The Northern Iron Part 37

"Stay you here," he said, "leave this to me."

He gained the deck of the brig. Una met him with outstretched hands and sparkling eyes.

"Isn't this glorious?" she said. "You never guessed, Neal. Confess that you never guessed."

Then she shrank back from him, frightened by what she saw. His face was ashy grey, save for two flaming spots on his cheek bones. His lips were trembling. His eyes told her of some desperate resolution, of some counsel adopted with intense pain.

"What is the matter, Neal! Do you not want me after all? Will you not take me?"

"No, I will not take you."

It was all he succeeded in saying before a sob choked him. Una stared at him in terrified surprise; but even then, even with his own words in her ears, she did not doubt his love for her. She waited.

"Una," he said at last, "I cannot take you with me."

She gazed at him with wide, pitiful eyes, like the eyes of a little child struck suddenly and inexplicably by the hand of some trusted friend. Neal trembled and turned away from her. He could not look at her while he spoke.

"Una, dearest, it is not that I do not love you. I love you. Oh, heart of my heart, I love you. I would give----"

He sobbed again. Then, with an effort, he mastered himself, and spoke slowly in low, tender tones.

"Una, your father has trusted me. He has helped me, saved me. He has been my friend. I am bound in honour to him. I cannot take you from him like this."

"Ah!" she said. "Honour! Is your honour more than love?"

"Una, Una, can't you understand? It's because I love you so well that I cannot do this. Wait, dearest, wait a little while. I shall come back to you. The world is not so wide that it can keep me from you. The time will not be long."

He turned to her, and saw again the intolerable stricken sadness of her eyes.

"My darling," he said, "I cannot bear it. I will take you with me. Come.

What does it matter about honour or disgrace? What have we to do with right or wrong? Will you come, Una?"

"Her eyes dropped before his gaze. Her hands clasped and unclasped, the fingers of them sliding close-pressed against each other. She trembled.

"If it is wrong----," she whispered. "Oh, Neal, I do not understand, but what you think wrong is wrong for me, too. I will not do what you say is wrong. But, oh! come back to me, come back to me soon. I cannot bear to wait long for you."

All the joy was gone from her. Forgetful of the strangers who stood round her, she covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.

Maurice's voice reached them from the boat.

"Be quick, Neal. I must cast off and let you get under way. They've got the old salmon cobble out, and they're coming after us. Captain Twinely must have managed to tear himself away from the Comtesse. They are pulling six oars, and the cobble is full of men. Be quick."

Una stopped crying on the instant. She cast a terrified glance at the approaching boat. Then she ran across the deck to Captain Getty. She seized his hand, and fell on her knees before him.

"Keep him safe, Captain Getty. Keep him safe. The soldiers, the yeomen, are after him. Do not give him up to them. They will hang him if they get him. Keep him safe. Do not let them take him."

"Young lady, Miss," said Captain Getty, "stand up and dry your eyes.

Your sweetheart's safe while he stands on my deck. Safe from them. For tempests and fire and the perils of the deep, and the act of G.o.d"--he lifted his cap from his head--"I can't swear, but as for darned British soldiers of any kind--such sc.u.m set no foot on the deck of Captain Hercules Getty's brig--the _Saratoga_. You see that rag there, young lady, that rag flying from the gaff of the spanker, it's not much to look at, maybe, not up to the high-toned level of the crosses and the lions that spread themselves and ramp about on other flags, but I guess a man's free when that flies over him. You take my word for it, Miss--the word of Captain Hercules Getty--the Britisher will knuckle under to that rag. He's seen the stars and stripes before now, and he knows he's just got to slip his tail in between his hind legs and scoot, scoot tarnation quick from the place where that rag flutters on the breeze."

CHAPTER XX

In the summer of 1800 the Act of Union was pa.s.sed. The Irish Const.i.tution ceased to exist. The country lay torpid and apathetic under the blow. Blood had been let in Antrim and Down, in Wexford and Wicklow.

The society of United Irishmen was broken. The Protestant gentry were frightened or bribed. They, or the greater part of them, surrendered their birthright without even Esau's hunger for excuse. Roman Catholic ecclesiastics, deluded by the promise of emanc.i.p.ation, which was not kept for many a long year afterwards, offered a dubious welcome to the English power. The people, cowed, helpless, expectant of little any way, waited in numb indifference for what the new order was to bring. There was little joy and little cause for joy in Ireland then.

From the gate of Dunseveric House, in the twilight of the short October afternoon, came a young man who seemed to feel no sense of depression or sadness. He strode briskly along the muddy road, swinging his stick in his hand, whistling a merry tune. After a while, for very exuberance of spirits, he broke into song. His voice rang clear through the damp, misty air--

"Oh, my love's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: Oh, my love's like the melody That's sweetly played in tune."

A hundred yards or so further along the road walked another traveller.

He carried a knapsack on his shoulders and a stout staff in his hand.

When the song reached his ears he stopped, listened carefully, and then waited for the singer to overtake him. It seemed as if the young man was too glad at heart to sing through one song. He began again, and his voice was full of pa.s.sion, as if he had abandoned himself to the inspiration of his words--

"Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee."

"Neal Ward," said the man who waited.

The singer paused.

"I'm Neal Ward, my friend, who ever are you? And I know your voice. I know it. Let me see your face, man. You're Jemmy Hope. As I'm a living man, you're Jemmy Hope. I couldn't have asked a better meeting."

He seized Hope's hand and wrung it heartily. He held it firm.

"There's no man in the world I'd rather have met to-night. But I might have guessed I'd meet you. When a man's happy every wish of his heart comes to him. It's only the poor devils who are sad that have to wait and sigh for what they want and never get it."

"So you are happy, Neal. I am right glad of it. It makes me happy, too, for all that's come and gone, to listen to your singing. Give me a share of your good news, Neal. We want good news in Ireland now-a-days. What makes you happy?"

"I'm to be married to-morrow, Jemmy Hope. To-morrow, to-morrow, man.

Isn't that enough to make me happy?"

He put his arm round Hope, and led him along the road. He walked as if there were music in his ears which made him want to dance.

"She's the best girl in all the world," he said, "the bravest and the truest and the sweetest--

'Or were I a monarch o' the globe, With thee to reign, with thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.'

Haven't I the right to be happy, James Hope? Tell me that."

"You have the best gift that G.o.d has got to give to man," said Hope, "and I that speak to you know. I have my own dear Rose. I have found that the love of a good woman made all my trouble easy, turned sorrow of heart into a kind of gladness, brought joy out of disappointment, made poverty sweet to bear."

"But I'm not poor," said Neal, "I have a home to offer her, a home not unworthy of her. I have money to give her what she wants. I shall take her across the sea in a fine ship that I own myself, in a cabin I have fitted out for her, fine enough for a crowned queen, but not fine enough for her--

"'Blair in Athol's mine la.s.sie, Fair Dunkeld is mine la.s.sie, St. Johnston's bower and Hunting Tower, And a' that's mine is thine, la.s.sie.'

Oh, man, but I have cause for my happiness. I have the world before me, good work to do, good money to earn, and her love like a "perpetual sun-shine to make life fair to me."

Then suddenly his voice changed.