Colonel Sewell was well known in the city, and when he presented himself at the jail, was received by the deputy-governor with all fitting courtesy. “Your house is pretty full, I believe, Mr. Bland,” said Sewell, jocularly.
“Yes, sir; I never remember to have had so many prisoners in charge; and the Mountjoy Prison has sent off two drafts this morning to England, to make room for the new committals. The order is all right, sir,” said he, looking at the paper Sewell extended towards him. “The governor has given him a small room in his own house. It would have been hard to put him with the others, who are so inferior to him.”
“A man of station and rank, then?” asked Sewell.
“So they say, sir.”
“And his name?”
“You must excuse me, Colonel. It is a case for great caution; and we have been strictly enjoined not to let his name get abroad at present. Mr. Spencer's note—for he wrote to us last night—said, 'If it should turn out that Colonel Sewell is acquainted with the prisoner, as he opines, you will repeat the caution I already impressed upon him, not to divulge his name.' The fact is, sir,” said he, lowering his voice to a confidential tone, “I may venture to tell you that his diary contains so many names of men in high position, that it is all-important we should proceed with great secrecy, for we find persons involved whom nobody could possibly have suspected could be engaged in such a scheme.”
“It is not easy to believe men could be such asses,” said Sewell, contemptuously. “Is this gentleman Irish?”
“Not at liberty to say, sir. My orders are peremptory on the subject of his personality.”
“You are a miracle of discretion, Mr. Bland.”
“Charmed to hear you say so, Colonel Se well. There 's no one whose good word I 'd be more proud of.”
“And why is n't he bailed?” said Sewell, returning to the charge. “Had he no one to be his surety?”
“That 's strange enough, sir. Mr. Spencer put it to him that he 'd better have some legal adviser; and though he would n't go so far as to say they 'd take bail for him, he hinted that probably he would like to confer with some friend, and all the answer he got was, 'It's all a mistake from beginning to end. I 'm not the man you 're looking for; but if it gives the poor devil time to make his escape, perhaps he'll live to learn better; and so I'm at your orders.'”
“I suppose that pretext did not impose upon the magistrate?”
“Not for a moment, sir. Mr. Spencer is an old bird, and not to be caught by such chaff. He sent him off here at once. He tried the same dodge, though, when he came in. 'If I could have a quiet room for the few days I shall be here, it would be a great comfort to me,' said he to the governor. 'I have a number of letters to write; and if you could manage to give me one with a north light, it would oblige me immensely, for I'm fond of painting.' Not bad that, sir, for a man suspected of treason-felony,—a north light to paint by!”
“You need not announce me by name, Mr. Bland, for it's just as likely I shall discover that this gentleman and I are strangers to each other; but simply say, 'A gentleman who wishes to see you.'”
“Take Colonel Sewell up to the governor's corridor,” said he to a turnkey, “and show him to the small room next the chapel.”
Musing over what Mr. Bland had told him, Sewell ascended the stairs. His mission had not been much to his taste from the beginning. If it at first seemed to offer the probability of placing the old Judge in his power by some act of indiscretion, by some rash step or other, a little reflection showed that to employ the pressure such a weakness might expose him to, would necessitate the taking of other people into confidence. “I will have no accomplices!” muttered Sewell; “no fellows to dictate the terms on which they will not betray me! If I cannot get this old man into my power by myself alone, I 'll not do it by the help of another.”
“I shall have to lock you in, sir,” said the man, apologetically, as he proceeded to open the door.
“I suppose you will let me out again?” said Sewell, laughing.
“Certainly, sir. I'll return in half an hour.”
“I think you'd better wait and see if five minutes will not suffice.”
“Very well, sir. You 'll knock whenever you wish me to open the door.”
When Sewell entered the room, the stranger was seated at the window, with his back towards the door, and apparently so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not heard his approach. The noise of the door being slammed to and locked, however, aroused him, and he turned suddenly round, and almost as suddenly sprang to his feet. “What! Sir Brook Fossbrooke!” cried Sewell, falling back towards the door.
“Your surprise is not greater than mine, sir, at this meeting. I have no need to be told, however, that you did not come here to see me.”
“No; it was a mistake. The man brought me to the wrong room. My visit was intended for another,” muttered Sewell, hastily.
“Pray, sir, be seated,” said Fossbrooke, presenting a chair. “Chance will occasionally do more for us than our best endeavors. Since I have arrived in Ireland I have made many attempts to meet you, but without success. Accident, however, has favored me, and I rejoice to profit by my good luck.”
“I have explained, Sir Brook, that I was on my way to see a gentleman to whom my visit is of great consequence. I hope you will allow me to take another opportunity of conferring with you.”
“I think my condition as a prisoner ought to be the best answer to your request. No, sir. The few words we need say to each other must be said now. Sit there, if you please;” and as he placed a chair for Sewell towards the window, he took his own place with his back to the door.
“This is very like imprisonment,” said Sewell, with an attempt at a laugh.
“Perhaps, sir, if each of us had his due, you have as good a right to be here as myself; but let us not lose time in an exchange of compliments. My visit to this country was made entirely on your account.”
“On mine! How upon mine?”
“On yours, Colonel Sewell. You may remember at our last conversation—it was at the Chief Baron's country-house—you made me a promise with regard to Miss Lendrick—”
“I remember,” broke in Sewell, hastily, for he saw in the flush of the other's cheek how the difficulty of what he had to say was already giving him a most painful emotion. “You stipulated something about keeping my wife apart from that young lady. You expressed certain fears about contamination—”
“Oh, sir, you wrong me deeply,” said the old man, with broken utterance.
“I'd be happy to think I had misunderstood you,” said Sewell, still pursuing his advantage. “Of course, it was very painful to me at the time. My wife, too, felt it bitterly.”
Fossbrooke started at this as if stung, and his brow darkened and his eyes flashed as he said: “Enough of this, sir. It is not the first time I have been calumniated in the same quarter. Let us talk of something else. You hold in your hand certain letters of Major Trafford,—Lionel Trafford,—and you make them the ground of a threat against him. Is it not so?”
“I declare, Sir Brook, the interest you take in what relates to my wife somewhat passes the bounds of delicacy.”
“I know what you mean. I know the advantage you would take of me, and which you took awhile ago; but I will not suffer it. I want these letters,—what's their price?”
“They are in the hands of my solicitors, Kane & Kincaid; and I think it very unlikely they will stay the proceedings they have taken on them by any demand of yours.”
“I want them, and must have them.”
Sewell shrugged his shoulders, and made a gesture to imply that he had already given him his answer.
“And what suit would you pretend—But why do I ask you? What is it to me by what schemes you prosecute your plans? Look here, sir; I was once on a time possessed of a document which would have subjected you to the fate of a felon; it was the forgery of my name—”
“My dear Sir Brook, if your memory were a little better you would remember that you had once to apologize for that charge, and avow it was totally unfounded.”
“It is untrue, sir; and you know it is untrue. I declared I would produce a document before three or four of your brother officers, and it was stolen from me on the night before the meeting.”
“I remember that explanation, and the painful impression your position excited at the time; but really I have no taste for going back over a long-past period. I 'm not old enough, I suppose, to care for these reminiscences. Will you allow me to take my leave of you?”
“No, sir; you shall hear me out: It may possibly be to your own advantage to bestow a little time upon me. You are fond of compromises,—as you ought to be, for your life has been a series of them: now I have one to propose to you. Let Trafford have back his letters, and you shall hear of this charge no more.”
“Really, sir, you must form a very low estimate of my intelligence, or you would not have made such a proposition; or probably,” added he, with a sneer, “you have been led away by the eminence of the position you occupy at this moment to make this demand.”
Fossbrooke started at the boldness of this speech, and looked about him, and probably remembered for the first time since the interview began that he was a prisoner. “A few days—a few hours, perhaps—will see me free,” said the old man, haughtily. “I know too well the difficulties that surround men in times like these to be angry or impatient at a mistake whose worst consequences are a little inconvenience.”
“I own, sir, I was grieved to think you could have involved yourself in such a scheme.”
“Nothing of the kind, sir. You were only grieved to think that there could be no solid foundation for the charge against me. It would be the best tidings you could hear to learn that I was to leave this for the dock, with the convict hulk in the distance; but I forget I had promised myself not to discuss my own affairs with you. What say you to what I have proposed?”
“You have proposed nothing, Sir Brook,—at least nothing serious, since I can scarcely regard as a proposition the offer not to renew a charge which broke down once before for want of evidence.”
“What if I have that evidence? What if I am prepared to produce it? Ay, sir, you may look incredulous if you like. It is not to a man of your stamp I appeal to be believed on my word; but you shall see the document,—you shall see it on the same day that a jury shall see it.”
“I perceive, Sir Brook, that it is useless to prolong this conversation. Your old grudge against me is too much even for your good sense. Your dislike surmounts your reason. Yes, open the door at once. I am tired waiting for you,” cried he, impatiently, as the turnkey's voice was heard without.
“Once more I make you this offer,” said Fossbrooke, rising from his seat. “Think well ere you refuse it.”
“You have no such document as you say.”
“If I have not, the failure is mine.”
The door was now open, and the turnkey standing at it.
“They will accept bail, won't they?” said Sewell, adroitly turning the conversation. “I think,” continued he, “this matter can be easily arranged. I will go at once to the Head Office and return here at once.”
“We are agreed, then?” said Fossbrooke, in a low voice.
“Yes,” said Sewell, hastily, as he passed out and left him.
The turnkey closed and locked the door, and overtook Sewell as he walked along the corridor. “They are taking information this moment, sir, about the prisoner. The informer is in the room.”
“Who is he? What's his name?”
“O'Reardon, sir; a fellow of great 'cuteness. He's in the pay of the Castle these thirty years.”
“Might I be present at the examination? Would you ask if I might hear the case?”
The man assured him that this was impossible; and Sewell stood with his hand on the balustrade, deeply revolving what he had just heard.
“And is O'Reardon a prisoner here?”
“Not exactly, sir; but partly for his own safety, partly to be sure he 's not tampered with, we often keep the men in confinement till a case is finished.”
“How long will this morning's examination last? At what hour will it probably be over?”
“By four, sir, or half-past, they'll be coming out.”
“I'll return by that time. I 'd like to speak to him.”
The examination was still proceeding when Sewell returned at five o'clock; and although he waited above an hour in the hope of its being concluded, the case was still under consideration; and as the Chief Baron had a large dinner-party on that day, from which the Colonel could not absent himself, he was obliged to hasten back in all speed to dress.
“His Lordship has sent three times to know if you had come in, sir,” said his servant, as he entered his room.
And while he was yet speaking came another messenger to say that the Chief Baron wanted to see the Colonel immediately. With a gesture of impatience Sewell put on again the coat he had just thrown off, and followed the man to the Chief's dressing-room.
“I have been expecting you since three o'clock, sir,” said the old man, after motioning to his valet to leave the room.
“I feared I was late, my Lord, and was going to dress when I got your message.”
“But you have been away seven hours, sir.”
The tone and manner of this speech, and the words themselves, calling him to account in a way a servant would scarcely have brooked, so overcame Sewell that only by an immense effort of self-control could he restrain his temper, and avoid bursting forth with the long-pent-up passion that was consuming him.
“I was detained, my Lord,—unavoidably detained,” said he, with a voice thick and husky with anger. What added to his passion was the confusion he felt; for he had not determined, when he entered the room, whether to avow that the prisoner was Fossbrooke or not, resolving to be guided by the Chief's manner and temper as to the line he should take. Now this outburst completely routed his judgment, and left him uncertain and vacillating.
“And now, sir, for your report,” said the old man, seating himself and folding his arms on his chest.
“I have little to report, my Lord. They affect a degree of mystery about this person, both at the Head Office and at the jail, which is perfectly absurd; and will neither give his name nor his belongings. The pretence is, of course, to enable them to ensnare others with whom he is in correspondence. I believe, however, the truth to be, he is a very vulgar criminal,—a gauger, it is said, from Loughrea, and no such prize as the Castle people fancied. His passion for notoriety, it seems, has involved him in scores of things of this kind; and his ambition is always to be his own lawyer and defend himself.”
“Enough, sir; a gauger and self-confident prating rascal combine the two things which I most heartily detest. Pem-berton may take his will of him for me; he may make him illustrate every blunder of his bad law, and I 'll not say him nay. You will take Lady Ecclesfield in to dinner to-day, and place her opposite me at table. Your wife speaks French well,—let her sit next Count de Lanoy, but give her arm to the Bishop of Down. Let us have no politics over our wine; I cannot trust myself with the law-officers before me, and at my own table they must not be sacrificed.”
“Is Pemberton coming, my Lord?”
“He is, sir,—he is coming on a tour of inspection,—he wants to see from my dietary how soon he may calculate on my demise; and the Attorney-General will be here on the like errand. My hearse, sir, it is, that stops the way, and I have not ordered it up yet. Can you tell me is Lady Lendrick coming to dinner, for she has not favored me with a reply to my invitation?”
“I am unable to say, my Lord; I have not seen her; she has, however, been slightly indisposed of late.”
“I am distressed to hear it. At all events, I have kept her place for her, as well as one for Mr. Balfour, who is expected from England to-day. If Lady Lendrick should come, Lord Kilgobbin will take her in.”
“I think I hear an arrival. I 'd better finish my dressing. I scarcely thought it was so late.”
“Take care that the topic of India be avoided, or we shall have Colonel Kimberley and his tiger stories.”
“I'll look to it,” said Sewell, moving towards the door.
“You have given orders about decanting the champagne?”
“About everything, my Lord. There comes another carriage, I must make haste;” and so saying, he fled from the room before the Chief could add another question.
Sewell had but little time to think over the step he had just taken, but in that little time he satisfied himself that he had acted wisely. It was a rare thing for the Chief to return to any theme he had once dismissed. Indeed, it would have implied a doubt of his former judgment, which was the very last thing that could occur to him. “My decisions are not reversed,” was his favorite expression; so that nothing was less probable than that he would again revert to the prisoner or his case. As for Fossbrooke himself and how to deal with him, that was a weightier question, and demanded more thought than he could now give it.
As he descended to the drawing-room, the last of the company had just entered, and dinner was announced. Lady Lendrick and Mr. Balfour were both absent. It was a grand dinner on that day, in the fullest sense of that formidable expression. It was very tedious, very splendid, very costly, and intolerably wearisome and stupid. The guests were overlaid by the endless round of dishes and the variety of wines, and such as had not sunk into a drowsy repletion occupied themselves in criticising the taste of a banquet, which was, after all, a travesty of a foreign dinner without that perfection of cookery and graceful lightness in the detail which gives all the elegance and charm to such entertainments. The more fastidious part of the company saw all the defects; the homelier ones regretted the absence of meats that they knew, and wines they were accustomed to. None were pleased,—none at their ease but the host himself. As for him, seated in the centre of the table, overshadowed almost by a towering epergne, he felt like a king on his throne. All around him breathed that air of newness that smacked of youth; and the table spread with flowers, and an ornamental dessert, seemed to emblematize that modern civilization which had enabled himself to throw off the old man and come out into the world crimped, curled, and carmined, be-wigged and be-waistcoated.
“Eighty-seven! my father and he were contemporaries,” said Lord Kilgobbin, as they assembled in the drawing-room; “a wonderful man,—a really wonderful man for his age.”
The Bishop muttered something in concurrence, only adding “Providence” to the clause; while Pemberton whispered the Attorney-General that it was the most painful attack of acute youth he had ever witnessed. As for Colonel Kimberley, he thought nothing of the Chiefs age, for he had shot a brown bear up at Rhumnuggher, “the natives knew to be upwards of two hundred years old, some said three hundred.”
As they took their coffee in groups or knots, Sewell drew his arm within Pemberton's and led him through the open sash-door into the garden. “I know you want a cigar,” said he, “and so do I. Let us take a turn here and enjoy ourselves. What a bore is a big dinner! I 'd as soon assemble all my duns as I 'd get together all the dreary people of my acquaintance. It's a great mistake,—don't you think so?” said Sewell, who, for the first time in his life, accosted Pemberton in this tone of easy familiarity.
“I fancy, however, the Chief likes it,” said the other, cautiously; “he was particularly lively and witty to-day.”
“These displays cost him dearly. You should see him after the thing was over. With the paint washed off, palpitating on a sofa steeped with sulphuric ether, and stimulated with ammonia, one wouldn't say he'd get through the night.”
“What a constitution he must have!”
“It's not that; at least, that's not the way I read him. My theory is, it is his temper—that violent, irascible, fervid temper—burning like a red-hot coal within him, sustains the heat that gives life and vigor to his nature. If he has a good-humored day,—it's not a very frequent occurrence, but it happens now and then,—he grows ten years older. I made that discovery lately. It seems as though if he could n't spite the world, he 'd have no objection to taking leave of it.”
“That sounds rather severe,” said Pemberton, cautiously; for though he liked the tone of the other's conversation, he was not exactly sure it was quite safe to show his concurrence.
“It's the fact, however, severe or not. There's nothing in our relations to each other that should prevent my speaking my mind about him. My mother had the bad luck to marry him, and being gifted with a temper not very unlike his own, they discovered the singular fact that two people who resemble each other can become perfectly incompatible. I used to think that she could n't be matched. I recant, however, and acknowledge candidly he could 'give her a distance.'”
Pemberton gave a little laugh, as it were of encouragement to go on, and the other proceeded.
“My wife understands him best of all. She gives way in everything; all he says is right, all he opines is wisdom, and it's astonishing how this yielding, compliant, submissive spirit breaks him down; he pines under it, just as a man accustomed to sharp exercise would waste and decay by a life of confinement. I declare there was one week here we had got him to a degree of gentleness that was quite edifying, but my mother came and paid a visit when we were out, and when we returned there he was! violent, flaring, and vigorous as ever, wild with vanity, and mad to match himself with the first men of the day.”
While Sewell talked in this open and indiscreet way of the old Judge, his meaning was to show with what perfect confidence he treated his companion, and at the same time how fair and natural it would be to expect frankness in return. The crafty lawyer, however, trained in the school where all these feints and false parries are the commonest tricks of fence, never ventured beyond an expression of well-got-up astonishment, or a laugh of enjoyment at some of Sewell's smartnesses.
“You want a light?” said Sewell, seeing that the other held his cigar still unlit in his fingers.
“Thanks. I was forgetting it. The fact is, you kept me so much amused, I never thought of smoking; nor am I much of a smoker at any time.”
“It 's the vice of the idle man, and you are not in that category. By the way, what a busy time you must have of it now, with all these commitments?”
“Not so much as one might think. The cases are numerous, but they are all the same. Indeed, the informations are identical in nearly every instance. Tim Branegan had two numbers of the 'Green Flag' newspaper, some loose powder in his waistcoat-pocket, and an American drill-book in the crown of his hat.”
“And is that treason-felony?”
“With a little filling-up it becomes so. In the rank of life these men belong to, it's as easy to find a rebel as it would be in Africa to discover a man with a woolly head.”
“And this present movement is entirely limited to that class?” said Sewell, carelessly.
“So we thought till a couple of days ago, but we have now arrested one whose condition is that of a gentleman.”
“With anything like strong evidence against him?”
“I have not seen the informations myself, but Burrowes, who has read them, calls them highly important; not alone as regards the prisoner, but a number of people whose loyalty was never so much as suspected. Now the Viceroy is away, the Chief Secretary on the Continent, and even Balfour, who can always find out what the Cabinet wishes,—Balfour absent, we are actually puzzled whether the publicity attending the prosecution of such a man would not serve rather than damage the rebel cause, displaying, as it would, that there is a sympathy for this movement in a quarter far removed from the peasant.”
“Is n't it strange that the Chief Baron should have, the other evening, in the course of talk, hit upon such a possibility as this, and said, 'I wonder would the Castle lawyers be crafty enough to see that such a case should not be brought to trial? One man of education, and whose motives might be ascribed to an exalted, however misdirected, patriotism,' said he, 'would lift this rabble out of the slough of their vulgar movement, and give it the character of a national rising.'”
“But what would he do? Did he say how he would act?”
“He said something about 'bail,' and he used a word I wasn't familiar with—like estreating: is there such a word?”
“Yes, yes, there is; but I don't see how it's to be done. Would it be possible to have a talk with him on the matter—informally, of course?” “That would betray me, and he would never forgive my having told you his opinion already,” said Sewell. “No, that is out of the question; but if you would confide to me the points you want his judgment on, I 'd manage to obtain it.”
Pemberton seemed to reflect over this, and walked along some paces in silence.
“He mentioned a curious thing,” said Sewell, laughingly; “he said that in Emmett's affair there were three or four men compromised, whom the Government were very unwilling to bring to trial, and that they actually provided the bail for them,—secretly, of course,—and indemnified the men for their losses on the forfeiture.”
“It couldn't be done now,” said Pemberton.
“That's what the Chief said. They could n't do it now, for they have not got M'Nally,—whoever M'Nally was.”
Pemberton colored crimson, for M'Nally was the name of the Solicitor-General of that day, and he knew well that the sarcasm was in the comparison between that clever lawyer and himself.
“What I meant was, that Crown lawyers have a very different public to account to in the present day from what they had in those lawless times,” said Pemberton, with irritation. “I 'm afraid the Chief Baron, with all his learning and all his wit, likes to go back to that period for every one of his illustrations. You heard how he capped the Archbishop's allusion to the Prodigal Son to-day?—I don't think his Grace liked it—that it requires more tact to provide an escape for a criminal than to prosecute a guilty man to conviction.”
“That's so like him!” said Sewell, with a bitter laugh. “Perhaps the great charm that attaches him to public life is to be able to utter his flippant impertinences ex cathedra. If you could hit upon some position from which he could fulminate his bolts of sarcasm with effect, I fancy he 'd not object to resign the Bench. I heard him once say, 'I cannot go to church without a transgression, for I envy the preacher, who has the congregation at his mercy for an hour.'”
“Ah, he 'll not resign,” sighed Pemberton, deeply.
“I don't know that.”
“At least he 'll not do so on any terms they 'll make with him.”
“Nor am I so sure of that,” repeated the other, gravely. Sewell waited for some rejoinder to this speech, of which he hoped his companion would ask the explanation; but the cautious lawyer said not a word.
“No man with a sensitive, irascible, and vain disposition is to be turned from his course, whatever it be, by menace or bully,” said Sewell. “The weak side of these people is their vanity, and to approach them by that you ought to know and to cultivate those who are about them. Now, I have no hesitation in saying there were moments—ay, there were hours—in which, if it had been any interest to me, I could have got him to resign. He is eminently a man of his word, and, once pledged, nothing would make him retire from his promise.”
“I declare, after all,” said Pemberton, “if he feels equal to the hard work of the Court, and likes it, I don't see why all this pressure should be put upon him. Do you?”
“I am the last man probably to see it,” said Sewell, with an easy laugh. “His abdication would, of course, not suit me, I suppose we had better stroll back into the house,—they 'll miss us.” There was an evident coldness in the way these last words were spoken, and Sewell meant that the lawyer should see his irritation.
“Have you ever said anything to Balfour about what we have been talking of?” said Pemberton, as they moved towards the house.
“I may or I may not. I talk pretty freely on all sorts of things—and, unfortunately, with an incaution, too, that is not always profitable.”
“Because if you were to show him as clearly as awhile ago you showed me, the mode in which this matter might be negotiated, I have little doubt—that is, I have reason to suppose—or I might go farther and say that I know—”
“I 'll tell you what I know, Mr. Solicitor, that I would n't give that end of a cigar,” and he pitched it from him as he spoke, “to decide the question either way.” And with this they passed on and mingled with the company in the drawing-room. “I have hooked you at last, my shrewd friend; and if I know anything of mankind, I 'll see you, or hear from you, before twelve hours are over.”
“Where have you been, Colonel, with my friend the Solicitor-General?” said the Chief Baron.
“Cabinet-making, my Lord,” said Sewell, laughingly.
“Take care, sir,” said the Chief, sternly,—“take care of that pastime. It has led more than one man to become a Joiner and a Turner!” And a buzz went through the room as men repeated this mot, and people asked each other, “Is this the man we are calling on to retire as worn-out, effete, and exhausted?”
Mr. Balfour returned to Ireland a greater man than he left it. He had been advanced to the post of Chief Secretary, and had taken his seat in the House as member for Muddle-port. Political life was, therefore, dawning very graciously upon him, and his ambition was budding with every prospect of success.
The Secretary's lodge in the Phoenix Park is somewhat of a pretty residence, and with its gardens, its shrubberies, and conservatory, seen on a summer's day when broad cloud-shadows lie sleeping on the Dublin mountains, and the fragrant white thorn scents the air, must certainly be a pleasant change from the din, the crush, and the turmoil of “town” at the fag end of a season. English officials call it damp. Indeed, they have a trick of ascribing this quality to all things Irish; and national energy, national common-sense, and national loyalty seem to them to be ever in a diluted form. Even our drollery is not as dry as our neighbors'.
In this official residence Mr. Balfour was now installed, and while Fortune seemed to shower her favors so lavishly upon him, the quid amarum was still there,—his tenure was insecure. The party to which he belonged had contrived to offend some of its followers and alienate others, and, without adopting any such decided line as might imply a change of policy, had excited a general sense of distrust in those who had once followed it implicitly. In the emergencies of party life, the manouvre known to soldiers as a “change of front” is often required. The present Cabinet were in this position. They had been for some sessions trading on their Protestantism. They had been Churchmen pur sang. Their bishops, their deans, their colonial appointments, had all been of that orthodox kind that defied slander; and as it is said that a man with a broad-brimmed hat and drab gaiters may indulge unsuspected in vices which a more smartly got-up neighbor would bring down reprobation upon his head for practising, so may a Ministry under the shadow of Exeter Hall do a variety of things denied to less sacred individuals. “The Protestant ticket” had carried them safely over two sessions, but there came now a hitch in which they needed that strange section called “the Irish party,” a sort of political flying column, sufficiently uncertain always to need watching, and if not very compact or highly disciplined, rash and bold enough to be very damaging in moments of difficulty. Now, as Private Secretary, Balfour had snubbed this party repeatedly. They had been passed over in promotion, and their claims to advancement coldly received. The amenities of the Castle—that social Paradise of all Irish men and women—had been denied them. For them were no dinners, no mornings at the Lodge, and great were the murmurs of discontent thereat. A change, however, had come; an English defection had rendered Irish support of consequence, and Balfour was sent over to, what in the slang of party is called, conciliate, but which, in less euphuistic phrase, might be termed to employ a system of general and outrageous corruption.
Some averred that the Viceroy, indignantly refusing to be a party to this policy, feigned illness and stayed away; others declared that his resignation had been tendered and accepted, but that measures of state required secrecy on the subject; while a third section of guessers suggested that, when the coarse work of corruption had been accomplished by the Secretary, his Excellency would arrive to crown the edifice.
At all events, the Ministry stood in need of these “free lances,” and Cholmondely Balfour was sent over to secure them. Before all governmental changes there is a sort of “ground swell” amongst the knowing men of party that presages the storm; and so, now, scarcely had Balfour reached the Lodge than a rumor ran that some new turn of policy was about to be tried, and that what is called the “Irish difficulty” was going to be discounted into the English necessity.
The first arrival at the Lodge was Pemberton. He had just been defeated at his election for Mallow, and ascribed his failure to the lukewarmness of the Government, and the indifference with which they had treated his demands for some small patronage for his supporters. Nor was it mere indifference; there was actual reason to believe that favor was shown to his opponent, and that Mr. Heffernan, the Catholic barrister of extreme views, had met the support of more than one of those known to be under Government influence. There was a story of a letter from the Irish Office to Father O'Hea, the parish priest. Some averred they had read it, declaring that the Cabinet only desired to know “the real sentiments of Ireland, what Irishmen actually wished and wanted,” to meet them. Now, when a Government official writes to a priest, his party is always in extremis.
Pemberton reached the Lodge feverish, irritated, and uneasy. He had, not very willingly, surrendered a great practice at the Bar to enter life as a politician, and now what if the reward of his services should turn out to be treachery and betrayal? Over and over again had he been told he was to have the Bench; but the Chief Baron would neither die nor retire, nor was there any vacancy amongst the other courts. Nor had he done very well in Parliament; he was hasty and irritable in reply, too discursive in statement, and, worse than these, not plodding enough nor sufficiently given to repetition to please the House; for the “assembled wisdom” is fond of its ease, and very often listens with a drowsy consciousness that if it did not catch what the orator said aright, it was sure to hear him say it again later on. He had made no “hit” with the House, and he was not patient enough nor young enough to toil quietly on to gain that estimation which he had hoped to snatch at starting.
Besides all these grounds of discontent, he was vexed at the careless way in which his party defended him against the attacks of the Opposition. Nothing, probably, teaches a man his value to his own set so thoroughly as this test; and he who is ill defended in his absence generally knows that he may retire without cause of regret. He came out, therefore, that morning, to see Balfour, and, as the phrase is, “have it out with him.” Balfour's instructions from the “other side,” as Irishmen playfully denominate England, were to get rid of Pemberton as soon as possible; but, at the same time, with all the caution required, not to convert an old adherent into an enemy.
Balfour was at breakfast, with an Italian greyhound on a chair beside him, and a Maltese terrier seated on the table, when Pemberton was announced. He lounged over his meal, alternating tea with the “Times,” and now and then reading scraps of the letters which lay in heaps around him.
After inviting his guest to partake of something, and hearing that he had already breakfasted three hours before, Balfour began to give him all the political gossip of town. This, for the most part, related to changes and promotions,—how Griffith was to go to the Colonial, and Haughton to the Foreign Office; that Forbes was to have the Bath, and make way for Betmore, who was to be Under-Secretary. “Chadwick, you see, gets nothing. He asked for a com-missionership, and we offered him the governorship of Bermuda; hence has he gone down below the gangway, and sits on the seat of the scornful.”
“Your majority was smaller than I looked for on Tuesday night. Couldn't you have made a stronger muster?” said Pemberton.
“I don't know: twenty-eight is not bad. There are so many of our people in abeyance. There are five fighting petitions against their return, and as many more seeking re-election, and a few more, like yourself, Pem, 'out in the cold.'”
“For which gracious situation I have to thank my friends.”
“Indeed! how is that?”
“It is somewhat cool to ask me. Have you not seen the papers lately? Have you not read the letter that Sir Gray Chadwell addressed to Father O'Hea of Mallow?”
“Of course I have read it—an admirable letter—a capital letter. I don't know where the case of Ireland has been treated with such masterly knowledge and discrimination.”
“And why have my instructions been always in an opposite sense? Why have I been given to believe that the Ministry distrusted that party and feared their bad faith?”
“Have you ever seen Grünzenhoff's account of the battle of Leipsic?”
“No; nor have I the slightest curiosity to hear how it applies to what we are talking of.”
“But it does apply. It's the very neatest apropos I could cite for you. There was a moment, he says, in that history, when Schwarzenberg was about to outflank the Saxons, and open a terrific fire of artillery upon them; and either they saw what fate impended over them, or that the hour they wished for had come, but they all deserted the ranks of the French and went over to the Allies.”
“And you fancy that the Catholics are going to side with you?” said Pemberton, with a sneer.
“It suits both parties to believe it, Pem.”
“The credulity will be all your own, Mr. Balfour. I know my countrymen better than you do.”
“That's exactly what they won't credit at Downing Street, Pem; and I assure you that my heart is broken defending you in the House. They are eternally asking about what happened at such an assize, and why the Crown was not better prepared in such a prosecution; and though I am accounted a ready fellow in reply, it becomes a bore at last. I 'm sorry to say it, Pem, but it is a bore.”
“I am glad, Mr. Balfour, exceedingly glad, you should put the issue between us so clearly; though I own to you that coming here this morning as the plaintiff, it is not without surprise I find myself on my defence.”
“What's this, Banks?” asked Balfour, hastily, as his private secretary entered with a despatch. “From Crew, sir; it must be his Excellency sends it.”
Balfour broke it open, and exclaimed: “In cipher too! Go and have it transcribed at once; you have the key here.”
“Yes, sir; I am familiar with the character, too, and can do it quickly.” Thus saying, he left the room.
While this brief dialogue was taking place, Pemberton walked up and down the room, pale and agitated in features, but with a compressed lip and bent brow, like one nerving himself for coming conflict.
“I hope we 're not out,” said Balfour, with a laugh of assumed indifference. “He rarely employs a cipher; and it must be something of moment, or he would not do so now.”
“It is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” said Pemberton. “Treated as I have been, I could scarcely say I should regret it.”
“By Jove! the ship must be in a bad way when the officers are taking to the boats,” said Balfour. “Why, Pem, you don't really believe we are going to founder?”
“I told you, sir,” said he, haughtily, “that it was a matter of the most perfect indifference to me whether you should sink or swim.”
“You are one of the crew, I hope, a'n't you?”
Pemberton made no reply, and the other went on: “To be sure, it may be said that an able seaman never has long to look for a ship; and in these political disasters, it's only the captains that are really wrecked.”
“One thing is certainly clear,” said Pemberton, with energy, “you have not much confidence in the craft you sail in.”
“Who has, Pem? Show me the man that has, and I 'll show you a consummate ass. Parliamentary life is a roadstead with shifting sands, and there's no going a step without the lead-line; and that's one reason why the nation never likes to see one of your countrymen as the pilot,—you won't take soundings.”
“There are other reasons, too,” said Pemberton, sternly, “but I have not come here to discuss this subject. I want to know, once for all, is it the wish of your party that I should be in the House?”
“Of course it is; how can you doubt it?”
“That being the case, what steps have you taken, or what steps can you take, to secure me a seat?”
“Why, Pem, don't you know enough of public life to know that when a Minister makes an Attorney-General, it is tacitly understood that the man can secure his return to Parliament? When I order out a chaise and pair, I don't expect the innkeeper to tell me I must buy breeches and boots for the postilion.”
“You deluge me with figures, Mr. Balfour, but they only confuse me. I am neither a sailor nor a postboy; but I see Mr. Banks wishes to confer with you—I will retire.”
“Take a turn in the garden, Pern, and I will be with you in a moment. Are you a smoker?”
“Not in the morning,” said the other, stiffly, and withdrew.
“Mr. Heffernan is here, sir; will you see him?” asked the Secretary.
“Let him wait; whenever I ring the bell you can come and announce him. I will give my answer then. What of the despatch?”
“It is nearly all copied out, sir. It was longer than I thought.”
“Let me see it now; I will read it at once.”
The Secretary left the room, and soon returned with several sheets of note-paper in his hand.
“Not all that, Banks?”
“Yes, sir. It was two hundred and eighty-eight signs,—as long as the Queen's Speech. It seems very important too.”
“Read,” said Balfour, lighting his cigar.
“To Chief Secretary Balfour, Castle, Dublin.—What are your people about? What new stupidity is this they have just accomplished? Are there law advisers at the Castle, or are the cases for prosecution submitted to the members of the police force? Are you aware, or is it from me you are to learn, that there is now in the Richmond Jail, under accusation of “Celtism,” a gentleman of a loyalty the equal of my own? Some blunder, if not some private personal malignity, procured his arrest, which, out of regard for me as an old personal friend, he neither resisted nor disputed, withholding his name to avoid the publicity which could only have damaged the Government. I am too ill to leave my room, or would go over at once to rectify this gross and most painful blunder. If Pemberton is too fine a gentleman for his office, where was Hacket, or, if not Hacket, Burrowes? Should this case get abroad and reach the Opposition, there will be a storm in the House you will scarcely like to face. Take measures—immediate measures—for his release, by bail or otherwise, remembering, above all, to observe secrecy. I will send you by post to-night the letter in which F. communicates to me the story of his capture and imprisonment. Had the mischance befallen any other than a true gentleman and an old friend, it would have cost us dearly. Nothing equally painful has occurred to me in my whole official life.
“'Let the case be a warning to you in more ways than one. Your system of private information is degenerating into private persecution, and would at last establish a state of things perfectly intolerable. Beg F. as a great favor to me, to come over and see me here, and repeat that I am too ill to travel, or would not have delayed an hour in going to him. There are few men, if there be one, who would in such a predicament have postponed all consideration of self to thoughts about his friends and their interest, and in all this we have had better luck than we deserved.
“'Wilmington'”
“Go over it again,” said Balfour, as he lit a cigar, and, placing a chair for his legs, gave himself up to a patient rehearing of the despatch. “I wonder who F. can be that he is so anxious about. It is a confounded mess, there's no doubt of it; and if the papers get hold of it, we're done for. Beg Pemberton to come here, and leave us to talk together.”
“Read that, Pem,” said Balfour, as he smoked on, now and then puffing a whiff of tobacco at his terrier's face,—“read that, and tell me what you say to it.”
Though the lawyer made a great effort to seem calm and self-possessed, Balfour could see that the hand that held the paper shook as he read it. As he finished, he laid the document on the table without uttering a word.
“Well?” cried Balfour, interrogatively,—“well?”
“I take it, if all be as his Excellency says, that this is not the first case in which an innocent man has been sent to jail. Such things occur now and then in the model England, and I have never heard that they formed matter to impeach a Ministry.”
“You heard of this committal, then?”
“No, not till now.”
“Not till now?”
“Not till now. His Excellency, and indeed yourself, Mr. Balfour, seem to fall into the delusion that a Solicitor-General is a detective officer. Now, he is not,—nor any more is he a police magistrate. This arrest, I suppose,—I know nothing about it, but I suppose,—was made on certain sworn information. The law took its ordinary course; and the man who would neither tell his name nor give the clew to any one who would answer for him went to prison. It is unfortunate, certainly; but they who made this statute forgot to insert a clause that none of the enumerated penalties should apply to any one who knew or had acquaintance with the Viceroy for the time being.”
“Yes, as you remark, that was a stupid omission; and now, what 's to be done here?”
“I opine his Excellency gives you ample instructions. You are to repair to the jail, make your apologies to F.—whoever F. may be,—induce him to let himself be bailed, and persuade him to go over and pass a fortnight at Crew Keep. Pray tell him, however, before he goes, that his being in prison was not in any way owing to the Solicitor-Genera's being a fine gentleman.”
“I 'll send for the informations,” said Balfour, and rang his bell. “Mr. Heffernan, sir, by appointment,” said the private secretary, entering with a card in his hand.
“Oh, I had forgotten. It completely escaped me,” said Balfour, with a pretended confusion. “Will you once more take a turn in the garden, Pem?—five minutes will do all I want.”
“If my retirement is to facilitate Mr. Heffernan's advance, it would be ungracious to defer it; but give me till to-morrow to think of it.”
“I only spoke of going into the garden, my dear Pem.”
“I will do more,—I will take my leave. Indeed, I have important business in the Rolls Court.”
“I shall want to see you about this business,” said the other, touching the despatch.
“I'll look in on you about five-at the office, and by that time you'll have seen Mr. F.”
“Mr. Heffernan could not wait, sir,—he has to open a Record case in the Queen's Bench,” said the Secretary, entering, “but he says he will write to you this evening.”
The Solicitor-General grinned. He fancied that the whole incident had been a most unfortunate malapropos, and that Balfour was sinking under shame and confusion.
“How I wish Baron Lendrick could be induced to retire!” said Balfour; “it would save us a world of trouble.”
“The matter has little interest for me personally.”
“Little interest for you?—how so?”
“I mean what I say; but I mean also not to be questioned upon the matter,” said he, proudly. “If, however, you are so very eager about it, there is a way I believe it might be done.”
“How is that?”
“I had a talk, a half-confidential talk, last night with Sewell on the subject, and he distinctly gave me to understand it could be negotiated through him.”
“And you believed him?”
“Yes, I believed him. It was the sort of tortuous, crooked transaction such a man might well move in. Had he told me of something very fine, very generous or self-devoting, he was about to do, I 'd have hesitated to accord him my trustfulness.”
“What it is to be a lawyer!” said Balfour, with affected horror.
“What it must be if a Secretary of State recoils from his perfidy! Oh, Mr. Balfour, for the short time our official connection may last let us play fair! I am not so coldblooded, nor are you as crafty, as you imagine. We are both of us better than we seem.”
“Will you dine here to-day, Pem?”
“Thanks, no; I am engaged.”
“To-morrow, then?—I'll have Branley and Keppel to meet you.”
“I always get out of town on Saturday night. Pray excuse me.”
“No tempting you, eh?”
“Not in that way, certainly. Good-bye till five o'clock.”