My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 1 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the UnionWingfield, Lewis
History
My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 1 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the Union
Wingfield, Lewis
Historical fiction; Ireland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
My lady was too acute not to read his thoughts; too wise to expect her
son to yield without a flutter. She moved with stately sweep to where
he sat, and, pressing his face with her two hands, whispered fondly as
she knelt down beside him. 'My darling, do you not know that I would
cut my heart out for you, that I would walk to the stake to save you
one needless pang? Men can never realise the fulness of a mother's
love--the sublimity of its unselfishness--the majesty of its devotion.
It is the one ray of the Divine which has been allowed to glimmer
forth on our dull earth. Do you suppose I would counsel you to aught
that could bring you injury? that I have not anxiously weighed each
side of the question before deciding what is best? You know that I
love you much better than myself. You know that Heaven has denied you
cleverness. You are not clever, my poor child; but we can't help that,
can we? And you are not good, I am sorely afraid. Yet as your mother I
love you no whit the less. Try to comprehend what a mother's love is
like--how large--how grandly blind in that it might see but will not!'
As she spoke, the poor lady who had been so buffeted by worldly
troubles was transfigured by the strength of her affection for this
one being. The fact of her loving nothing else served but to increase
her love. As one, some of whose senses have decayed whilst others are
proportionately sensitised, she felt with intensity all which affected
her firstborn. It was strange that she could not remember that Terence
also was her son--that he had pined for such a display as this all his
life in vain--that even now (yawning in the Four-courts) he would have
upset the presiding judge and sent all the attorneys to a man into
the Liffey, and galloped at breakneck speed to Strogue if his mother
would only have given him one of the looks which she was lavishing on
Shane--one of those hand-touches that are in nowise akin to
'paddling,' but which send stronger thrills through us than the most
languishing of eyes.
'Ireland is being involved in complicated difficulties,' she pursued.
'You must be obedient, and allow me to lead you through them safely.
It will only be for a month or two. Then all will be over, and we can
come back here again. Say you will do as I wish?'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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