My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 3 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the UnionWingfield, Lewis
History
My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 3 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the Union
Wingfield, Lewis
Historical fiction; Ireland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
'Peace! I will not bear your prosing!' hissed the young earl. 'You are
no better than a felon. You've wrecked yourself through your own
folly, and now would inflict your broken-backed morality on me. I told
you once you were no better than a "half-mounted." Ye're not so good.
As for your insolent advice, _that_ for it! I'll tell you this much,
to set your mind at rest. I've made it up with my Lord Cornwallis by
explaining that the mistake was due to you. I've pledged my own vote
to Government, and all the influence that I can bring to bear. Two of
the boroughs I hold will be disfranchised, in return for which I am to
have money down.'
'Oh, remember!' broke in Terence. 'That it's blood-money, which
carries a curse with it. That it will come out of Irish coffers. By a
refinement of barbarity it is Erin who will have to pay the ruffians
who will slay her!'
'Pooh!' retorted Shane, with a finger-snap. 'Whatever your worship's
views may be, I will vote _for union_--there! Not that it can signify
to yon one way or t'other, so soon as you have been carted off to
Scotland.'
'Then after this,' returned Terence, with hot reproach, 'you should
quarter an auctioneer's hammer with the arms of old Sir Amorey; since,
like a superannuated chest of drawers, you are to be knocked down to
the lowest bidder!'
My lady could endure the spectacle no longer of her two sons
threatening each other in the gloaming with swollen veins, face close
to face. With a ghostly sigh which startled the disputants she hurried
towards the house. The brothers searched but found no one, and
cast uneasy glances at each other. What was it? Could it be the
banshee--messenger of ill?
Terence, regretting his sharp speech, strode with abrupt strides away,
lest he might be provoked to still more regretable discourse,
across the little flower-plot, past the sun-dial, through the hall,
to his own chamber, wherein he locked himself, among the guns and
fishing-rods; while Shane, who was athirst, followed more slowly, like
a shepherd with his flock, and turned into the dining-room in search
of drink.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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