereens." 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Dave Ahern, "that we'll hear of 
 bad work to-morrow. If Ballycroneen does not ketch 
 some vessel in her grip, 'tis the quare story intirely." 
 
 " Tis a bad spot. Where are you goin'? " he exclaimed, 
 as Declan flung down the net, and lifted the door-latch. 
 
 "Nowhere," said Declan, as he pushed to the door, and 
 vanished in the darkness. 
 
 "Twas Anstie kem into his head," continued James 
 Carroll. "There's never a capful of wind blows but the 
 poor fellow does be thinking of what happened." 
 
 "He'll never get over it till he sees her living or dead; 
 so I hard him say," replied his father. "He's never been 
 right since." 
 
 The young man, stirred by the reminiscences evoked 
 by his father's words, had plunged into the darkness and 
 the storm, not knowing nor caring whither he went. The 
 howling wind, the terrific seas, that tossed madly outside 
 the little bay, and then broke into thunderous cataracts 
 against the barrier of shingle that guarded the sea-wall, 
 the blackness and the terror .of the night — all helped to 
 recall that awful night, when in his madness, he had driven 
 both himself and Anstie well-nigh to destruction. He 
 went on blindly to the end of the beach; and, driven by 
 some hidden impulse, he clambered up the cliff, where 
 hidden on that fatal evening, he had watched with jealous 
 eyes and a heart full of hatred Jack Motherway and the 
 
418 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 girl who had spurned him so contemptuously. He threw 
 himself against the wind to steady himself, and tried to 
 recall that evening and all its gloomy associations. Then 
 he sped onward, onward for miles, until at last exhausted 
 with his conflict against the storm, he flung himself down 
 on the wet turf to rest. He had almost fallen asleep, 
 when he thought he heard the siren of a steamship in 
 the distance, but nearer to the village, and again the 
 same hoarse boom, and again. He started up to run 
 homeward; but stopped, put his fingers in his ears, and 
 shouted: — 
 
 "Let them drown! Let every one drown, and be d — dl 
 But Anstie! Anstie! Come back! come back!" 
 
 In the grey morning, news came to Dave Ahern's cot- 
 tage, that a liner, one of the smaller boats of a German 
 Company, had got fast jammed on the rocks of Ballycro- 
 neen; that nearly all hands were lost; and that already 
 five bodies had been picked up on the rocks, and carried 
 to the old house at Glendarragh to await the Coroner's 
 inquest. Relays of men had been selected to watch the 
 dead; and James Carroll and Dave Ahern were appointed 
 to the watch that night from nine to twelve o'clock. 
 
 It was no congenial task, this vigil with the dead in a 
 lonely and deserted mansion, especially with the unknown 
 and unlamented. If it were their own dead, but — well, 
 thank God! it wasn't that. There is a compensation 
 somewhere in all circumstances of trial and pain. 
 
 "If thatCrowner from over Fermoy knew his juty," 
 said Dave Ahem, "he could have held his inques' today; 
 and the crachures could be berried at once, as is only right 
 and proper." 
 
 "Maybe he hadn't worrd in time," said James Carroll. 
 "'Tis manny a long mile from here to Fermoy." 
 
 "And why didn't he get the Coast Guards from Poor- 
 head to watch 'em?" said Dave Ahern. "They're paid 
 well for their work." 
 < "I understan' they're watchin' the wreck," said James, 
 
ANSTIE CARROLL'S RETURN 419 
 
 Carroll. "Whin she breaks up, there'll be the power 
 an' all of things washed ashore." 
 
 "Well, 'tis a job I don't like," said Dave Ahern, "alone 
 with dead corpses in the middle of the night." 
 
 "Lave me go, father," said Declan, who was listening. 
 "Nayther the dead nor the living can scare me now." 
 
 "Whatever you like, Dec," said his father. "Are you 
 afraid, James?" 
 
 "Me afraid?" said James Carroll, bridling up. "Who 
 said I was afraid?" 
 
 "Well, no matter," sad his old friend. "Only take 
 yer prayer-books, an' a dhrop of holy wather wid ye." 
 
 "Begobs, I think if we had a dhrop of sperrits too," 
 said James Carroll, "'twouldn't be no harrum." 
 
 "That same ye can have," said Dave. "There's plinty 
 in the black bottle there in the cupboard; and plinty more 
 where that kem from." 
 
 The moon was well-risen, and glowed amongst the 
 thick trunks of the trees that skirted Glendarragh on the 
 eastern side, as the two men crossed the gravelled, but 
 now grass-grown terrace, that led up to the great house. 
 Their shadows fell amongst the shadows of the trees, 
 and a wcodquest fluted out her dismal Too-whoo! Too- 
 whoo! Too-whoo! Too! ! The front of the house was 
 wrapped in deep darkness; and through the darkness 
 the gaping windows made a deeper blackness, unrelieved 
 by gleam of candle or lamp. It was an eerie scene; and 
 its solemnity was enhanced by the ghostly errand on 
 which the two men were sent, and the exaggeration of 
 their own fears and superstitions. 
 
 '"Tis a lonesome looking place," said James Carroll. 
 
 '"Tis God's work!" said Declan. 
 
 "I wondher are the min gone a-yet?" said the old man. 
 He was hoping they might be still on the watch; and that 
 their very presence would nerve him. 
 
 They had left. One or two empty glasses, and the 
 strong odour of tobacco-smoke alone indicated that a 
 
420 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 watch had been kept in the spacious, but unfurnished 
 kitchen, at the rear of the house. 
 
 "I wondher where are thim? — the corpses, I mane," 
 he questioned, looking around the dreary place. 
 
 "Upstairs!" said Declan. "They're laid out on a few 
 dale boords on thrastles." 
 
 "The Lord ha' mercy on them!" said James Carroll; 
 "an' give us all the grace of a happy death, an' a favour- 
 able judgment!" 
 
 "Amin!" said Declan. "Let us begin the night well, 
 by sayin' the Rosary; an' thin we can take things aisy." 
 
 They knelt down, the old man and the young, and 
 taking out their rude beads, they recited in alternate 
 measures the Rosary for the dead. Then they rose up 
 strengthened, and began the preparations for the dreary 
 night-watch. 
 
 "Are we supposed to be above wid thim," said James 
 Carroll, pointing to the ceiling; "or to remain here?" 
 
 "The coroner didn't say nothin' about that," said 
 Declan. " He only axed a few hands to volunteer to watch 
 the dead." 
 
 "I suppose 'tis an act of charity, an' that we'll have 
 our reward," said the old man. 
 
 "'Tis wan of the five corporeal works of mercy, - ' said 
 Declan, "so the priest said; and somethin' else about a 
 man who lef his dinner behind him to bury the dead." 
 
 The old man was anxious to prolong the conversation, 
 whilst Declan, following his usual habits, preferred silence, 
 when both were startled and appalled by an unearthly 
 shriek that seemed to proceed from the death-chamber, 
 and to echo round and round the lonely house. They 
 looked at one another in a regular paralysis of fright, 
 their faces white and rigid, not knowing what to think. 
 Again, the shriek rang out, this time, with an echo of 
 mocking laughter that was frightful. At the same time, 
 there came to the ears of the frightened men, a sound as 
 of soft feet, pattering over the floor above their heads. 
 
ANSTIE CARROLL'S RETURN 421 
 
 "Come away in God Almighty's name," said the old 
 man, half frantic with terror. "There's somethin' not 
 right upstairs." 
 
 "The dead don't walk like that!" said Declan. '"Tis 
 some dog has got in; or 'tis an owl that's — " 
 
 He could not complete the sentence, for again that 
 horrible laughter broke forth, this time apparently coming 
 down the front stairs, because they heard the soft thud 
 of unshod feet coming, or rather leaping down the wooden 
 steps. 
 
 "Baste or divil, I'll see who it is!" said Declan, taking 
 up the light, and passing through the broad door into 
 the hall. As he did, a dark figure, like that of a huge 
 hound, leaped down the remaining steps, and plunged 
 through the wide door, into the moonlight carrying with 
 it the same unearthly sounds that had frightened the 
 watchers, and that now echoed down along the lonely 
 avenue, and seemed to be lost out to sea. 
 
 "Bad luck to you, Coppal, you fool!" said Declan, 
 returning to the kitchen. "I might have known it," he 
 said to James Carroll. "'Twas only that fool, who's 
 everywhere, but where he ought to be. But I am afeard 
 nayther you nor I will sleep much tonight!" 
 
 That was not the case, however; because, after a little 
 while, when the fear of ghosts had evaporated, and the 
 small black bottle had been opened once or twice, the old 
 man, leaning his head on the kitchen table, fell into a 
 deep sleep. Declan smoked in silence for a long time, 
 sometimes getting up, and crossing the hall and even going 
 out into the moonlight; then returning and sitting by the 
 sleeping man, but always wondering and conjecturing 
 what Coppal could have been doing with the dead. 
 
 '"Twas a quare notion," he thought; "but then every- 
 thing the fool does is quare. I suppose 'twas keening he 
 was over the corpses, as there was nothin' he could stale." 
 
 By degrees, a desire came upon him to see the dead 
 himself. If Coppal had no fear, and had even an attrac- 
 tion towards these poor drowned people, why should he? 
 
422 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 He supposed they were foreigners, or rich Americans, or 
 returning Englishmen; and it would be a curiosity to see 
 them, and to be able to describe them before they were 
 finally hidden from sight. He, knew there was no use 
 in asking the old man to accompany him; and he spent 
 an hour debating with himself what he should do. By 
 degrees the desire became irresistible. He felt he should 
 lose an opportunity that would be swiftly snatched away, 
 if he could not see the dead before midnight. 
 
 At last with some trepidation, he passed into the hall, 
 and made his way up the great staircase. The large 
 empty bedroom, where the dead were placed was lighted 
 by two windows, one facing the south, and one the east; 
 and through the latter, the moonlight now streamed 
 showing with ghastly precision the still and awful figures 
 of the dead. There was a slight odour of sea-water, 
 blended with the smell of incipient decomposition in 
 the room; but the faces of the dead were as placid as the 
 mute landscape outside, now silent under the ghostly 
 moonlight. Three corpses were placed near the door, 
 one a little further back; and one lengthwise, at the feet 
 of the three first figures. 
 
 The three corpses, that lay parallel to each other near 
 the door, and were fully bathed in the moonlight that 
 now streamed through the unglazed window, were figures 
 of men — two of them, rough sailors, clad in the deep 
 blue cloth of the service; the other, that of a passenger 
 of some position, for his saturated clothes were of a supe- 
 rior make and texture. The figure that lay crosswise at 
 their feet was that of a woman, or fullgrown girl. Her 
 face was hidden in the deep shadow. The solitary corpse 
 near the other window was that of a boy — cabin-boy, or 
 cook's assistant, also clothed in navy blue. They all 
 lay so still and calm, with the peace of death on their 
 features, and their pale hands clasped on their breasts, 
 that all sense of fear left Declan's bosom, and gave way, 
 to a feeling of deepest pity and reverence. 
 
 "God pity thim!" he said, as he watched the bars of 
 
ANSTIE CARROLL'S RETURN 423 
 
 darkness made by the window-sashes pass slowly across 
 their pallid features. "They say drownin' is an aisy 
 death; and they look it! But sure 'tis a quare kind of 
 wake they're havin' — not a mother's sowl but meself 
 to say a prayer for thim!" 
 
 Then he thought that they were surely Protestants 
 from America or England; and that they needed no prayer; 
 and to verify the suspicion, he looked closer to detect 
 some signs that would indicate the religion of the dead. 
 There were none. The three sailors were tattooed on 
 their wrists and arms; the hands of the other corpse were 
 white and unmarked. He passed around, and looked for 
 the first time carefully at the drowned girl. The dress 
 around her neck was slightly open and unhooked; and 
 across the whiteness of her neck was unmistakably the 
 string of a brown scapular. 
 
 "Ah, me poor girl!" said Declan, "I knew you wor wan 
 of oursels." 
 
 He stooped down, and looked at the darkened face. 
 It was slightly turned from him, and the brown eyes 
 were partially open, whilst the long, luxurious hair swept 
 down, and the floor was wet with the weeping of it. 
 
 "Mother of God, keep me in me sinses now," he ex- 
 claimed, "or take thim away for ever!" 
 
 He gently and reverently drew around the face of the 
 poor, dead girl. It yielded with the pathetic obedience 
 of the dead, and seemed to look upwards at him. It 
 was slightly swollen and darkened, and looked aged to 
 Declan's eyes; but there was unmistakably the gracious 
 forehead, the great brown eyes, the parted mouth he 
 knew so well. He gazed in fear and dread for a while; 
 and then he whispered softly: — 
 
 "Anstie!" 
 
 No answer came from the open lips. 
 
 "Anstie!" he whispered again, bending lower over the 
 dead silent face, as if she were merely unconscious, and 
 his voice could bring her back to reason: "Anstie, don't 
 you know me? Don't you know Declan?" 
 
424 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 The dumb face stared silently upwards. 
 
 "Oh, my God! my God!" he cried, "this is too much! 
 Anstie, won't you spake? Sure your father is below and 
 wants to see you. Spake only wan word to me, an' I'll 
 call him!" 
 
 In vain. No sound came from the parted lips, no 
 responsive light came into the eyes. He suffered the cold, 
 heavy head to tilt back into the old position, and fell 
 grovelling in agony upon the floor. 
 
 How long he remained in speechless agony there he 
 could not tell; but at last he was awakened by the shouts 
 of the old man in the room beneath. Then, his own 
 grief gave way before the thought how he could break 
 the dreadful news to Anstie's father. He suddenly 
 roused himself, and began to think; and then a doubt 
 crossed his mind. Perhaps he was mistaken. The place 
 was dark: the moonlight blurred the vision of things. It 
 might have been only a hideous suspicion. He rose up. 
 The moon had gone higher in the heavens; and now 
 threw its full light upon the face of the dead girl. No! 
 there was no mistaking the revelation. Anstie had 
 answered his passionate cries, and had come back. 
 
 He stole gently down the stairs, and met the old man in 
 the hall. Querulous from his sleep, and his anger at 
 being left alone in such a place, the old man, holding a 
 candle in his hands was about to give way to one of his 
 usual fits of anger, but something in the boy's face stopped 
 him. It was a blending of sorrow and terror that instantly 
 drove speech from the old man's lips. 
 
 " Is it twelve o'clock? " said Declan. 
 
 "It must be near it," said James Carroll. "'Tis time 
 to go home whatever." 
 
 "Come and say a prayer for the dead before we go," 
 said Declan. 
 
 "Can't we say it down here?" said the old man. 
 
 "Not so well as when we see 'em," answered Declan. 
 "Bring up the candle wid you." 
 
 Slowly and heavily the old man ascended the stairs, 
 
ANSTIE CARROLL'S RETURN 425 
 
 Declan leading the way. The latter had now determined 
 to let the old man see for himself. They entered the 
 room together, and the first object on which the lantern 
 fell was the dead girl. Her face was turned from the 
 light, but the moon was shining full upon it. 
 
 "Poor girl!" said the old man, peering down, and hold- 
 ing the candle aloft. "See, Deck, she must be a Catholic. 
 Look at her scaffler." 
 
 He turned around, and saw the boy silently weeping. 
 
 "How tindher you are!" he said; "tho' indeed an' 
 indeed, 'twould make the stones cry." 
 
 Here a loud sob from Declan made the old man start 
 with an exclamation. 
 
 "Eh?" he said, looking suspiciously at Declan. The 
 latter came over silently, and bending down he turned 
 around with his two hands gently the face of the dead 
 ;girl. 
 
 "There!" he said. "God help you and me this blessed 
 night!" 
 
 "Yerra, what ails you, boy?" said the old man. 
 "What's comin' over you, at all, at all?" 
 
 He looked suspiciously at Declan, as if suspecting a 
 recurrence of his malady. At the same time, he averted 
 his face from the dead girl, as if he dreaded a revelation. 
 
 "Tis God's judgment! 'Tis God's judgment!" cried 
 the boy. "I said: Let them drown! Let all the world 
 drown, if only Anstie would come back! An' Anstie 
 has come back, more's the sorra for you an' me!" 
 
 "What Anstie? What ails you?" said the old man, 
 now thoroughly alarmed. "You don't mane our Anstie, 
 Anstie Carroll?" 
 
 "Look, an' see for yerself," said the boy. "Sure you 
 should know her betther than me!" 
 
 James Carroll, now thoroughly roused, bent over, and 
 studied the features of the girl. Then, when there was 
 no longer any room for doubt, he raised his head, and 
 looked pitifully and complainingly to Heaven. Again, 
 stooping down, he showered passionate kisses on the dead 
 
426 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 mute face, whilst his hot tears washed it, and many an 
 old Irish endearing expression murmured from his lips., 
 
 "You wor always afraid of the say, alanna," he cried, 
 "and shure you wor right. The say caught you at last. 
 You used to say it wos so big, and strong, and terrible, 
 whin it caught you up, and flung you on the sands. An' 
 shure you escaped it wance, and it wos watchin' you, 
 watchin' you, to get a hould of you agin. And, oh my 
 God I at yer own dure, within a few yafds of where you 
 wor borned and rared. Tonight you said, alanna, to- 
 night I'll be home again; an' I'll see all the ould nabors, 
 and the ould places, an' me poor father, an' the bhoy 
 who wos fonder of me than all — " 
 
 Here Declan moaned and sobbed as if his heart would 
 break. 
 
 "An' I'll settle down in the ould home agin, an' never 
 lave it, nor kith, nor kin, nor counthry ever agin: an' 
 look, jest at the thrishol', the hungry say comes up, an' 
 claims you: an' God let it, an' God let it!" 
 
 The half-blasphemy stunned him for a moment, and 
 brought him back to his senses. 
 
 "Praised an' blessed be his Holy Name!" he cried. 
 "Shure we have no right to complain. How do we 
 know? How do we know? Shure whin God tuk her 
 He knew what wos best!" 
 
 He remained silent for a long while; and not a sound 
 was heard in the death-chamber, but the stifled sobs of 
 Declan, who still lay prostrate on the ground. Once more 
 the old man looked down at his dead child; and this time 
 he started back, whilst an angry exclamation broke from 
 his lips. 
 
 "Look here! Look here, Deck! some one has robbed 
 her. Some awful villain has tampered wid my dead 
 child!" 
 
 . Declan jumped to his feet, and looked. Yes! the inner 
 pocket of the girl's long blue coat was evidently rifled, 
 for the lining was pulled out, and apparently torn, as if 
 some one had been surprised in the act of desecrating the 
 
ANSTIE CARROLL'S RETURN 427 
 
 dead. Then they noticed that her white blouse also had 
 been rudely torn open, and rifled, because the silk was 
 stained brown as if by very dirty hands, and the buttons 
 had been dragged away. 
 
 "Who wos the hellfire ruffian," said the old man, in a 
 fury, that dissipated every milder feeling of sorrow, "that 
 tampered wid me child? Wait, an' see, if the hand of 
 God don't rest heavy on him here and hereafter. Oh 
 my God! drowned and robbed. Oh, Anstie, Anstie!" 
 
 "It couldn't be thim coast-guards," said Declan, who 
 was now growing very excited. "They might have 
 kep' her purse and belongings — no!" as the sudden reve- 
 lation struck him, "it was that d — d fool and rogue Cop- 
 pal. Wait, till I meet him. I'll smash every bone in 
 his body." And he struck the rude boards fiercely. 
 
 "Yes, but what would the poor fool take?" said the 
 old man. 
 
 "Take? he'd take anything he could lay his hands on," 
 said Declan. "He'd stale the pinny from the hands of 
 the blind man at the chapel-dure! But the dead! the 
 dead! to rob the dead! An' our own Anstie! our own 
 Anstie! But," he continued in a whisper, as grief and 
 anger drowned once more the light of reason in his mind, 
 "she's not dead at all, Sir! She's only purtending, to 
 take a rise out of us. Look at her! Sure, don't you see? 
 If she wor dead, she wouldn't look that way at all, at 
 all! Whisht! Whisht! Don't wake her. She's tired 
 after her long journey, poor thing. Let her sleep, an' 
 thin, I'll show you," he continued in a still lower whisper, 
 "where we'll put her, an' she can sleep for ever an' ever!" 
 
XLIV 
 
 The Inevitable 
 
 When Miriam reached the Hospital, and inquired if 
 there were a boy there who wished to see Miss Lucas, she 
 was directed towards a certain nurse, who met her with 
 a smile. 
 
 " Yes," she said at once. "The little lad is in agony at 
 the thought that he might die without seeing you. He 
 seems to have something on his mind." 
 
 She led the way along a narrow corridor, redolent with 
 odours of chemicals; and opening a door she ushered Mir- 
 iam into a large ward, nearly full of patients, young and 
 old. Far up in a corner, on a neat, white bed, was Coyote. 
 
 Miriam blushed when she found a hundred eyes turned 
 towards her as she entered; but she followed the nurse, 
 with downcast eyes until she reached the cot where Coy- 
 ote was drawing painful suspirations from lungs heavily 
 charged with blood and mucus. 
 
 The eyes of the boy rested on her face for a moment, 
 and then he began to blubber and cry piteously. Miriam 
 came near, and sitting on the chair by the bedside, she 
 gently smoothed the wet and tangled hair of the boy, 
 and chafed his forehead with her soft hands. He was 
 still so choked with emotion that he could not speak, and 
 the nurse said gently: — 
 
 "Now, my boy, here is the lady you were crying for all 
 night ! Now, say everything you would wish to say before 
 the doctor comes round. He won't allow much talking, 
 you know!" 
 
 And the nurse went away. 
 
 "Well, Coy," said Miriam, gently soothing him, "you 
 wanted to see me. Of course I'd have come in any case 
 
THE INEVITABLE 429 
 
 to see you if I had heard you were ill. But the priest 
 told me you had something to tell me!" 
 
 "You'll kill me!" blubbered Coy, in his agony. "But 
 I wanted to keep you. And she wanted youse to go away ! " 
 
 "Very good!" said Miriam. "You're speaking about 
 the girl that called when I was from home? " 
 
 "Ye-es," said the boy, gasping out his words in pain. 
 "She said she wanted to see youse, and — an' — she 
 founded yer mudder, and — " 
 
 Here he broke into convulsions of weeping. 
 
 "Well, well, 'tis all right," said Miriam. "I have 
 found my mother all the same." 
 
 The boy put his arm across his eyes and turned his face 
 away. 
 
 "Well, what else have you to tell me?" said Miriam, 
 anxious to get home and see after the last offices that 
 should be paid to the dead. 
 
 But the nurse came over and said: — 
 
 "I'm afraid I must interrupt you, Miss Lucas, the 
 doctors have just come in to make their rounds, and will 
 probably begin here." 
 
 "Nurse!" blubbered the boy. 
 
 The nurse came over and bent down. 
 
 "Tell her — Miss Lucas," he whispered, although Mir- 
 iam heard every word, "to take her eyes off of me. She 
 hyppernetises me, an' I can't tell her!" 
 
 "All right, my boy," said the nurse, smiling. "He'd 
 like to tell you something else," she said, turning to Mir- 
 iam, "but you must look at me!" 
 
 And then Coyote, his arm still over his eyes, 
 blubbered: — 
 
 "An' she said she had a package or somethink fer you; 
 and that she should give it inter yer own han's; but I 
 said you'd gone away to Oireland, an' 'twas a whopper!" 
 
 "But why didn't you tell the. truth?" said Miriam, 
 rising. "It makes no difference now, Coy. But you 
 should have told the truth." 
 
 "I was afeard!" said the boy. 
 
430 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Afraid of what?" asked Miriam. 
 
 "Afeard," he said, "dat you'd go away, an' never come 
 back no more; an' — an' — " 
 
 "And what?" said Miriam, smiling. 
 
 "'Twould kill me! It would!" said the boy, in agonies 
 of shame and sorrow. 
 
 The girl was deeply touched, especially as just then 
 her heart was heavy with emotion at the thought of 
 her bereavement, her loneliness, the uncertainty of her 
 future. 
 
 "Will he recover?" she whispered to the nurse as a 
 new interest for the lad arose in her heart. 
 
 "I think he will!" said the nurse. "But here come the 
 doctors. They will tell you." 
 
 Miriam turned round, and within a few feet of her, 
 standing by the side of the house-surgeon, was Hugh 
 Ireton. She recognised him at once; but, whether her 
 brief residence in America had wrought some change in 
 her appearance, or whether it was that his thoughts were 
 far away from her at the moment, he didn't seem for a 
 moment to know her. Then the recognition came, sud- 
 den and almost stupefying; and he had to make an effort 
 to control his emotion as he stepped forward and held 
 out his hand. Miriam had flushed a 1 ttle, then grown 
 pale, under the influx of sudden emotion kindled by the 
 sense of her sorrows, her powerlessness, her abandon- 
 ment, and this sudden and seemingly miraculous appari- 
 tion of the one being on earth who could rescue her, and 
 on whom she could lean for evermore. She held out her 
 hand, when he proffered his, and unconsciously, but yet 
 with a meaning that was fully revealed to herself, she 
 allowed her hand to rest in his strong palm. A mighty 
 instinct told him what it meant, as his fingers closed upon 
 hers. It said plainly — confidence, reliance, self-forget- 
 fulness, dependence, abandonment! He flushed beneath 
 the revelation, and then only he found words to say: — 
 
 "Miss Lucas. What a pleasure!" 
 
THE INEVITABLE 431 
 
 "Yes!" she said, simply, "it is a pleasure to meet friends 
 in a strange land!" 
 
 The house-surgeon and nurse were already bending 
 over the sick boy; and Miriam, to relieve her embarrass- 
 ment, said to Ireton: — 
 
 "Will he recover, do you think?" 
 
 Ireton understood and went over to see the lad, and 
 consult with his brother-physician. After a long and 
 careful examination, the house-surgeon rose up and said : — 
 
 "He's more feverish than he ought to be. He has had 
 some excitement!" 
 
 "Yes!" said Miriam. "The lad was in my employ- 
 ment; and I came to see him." 
 
 "Had he any trouble, any mental worry?" asked the 
 surgeon. 
 
 "Yes!" said Miriam. "But I can easily remove it." 
 
 And bending over the boy she said: — 
 
 "Now, Coy, that's all forgiven and forgotten. Get 
 well as quick as you can. I want to take you with me 
 to Ireland!" 
 
 "Youse cheesing me now," said Coyote, sulkily. 
 "Can't you leave a feller alone?" 
 
 "I'm quite serious," said Miriam. Then a happy 
 thought struck her. 
 
 "See here! This gentleman has come all the way from 
 Ireland to take me back. We'll all go together!" 
 
 "Holy Moses!" said Coyote, "but I am all right now. 
 Look here, Nuss, git me my clothes; and lemme git up!" 
 
 "Not so fast, young man," said the surgeon. "Not 
 so fast! But keep quiet and you'll be ready to travel in 
 a fortnight." 
 
 "Oh!" groaned Coyote. "An' they'll be runned away 
 an' leave me here!" 
 
 "No!" said Miriam, coming over and bending down 
 over the sick boy. Ireton was in a moment at her side. 
 "I promise you Mr. Ireton and I will wait for you!" 
 
 "Sure?" said the boy. 
 
432 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Quite sure," said Miriam. i 
 
 "Then, Doc, all right! I'll wait!" said Coyote. 
 
 "I guess you will," said the doctor, laughing. 
 
 Ireton had been wiping the perspiration from the boy's 
 forehead with a white handkerchief. He turned it out 
 and smoothed it, and there in a corner was the let- 
 ter M. 
 
 "You remember it?" he said to Miriam. "I stole it 
 the day we staunched Dwyer's leg at Glendarragh." 
 
 There were a few moments' silence, as the doctors and 
 nurses moved away to the other beds. Then Ireton, 
 almost tremblingly said: — 
 
 "Miriam?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said. 
 
 "You meant — did you mean? — what you said to 
 the boy just now — that I was come to take you back to 
 Ireland?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Miriam. 
 
 "You quite understand all that that means to mc?" 
 he urged, lest there should be a loophole of escape. 
 
 "Quite," she said. And then: — "I was looking for 
 you, Hugh, all this time back. I knew you'd come." 
 
 "God be thanked!" he said. 
 
 He was too full of grateful emotion to say more just 
 then; but he affected to be solicitous about the boy. Then 
 the time came to leave. 
 
 As they moved, side by side, along the hospital ward, 
 Ireton whispered: — 
 
 "Do you know, Miriam, that I have been elected Dis- 
 pensary Doctor at Glendarragh; and that it was entirely 
 owing to you. The rule is to elect a Roman Catholic, 
 and very properly; but the people got it into their heads, 
 I'm sure I don't know how, that I was to go in search of 
 you, and bring you back to them, and they waived all 
 claims to effect that purpose. You — that is we, you 
 have privileged me now to say it, Miriam — are to go 
 back and lift the 'Curse' from Glendarragh." 
 
 "Poor, faithful people," she murmured. "At least, 
 
THE INEVITABLE 433 
 
 Hugh, you are taking them home a Catholic wife. I 
 have been baptised a Roman Catholic." 
 
 For a moment he was surprised; then he said, 
 honestly: — 
 
 "I'm right glad to hear it, Miriam. Ashley, I see, 
 was right. And he maintains also that Glendarragh is 
 yours — yours from the hills to the sea; that your poor 
 father had no claim over it, and therefore Holthsworth 
 has no right to act even as agent or trustee." 
 
 "Quite true! And now, I must tell you all. Other- 
 wise, you cannot be what I hope, what I want you to be, 
 my helper, my protector. Am I supposing too much?" 
 
 "No, no, no!" he cried, eagerly. "You have given me 
 all I ever hoped for on earth, Miriam. I can only make 
 you a poor return." 
 
 "Come, then!" she said. 
 
 He made some hasty arrangements with the house- 
 surgeon, with whom he was staying; and then set forward 
 with Miriam. She looked hastily at her watch, and then, 
 instead of taking him to her lodgings, she led him to the 
 Church quite close by, whither the charitable society, 
 whose duty it is to see after the decent obsequies of the 
 poor, had already transferred the remains of Auntie 
 Jennie. 
 
 Quite unaccustomed as she was to Catholic Churches 
 and ceremonies, yet she felt on entering this Church that 
 she was at home. The poor were all around, and that 
 was enough. The two went slowly, and quite unnoticed 
 up the long aisle; and then, Miriam saw, in a little chapel 
 to the right, what she rightly conjectured to be the coffin 
 of her mother. It was surrounded by six large unbleached 
 wax tapers; and, to her utter astonishment, it was almost 
 covered with flowers. She stooped down, after a moment's 
 gasp of surprise, and whispered to an old woman who was 
 telling her beads near the coffin: — 
 
 "Whose remains are here?" - !? 
 
 "Wisha, thin, it is poor Auntie Jennie, Miss," was the 
 reply. "May God have mercy on her sowll". 
 
434 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "And who put these flowers on her coffin?" she 
 questioned. 
 
 "Wisha, some poor crachures like herself," said the 
 woman. "Sure, whin she had it, she shared it with many 
 like herself." 
 
 Miriam said no more; but kneeling down, she said some 
 wild, inarticulate prayer for her dead mother. Then, 
 she explained to the astonished Ireton: — 
 
 "That's my mother's coffin. I found her at last; but 
 O my God! what a finding!" 
 
 She was so overwhelmed with shame and pity that Ire- 
 ton dared not break in on her sorrow. He felt that there 
 was some terrific revelation there in the darkness of that 
 coffin, and he was silent. And Miriam, too, had decided 
 that, cost her what it might, she should tell all to the 
 man whose whole life now, she knew, had been entirely 
 devoted to her. She asked him to walk by her side along 
 the broad, deserted pavement that lay between the 
 Church and the street; and there, her face averted, with 
 many an ill-suppressed sob, she narrated how she had 
 sought her mother, her meeting with Anstie Carroll, her 
 struggle for existence, her adoption of the little street- 
 waif; her accidental visit to the Italian Church, and the 
 words she heard there; her finding of her mother in the 
 gaol-bird and drunkard; and then the last revelations. 
 
 "You are aware," she said, "of the strange mystery 
 that always hung over my life. Yet, like all mysteries, 
 it is easy of explanation, at least so far as I have been 
 able to piece details together from my mother's ravings, 
 and from what I have otherwise heard. Our people were 
 the owners of Glendarragh. They were Holthsworths. 
 Whether they were the hereditary owners, the descend- 
 ants of those through whom that awful curse has fol- 
 lowed the family, I don't know. Perhaps they purchased 
 the place. But, in any case it was my mother's personal 
 property. Mr. Holthsworth, of whom you have heard — " 
 
 "Rather!" said Ireton, savagely. "I shall be surprised 
 if Arthur hasn't something to say to him yet!" 
 
THE INEVITABLE 435 
 
 "Well, he was my mother's cousin, and I think, from 
 her remarks, he must have paid her some attention. How 
 she met my poor father I cannot discover. But they were 
 married, and he brought her into a very narrow set of 
 sectarians — those people, who, in the name of religion, 
 think themselves bound to hate and despise. Well, for 
 some reason, my mother chose to become a Eoman Cath- 
 olic. It is a common occurrence, is it not?" 
 
 "In England, I believe, it is very common," said Ire- 
 ton. "It is not so usual in Ireland!" 
 
 "Well," continued Miriam, "she followed her con- 
 science, and then — you can imagine the rest. But the 
 real trouble came when I was born, and according to the 
 ways of mothers, I was baptised in my mother's faith. 
 From that day forth — I am only conjecturing, you know, 
 and building up my hypothesis on what I have heard — 
 there was no peace. I can see it all. I know what mal- 
 ice lies deep in the human heart, especially where there is 
 religious hatred. I can see my mother driven from her 
 home; I can see her drifting, drifting down the terrible 
 tide of sin. I can see her despair, her heart breaking. I 
 know she yearned for me, as I for her. Yes! as some priest 
 here has said, she was more sinned against than sinning. 
 She is at rest. It was something that her last moments 
 should have been soothed by me!" 
 
 And the strong woman wept softly. Ireton was silent, 
 with the deference of sympathy and respect. 
 
 "It appears," continued Miriam, after a pause, "that 
 she had always kept with her some papers relating to 
 Glendarragh, even in gaol; these she gave to that young 
 girl, Anstie Carroll, of whom I spoke. The girl has 
 gone back to Ireland. She was faithful, I'm sure. She 
 called to my room; but that little lad in the hospital, 
 dreading that I should go away and leave him, told her 
 I had gone to Ireland, and she, as she thought, poor girl, 
 followed me. In her hands, wherever she is, are all the 
 documents about the property in Glendarragh." 
 „ "Well, then, Miriam," said Ireton, "it is quite clear 
 
436 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 that we have no time to lose here, as soon as the last offices 
 are paid to your mother." 
 
 "But you," said Miriam. "I mustn't interfere with 
 your arrangements?" 
 
 "But you haven't interfered," said Ireton. "That is 
 to say, you have perfected them by allowing me to dis- 
 cover you. Only one thing now remains to be done." 
 
 "What is that?" said Miriam. 
 
 "Can't you guess?" he said. 
 
 And she guessed right. 
 
XLV 
 
 The Owl's Nest 
 
 It was quite true. Coppal, with never-failing instinct, 
 had been down near Ballycroneen the morning when the 
 coast-guards and fishermen had sighted the doomed ves- 
 sel, held in the grip of the rocks; and had remained an 
 active and passive witness of all the subsequent attempts 
 that had been made to save the lives of the unfortunate 
 crew and passengers. He instantly recognised his old 
 enemy in the dead girl, who had been washed in among 
 the terrible rocks; but he had sense enough to refrain 
 from manifesting the exultation he felt at her awful fate. 
 But he had followed the dismal procession to Glendar- 
 ragh, and had noted where the bodies were placed; and 
 when darkness had fallen, he made his way stealthily 
 into the deserted mansion, crept upstairs, and found him- 
 self alone with the dead. Here the dark savagery of his 
 stunted nature broke forth in incoherent ramblings about 
 the girl, who in the pride and glory of her physical beauty, 
 had mocked him and his many physical imperfections; 
 and exulted over the terrible contrast between herself 
 in the flush of young maidenhood and the twisted, mis- 
 shapen body, and stunted intellect" of the village fool. 
 How he mouthed and mowed and exulted over the help- 
 less form we can but feebly conjecture. That terrible 
 howl that had first startled the watchers was the climax 
 of all his savagery. 
 
 It was in smiting the dead body with his open palm 
 in hatred and derision, that he struck against some hard 
 substance in the breast pocket of her dress. He instantly 
 tore the latter open and extracted some papers; and 
 though ignorant of what they were, and utterly uncon- 
 
438 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 scious of their value, he had sufficient glimmerings of rea- 
 son to know, that they gave him some power over her 
 or others. It was quite true, therefore, that Coppal had 
 rifled the dead body, and whilst Declan and Anstie's 
 father were making the dismal discovery of her identity, 
 Coppal was climbing, with the agility of an ape, the thick 
 ivy that mantled the walls of the old ruined Abbey, and 
 depositing his treasure in the twigs and leaves of an 
 owl's nest, which he had often noticed. 
 
 Meanwhile, a fresh thought had just dawned on the 
 dazed senses of old James Carroll, as he watched, half 
 stupefied by the dead body of his child. It was the 
 shame that would be reflected on the dead girl and on 
 the family by this so awful a retribution. All her wilful- 
 ness, her coquetry, her temper, her vanity, were well 
 remembered in the village; and the old man thought with 
 bitterness of how few there were who would shed a tear 
 over the poor girl, or utter aught but a belief that her 
 sudden and terrible death was the just retribution of her 
 folly. 
 
 He was turning over in his dazed, stupid mind, half 
 paralysed with grief, and again with anger, what could 
 be done to conceal Anstie's sad return from the neighbours, 
 and at the same time secure her Christian burial when 
 the sudden paroxysm of insanity on the part of Declan, 
 claimed his attention. He began foolishly to reason: — 
 
 "Don't be talkin' raimeis," he said, half angrily, 
 although he was really afraid, "don't you see she's dead 
 an' drownded?" 
 
 Declan had gone around, and taking the dead face 
 between his hands, he began to hush it to sleep, as a 
 mother would hush the cries of her infant. 
 
 "Cusheen-loo! Cusheen-loo! there now! there now, 
 alanna! sleep, sleep! Whisht," he cried warningly to old 
 Carroll, "whisht! Don't waken her! Don't waken her!" 
 
 He stood up and putting his finger on his lips, he watched 
 for a long time the face of the dead girl. Then, beckon- 
 ing in a shy way to the father, he cried: — 
 
THE OWL'S NEST 439 
 
 "You take her feet, an' I'll take her head, an' we'll go 
 where she can sleep for ever. Aisy, aisy, don't waken 
 her! don't waken her!" 
 
 The old man, with some dim notion that this move- 
 ment on the part of the insane boy, would furnish a way 
 out of his own difficulty, reverently gathered the wet 
 skirts of the dead girl around her feet, and they bore 
 the body out from the moonlight into the darkness of the 
 staircase, and down to the hall, the mad boy murmuring 
 all the way: — 
 
 '"Sh! 'Sh! Aisy, aisy! Cusheen-loo! Cusheen-loo!" 
 
 They took it gently out through the hall-door, and bore 
 it down the avenue, until they emerged beyond the thin 
 fringe of oak-trees that half filled the valley. Here they 
 rested, for the burden of the dead girl was great. 
 
 "Where are you carryin' her, boy?" now demanded 
 James Carroll. "Or what are you up to at all? Do you 
 know what you're doin', or where you're goin'?" 
 
 "Whisht! whisht! I tell you," said Declan. "You'll 
 wake her, an' she won't be obliged to you, I tell you. Do 
 what I tell you. Come!" 
 
 The two men stooped and lifted the dead weight again, 
 and moved down towards the village, now sleeping in 
 absolute silence in the broad moonlight. But, before 
 they reached the first house, Declan turned sharply to 
 the right, and the old man saw that he was moving towards 
 the Abbey, around which, and in which, slumbered gen- 
 eration after generation of the village dead. To reach 
 the Abbey, however, they had to cross some fields, and 
 the ditches that divided them; and it was a sore trouble 
 to lay the poor, dead girl against the grassy hedge, and 
 to lift her then, gently and ever so reverently, over it. 
 
 At last, thoroughly worn out and fatigued, they crossed 
 from the moonlight into the deep darkness of the old 
 Abbey walls, and there on a limestone slab, that covered 
 some ancient vault, and was itself in turn, nearly covered 
 with lichen, they laid their helpless burden. 
 
 "What in the name of God do you mane, Deck?" now 
 
440 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 said the old man anxiously, although the hope rose strong 
 within him that they two could bury the returned girl, 
 and hush up the whole story of her sad death. " Do you 
 mane to berry her without coffin, or prayer or priest, like 
 a haythen?" 
 
 "Whisht! Whisht!" said Declan, anxiously peering 
 around. "You'll wake her, and she wants a sleep, poor 
 girl, after her long journey. Where's that her mother 
 rests?" 
 
 "Over there in the angle," said the old man, pointing 
 to a corner, hidden deep beneath the shadow of the ivied 
 walls. 
 
 Declan went over on tiptoe, lest he should awake the 
 dead girl; and taking an old mattock that lay against 
 the wall, he began to dig fiercely. He did not see a 
 grinning face hanging out from the ivy right over his head, 
 and he did not understand the meaning of the "two-whit- 
 two!" "two-whit-two!" "two-whit-two!" "Two!" — 
 the mimic cry of the owl, whose nest lay hidden there. 
 
 Whilst the digging went on, Declan panting and sweat- 
 ing under the fierce exertion, the old man sat on a stone 
 near his dead child. He was in an agony of doubt, 
 whether it would not be better, then and there, to agree 
 to what Declan was doing, and so obliterate every trace 
 of the calamity that had fallen so suddenly and terribly 
 upon him; or to stop this secret interment, and have 
 his daughter buried next day with all the rites of the 
 Church. But this would mean the coroner's inquest, 
 the inevitable exposure, the triumph of Anstie's enemies, 
 the grief of her few friends. Yes! this mad proceeding of 
 Declan's was almost providential. He would not stop 
 it, although his heart was breaking at the thought of his 
 child being buried, shroudless and coffinless, like the 
 unnamed and unrecognised dead. 
 
 At length, Declan had finished the digging of the grave; 
 and now, coming over, and wiping with his bare, rough 
 hand the sweat from his forehead, he said: — 
 
 "Stop there and watch her, till she wakes! But don't 
 
THE OWL'S NEST 441 
 
 spake to her at all, at all. I'll come back, and spake to 
 her, an' she'll wake up and know me!" 
 
 He went away, and left the old man sitting by the 
 dead. If James Carroll had been less stupid and dazed 
 from want of sleep, and drink, and sorrow, he would have 
 seen a white face peering down from the ivy overhead; 
 he would have heard sounds of mocking laughter, as of 
 triumph, and the chuckle of a grim delight, as of one who 
 had conquered and was unrelenting in his victory. A 
 few times the temptation to descend, and again insult his 
 old enemy was almost too much for the fool; but he 
 guessed that Declan might return at any moment, and he 
 feared him. So he remained hidden, and satisfied his 
 mindless rage by mouthing and spitting towards his hated, 
 but now powerless enemy. 
 
 After a long interval, Declan returned bearing on his 
 shoulders four long planks. These he placed in the 
 grave in the shape of a coffin, reserving one for a cover. 
 Then, coming over, he whispered to the old man: 
 
 "Aisy now, aisy, an' don't wake her! We'll make her 
 nice and comfortable in her bed; an' she can sleep, an' 
 sleep for ever! She wants it, poor girl, after her long 
 journey!" 
 
 The old man consented with many a secret misgiving: 
 but he feared to contradict the mad boy; and then — all 
 would be well over, and no one should know that Anstie 
 had ever come back. She would rest with her mother, 
 and all would be well. So they raised the dead form again, 
 gently brought it over and laid it between the rude planks 
 in the grave, gently and reverently covered it after bedew- 
 ing it with kisses and tears. And then Declan covered 
 in the grave with the soft, brown earth, and placed the 
 rude, green sods above it. The two men knelt side by 
 side in the darkness, and said their Paters and Aves fer- 
 vently for the beloved departed, and then rose to depart. 
 
 As they did, a sound of mocking laughter echoed from 
 the wall above their heads. Declan turned, and cried: — 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
442 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "The hooting of the old owl, whose nest is above!" 
 said the old man. " Come, Declan, let us get home. Your 
 father will be waiting!" 
 
 The boy stood still. 
 
 "I'll wait till Anstie awakes," he said, "and take her 
 home wid me." 
 
 "No, no," said James Carroll. "Come now, like a 
 good boy. This is no place for you at this hour of night. 
 What will your father say?" 
 
 "Go an' tell him," replied Declan, "that I am here 
 watchin' till Anstie wakes, an' I'll take her home." 
 
 "Anstie is dead and berried," said the old man. 
 "Didn't you berry her yerself?" 
 
 "She's not dead," said Declan, his fury rising at being 
 contradicted. "I say she's not dead. She's asleep 
 there in her bed; an' I'll wait till she awakens." 
 
 "May God help you, an' me, an' all of us," said the 
 old man, turning away. "'Tis a sorrowful story I have 
 to tell you, Dave Ahern, this night." 
 
 For a long time the demented boy sat there in the dark- 
 ness, his poor wrecked brain trying to piece together all 
 the events of the night. But it failed to catch them and 
 collect them; and they fell, like drops of water from a 
 broken wheel, and refused to coalesce or unite. One thing 
 alone seemed certain — that Anstie was dead tired and 
 sleepy after her long voyage homeward. But she would 
 awaken and arise and go home with him, when the moon- 
 light faded and the morning dawned. 
 
 At intervals, the owl's melancholy notes were care- 
 fully mimicked overhead; but no other sound broke the 
 stillness. 
 
 At length, the dawn broke, and simultaneously the 
 thought of the robbed and rifled girl broke on his mind. 
 Suddenly, as in such cases, a fierce gust of fury shook 
 him; and he strode forward, as if going to the village. 
 He had gone about the breadth of one field, when the 
 paroxysm ceased, and he returned to the Abbey by an- 
 other path. He had just entered through a broken and 
 
THE OWL'S NEST 443 
 
 falling arch, when he discerned in the faint light someone 
 at Anstie's grave. He stopped for a moment. Then he 
 saw that the figure was tearing with hands and feet, as 
 a dog will tear the earth with fore and hind legs. He then 
 approached. Coppal heard the heavy tread, and sprang 
 up to fly. But in an instant, Declan's hands were upon 
 him, and he smote the idiot fearfully. But Coppal had 
 all the agility and strength of a wild animal; and, unable 
 to strike back he grappled with Declan, and twisting his 
 long, supple legs inside the other's, he pulled him to the 
 ground, and there the madman and the idiot writhed 
 and scratched, and tore and struggled, until at last, the 
 strength of the idiot gave way, and his hold relaxed, 
 and he lay helpless and panting and half-dead at the 
 feet of his adversary. They glared at each other for a 
 time in silence; and then a light seemed to flash on the 
 mad boy's brain. 
 
 "Lemme go home," spluttered the idiot. "I never 
 did nothin' to you, Deck Ahem. Lemme go home!" 
 
 "Whisht, or I'll kill you," said Declan. "Do you want 
 to wake her? An' she asleep after her long journey. 
 But you robbed her above in the ould house of Glendar- 
 ragh. Her father an' me saw it. Give up what you 
 sthole, or I'll murdher you there on her bed!" 
 
 The idiot whimpered and cried and protested. It 
 was in vain. But it was only when Declan approached 
 to lay violent hands on him again, that he pointed up to 
 the owl's nest, and said: — 
 
 '"Tis there!" 
 
 "What's there? Go and get it, you — fool, an' be quick 
 about it!" 
 
 Coppal rose, and planting his bare feet in the thick 
 tendrils of the ivy, he climbed rapidly upwards to the 
 nest. Once or twice he paused, and looked down to ascer- 
 tain if Declan was still waiting; but when he found there 
 was no escape, he drew out the packet, and descended. 
 
 "Is this all?" said Declan suspiciously. 
 
 "All!" said the idiot. 
 
444 MIKIAM LUCAS 
 
 "There's something else?" queried Declan. "Come, 
 quick, or I'll smash your empty skull!" 
 
 "Dere's nothin'," whimpered the fool, "but tree duck 
 eggs, an' a piece of twine, an' a chaney! Oh, for God's 
 sake, Deck, an' your mudder's sowl, don't take me piece 
 of chaney!" 
 
 Declan put the packet in his pocket; and then, catch- 
 ing a fierce hold of the fool, he dragged him over to 
 Anstie's grave. 
 
 "Kneel down, you omadhaun!" he cried. 
 
 Coppal knelt in fear. 
 
 "Now, listen, if you value your life. Anstie Carroll 
 is there asleep, dead asleep, poor girl, because she's come 
 from a long journey. No wan is to wake her, but me. 
 She knows me, an' no wan else; an' she won't wake, till 
 I call her. She's tired, poor girl, an' no wondher, afther 
 her long journey. Ef you so much as walk over her bed 
 there in the grass; ef you touch a nettle or a dock lafe; 
 ef I ketch you agen within a field of the Abbey, I'll tear 
 you, limb from limb, and throw yer carcase into the say." 
 
 Coppal believed him, for he slunk silently away. And 
 Declan, kneeling down, and uttering his lullaby over the 
 grave, composed the earth and the turf that had been 
 rudely torn by the savage hatred of the fool. 
 
XLVI 
 
 Nemesis 
 
 Amidst a vast pile of correspondence on Holthsworth's 
 table one morning, a postcard with one single word writ- 
 ten thereon easily escaped his notice. There were let- 
 ters from junior officials, asking his influence to secure 
 for them places in the railway and other departments, 
 over which he had apparently unlimited control; letters 
 from fellow-directors, suggesting many possible improve- 
 ments, which he calmly tore up and flung into the waste- 
 paper basket, letters from secretaries, with reports about 
 mismanagement, which he carefully pigeon-holed; letters 
 from stock-brokers, suggesting some fresh speculations, 
 which he studied, balancing probabilities and uncer- 
 tainties, and finally laid aside for future consideration; 
 letters from religious and charitable organizations, plead- 
 ing for support; letters of invitation to dinners, to at- 
 homes, charitable concerts; letters, faintly perfumed, 
 which he locked into his escritoire, with a little pleas- 
 ure and some annoyance. He then opened half-penny 
 post circulars, which he tore up without even looking at 
 them, wondering how it could ever repay manufacturers 
 and others to print and issue such nonsense. He then 
 looked leisurely at postcard after postcard, written and 
 printed, and lazily tossed them aside. He came at last 
 to the one on which was written the single word: Arrived. 
 He gazed at it incuriously for a while, until it feebly 
 dawned on his consciousness that this was his own hand- 
 writing. He then saw the Glendarragh postmark, and 
 instantly recognising what it meant, he brushed aside 
 the entire heap of correspondence and fixed his atten- 
 tion upon this. It meant to his mind but one thing. 
 
446 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Ha!" he said. "The storm and stress of life have 
 brought her back! Nothing like the want of pence to 
 bring truants to their senses. I wonder what her experi- 
 ences were! Bar or theatre, I suppose! And now! 
 Let me see! Of course she is domiciled with that old 
 fool of a parson and his shrewish wife. But — my dear 
 Lady Disdain will not remain a burden with them for 
 long, or I misunderstand her character. And what 
 remains — except the paternal arms of her much-despised 
 and much-injured guardian, who, however, in that spirit 
 of Christian magnanimity which characterises him, is 
 prepared to shelter the weary and wilful dove? These 
 vile hinds dare not offer their war-chest, as they call it, 
 even though they knew the property was hers. Yes! 
 The game is playing steadily into thy hands, Augus- 
 tus! One move more, and I capture the Queen!" 
 
 He remained some time buried in deep thought, debat- 
 ing whether he should run down at once, or await devel- 
 opments. There was a good deal to be said in favour 
 of the latter alternative, for would it not be wise to wait 
 until the fair quarry had completely exhausted herself, 
 and should, by very force of circumstances, rush towards 
 him? But, after a long and weary debate with himself, 
 he fell back on his favourite maxim: Doubt is only resolved 
 by action; and he decided to go down to Glendarragh 
 next day. 
 
 The good parson and his wife were again surprised and 
 somewhat annoyed when they received the telegram 
 announcing his arrival. 
 
 "That odious man again!" she exclaimed. "What 
 brings him here now? One would think that his last 
 reception had cooled his ardour for ever!" 
 
 "He's a man of energy, my dear," said her husband. 
 "I'm afraid he'll harass these poor people!" 
 
 "I don't think you need fear that, John Crosth- 
 waite," said his wife. " They are more likely to harass 
 him!" 
 
NEMESIS 447 
 
 "But if he takes out writs, and all that kind of thing," 
 said the parson. 
 
 "But he won't," persisted his wife. "He knows right 
 well — better than anyone else — that the property is 
 tied up, and that he cannot touch an inch of it." 
 
 "True! But, then, if he is Miriam's guardian and 
 trustee, cannot he put the law in force? I only ask 
 for information, my dear. I know nothing about such 
 things." 
 
 "Better leave them alone, John," she said. "The 
 question now is, how shall we entertain the man. I sup- 
 pose we cannot turn him out? " 
 
 "Oh, no! no!" said the rector, in alarm. "We couldn't 
 think of that, my dear!" 
 
 "And yet, one might reasonably ask, why he should 
 so presume upon our hospitality? We know nothing of 
 the man!" 
 
 "Well, for dear Miriam's sake, my dear," pleaded the 
 parson, who was really beginning to fear that his wife 
 would send Holthsworth away dinnerless. 
 
 "Oh! yes, that's all right, John Crosthwaite," she said. 
 "We can't turn him off. But, my, my, how am I to 
 manage at such short notice? One would suppose we 
 had a butcher's shop next door." 
 
 "There's no fear about your management, my dear," 
 said her husband, dropping in some very genuine oil of 
 flattery on the nerves of his excited spouse. "I'm sure 
 the last time he was here Mr. Holthsworth was most com- 
 plimentary about our little management." 
 
 "H'm!" said his sceptical wife. "Mr. Holthsworth 
 is too polite, or — well, something else shall I say? How- 
 ever, we shall do our best. I only hope his stay with us 
 shall be as brief as we wish." 
 
 However, Holthsworth came along just at the time indi- 
 cated in his telegram, for he was a man of punctuality and 
 order. He also overwhelmed his hosts with profuse apol- 
 ogies for his intrusion, and especially for such an abrupt 
 intrusion. He begged and implored Mrs. Crosthwaite 
 
448 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 to put herself to no trouble whatever for his convenience, 
 or to the minimum, when she protested ambiguously, 
 and John Crosthwaite assured him it was a pleasure 
 beyond repayment. He settled down amid the rural 
 surroundings, fitting in and adapting himself to them, 
 without the least sacrifice of personal convenience. But 
 he was studiously reticent during the hour that inter- 
 vened before dinner-time, and during the dinner-hour, 
 about the object of his visit to Glendarragh. But he 
 looked somewhat surprised when only the parson, the 
 parson's wife and himself sat down to dinner; and every 
 time the door opened, he seemed to start and stare, as if 
 he expected someone else other than the little servant- 
 maid. At length, he seemed to grow distrait and reserved, 
 and a silence settled down on the place, broken only by a 
 few polite invitations and requests. 
 
 When he was alone with the good parson, he could no 
 longer restrain his curiosity. 
 
 He said, abruptly, and yet with a studied carelessness, 
 as he balanced his spoon above his cup: — 
 
 "So Miriam has arrived at last?" 
 
 "Oh, has she?" said the delighted parson. "What 
 news? I must go at once and tell Annie!" 
 
 He had risen to go out; but Holthsworth, annoyed, 
 bade him, with an angry gesture, to sit down. 
 
 "I only asked the question," he said, sharply. "I 
 asked if Miriam had come." 
 
 "Oh!" said the disappointed parson. "I'm sure I 
 beg your pardon. I understood you to say that our 
 dear girl had come back to Ireland." 
 
 "Well, I conclude she has," said Holthsworth, "but I 
 thought, if she had come back, I should certainly find her 
 here." 
 
 "Alas! no," said the old man, relapsing into a kind of 
 sorrowful resignation. 
 
 "Well," said Holthsworth, after a pause, "one thing is 
 quite certain, that Miss Lucas has returned. And I 
 took it as a matter of course that, when she did not come 
 
NEMESIS 449 
 
 to my residence in Dublin, it was because she had older, 
 and perhaps dearer friends here." 
 
 "Perhaps," said the old man, "Annie could throw some 
 light on the matter. But I have heard nothing. A poor 
 little girl named Carroll, who had been formerly Mir- 
 iam's servant, did return, alas! under unhappy circum- 
 stances. She was picked up drowned from a steamer 
 that ran ashore on the rocks down along the coast — " 
 
 "Ha!" said Holthsworth, "that explains the matter." 
 
 He now remembered his instructions to Deck Ahern; 
 and was inwardly cursing his own stupidity. 
 
 "But you were saying? — " 
 
 "Oh, nothing more but that the poor girl, I believe, 
 had some papers about Glendarragh — at least so it is 
 whispered in the village, which have come in some way 
 into the hands of Deck Ahern." 
 
 "That's the boy that has the boat in the village?" 
 asked Holthsworth. 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, unsuspectingly, "but you 
 see they don't want these things to be known. They 
 buried the poor girl secretly, and there was some trouble 
 with the Coroner about the matter; and they don't want 
 the matter to be spoken of." 
 
 "Of course! of course!" said Holthsworth. "With 
 your permission I think I'll have a cigar, and a little stroll. 
 I shall be back for tea." 
 
 And he lit his cigar and walked away slowly; but, when 
 he had gone out of sight of the rectory, he quickened his 
 pace, and passing rapidly down the road that led to the 
 sea, he skirted the sea-wall, and in a few minutes was in 
 the village. 
 
 The days had lengthened out now, for it was late in 
 the springtide, and the evening sun was setting. But it 
 was twilight in the little hamlet; and deep dusk in Dave 
 Ahern's cottage when the half-door was darkened by 
 Holthsworth's figure, and the strange voice hailed the two 
 old men, who sat dozing near the fire: — 
 
 "Hallo! anyone inside?" 
 
450 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 Old Dave Ahem rose up feebly, and eame to the door. 
 
 "Are you Ahern?" said the stranger. 
 
 "I am," said Dave, wonderingly. 
 
 "Where's Deck, your son?" said the voice. 
 
 "I suppose somewhere among the neighbours," was 
 the old man's reply. "Can I do anything for yer 
 'anner?" 
 
 "Well, yes and no!" said Holthsworth, dubiously. 
 "The fact is, I came to get some papers he has belong- 
 ing to Miss Lucas. Miss Lucas, you know, is my ward; 
 that is, I am her guardian; and I am empowered to get 
 and retain these papers, according to law. Have you 
 got them?" 
 
 " I suppose they're somewhere in the house," said the 
 old man hesitatingly. "Do you know, James, where 
 Deck keeps 'em- — the papers you know, that Coppal 
 stole from Anstie?" 
 
 "N-no!" said James Carroll. "I can't say as I do. 
 An' I think it 'ud be besht for all consarned not to tetch 
 'em, in Deck's absence." 
 
 "But, my dear man," said Holthsworth, insinuatingly, 
 "they're mine, you know. In fact, it was Deck wrote 
 to me to come down from Dublin, with the view of handing 
 me those papers. See, here is his postcard!" 
 
 "Oh! begor, yer 'anner," said Dave Ahern, "we didn't 
 know there was any undhersthanding between ye. Deck 
 kept it very quiet. I suppose we'd betther settle the 
 matther, James. Gi' me a candle." 
 
 He took and lighted the candle, went into an inner room, 
 made a search, and came forth, holding the yellow and 
 water-stained parchments in his hands. 
 
 "Here they are, yer 'anner!" said Dave Ahern. "But 
 we'd be behoulden to you, ef you'd see Deck himself, 
 and explain matthers to him." 
 
 "All right! never fear!" said Holthsworth, holding the 
 papers up in the growing twilight and examining them. 
 "Deck and I understand each other. I'll see him, and 
 make all right. Good evening!" 
 
NEMESIS 451 
 
 "Good-night, and good-luck!" said both the old men 
 in one breath. 
 
 Elated at his easy success, Holthsworth passed rapidly 
 along the village street, lightly leaped oyer a fence, and 
 mounted swiftly the grassy slope that led to the high 
 cliffs -beyond. He was eager to snatch every moment 
 from the growing darkness to read the contents of these 
 momentous papers, which, he felt, would put him in pos- 
 session of all the information he needed, and probably 
 show him a means of asserting his own rights over the 
 estate of Glendarragh. He sat down on a ledge or rock 
 overhanging the sea. He did not notice a long, deep 
 fissure in the turf behind him, a split of about a hand's 
 width, which denoted that the cliff was loosened here 
 by the fierce hammering of the seas beneath. It was a 
 calm, lovely evening, the sea dark-purple, the sky glitter- 
 ing; no sound but the soft plash of the waters beneath. 
 
 There were two packages given to Holthsworth by the 
 fishermen. The one was parchment, very thick, and old, 
 and discoloured. By the large letters endorsed on the 
 back, it clearly contained the title-deeds to the House and 
 Manor of Glendarragh. He opened its heavy folds, and 
 saw the enormous seal at the head of the document. He 
 was satisfied, and he folded up the parchment again. 
 
 The second document was a will, bequeathing the 
 Estate and Manor of Glendarragh to Miriam H. Lucas; 
 and, looking rapidly at the signature, Holthsworth dis- 
 cerned in the waning light the name: Jane Holthsworth 
 Lucas. He glanced down the page, and saw, to his sur- 
 prise, that it was dated but a few weeks, back, and had 
 been written in Blackwell Penitentiary. 
 
 "Poor Jennie!" said Holthsworth, replacing his cigar, 
 and re-lighting it, as he folded the paper. " Clearly this 
 uncanny but delightful place is yours; and might have 
 been mine, had I been more discreet. Alas! discretion 
 comes only from experience. But 'Blackwell Peniten- 
 tiary!' what drove Jennie thither, I wonder, and in what 
 
452 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 capacity? Criminal? I shouldn't wonder. There was 
 a devil there. But, perhaps, she married the Governor, 
 or something of the kind. No matter. The title-deeds 
 of Glendarragh are now in my possession. I snap my 
 fingers at fate!" 
 
 A very gentle, soft hand was laid on his shoulder. He 
 started up and saw Deck Ahern, but he didn't notice 
 the gleam of madness in the boy's eyes. 
 
 "Hush!" said Deck, in a whisper, holding up a warn- 
 ing finger. "Hush! Don't spake or you'll wake her. 
 She sint me for thim papers they giv you!" 
 
 "That's all right, Deck," said Holthsworth, airily, 
 thinking that the boy had been drinking, and inclined 
 to humour him. "Here are the papers all right." 
 
 And he showed him the parchments. Deck put out 
 his hand to seize them; but Holthsworth promptly put 
 his hand that held the papers behind his back. Instantly, 
 Deck's strong fingers grasped his coat. He felt the hard, 
 iron knuckles grinding into his breast. 
 
 "She said," continued the boy, still speaking in a whis- 
 per and avoiding the name of "Anstie" as much as pos- 
 sible, " that I was to bring her back thim letters, and put 
 'em in her coffin, until she wakes up from her long sleep. 
 Give 'em to me!" 
 
 "Nonsense, boy!" said Holthsworth, "the papers are 
 mine; and no one else shall get them. Let me go at 
 once!" 
 
 Instead of heeding that peremptory command, the boy 
 screwed his fingers tighter in Holthsworth's coat, and 
 bringing his face close, he whispered, as his hot breath 
 fanned Holthsworth's face: — 
 
 "You won't giv 'em to me. Thin, she said I was to 
 kill you — to kill you here." 
 
 Holthsworth, though a strong man and a brave man, 
 was now thoroughly frightened. He saw he had to deal 
 with a madman. They were alone on the cliff at a spot 
 where they could not be seen from the village; and Holths- 
 worth's pride" would not allow him to ^ihout for help, 
 
NEMESIS 453 
 
 even if help were available. And the night had come 
 down, dark and starless. 
 
 He again attempted to wheedle the boy into good- 
 humour and compliance. 
 
 "Come now, Deck," he said, feebly trying to loose the 
 boy's grip on his coat, "you are Miss Miriam's friend; 
 and these papers are hers. Come along down to the vil- 
 lage, and I'll read them for you. And you'll see what 
 they mean." 
 
 The vacant eyes of the boy seemed to look not at him 
 but beyond him to the vast sea-reaches that lay behind 
 them; and the strong clutch now became convulsive. 
 
 "She tould me," he whispered, "that I was to get them 
 letthers; an' she tould me that I was to kill you, becos 
 why, you are the owner of Glendarragh, and the Curse 
 has come down on you." 
 
 "Stop this — nonsense at once, you Sir!" shouted 
 Holthsworth, rendered desperate by the danger of the 
 situation, "and unhand me, or I'll put you at once into 
 the hands of the police." 
 
 He made a violent effort to free himself, but the mad 
 boy clung desperately to him, forcing him back, inch by 
 inch, to the verge of the cliff. Again and again Holths- 
 worth threw his strength backward against him; and now, 
 thoroughly alarmed, he flung the parchments far in upon 
 the grass; and clutched the boy by the neck. There was 
 a terrific struggle for a few moments. Then, as a pang 
 of horror shot through his heart, he felt the loosened 
 earth gliding beneath him. He was instantly unnerved, 
 and as his clutch on the boy's throat weakened and 
 loosened, the latter threw all his strength forward, the 
 broken segment of the cliff gave way beneath the fierce 
 trampling; and with a cry of horror and despair, the two 
 men rolled down the steep decline, until they fell against 
 the sharp, red rocks, where the broken waters were sur- 
 ging and heaving beneath. 
 
XLVII 
 
 The Uplifting of the Curse 
 
 Not until the following morning was the full horror of 
 the tragedy understood by the villagers. The good host- 
 ess at the rectory was at first impatient, then annoyed, 
 then indignant, at the unpunctuality of their guest. 
 
 "I suppose these are city manners," she said to her 
 husband. "Great people, in order to show their great- 
 ness, cannot descend to minor details of punctuality. 
 They like to show how much they are above such trifles; 
 and to get humbler people to wait upon their leisure. 
 Very good, Mr. H., but perhaps we may not be so con- 
 descending again." 
 
 "You don't know, my dear," said her gentle husband, 
 "Mr. Holthsworth might have been detained on bus- 
 iness." 
 
 "Business?" echoed his wife. "What business could 
 he have here, I'd like to know? He got enough of bus- 
 iness the last time he was down here, I think." 
 
 "But, my dear," said her husband, trembling while he 
 made the terrible confession, "perhaps I should have men- 
 tioned it sooner — " 
 
 He paused for a moment. 
 
 "I think I mentioned casually — by mere accident — 
 to Mr. Holthsworth — that that little village girl, Car- 
 roll, wasn't it? came back — that is, was picked up dead 
 from a steamer — and — " 
 
 The good wife looked so serious at this that the rec- 
 tor's nerve failed him. 
 
 "And — what else?" she queried. 
 
 "Well, my dear, I told him — I suppose it was highly 
 imprudent, but you know I don't understand these bus- 
 
THE UPLIFTING OF THE CURSE 455 
 
 iness matters — that there were some papers belonging 
 to our dear Miriam found on the girl, and that they were 
 now in possession of that poor mad boy — Ahern ! " 
 
 The good wife only shook her head sadly at her spouse. 
 It meant a good deal, and he grew correspondingly more 
 alarmed. But she only said : — 
 
 "That explains the delay. He's gone down to Ahern's 
 to see, and to get hold of, those papers. And then — 
 poor Miriam!" 
 
 The good vicar was so alarmed at these words that he 
 could only stare at his wife in affright. At last he found 
 words to say: — 
 
 "I'm genuinely sorry — indeed I am. There is my pre- 
 dominant weakness always — sins of the tongue. I as- 
 sure you, my dear, I make ever so many resolutions against 
 the vice; but then I am immediately betrayed again. I'm 
 afraid now I have done great mischief; and above all to 
 dear Miriam. But, perhaps, my dear, it may be all 
 right yet. Perhaps Mr. Holthsworth doesn't care for 
 these papers at all; or perhaps young Ahern won't give 
 them up?" 
 
 "There's just one chance for that," said his wife, 
 "namely, that Ahern is mad. If he were sane, nothing 
 could help his being wheedled out of these papers by such 
 a man as Holthsworth. But John — " 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said John. This was the preliminary 
 always of a lecture, which the good man took meekly. 
 
 "There's something in what you say about sins of the 
 tongue. Now, I'll tell you what you'll do, when Mr. 
 Holthsworth returns. Read up a little something about 
 grace and predestination. He's strong on those points; 
 and, if he tries to get you away from these, and to talk 
 on local matters, I'll cough, or call Maggie, and you'll 
 understand." 
 
 "That's an admirable idea," said the vicar, enthu- 
 siastically. "Or, lest I should forget even that, and 
 you know how my memory sometimes wanders, suppose 
 I should tie a piece of string, just a tiny piece, so that 
 
456 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 it would not be observable, to my wrist, and pass it 
 along the table — " 
 
 But the good wife shook her head at this. It would 
 never do. Besides, John Crosthwaite had forgotten that 
 he would not be sitting at the dinner-table, and that to 
 trail a string along the room might be awkward. 
 
 " Or I'll tell you, my dear," he cried, seeing that that 
 plan would not work, "suppose you watch me, and just 
 when I am going to betray myself, as I am sure to do, 
 suppose you say with some emphasis: ' Another cup of 
 tea, John?' How would that work?" 
 
 " That would be better," said his wife, who had sunk into 
 a brown study, wondering, wondering what was detaining 
 Holthsworth. " I must order the candles whatever; and 
 get the lamps lighted. What can be keeping the man? " 
 
 But the hours rolled by, and there was no tidings. 
 And the thick darkness of the spring evening had deep- 
 ened into darker night; and no footsteps sounded on the 
 gravel before the rectory door. 
 
 "This is very strange," thought Mrs. Crosthwaite, 
 "very strange, indeed. Making all allowance for the 
 time it would take to go down to the village, and return, 
 even if Deck Ahern were refractory, Mr. Holthsworth 
 should be here now. I hope nothing has happened!" 
 
 She ordered tea for herself and her husband; and they 
 took the meal in silence. Once, the vicar said: — 
 
 "Strange, my dear, that Mr. Holthsworth came down 
 here for the purpose of meeting Miriam!" 
 
 "How?" said his wife. "Meeting Miriam? What 
 put that idea into your head?" 
 
 "Why he told me so," said the vicar. "Perhaps, you 
 noticed, my dear, that he was restless during dinner. I 
 didn't. I only conclude so. You are so much sharper." 
 
 "Well?" said his wife 
 
 "Then when you left, he said at once: 'So Miriam has 
 come home at last?' He was disappointed when I told 
 him the dear girl had not come here; and it was then I 
 told him about Anstie Carroll and the papers." 
 
THE UPLIFTING OF THE CURSE 457 
 
 Mrs. Crosthwaite sank into a brown study. Things 
 appeared to be converging strangely from all directions 
 towards some final issue, as yet undefined. Holthsworth 
 was not a man to come down from Dublin, and leave all 
 his work behind him, without cause. What if Ireton 
 had found Miriam at last, and was returning; or that 
 Miriam herself, tired of wandering amongst strangers, 
 was about to seek home? It gave the good lady food for 
 thought all the evening. When at last, the time for retir- 
 ing had come, she knew that neither herself nor her 
 husband could bear the strain of so grave an uncertainty 
 during the night. She sent one of the girls down to 
 the village to inquire if Mr. Holthsworth had been there. 
 The messenger brought back the vague information that 
 Mr. Holthsworth had been at Dave Ahern's cottage, 
 had taken away some papers, and had left for the rec- 
 tory. That was all. 
 
 A vague feeling of dread, that something was wrong, 
 now crept down on the fancy of Mrs. Crosthwaite. Her 
 good husband, less liable to neurotic changes, calmly read 
 on during these momentous hours. At last, his wife 
 ordered the servants to bed, but kept all lamps lighting. 
 She and her husband would remain up to watch and wait, 
 lest at any moment, their guest should return. Very 
 late at night, as the hall-clock struck the hour of mid- 
 night, the anxious woman decided that something was 
 seriously wrong. She bade her husband go to bed; and 
 flung herself on a sofa to await whatever was to happen. 
 Gradually, she sank into a light sleep; and whether her 
 imagination had been busy with the legend of Glendar- 
 ragh, and the strange glyptic symbols in the dining-room 
 of the ruined house or not, she had a dream, in which 
 she distinctly saw the figure of a man walking in a puzzled 
 and frightened manner along the great road that was 
 lined with the mysterious statues; and she knew that 
 the man was Holthsworth; and she watched him with 
 some interest, but without sympathy, as he groped his 
 way, like a blind man towards his fate. And strange to 
 
458 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 say, although dreams are as a rule grotesque in their de^ 
 tails, she thought she beheld the man's life symbolised 
 in that wandering and unconscious trance in which he 
 seemed to be pursuing his way; and in the dread sym- 
 bolism of those weird figures, turning aside as he passed 
 them, and vanishing in smoke. "There," she caught her- 
 self saying, "is his vanity, his pride, his hypocrisy, his 
 wealth, and there!" — For a moment her heart stood 
 still, as Holthsworth seemed to approach the dread fig- 
 ure at the end; and she woke up with a shudder. 
 
 It was the chill finger of the dawn, that really woke her 
 up to life; for the grey light was creeping through the win- 
 dows, and although the lamps were still lighting, and shed- 
 ding a little heat on the atmosphere, the cold air had crept 
 in through the window and touched the sleeping woman. 
 She had hardly realised, however, where she was, and 
 recalled, with some difficulty the events of the preceding 
 evening, when she heard the tramp of men, and their 
 voices. She kept still and listened. No one was yet 
 stirring in the house. The voices came nearer, hushed 
 and muffled, as if in reverence. Then, the garden gate 
 opened; and she heard the tramp of men on the gravel 
 walk before the door. She was not surprised, when on 
 opening the front door in answer to their knock, she saw 
 at her feet, resting on a rude door, that had been plucked 
 from its hinges, the shattered and mutilated body of her 
 guest. 
 
 "We found him, mum," said one of the fishermen 
 "at five this morning at the foot of the big cliff. Wv 
 wint out airly to see if we could find Deck Ahem, who 
 was missing all night; and sure, there were the two to- 
 gether, this gintleman and Deck." 
 
 "Is Ahern also dead?" said Mrs. Crosthwaite, who had 
 turned her eyes away from the face of the dead man. 
 
 "No!" was the answer. "But he has a broken arm 
 and leg. He was lying atop of the gintleman — " 
 
 "Yes! yes!" said Mrs. Crosthwaite impatiently, dread- 
 ing to hear that it was a murder. 
 
THE UPLIFTING OF THE CURSE 459 
 
 "An' the gintleman was flung across a sharp rock — " 
 
 "An' his neck was brack," chimed in another. 
 
 "But — but, how did it happen? What happened?" 
 said Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 
 "God alone knows that!" was the reply. "What we 
 think is, that Deck followed the gintleman up the cliff 
 to get back the letthers which the ould man gave him an' 
 whilst they were talkin' and argin', the cliff gev way onder- 
 neath them. Here's the letthers, Ma'am. Maybe, you'd 
 keep them now!" 
 
 She took the yellow parchments from the strong, grimy 
 hand of the fisherman, and bade the men bring in the 
 broken and mutilated body of Holthsworth. They laid 
 it on the floor of the dining-room, and waited, twisting 
 their caps between their fingers. The house was now 
 astir; but the good vicar was still sleeping, in happy 
 unconsciousness of the terrible tragedy. His wife gave 
 the men some drink, which they took in sips, philoso- 
 phising between each sip as to the causes, and the ulti- 
 mate issues of the event. 
 
 "As soon as you are ready, men," said Mrs. Cros- 
 thwaite, " let some of you run over to the nearest police 
 Btation, and summon the sergeant and a constable. There 
 must be an inquest, of course." 
 
 "Of course, mum," was the reply. "But the divil a 
 much information (I beg yer pardon, mum, for the ex- 
 pression) they are likely to get beyant what we have." 
 
 "Is Ahern quite insensible?" she asked. 
 
 "No more senses than a baby," replied the man. "He 
 is mumbling an' mouthin' a lot of nonsense to himself 
 about Anstie an' the Curse. But, whether they were 
 argin', or scoldin', no wan can say. Only wan thing is 
 certain — the cliff gave way onderneath their feet. Sure 
 'twas always a dangerous spot. Didn't I aften tell you, 
 Thade, that somebody 'ud be killed there?" 
 
 "Begor you did. It didn't need spectacles to see that." 
 
 The men appeared to be hesitating about something; 
 and the vicar's wife noticed it. 
 
4G0 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Well, there's no use in wasting time now," she said, 
 "all will come out at the inquest. But let some of you 
 also get out the undertaker and a couple of men. We had 
 better make all arrangements at once." 
 
 There was still an inclination to linger; and yet some 
 reluctance to explain. At last, the oldest fisherman, who 
 had assumed the office of spokesman, said: — 
 
 "I'm thinkin', Ma'am, that we might as well tell the 
 crowner that he'll have two inquests instid of one." 
 
 "How?" said Mrs. Crosthwaite. "Is Ahern likely to 
 die?" 
 
 "No, mum," said the man. "But — " 
 
 He stopped, and studied his cap. 
 
 "Out wid it, Thade!" said one of his comrades. "Sure 
 we can't help it!" 
 
 And Thade said, fearfully: — 
 
 " We're afraid, Ma'am, there'll be two corpses; or rather, 
 a corp and a skeleton. Bekos, there's a skeleton jammed 
 under the rock where the gintleman fell; and we're afraid 
 'tis ould Mr. Lucas!" 
 
 Then the horror of the thing smote the imagination of 
 the strong woman; and she had to hold by a chair to pre- 
 vent herself from falling. 
 
 " Go now ! " she said. " And when the police arrive they 
 can make another search with you!" 
 
 They did; and just as the man declared, they discovered 
 the skeleton of the old man. He had fallen helplessly 
 over the cliff the evening of the dreadful storm; rolled 
 downwards, and probably held back by the violence of 
 the hurricane, instead of being precipitated on the rocks, 
 he had rolled helplessly into a deep fissure made between 
 the face of the cliff and an inslanting boulder. Thence, 
 there was no chance of rescue, except by the merciful 
 hands of Death. 
 
 In a few days quiet had settled down on the remote 
 seaside village again; and everything had resumed its 
 bald appearance, like a theatre seen by daylight. John 
 
•THE UPLIFTING OF THE CURSE 461 
 
 Crosthwaite had returned from Dublin, whither he had 
 accompanied Holthsworth's remains. The good man 
 had set out on the journey with as much fear and trembling 
 as if he had been going to Nova Zembla; and he had 
 returned with as much delight as if he had escaped un- 
 speakable terrors. Nothing but a sheer sense of duty 
 could have induced him to embark on such a dangerous 
 enterprise, and many were the admonitions and advices 
 given by his good wife to one who, she said, was no more 
 qualified to take care of himself than a baby. 
 
 And the good man, notwithstanding, did plunge into 
 pitfalls enough, through a strange belief, from which he 
 could never wholly emancipate himself, that most human 
 beings were like himself. He brought down on his head 
 the wrath of a young mother, who resented his interfer- 
 ence when she held her baby half way out of a carriage 
 window, when the train was speeding at forty miles an 
 hour. And, untaught by this adventure, he volunteered 
 some information to a fashionably-dressed young lady, 
 who sat opposite to him in the narrow carriage; but 
 unfortunately he ended the information by saying: "My 
 dear!" and got a look in return that withered him up for 
 the rest of the journey. Yet, that was one of the weak- 
 nesses against which his wife had specially warned him. 
 When he arrived at Kingsbridge, after arranging about the 
 transfer of the remains to Mrs. Holthsworth's house, he 
 was surprised to find that every cab was engaged. He 
 wandered down along the whole length of the platform, 
 holding his humble valise in his hand, and challenging the 
 lordly drivers above his head. In vain! Cabby after 
 cabby refused to acknowledge his existence; and the few 
 who saw him were "Engaged." At last, he mounted 
 a ramshackle side-car, drawn by a skeleton horse, and 
 nearly frightened the driver out of his wits by asking to 
 be driven to the most fashionable hotel in the city. This 
 was done by his wife's advice, who held fast by the ancient 
 fallacy that the dearest hotel is also the cheapest. But 
 he had to pay. He was charged an Archiepiscopal fare. 
 
462 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 He nearly fainted under the supercilious scorn of the lady- 
 clerk, who relegated him to the fifth or sixth story of the 
 hotel. A young waiter came forward to show him the way 
 to the elevator; but desisted when he saw the threadbare 
 appearance of the old man, who now had to mount 
 the five flights of stairs and carry his own valise. But, 
 presto! On the fifth or sixth landing, this poor blun- 
 dering humanity of ours, showed him a little of its very 
 hidden treasures, in the shape of a little servant-girl 
 who came forward, relieved him of his valise, asked in a 
 delightfully querulous manner, what did they mean 
 by allowing such a gentleman to mount those steps, when 
 there was a lift, etc. — 
 
 "But what is a lift, my dear?" said John Crosthwaite. 
 " You see I'm from the country, and I haven't been from 
 home for ever so long." 
 
 "I'll show you, Sir," she said, as she hurried him along 
 the carpeted corridor, and opening a door, switched on 
 the electric light, placed the valise on a stand, hustled 
 around, drew the blinds, and then said: — 
 
 " Now, one moment, Sir, and I shall get you some hot 
 water. You must be very tired, Sir. Did you come 
 far?" 
 
 "From the furthest corner of the County Cork," said 
 John Crosthwaite. "I came with the remains of a 
 friend from the city here." 
 
 "Oh, then you came for a funeral, Sir?" she queried, 
 as her interest grew greater. 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said the old man. "A sad accident, 
 a sad accident!" 
 
 "Just one moment now, Sir, and I'll fetch you some 
 hoj; water." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, my dear," he said. "This is quite good 
 enough," as he poured out some water into the basin. 
 
 But the little maid was not to be denied. She skipped 
 along the corridor; and in a minute, was back with clean 
 towels, fresh soap, etc. She whisked the cold water into 
 a bucket, poured out the steaming hot water, and:— 
 
THE UPLIFTING OF THE CURSE 403 
 
 "Now, Sir, if you want me just touch that button 
 there, and I'll come!" 
 
 "Where, my dear?" said the old man, looking around 
 for a button in despair. 
 
 " Just here, Sir," she said. " Look! " 
 
 And she touched the button. 
 
 "What a wonderful thing science is," said the old 
 man, admiringly. "Really wonderful. And you tell 
 me now, my dear, that it is quite equivalent to ringing 
 a bell?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir," she said, " and much handier. But have 
 you ordered dinner? " 
 
 "N-no!" he said, hesitatingly. "I think I'll have a 
 cup of tea later on." 
 
 " I'd advise you to dine, Sir," she said. " You have 
 come a long journey. Allow me now, and I'll get 
 Charles to keep a snug little corner in the dining-room 
 for you. The table d'hote is just on. You'd rather be 
 alone, I'm sure!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, my dear," said the old man. "Some little 
 corner away from the light. My sight is not good — " 
 
 "I understand, Sir," she said, smiling. "I'll make it 
 all right with Charles. You just stop here now until I 
 call. You can read, or something; and I'll get Charles, 
 when he's ready, to come and take you down the lift!" 
 
 "You're awfully good, awfully good," said John Cros- 
 thwaite. "I must write and tell Annie how kind you 
 have been." 
 
 And at the appointed time, Charles, gorgeous in an 
 enamelled shirt-front and spotless cuffs and tie, knocked 
 at the door and said: — 
 
 "Dinner ready, Sir!" 
 
 The old man trembled at the apparition; but meekly 
 followed his superb guide along the corridor, and into a 
 little room which, to John's amazement, instantly began 
 to descend, but with such a soft, easy motion that there 
 was no alarm — only a recurrence of the classic words — 
 Facilis descensus. And then they touched solid earth 
 
464 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 again; and John, following his guide, soon found himself 
 in a gorgeous chamber, a piece of poetry out of the Ara- 
 bian Nights; and half -miserable, with sight and hearing 
 nearly gone, he found himself at a little table in a corner, 
 where spotless naperie, brilliant glass, and some fragrant 
 flowers made him think: Life is worth living! Here he 
 had a quiet dainty dinner, although he thought it inter- 
 minable. Once or twice, he looked around shyly; but 
 shaded his eyes at once, dazzled by the splendour of the 
 crowd of ladies and gentlemen around him. And once, 
 he heard a soft footfall beside his chair, and he heard his 
 little maid whispering: — 
 
 "I hope you are quite comfortable, Sir? I have told 
 Charles to take you to the reading-room after dinner, 
 and get you a little corner to yourself. And, mind, you're 
 not to climb those stairs again. Charles will take you 
 to the lift. You touch the bell in the reading-room 
 when you wish to retire; and Charles will come at once." 
 
 Evidently, Charles was the obedient slave of this 
 young princess in disguise. 
 
 John Crosthwaite lay awake half the night, pondering 
 on the goodness of humanity and the progress of science, 
 and anxiously debating with himself whether he was 
 to offer that little servant-maid and Charles ten shillings, 
 or a pound. 
 
 He had scarcely tired of telling all his thrilling adven- 
 tures to his good wife on his return to Glendarragh, and 
 things had assumed their everyday aspect, when the 
 great sensation came. 
 
 On a certain warm, sunny morning, Mrs. Crosthwaite 
 was knitting after breakfast in her drawing-room. She 
 was thinking of many things whilst she worked mechan- 
 ically. And she had some unpleasant, worrying thoughts, 
 the greatest of which however, was, that a certain visitor 
 of the previous day had kindly told her that a certain 
 kind of tulip or narcissus, which was now gaily flaunting 
 its beauties in the narrow beds outside the window, had 
 
THE UPLIFTING OF THE CUESE 465 
 
 come to be regarded as so vulgar that it was now relegated 
 to the front of labourers' cottages in the district. 
 
 "Well, to be sure!" said Mrs. Crosthwaite to herself, 
 as she angrily snipped a piece of woollen thread, "vul- 
 gar! vulgar! When people use that word, and often, I 
 know what to think. As if anything could be vulgar 
 which the good Lord has made!" 
 
 "And to think," she continued, "that I got out my 
 best Sevres just to compliment that woman. The 
 kitchen cups would have been quite good enough for 
 her! Here's another of those tiresome visitors, I suppose," 
 she exclaimed, as a covered car drove up to the door of 
 the rectory and stopped there. "People nowadays seem 
 to have nothing to do but gad about and gossip." 
 
 She thought she heard an exclamation of surprise from 
 her maid, as the latter opened the door; and then, as her 
 eyes seemed to start from her head in delight, burst into 
 the drawing-room with a: 
 
 "Miss Miriam, Ma'am!" 
 
 Yes! Indeed, it was Miriam — the long-lost, the 
 much-desired, standing like a beautiful statue draped 
 in black, as if she were not sure what reception she 
 was to expect. The good rector's wife was about to 
 pretend indifference, to assume anger, to feign dis- 
 pleasure — any of the little tricks with which genuine 
 affection seeks sometimes to disguise itself; but the 
 sight of that black dress and the sad crape that draped 
 it, was too much; and she only drew down the dear 
 girl's face to her own, and mingled her tears with 
 Miriam's. Thus, the two women held each other in a 
 long embrace, until at last the elder recovered herself, and 
 summoned her husband from his study. Here much the 
 same scene, but somewhat less exaggerated, took place; and 
 then Miriam had sense enough left to inquire whether she 
 might discharge the driver, and get in her luggage. Then 
 the old spirit of playfulness shone like a rainbow amid 
 the tears of the good wife, as she asked her husband; — ■ 
 
4G5 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "Shall we let her in, John? Don't you think we 
 would act rightly in tumbling out all the boxes of this 
 truant, who never troubled herself about us these many 
 years?" 
 
 To which her husband replied: — 
 
 "This time, my dear; but only this time! The next 
 time Miriam goes away, we won't have her back." 
 
 Then commenced a series of questions about her adven- 
 tures, her present position, her future prospects. Each 
 admission — that she had found her mother under appal- 
 ling circumstances; that she had found Ireton under hap- 
 pier circumstances, and had been married; that she had 
 heard of Holthsworth's death, and knew no more — 
 became the occasion of new demonstrations of affection 
 on the part of her good host and hostess. 
 
 "And now," said Miriam, "I cannot be sure whether 
 I have any remaining claim to Glendarragh, because 
 the papers given me by my mother are, I suppose, hope- 
 lessly lost." 
 
 "What became of them?" asked Mrs. Crosthwaite, 
 innocently. 
 
 "My dear!" said John Crosthwaite. "Don't you 
 know — don't you remember?" 
 
 "John Crosthwaite," said his wife, "will I ever get 
 you to hold your tongue?" 
 
 "Yes, my dear!" said John. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," said Miriam. "My poor 
 mother gave them to the care of that little girl — you re- 
 member her — Anstie Carroll, with strict inductions to seek 
 me and find me. I understand that she sailed for home, 
 believing to find me here. I have heard no more." 
 
 "Then you have heard absolutely nothing?" said the 
 rector's wife. 
 
 "Nothing," said Miriam simply. "We, that is, Hugh 
 and I, only landed at Queenstown this morning very early 
 from the Adriatic, I came on here. Hugh remained for 
 some hours in Queenstown." 
 
THE UPLIFTING OF THE CURSE 467 
 
 "Then it is for your mother you are in mourning, Mir- 
 iam?" said Mrs. Crosthwaite. 
 
 "Of course," said Miriam surprised. 
 
 And Mrs. Crosthwaite tapped the table in a medita- 
 tive mood. 
 
 But gradually, they broke the whole truth and tragic 
 solemnity of the fates that had befallen the many actors 
 in this little drama; and Miriam saw, as in a sad and silent 
 and dumb manner, just as things happen in sleep, the 
 figures come and go, and play their parts, and vanish into 
 the Eternal Silence. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, Miriam expressed a wish to see 
 the old place again, and to visit her father's grave. She 
 had put on her hat and gloves, and was standing in the 
 hall; when she blushed faintly and said: 
 
 "There's one other circumstance I haven't mentioned 
 as yet. And I suppose now you'll dismiss me at once." 
 
 The two good people looked inquiringly at her. 
 
 "I'm a Roman Catholic," said Miriam, simply. "My 
 mother was one; alas! there was the cause of all our 
 troubles. I was baptised in that faith, and have assumed 
 it." 
 
 "There now, John Crosthwaite," said his wife, "there is 
 the climax of iniquity. Shan't we turn her away now? " 
 
 "What do you say, my dear?" said the rector. "I 
 didn't quite catch all that was said." 
 
 "Miriam is a Papist — a black Roman Catholic! 
 Shall we turn her out?" 
 
 "No!" thundered the rector, in an attempted sten- 
 torian voice. "Not if she were an Orthodox Greek 
 Catholic!" 
 
 "John Crosthwaite, what are you saying?" said his 
 wife. 
 
 "I say, my dear," said the rector, trying to speak with 
 awful determination, "that if our dear Miriam were an 
 Abyssinian Catholic, or a Copt, or — or — or — a Nes- 
 torian, or a Eutychian, it would not make the slightest 
 difference to us." 
 
468 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 "John Crosthwaite," said his wife, "I'll have to report 
 you for heresy." 
 
 "Do, my dear," said John Crosthwaite boldly, "Mir- 
 iam is our own dear Miriam. And that is all we know, or 
 care to know." 
 
 And the good man came over, and placed his withered 
 hand on Miriam's arm. She stooped and kissed him. 
 
 "John Crosthwaite," said his wife, amidst her happy 
 tears, "I'll report you to your bishop for heresy; and then, 
 John Crosthwaite, I'll sue for a divorce. I will, indeed." 
 
 They went over to the village churchyard, where the 
 remains of Edwin Lucas had been laid; and there by the 
 newly-made grave, they knelt, and prayed in silence for 
 the soul of him, who had known but little repose in life. 
 And as they knelt, suddenly there broke out on the 
 warm, sunny air, the mad, riotous ringing of the bell in 
 the village chapel beneath them. It seemd to be pulled 
 by some madman, who was trying to drag it from its 
 sockets, so fiercely, so wildly, so madly, so recklessly the 
 notes came tumbling out from the grey church-tower. 
 And, instantly, as the tocsin continued its alarm-peal, 
 or rather its welcome and joyous peal, a vast crowd rolled 
 up from the village. The children, defying all discipline, 
 had escaped from school; the old, leaving their fireside, 
 came out into the open air to which they were very stran- 
 gers, and feebly tottered along by the aid of heavy sticks. 
 Men left their ploughs stuck in the furrows, and their 
 harrows hanging above the brown and seeded earth; 
 and the fishermen flung aside their nets which they were 
 mending, although it meant the loss of a night's trawling on 
 the high seas. And a great shout of welcome arose as 
 they saw their new mistress once again; and then, in their 
 Celtic way, they were hushed into a deep silence, when, 
 instead of the usual white dress which Miriam wore, they 
 recognised the sable garments of mourning, and all that 
 it meant for her. And they insisted on snaking hands 
 with her — great, homy, grimy hands, soft and tiny 
 
THE UPLIFTING OF THE CURSE 469 
 
 children's hands, the withered claws of the old village 
 crones, and the softer palms of young girls — all were 
 gathered into her black gloves; and some of the people 
 wept and some smiled, and all laughed, when an old 
 farmer said: 
 
 "The war-chest is safe, Miss, and sound. Begor, there's 
 enough to build another Glendarragh House!" 
 
 But he was instantly corrected: — 
 
 "Why should a new house be built? Sure, 'tis Miss 
 Miriam will lift the Curse off the ould one ! " 
 
 At which rejoinder, there was a ringing cheer. 
 
 "But," said the gentle rector, "I have to announce to 
 you, my dear friends, that Miss Miriam is Miss Miriam 
 no more; but Mrs. Hugh Ireton, wife of our local dispen- 
 sary doctor." 
 
 Here again there was another cheer; and one said: — 
 
 "She'll always be Miss Miriam to us!" 
 
 And they cheered again. 
 
 "And in this," continued the old rector, beaming all 
 over with smiles, "you will perceive the meaning of the 
 words, which narrate the 'Uplifting of the Curse on 
 Glendarragh': — 
 
 A maiden as white as the foam, 
 
 And as strong as the strength of the sea, 
 Shall welcome her bridegroom — a giver 
 
 Of life to the people is he. 
 Bearing health in his hands, and a love, 
 
 That is better than ruddiest gold, 
 Paid back by the love of his bride, 
 
 And the love of his people untold. 
 
 "There you see, everything is now accomplished; and 
 happy days are dawning on Glendarragh." 
 
 That night bonfires blazed in the village, on the beach, 
 and far along the cliffs to Poor Head; and the Coast- 
 Guards at the latter station, who have not only to pre- 
 vent smuggling, but to guard the interests of England, 
 grew alarmed, not knowing but that Irish rebels were 
 
470 MIRIAM LUCAS 
 
 signalling to hostile fleets off the coast. They were as- 
 sured when they found that these were not Baal-Fires, 
 nor Watch-Fires — only the outer and visible signs, told 
 in the language of the ancient race, that a Queen had 
 come back, and was reigning amongst her people; and 
 that the Figure of a Fate that had been summoned by cru- 
 elty, and had been satiated with vengeance, had vanished 
 from Glendarragh for ever!