LITMIR.BIZ

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entirely in the wrong before provoking the act of war. And then, as one intending gently to remonstrate, he was on the point of stretching out his finger to the shoulder of Mr. Malkin, when Redworth seized his arm, saying: ‘I ‘m your man: me first: you’re due to me.’

      Mr. Sullivan Smith beheld the vanishing of his foe in a cloud of faces. Now was he wroth on patently reasonable grounds. He threatened Saxondom. Man up, man down, he challenged the race of short-legged, thickset, wooden-gated curmudgeons: and let it be pugilism if their white livers shivered at the notion of powder and ball. Redworth, in the struggle to haul him away, received a blow from him. ‘And you’ve got it! you would have it!’ roared the Celt.

      ‘Excuse yourself to the company for a misdirected effort,’ Redworth said; and he observed generally: ‘No Irish gentleman strikes a blow in good company.’

      ‘But that’s true as Writ! And I offer excuses—if you’ll come along with me and a couple of friends. The thing has been done before by torchlight—and neatly.’

      ‘Come along, and come alone,’ said Redworth.

      A way was cleared for them. Sir Lukin hurried up to Redworth, who had no doubt of his ability to manage Mr. Sullivan Smith.

      He managed that fine-hearted but purely sensational fellow so well that Lady Dunstane and Diana, after hearing in some anxiety of the hubbub below, beheld them entering the long saloon amicably, with the nods and looks of gentlemen quietly accordant.

      A little later, Lady Dunstane questioned Redworth, and he smoothed her apprehensions, delivering himself, much to her comfort, thus: ‘In no case would any lady’s name have been raised. The whole affair was nonsensical. He’s a capital fellow of a kind, capable of behaving like a man of the world and a gentleman. Only he has, or thinks he has, like lots of his countrymen, a raw wound—something that itches to be grazed. Champagne on that!… Irishmen, as far as I have seen of them, are, like horses, bundles of nerves; and you must manage them, as you do with all nervous creatures, with firmness, but good temper. You must never get into a fury of the nerves yourself with them. Spur and whip they don’t want; they’ll be off with you in a jiffy if you try it.

      They want the bridle-rein. That seems to me the secret of Irish character. We English are not bad horsemen. It’s a wonder we blunder so in our management of such a people.’

      ‘I wish you were in a position to put your method to the proof,’ said she.

      He shrugged. ‘There’s little chance of it!’

      To reward him for his practical discretion, she contrived that Diana should give him a final dance; and the beautiful gill smiled quickly responsive to his appeal. He was, moreover, sensible in her look and speech that he had advanced in her consideration to be no longer the mere spinning stick, a young lady’s partner. By which he humbly understood that her friend approved him. A gentle delirium enfolded his brain. A householder’s life is often begun on eight hundred a year: on less: on much less:—sometimes on nothing but resolution to make a fitting income, carving out a fortune. Eight hundred may stand as a superior basis. That sum is a distinct point of vantage. If it does not mean a carriage and Parisian millinery and a station for one of the stars of society, it means at any rate security; and then, the heart of the man being strong and sound…

      ‘Yes,’ he replied to her, ‘I like my experience of Ireland and the Irish; and better than I thought I should. St. George’s Channel ought to be crossed oftener by both of us.’

      ‘I’m always glad of the signal,’ said Diana.

      He had implied the people of the two islands. He allowed her interpretation to remain personal, for the sake of a creeping deliciousness that it carried through his blood.

      ‘Shall you soon be returning to England?’ he ventured to ask.

      ‘I am Lady Dunstane’s guest for some months.’

      ‘Then you will. Sir Lukin has an estate in Surrey. He talks of quitting the Service.’

      ‘I can’t believe it!’

      His thrilled blood was chilled. She entertained a sentiment amounting to adoration for the profession of arms!

      Gallantly had the veteran General and Hero held on into the night, that the festivity might not be dashed by his departure; perhaps, to a certain degree, to prolong his enjoyment of a flattering scene. At last Sir Lukin had the word from him, and came to his wife. Diana slipped across the floor to her accommodating chaperon, whom, for the sake of another five minutes with her beloved Emma, she very agreeably persuaded to walk in the train of Lord Larrian, and forth they trooped down a pathway of nodding heads and curtsies, resembling oak and birch-trees under a tempered gale, even to the shedding of leaves, for here a turban was picked up by Sir Lukin, there a jewelled ear-ring by the self-constituted attendant, Mr. Thomas Redworth. At the portico rang a wakening cheer, really worth hearing. The rain it rained, and hats were formless,’ as in the first conception of the edifice, backs were damp, boots liquidly musical, the pipe of consolation smoked with difficulty, with much pulling at the stem, but the cheer arose magnificently, and multiplied itself, touching at the same moment the heavens and Diana’s heart-at least, drawing them together; for she felt exalted, enraptured, as proud of her countrymen as of their hero.

      ‘That’s the natural shamrock, after the artificial!’ she heard Mr. Redworth say, behind her.

      She turned and sent one of her brilliant glances flying over him, in gratitude for a timely word well said. And she never forgot the remark, nor he the look.

      CHAPTER IV. CONTAINING HINTS OF DIANA’S EXPERIENCES AND OF WHAT THEY LED TO

      A fortnight after this memorable Ball the principal actors of both sexes had crossed the Channel back to England, and old Ireland was left to her rains from above and her undrained bogs below; her physical and her mental vapours; her ailments and her bog-bred doctors; as to whom the governing country trusted they would be silent or discourse humorously.

      The residence of Sir Lukin Dunstane, in the county of Surrey, inherited by him during his recent term of Indian services, was on the hills, where a day of Italian sky, or better, a day of our breezy South-west, washed from the showery night, gives distantly a tower to view, and a murky web, not without colour: the ever-flying banner of the metropolis, the smoke of the city’s chimneys, if you prefer plain language. At a first inspection of the house, Lady Dunstane did not like it, and it was advertized to be let, and the auctioneer proclaimed it in his dialect. Her taste was delicate; she had the sensitiveness of an invalid: twice she read the stalking advertizement of the attractions of Copsley, and hearing Diana call it ‘the plush of speech,’ she shuddered; she decided that a place where her husband’s family had lived ought not to stand forth meretriciously spangled and daubed, like a show-booth at a fair, for a bait; though the grandiloquent man of advertizing letters assured Sir Lukin that a public agape for the big and gaudy mouthful is in no milder way to be caught; as it is apparently the case. She withdrew the trumpeting placard. Retract we likewise ‘banner of the metropolis.’ That plush of speech haunts all efforts to swell and illuminate citizen prose to a princely poetic.

      Yet Lady Dunstane herself could name the bank of smoke, when looking North-eastward from her summerhouse, the flag of London: and she was a person of the critical mind, well able to distinguish between the simple metaphor and the superobese. A year of habitation induced her to conceal her dislike of the place in love: cat’s love, she owned. Here, she confessed to Diana, she would wish to live to her end. It seemed remote, where an invigorating upper air gave new bloom to her cheeks; but she kept one secret from her friend.

      Copsley was an estate of nearly twelve hundred acres, extending across the ridge of the hills to the slopes North and South. Seven counties rolled their backs under this commanding height, and it would have tasked a pigeon to fly within an hour the stretch of country visible at the Copsley windows. Sunrise to right, sunset leftward, the borders of the grounds held both flaming horizons. So much of the heavens and of earth is rarely granted to a dwelling. The drawback was the structure, which had no charm, scarce a face. ‘It is written that I should live in barracks,’ Lady Dunstane said. The colour of it taught white to impose a sense of gloom. Her cat’s love of the familiar

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