Whether Walpole found some peculiar difficulty in committing his intentions to writing, or whether the press of business which usually occupied his mornings served as an excuse, or whether he was satisfied with the progress of his suit by his personal assiduities, is not easy to say; but his attentions to Mademoiselle Kostalergi had now assumed the form which prudent mothers are wont to call ‘serious,’ and had already passed into that stage where small jealousies begin, and little episodes of anger and discontent are admitted as symptoms of the complaint.

In fact, he had got to think himself privileged to remonstrate against this, and to dictate that—a state, be it observed, which, whatever its effect upon the ‘lady of his love,’ makes a man particularly odious to the people around him, and he is singularly fortunate if it make him not ridiculous also.

The docile or submissive was not the remarkable element in Nina’s nature. She usually resisted advice, and resented anything like dictation from any quarter. Indeed, they who knew her best saw that, however open to casual influences, a direct show of guidance was sure to call up all her spirit of opposition. It was, then, a matter of actual astonishment to all to perceive not only how quietly and patiently she accepted Walpole’s comments and suggestions, but how implicitly she seemed to obey them.

All the little harmless freedoms of manner with Dick Kearney and O’Shea were now completely given up. No more was there between them that interchange of light persiflage which, presupposing some subject of common interest, is in itself a ground of intimacy.

She ceased to sing the songs that were their favourites. Her walks in the garden after breakfast, where her ready wit and genial pleasantry used to bring her a perfect troop of followers, were abandoned. The little projects of daily pleasure, hitherto her especial province, were changed for a calm subdued demeanour which, though devoid of all depression, wore the impress of a certain thoughtfulness and seriousness.

No man was less observant than old Kearney, and yet even he saw the change at last, and asked Kate what it might mean. ‘She is not ill, I hope,’ said he, ‘or is our humdrum life too wearisome to her?’

‘I do not suspect either,’ said Kate slowly. ‘I rather believe that as Mr. Walpole has paid her certain attentions, she has made the changes in her manner in deference to some wishes of his.’

‘He wants her to be more English, perhaps,’ said he sarcastically.

‘Perhaps so.’

‘Well, she is not born one of us, but she is like us all the same, and I’ll be sorely grieved if she’ll give up her light-heartedness and her pleasantry to win that Cockney.’

‘I think she has won the Cockney already, sir.’

A long low whistle was his reply. At last he said, ‘I suppose it’s a very grand conquest, and what the world calls “an elegant match”; but may I never see Easter, if I wouldn’t rather she’d marry a fine dashing young fellow over six feet high, like O’Shea there, than one of your gold-chain-and-locket young gentlemen who smile where they ought to laugh, and pick their way through life as a man crosses a stream on stepping-stones.’

‘Maybe she does not like Mr. O’Shea, sir.’

‘And do you think she likes the other man? or is it anything else than one of those mercenary attachments that you young ladies understand better, far better, than the most worldly-minded father or mother of us all?’

‘Mr. Walpole has not, I believe, any fortune, sir. There is nothing very dazzling in his position or his prospects.’

‘No. Not amongst his own set, nor with his own people—he is small enough there, I grant you; but when he come down to ours, Kitty, we think him a grandee of Spain; and if he was married into the family, we’d get off all his noble relations by heart, and soon start talking of our aunt, Lady Such-a-one, and Lord Somebody else, that was our first-cousin, till our neighbours would nearly die out of pure spite. Sitting down in one’s poverty, and thinking over one’s grand relations, is for all the world like Paddy eating his potatoes, and pointing at the red-herring—even the look of what he dare not taste flavours his meal.’

‘At least, sir, you have found an excuse for our conduct.’

‘Because we are all snobs, Kitty; because there is not a bit of honesty or manliness in our nature; and because our women, that need not be bargaining or borrowing—neither pawnbrokers nor usurers—are just as vulgar-minded as ourselves; and now that we have given twenty millions to get rid of slavery, like to show how they can keep it up in the old country, just out of defiance.’

‘If you disapprove of Mr. Walpole, sir, I believe it is full time you should say so.’

‘I neither approve nor disapprove of him. I don’t well know whether I have any right to do either—I mean so far as to influence her choice. He belongs to a sort of men I know as little about as I do of the Choctaw Indians. They have lives and notions and ways all unlike ours. The world is so civil to them that it prepares everything to their taste. If they want to shoot, the birds are cooped up in a cover, and only let fly when they’re ready. When they fish, the salmon are kept prepared to be caught; and if they make love, the young lady is just as ready to rise to the fly, and as willing to be bagged as either. Thank God, my darling, with all our barbarism, we have not come to that in Ireland.’

‘Here comes Mr. Walpole now, sir; and if I read his face aright, he has something of importance to say to you.’ Kate had barely time to leave the room as Walpole came forward with an open telegram and a mass of papers in his hand.

‘May I have a few moments of conversation with you?’ said he; and in the tone of his words, and a certain gravity in his manner, Kearney thought he could perceive what the communication portended.

‘I am at your orders,’ said Kearney, and he placed a chair for the other.

‘An incident has befallen my life here, Mr. Kearney, which, I grieve to say, may not only colour the whole of my future career, but not impossibly prove the barrier to my pursuit of public life.’

Kearney stared at him as he finished speaking, and the two men sat fixedly gazing on each other.

‘It is, I hasten to own, the one unpleasant, the one, the only one, disastrous event of a visit full of the happiest memories of my life. Of your generous and graceful hospitality, I cannot say half what I desire—’

‘Say nothing about my hospitality,’ said Kearney, whose irritation as to what the other called a disaster left him no place for any other sentiment; ‘but just tell me why you count this a misfortune.’

‘I call a misfortune, sir, what may not only depose me from my office and my station, but withdraw entirely from me the favour and protection of my uncle, Lord Danesbury.’

‘Then why the devil do you do it?’ cried Kearney angrily.

‘Why do I do what, sir? I am not aware of any action of mine you should question with such energy.’

‘I mean, if it only tends to ruin your prospects and disgust your family, why do you persist, sir? I was going to say more, and ask with what face you presume to come and tell these things to me?’

‘I am really unable to understand you, sir.’

‘Mayhap, we are both of us in the same predicament,’ cried Kearney, as he wiped his brow in proof of his confusion.

‘Had you accorded me a very little patience, I might, perhaps, have explained myself.’

Not trusting himself with a word, Kearney nodded, and the other went on: ‘The post this morning brought me, among other things, these two newspapers, with penmarks in the margin to direct my attention. This is the Lily of Londonderry, a wild Orange print; this the Banner of Ulster, a journal of the same complexion. Here is what the Lily says: “Our county member, Sir Jonas Gettering, is now in a position to call the attention of Parliament to a document which will distinctly show how Her Majesty’s Ministers are not only in close correspondence with the leaders of Fenianism, but that Irish rebellion receives its support and comfort from the present Cabinet. Grave as this charge is, and momentous as would be the consequences of such an allegation if unfounded, we repeat that such a document is in existence, and that we who write these lines have held it in our hands and have perused it.”

‘The Banner copies the paragraph, and adds, “We give all the publicity in our power to a statement which, from our personal knowledge, we can declare to be true. If the disclosures which a debate on this subject must inevitably lead to will not convince Englishmen that Ireland is now governed by a party whose falsehood and subtlety not even Machiavelli himself could justify, we are free to declare we are ready to join the Nationalists to-morrow, and to cry out for a Parliament in College Green, in preference to a Holy Inquisition at Westminster.”’

‘That fellow has blood in him,’ cried Kearney, with enthusiasm, ‘and I go a long way with him.’

‘That may be, sir, and I am sorry to hear it,’ said Walpole coldly; ‘but what I am concerned to tell you is, that the document or memorandum here alluded to was among my papers, and abstracted from them since I have been here.’

‘So that there was actually such a paper?’ broke in Kearney.

‘There was a paper which the malevolence of a party journalist could convert to the support of such a charge. What concerns me more immediately is, that it has been stolen from my despatch-box.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘I believe I can prove it. The only day in which I was busied with these papers, I carried them down to the library, and with my own hands I brought them back to my room and placed them under lock and key at once. The box bears no trace of having been broken, so that the only solution is a key. Perhaps my own key may have been used to open it, for the document is gone.’

‘This is a bad business,’ said Kearney sorrowfully.

‘It is ruin to me,’ cried Walpole, with passion. ‘Here is a despatch from Lord Danesbury, commanding me immediately to go over to him in Wales, and I can guess easily what has occasioned the order.’

‘I’ll send for a force of Dublin detectives. I’ll write to the chief of the police. I’ll not rest till I have every one in the house examined on oath,’ cried Kearney. ‘What was it like? Was it a despatch—was it in an envelope?’

‘It was a mere memorandum—a piece of post-paper, and headed, “Draught of instruction touching D.D. Forward to chief constable of police at Letterkenny. October 9th.”’

‘But you had no direct correspondence with Donogan?’

‘I believe, sir, I need not assure you I had not. The malevolence of party has alone the merit of such an imputation. For reasons of state, we desired to observe a certain course towards the man, and Orange malignity is pleased to misrepresent and calumniate us.’

‘And can’t you say so in Parliament?’

‘So we will, sir, and the nation will believe us. Meanwhile, see the mischief that the miserable slander will reflect upon our administration here, and remember that the people who could alone contradict the story are those very Fenians who will benefit by its being believed.’

‘Do your suspicions point to any one in particular? Do you believe that Curtis—?’

‘I had it in my hand the day after he left.’

‘Was any one aware of its existence here but yourself?’

‘None—wait, I am wrong. Your niece saw it. She was in the library one day. I was engaged in writing, and as we grew to talk over the country, I chanced to show her the despatch.’

‘Let us ask her if she remembers whether any servant was about at the time, or happened to enter the room.’

‘I can myself answer that question. I know there was not.’

‘Let us call her down and see what she remembers,’ said Kearney.

‘I’d rather not, sir. A mere question in such a case would be offensive, and I would not risk the chance. What I would most wish is, to place my despatch-box, with the key, in your keeping, for the purposes of the inquiry, for I must start in half an hour. I have sent for post-horses to Moate, and ordered a special train to town. I shall, I hope, catch the eight o’clock boat for Holyhead, and be with his lordship before this time to-morrow. If I do not see the ladies, for I believe they are out walking, will you make my excuses and my adieux? my confusion and discomfiture will, I feel sure, plead for me. It would not be, perhaps, too much to ask for any information that a police inquiry might elicit; and if either of the young ladies would vouchsafe me a line to say what, if anything, has been discovered, I should feel deeply gratified.’

‘I’ll look to that. You shall be informed.’

‘There was another question that I much desired to speak of,’ and here he hesitated and faltered; ‘but perhaps, on every score, it is as well I should defer it till my return to Ireland.’

‘You know best, whatever it is,’ said the old man dryly.

‘Yes, I think so. I am sure of it. ‘A hurried shake-hands followed, and he was gone.

It is but right to add that a glance at the moment through the window had shown him the wearer of a muslin dress turning into the copse outside the garden, and Walpole dashed down the stairs and hurried in the direction he saw Nina take, with all the speed he could.

‘Get my luggage on the carriage, and have everything ready,’ said he, as the horses were drawn up at the door. ‘I shall return in a moment.’