Justin H. (Justin Huntly) McCarthy.

The fair Irish maid online

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however, his belated infamy dated from the brief
Stuart rule in Dublin, Sir Lupus was able to give
to the Prince of Orange some particulars of informa-
tion which aided materially the victory of the Dutch
in the Battle of the Boyne, and earned the giver
a richer reward than his mere personal adhesion
could have hoped to command. He was promptly
endowed with the estate of Sir Nicholas O'Hara,
and also with the title of Lord Cloyne, which had
just been conferred upon O'Hara by King James
by Letters Royal Patent.

Thus there was a Lord Cloyne at St.-Germain in
France in attendance upon exiled majesty and sup-
porting with difficulty his empty dignity, and there
was a Lord Cloyne occasionally in Kerry but more
frequently in London that always proclaimed the
orange to be the most exquisite of the fruits of the
earth. The Lord Cloyne of Kerry and of London
throve in the royal favor and laid by a pretty penny
for the benefit of his heirs. These heirs proved
extravagant, and extravagance was the characteristic
of the succeeding generations, which was the reason
why Marcus Loveless, the present Lord Cloyne, was
more in Kerry than in London, and bemoaned the
fact and his hard fate. His lucky brother Curtius
had been left a small fortune by a distant aunt that
had seen him in his youth and thought him a pretty
boy, as indeed he was. This blessed bequest was


large enough to allow that engaging young gentle-
man to live, if not quite at his ease, at least at some-
thing very closely resembling ease, in London, and to
taste daily those pleasures of environment and asso-
ciation which were denied to his elder brother for
what seemed to him an intolerable and well-nigh
interminable portion of the year.

The generation which witnessed the steady
diminution of the fortunes of the Cloynes witnessed
also a proportionate diminution in the fortunes, if
the terms can be so used, of the O'Haras. Nicholas
O'Hara, that went to France with his king, had a
brother, Connor, that, by a timely subservience to
the usurper, gained this much grace that he was
allowed to retain the use and comfort of an old
house and some farm-lands on the estate that has
now passed into alien hands. His brother never
forgave him for it, but the times were desperately
hard, and Connor O'Hara had a family and no
inclination for exile. Little good, however, came
to the O'Haras from the act. If their holding of a
few pitiful acres was tolerated by disdainful powers,
that toleration would not give O'Hara after O'Hara
the gift of keeping a tight grip on the meager prop-
erty. Little by little it drifted in exchange for broad
pieces into the possession of the successive lords of
Cloyne, until toward the end of the eighteenth
century the two brothers who represented the house
the French O'Hara blood persisted only on the
distaff side had a very pitiful patrimony to share.


It was a curious fact that through all those hun-
dred years between the fall of King James and the
rise of the United Irishmen, the two families that be-
longed to Cloyne, the Lovelesses and the O'Haras,
had kindred tastes; good hunters both, gamblers
both; wild open-air men, good eaters and drink-
ers. So long as the pretense was possible, so
the Lovelesses that were lords of Cloyne and the
O'Haras that fasted upon a petty farm made good
terms together and played at equality, the Love-
lesses amiably ignoring the penal laws. Then came
the upheaval, the desperate effort to destroy the
unendurable, and that desperate effort swept the
two boys of the O'Haras with it as running water
sweeps a cork. Ninety-eight called to the O'Haras
as it called to thousands of their countrymen, and
they answered frankly and valiantly to the call, as
the thousands of their fellow-countrymen did, and
they paid the penalty for their patriotism as the
other thousands did, the penalty of death or the
penalty of exile. Now the O'Haras were repre-
sented by a girl named Grania, who lived, thanks
to the tolerance of Cloyne Hall, rent-free in a little
cottage with an old woman that had been her nurse
before the bitter days of Ninety-eight and that had
clung to her when the child was left alone in the

More of this child hereafter. Consider again,
my Lord Cloyne, leisurely ascending that Kerry
hillside in the company of Mr. Rubie, M.P., who


was plying him with questions about Ireland, which
my lord answered with very little show of interest.
My Lord Cloyne hated Ireland cordially, not, indeed,
from any political feeling toward the native popula-
tion, whom he neither liked nor disliked nor con-
cerned himself about in any way. He disliked
the country because his limited means compelled
him to live for a large part of the year upon his
estate, which was, of course, encumbered, and he
envied the better fortunes of his two brothers whom
fate permitted to dwell in the only place which my
lord considered the proper spot for a gentleman
namely, London. He did his best, however, during
his months of exile from the Mecca of his pleasures
to recall to himself the conditions of his beloved
capital by habiting himself after a fashion very un-
like that of the majority of his neighbors. He rode
and drove and walkedji abroad dressed in the latest
mode of London, the latest mode that his London
tailor was able to despatch. Fashions changed so
swiftly in those brave days of high dandyism that it
was impossible for any gentleman who was not at the
same time a magician to appear in the wilds of
Kerry in precisely the fashion of the moment of the
demigods of St. James' Street. But my lord re-
garded himself with great approval in the exquitise
arrangement of color and adjustment of stuff and
symmetry of proportions that constituted the armor
of the impeccable dandy. His taste was good, and
he knew it, and groaned to think that its influence


could not be eternally impressed upon the capital,
and he astonished his ragged, hungry tenantry by
the cunning harmonies and veiled graces of his attire.

He was never of the school that affects a loud
coloring, a strident assertion, a touch of proclamation
to admire. Delicate demi-tints were his delight,
a suavity of muted tones. His eye admired and
his body carried subtle relationships of cool color
so happily interrelated that the sense of any
individual predominance of hue was lost in the
cunning variegation of the blend. My lord was
admittedly the best-dressed man in Dublin, where
he might if he pleased have reigned king of fops.
But Dublin was not to my lord's taste; it was ever
London or nothing with him. It is true you can
play as hard, drink as hard, make love as per-
sistently in Dublin as in London, and if you were
of a belligerent temper you could calculate on far
more opportunities of going out than on the Eng-
lish side of St. George's Channel. But though my
lord liked gaming and drinking and love-making
as well as any man of his time, he liked them, speak-
ing broadly, only in London. Elsewhere they
lacked for him the atmosphere, the sting, the
stimulus. To his mind to get drunk in Dublin
was just to get drunk; to get drunk in London was
an esctasy.

My lord would not have called it that my lord
never troubled to find elaborate explanations of
his moods or tastes. But for him London was the

3 21


nearest approach to an idea of heaven that my
lord's brain could formulate. He was hoping now,
as he walked the hill-road, that the tender beauty
of his blues and grays and silver did not appear
to his companion to carry an air of belated splendor.
His companion, had he thought at all about my
lord's dress, at all seriously, which indeed he did not,
being a serious man with practical purposes guiding
all his thoughts, would have pronounced him very
gentlemanly attired, and there an end. For his
own part, Mr. Rubie, M.P., affected the austerity
of garb which to his mind became a strenuous poli-
tician, faithful to a great tradition and anxious to
carry it on. His own attire in the dark-blue of his
coat and decided yellow of his waistcoat recalled,
as it was intended to recall, the days when Charles
James Fox and certain Whig bloods, his com-
panions, delighted to flaunt their sympathy with
revolution in the eyes of scandalized and staggering
ascendancy by clothing themselves in the blue and
buff of Mr. Washington's Continental Army. A
generation had passed since the American Republic
had started on its strenuous career; General Wash-
ington had lain in Mount Vernon earth these fifteen
years, and Mr. Fox had lain in Westminster these
nine years; and yet the passions and the partisan-
ships of the long past days seemed to be renewed.
Once again the Republic and the Kingdom had
closed in combat, and once again there were Eng-
lishmen who thought that the Republic was in the


right, and did not conceal their opinions. Mr.
Rubie was of this inclining, and though his attire
was quite in accordance with the demands of con-
temporary fashion, though there was nothing in the
blue on his back or the yellow on his stomach to
affront the critical and fastidious, it served at
the same time to assert a conviction, to recall a
tradition. It pleased Mr. Rubie to think that while
he went about decorous he discreetly enrolled the
mode in the service of his political principles. Be-
yond this, all that Mr. Rubie asked of garments was
that they should cover him from the weather, make
him simply presentable, and should not cost too



MY lord came to a halt with his companion and
pointed with his cane to the Round Tower.
"There," he said, "inquisitive visitor, there is the
Round Tower you fuss about/'

Mr. Rubie regarded the Tower with great atten-
tion and an air of profound wisdom. The Round
Tower was a fact to him, a fact to be estimated and
tabulated in his compilation of Irish statistics. It
was no more than that. "How interesting! how
excessively interesting!" he protested, in a voice
that seemed to challenge any question of his asser-
tion. "Opinions differ as to its origin, I under-
stand. Pray tell me your theory."

He turned a very grave face on his host as he
questioned, but in contrast to the gravity of Mr.
Rubie my lord seemed inclined to he hilarious. He
laughed and took snuff and buried his snuff-box
again in a pocket of his dove-colored waistcoat and
laughed again as he swung his cane. "My dear
fellow," he answered, gaily, " I have no theory about
the damned thing. I have neither the leisure nor
the inclination for the study of antiquities. Some


of the learned explain it whimsically enough.
Phallic worship, you know." My lord made a
fencing pass with his rattan at his companion as
he spoke, which Mr. Rubie avoided with an air of

Mr. Rubie seemed pained at his air of levity.
"My interest is serious," he answered solemnly.

Cloyne agreed with him, still laughing. "So is
mine," he insisted. "It may perhaps surprise you
to hear that the thing has a great interest for me just

Rubie seemed pleased at this apparent change of
front on my lord's part. "Why, pray ?" he asked.

"It never occurred to me," Cloyne explained,
"that the Tower had any value, but it seems that it
has, and I have actually got a purchaser for the silly

"Surely," cried Rubie, "you would not be willing
to part with so curious a relic of the past."

"I would, indeed," Lord Cloyne answered, "and
to do so this very day to Sir William Doubble, no

"Doubble, the banker?" Rubie questioned, with
a note of surprise in his voice.

"Doubble, the banker," Cloyne echoed. "When
he shuts his bank he becomes an antiquary and he
has a house at Muswell Hill, with acres of grounds
which are, as it were, the circus for his hobby-

"What is his hobby-horse ?" Rubie asked, politely.


He knew very little about Sir William except the
fact that he was rich and had a pretty wife.

Sir William took no part in politics, and therefore,
from Mr. Rubie's point of view, he could scarcely be
considered to exist. Still as the subject seemed to
interest Lord Cloyne, Mr. Rubie was considerately

"The old put collects monuments," Cloyne an-
swered, with a strong note of contempt in his voice.

Mr. Rubie was really surprised at the statement.
"Monuments!" he repeated, with astonishment.

"Why, yes," Cloyne continued; "he has not only
the itch to collect, but the ambition to make a
museum of religious architecture, and he studs his
park with all the buildings he can beg, borrow, or
steal from all the countries of the world. Grecian
temples, Roman temples, Hindu temples, Druidic
temples, Mohammedan temples, anything of the
kind delights him, and he pays high prices for the
privilege of transplanting them from the places
where they belong to the incongruous atmosphere of
Muswell Hill. I am told the appearance of the
place is as ridiculous as dismal."

Mr. Rubie looked and was horrified. This
whimsical spirit of transplantation offended his sense
of the fitness of things. "What a vandal!" he pro-

Cloyne went on, unheeding. "This is the way
that he comes into my concerns. He and my brother
Curtius were talking in White's the other day,


and Curtius, somehow or other, happened to speak
of the Round Tower. Instantly my banking mad-
man was agog. He scented a new trophy, and now
nothing will serve him but that he must have my
Round Tower to set up in that bedlam of a back
garden of his, for himself and the madmen who
envy him to gloat over, and for his sane friends to
laugh at."

Rubie disapproved of Sir William's action. It
seemed to him both tasteless and unfair to despoil
Ireland of an ancient monument in this fashion.
But for a moment his thoughts wandered from the
Round Tower. "I have met Lady Doubble,"
Rubie said, "an amiable lady" Lord Cloyne
smiled faintly at the phrase "but I know less of Sir
William. Your tale does not tempt me to like him."

Cloyne clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn it,
man," he cried, with the vehemence of desire in his
voice, the fierceness of desire in his voice, "it means
a thousand pounds in my pocket, and a thousand
pounds means a devil of a lot to me. It means a
London season for my lady balls, routs, levees and
all the rest that the poor soul longs for. It means
St. James's and the Mall, Watier's, and Carlton
House, and everything that makes life livable for

My lord's voice trembled a little with very genuine

emotion as he thus enumerated some of the joys that

his beloved London held for him. He thought of

London as a lover thinks of his lass; he yearned for



London as the soldier of fortune yearns for conquest.
He was standing in a place of amazing beauty, and
he hated it, longed to exchange it for a smoky city
and the gambling-rooms of clubs. Mr. Rubie
listened to his avowal with a mixture of pity and
contempt, which he strove not to exhibit. It was
not that he disliked London. London meant as
much to him in one way as it meant to Lord Cloyne
in another. It was not that he had any much
keener appreciation of the loveliness around him
than my lord had. He would not have bartered
Westminster for the Vale of Cashmere. It was
Lord Cloyne' s reasons for liking London that
earned his disapproval. He could understand
passionate enthusiasm for the extension of the fran-
chise, for the abolition of slavery, for the promotion
of international peace. But clubs, cards, debauch-
ery, the company of the Prince Regent's set, that a
man should sigh for these things disgusted him.
It was, therefore, in sign of comprehension rather
than of sympathy that Rubie nodded. "I see," he
said, sourly.

"Of course," Cloyne admitted, "it will make a
bit of a noise in the neighborhood, for it stands on a
bit of land that belongs, or I should say belonged,
to the O'Haras."

The name that was so familiar to Lord Cloyne
conveyed nothing to his hearer.

"Who are the O'Haras ?" Rubie questioned.

"A race of rebels and wreckers," Cloyne ex-


plained, "that used to live like little princes here
till Orange Billy put us in their place a hundred
years ago." His lordship spoke approximately.
"Thanks to the good nature of my worthy predeces-
sors, the O'Haras were allowed to hold a bit of their
old domain on sufferance, as it were, and the thing
has gone on, a case of toleration on our part and
acceptance on theirs, from father to son."

"I see," Rubie said, with the manner of a man
who is prepared to accept anything in the country
he was visiting.

"But, of course," Cloyne continued, "they can't
hold it in law."

"Why not ?" Rubie asked, indifferently enough,
for he was feeling no great interest in these unknown
O'Haras, but his companion's reply sharply took
from him his indifference.

"My dear fellow," Cloyne explained, "they are

Instantly Rubie was indignant, and showed his
indignation with an angry cry of "Shameful!" as
he recalled the rigors and tyrannies of the penal
laws. He paused for an instant, as if to find word
in which to express his emotion, and then went on,
"When shall we in England have the decency, the
justice to put all beliefs on an equality ?"

Cloyne shrugged his shoulders. "Keep your
philanthropy for Westminster," he said, lightly.
"If you were an Irish landlord you'd whistle a dif-
ferent tune, I promise you."


Rubie was annoyed at the complacency with
which Cloyne accepted a condition of affairs which
appeared to him to be odious. He believed very
sincerely in his principles, and was absolutely honest
in his ardors for reform and his zeal for religious
and political liberty. "I have never been able to
whistle any tune," he answered, stiffly, "and I
hope that under no conceivable conditions would
I ever forget the principles inculcated by Mr. Burke
and Mr. Fox."

Cloyne laughed derisively. "Damn Mr. Burke
and Mr. Fox for a pair of Whig hypocrites," he
said. Then, noticing the frown that was gather-
ing on Rubie' s brow, and remembering that he was
the host of this gentleman that cherished such stren-
uous opinions, he made him a little bow and con-
tinued in a voice that courteously suggested apology
without being markedly apologetic. "No offense,
sir; every man to his opinions. You call yourself
a Whig, and I make no doubt that you are a good
one, but I would wager a guinea you would grow
out of it if you lived in Ireland."

Rubie looked displeased. " With your permission
we will change the subject," he said, coldly. Then,
as Cloyne's face expressed smiling agreement with
his wish, he reflected that it was unreasonable of
him to expect an Irish landlord of Lord Cloyne's
type to appreciate those laws of conduct estab-
lished by the immortal utterances of Mr. Burke and
Mr. Fox. He looked to the Round Tower to fur-


nish a new theme of conversation. "I should like
to make a sketch of that Tower," he declared. As
he spoke he produced from a breast-pocket a small
sketch-book and a pencil.

Cloyne looked at him with much surprise. "Good
Lord! sir," he asked, "do you trifle with the arts
as well as with politics ?"

Rubie, fluttering the sheets of his sketch-book,
answered with modest complacency. "I can do
enough with the pencil to illustrate my notes and
remind me of the objects of curiosity that I meet
on my travels."

My Lord Cloyne had no hostility to the arts. His
father had been considered a connoisseur in his
day, a member of the Dilettanti Society, and had
enriched the Hall with various pictures and an-
tiquities, which, to his son's extreme annoyance, he
had by a clause in his will prevented that son from
selling. How often had my lord regarded with a
malevolent scowl those torsos and altars and bustos,
those Corregios and Pinturiccios and Murillos,
which represented to him so much unavailable gold
mines. Converted into cash, what pleasures might
they not have provided; into what exquisite arrange-
ments of coats and waistcoats and pantaloons
might they not have been transmogrified! My lord
had certainly a sense of color; my lord had cer-
tainly a sense of form; but he disdained the medium
of canvas and the medium of marble; he aimed at
the medium of raiment artfully adapted by a master


to the plastic body of man. So, by virtue of his
judgment of cut and his subtlety in adjusting the
harmonious relations of garment to garment,
Lord Cloyne considered himself an artist, and felt
no disdain for the Parliament-man with his
brandished pencil.

Cloyne smiled compassionately. "Make your
sketch by ail means," he said, "but excuse me while
you make it. My banker antiquary is traveling
from Dublin with his wife and my brother Curtius."
He drew out his watch as he spoke and consulted it.
"He may be here at any time now, and I must be at
the Hall to meet him." He made as if to go, but
paused watching Rubie, who was brandishing his
pencil in the air and making measurements of the
Tower preliminary to putting point to paper.

"I wonder," he said, and there was a note of
amusement in his voice, "if you will get a glimpse
of the girl."

Rubie, who had got his measurements settled to
his satisfaction and had already been putting in the
first strokes of his sketch, paused in his work. "What
girl ?" he asked.

Cloyne explained. "The last of the O'Haras.
Didn't I say that there was only a girl left of them

Rubie shook his head and suspended the business
of his pencil. "You made no mention of any girl,"
he asserted.

Lord Cloyne whistled. "Then I should have,"


he said, "for she is very well worth mentioning.
She is the daughter of Martin O'Hara that was
killed in the Ninety-eight. My revered parent,
who was, if I may say so, without disrespect, a bit of
a whim witness our classical names, Marcus,
Curtius, good Lord! seems to have had a great
kindness for the O'Haras, so he let this orphan
babe and the old nurse that took charge of her live
on here rent-free in a cottage on the sole conditions
of showing the ruins to casual travelers.'*

Mr. Rubie's pencil paused in a moment of what
appeared to him to be happy reproduction. "Very
considerate, I am sure," he murmured.

My lord laughed softly. "I wonder," he said,
"if he had any idea of making provision for his
children. The girl is a beauty, but I advise you not
to make love to her if you do see her."

Mr. Rubie resumed his sketching with a great air
of dignity. " It is not my habit to make love to
strange young ladies," he said drily.

Cloyne laughed. It was evident he was amused
by some memory, but it was also evident, or would
have been to some more attentive observer than Mr.
Rubie, that was so busy with his sketch, that a mor-
dant element of annoyance was blended with the
ostentatious show of amusement.

"It is mine," he asserted, "and when I found one

day that the wild child I had noticed indifferently

in the neighborhood of the Round Tower had

grown as it seemed all of a sudden into a most ador-



able woman, I naturally showed that I was inclined
to be kind to her."

He paused, with a chuckle that tailed off into
what seemed remarkably like a snarl, and the sudden
change of tone had the effect of distracting Mr.
Rubie for a moment from his painstaking repro-
duction of the venerable monument.

"How so?" Rubie asked, feeling somewhat curi-
ous in spite of himself at the persistence with which
my Lord Cloyne seemed to dwell upon the history of
this daughter of a fallen house, whose mission in life
appeared to be to take charge of the very tower that
he was then in the act of enshrining in his sketch-
book. The answer came quite frankly. " I wanted
to make her my mistress," Cloyne said, airily. He
had no sooner uttered the words than the appearance
of a deep flush upon the ruddy cheeks of Mr. Rubie
warned him that he was tilting anew against some of
the prejudices of his guest. Inwardly he cursed the
puritanical rascal. Outwardly he condescended to

"Oh, with all the honors, begad," he vowed.
"I offered to take her to Dublin for a month, fine
dresses, theatres, suppers, and all the compliments
of the season, with an honorable assurance that I
would provide some presentable gentleman to take
her off my hands and keep her in comfort at the end
of our little holiday. I ask you, could I say or do

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