Lewis Wingfield - My Lords of Strogue. Volume 2 of 3

Had his projects failed? She knew that the difficulties with which he was called to cope were immense. The last letter she had had from him, long ago now, spoke of an expedition getting ready, which should start before the end of summer. It was now August, and as she sat waiting week after week, both hope and expectation waning, a feeling of heart-sickness crept over her, which seemed to chill her life-blood and dry up her bones. One day, listlessly gazing as usual across the sea, she looked up and beheld red-polled Biddy making uncouth signals from the shrubbery-signals she had looked for so frequently in vain. A letter! Yes. It was-at last! But it brought no comfort. An expedition was nearly ready; but the leading spirit vacillated. General Hoche doubted whether the forces given to him were strong enough to do efficient service; whether the Irish were ready to receive them; whether the resources of Ireland had been truthfully laid before him.

To Tone's chagrin Hoche informed the Directory that it was fitting, before their ships and treasure were committed to the waters, that somebody of weight should come to France from Ireland, to corroborate Tone's statements and bring the latest news. It was vexatious-despairing! What was to be done? In this new strait the young patriot urgently applied to his friend Miss Wolfe, to consult with the United Irishmen as to some one being sent without delay. One of the Emmetts, Russell, Neilson, anybody who knew anything. She must see to this, or all was lost; for if no satisfactory tidings were speedily received the expedition would be diverted to some other purpose, and Ireland left to fight her battles single-handed. In his trouble he had made statements which were rash, no doubt-had promised large sums to France, in the name of the future Directory of Ireland, and had said that many men of property desired the Revolution. Whoever was sent over must, to prevent further parleying, corroborate these statements. She must show extra caution however in dealing with this business, for a Judas was abroad, more than one, perhaps-there could be no doubt of that. Mr. Pitt seemed informed of everything that passed in Ireland-and in Paris too, for that matter. Caution and despatch were needful above all things.

Doreen laid down this letter to consider it, with a presentiment of evil. The fevered workings of our distempered minds are not so terrible as the sledge-hammer blows which sometimes fall on us. Even the harassed conjectures born of fear prove less dreadful than realities. This was a blow which numbed her faculties. For her father's sake, who loved the fleshpots, she had resolved to be a calm spectator of the coming struggle-to mark the arrival of the French convoy and its certain triumph; to crown the successful heroes in private with metaphorical laurels; to forego for her living father's sake the joy of publicly helping in the emancipation of her dead mother's people. But here was something which put all her resolutions to flight.

The entire scaffolding threatened to tumble about the ears of those who held her sympathies; and it seemed that it might be in her power to prevent that catastrophe. So long as neutrality was likely to do the Catholic party no harm, she was prepared to sacrifice the vanities which hang about picturesque heroism-to view the glorious results as a mere spectator instead of walking in the procession under the triumphal arches. But this letter woefully changed the face of the prospect. It was quite possible apparently (and she felt cold as she realised it) that the gorgeous fabric in which her soul revelled was to vanish into air, and that she might afterwards be accused of having by apathy brought about its crumbling! What was she to do? What in the scale was this twaddle of the dowager's-this buckram rubbish of an old school-this bit of red-tape, which might come to be the halter of liberty! But then her father-could she possibly have a right to bring suffering on him-to be in her own person the Nemesis who should deal punishment on him for his time-serving weakness?

The tumult within her was such that her ears throbbed and her throat seemed closing-yet her unaided judgment must settle this question with calm pros and cons. There is nothing so clearing to a healthy intellect, temporarily clouded, as strong muscular exertion. Miss Wolfe stepped into the cockleshell which was her own, and went for a row upon the bay.

She watched the shadows of the herring-boats, listened absently to the rhythmed cry of the fisherfolk as they landed the produce of their night's labour on the little quay, nodded in acknowledgment of their salutes, rowed herself with firm nervous strokes into mid-water, and then drifted. The freshness of a light breeze and the exertion seemed to string her nerves and clear her mind. She lay back in the light shallop, and trailing her brown fingers in the water, meditated. No! Her allegiance was due equally to both parents. Her father had cast his lot with the mammon of unrighteousness and gleaned the pleasant result of the proceeding. That was no reason for her to betray her mother's people. Much as she loved her father she differed widely from his views. She would keep in the background as much as might be, for his sake; but it certainly behoved her to act with promptitude and energy now. Send somebody over! Whom was she to send? Who was important enough for the mission? In whom might complete faith be placed? Cassidy was too bungling and stupid. Moreover he knew no word of French, and would be sure to make mistakes. Robert Emmett? Too young, too romantic; a student in Trinity besides, whose lengthened absence would be remarked. Thomas Emmett, alas! was in durance vile. Whom might she send? Whom? If Terence would only take things seriously, he was the very man for the undertaking. What a pity she had not used her influence with him to good purpose, Miss Wolfe thought with compunction. The Judith and Holofernes idea was idiotic, of course; but Terence was a fish that might have been played with a satisfactory result. Yet, after all, could the sacredness of the cause justify her in enacting Delilah to his Samson? Surely not. With humiliation she admitted that the trick would be unworthy of one who lived under the roof of Strogue.

Terence had grown dreadfully cross of late. Once or twice her heart had bounded, for she had seemed to see that he was moody and disturbed on account of the way events were marching. Certainly he came home sometimes from the Four-courts with fierce denunciations on his lips anent the culpable folly of Lord Camden-but then he always calmed down again, when he was no longer hungry, hoping for better days, if Lord Clare would really take the helm. His belief in Lord Clare was the blindness which might be expected from a too simple mind.

As the damsel drifted she built castles for herself. If Terence, who was manly enough and true enough, would only take things a little more au sérieux! If men would only be true to their first impulse for good, what a much better world it would be! for, taken unawares, it is nearly always our good angel who speaks first. He is always awake, if timid; but his dusky, coarse-natured fellow snores so loudly, that it is no easy matter to make out clearly what he counsels. Terence grew indignant often; was very hot over the Indemnity Bill and Insurrection ditto, but neither ever disturbed his sleep one jot, or interfered in the smallest degree with his capacity for grouse and claret. What a pity it was! A dependable man, a man of rank, whose heart was in the right place if it would but speak-a man who, from his position, would with a breath remove Hoche's scruples. But there was no use in thinking of him. Somebody must be sent, and speedily, or the interests of the United Irishmen would be compromised. Somebody must be sent-but who?

The young lady became aware that she was drifting out to sea-that it would require all her nautical science and muscular power to bring her frail boat to port by sunset; and she was bound to be home again by sunset on this especial evening, because it was a 'lady's night' at Crow Street Theatre, and my lady had warned her that loyal ladies must 'show' there, because the Viceroy would be present, supported by a galaxy of beauty. So she handled her sculls like a true connexion of the pirate-earls; and as the warm blood tingled in her veins with the exertion, sent her little bark dancing over the water, her brain working busily the while.

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