"The blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare."
                                                                    —SHAKESPEARE.
 
 
On Parnell's release from Kilmainham he returned to me at Eltham, and on May 6, 1882, went to Weymouth to welcome Michael Davitt, who came out of Portland prison on that day. He returned to Eltham that Saturday evening, and the next morning, Sunday, I drove with him to Blackheath Station, as he had to go to London to see Davitt and others. At the station I asked him to get me a newspaper before he left, and waited for it in the carriage.
 
From where I sat in the carriage I could see Parnell's back as he stood just inside the station door. I was watching him, and he half turned and smiled at me as he opened the paper—the Sunday Observer—to glance at the news before he brought it to me. He told me afterwards that he wanted to see what was said about Michael Davitt. He had now come to the top of the steps and, as he suddenly stopped, I noticed a curious rigidity about his arms—raised in holding the newspaper open. He stood so absolutely still that I was suddenly frightened, horribly, sickeningly afraid—of I knew not what, and, leaning forward, called out, "King, what is it?" Then he came down the steps to me and, pointing to the headline, said, "Look!" And I read, "Murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke!"
 
{169}
I heard the train coming in, and tried to pull myself together, for the awful significance of the horrible thing to my lover, just released from Kilmainham on the Treaty, came home to me with a rush of pain. His face was ashen, and he stared, frowning heavily, before him, unconsciously crushing the hand I had slipped into his until the rings I wore cut and bruised my fingers.
 
I said to him, "Quick, you must catch this train. See Davitt and the others as arranged and as many more as you can find. Go, you will know what to do, but you must meet them all at once." He turned heavily away, saying, "I shall resign," and I answered as I ran beside him to the platform, "No, you are not a coward."
 
Before I left Blackheath I wired to Willie to bring Parnell to dinner at Eltham if he could possibly manage it, and spent one of the most terrible days of my life considering the effect this awful crime would probably have upon my lover's career.
 
Willie came down that evening, Parnell with him. They were both very gloomy and depressed, and Parnell, after his greeting of me—as though this were our first meeting since he came out of prison—sat gazing stonily before him, only glancing across at Willie with the stormy flare in his eyes when the latter—who was really sorry for Parnell, as well as shocked at the murders—said something that jarred upon him. During dinner Willie told me of what had been done during the day, of the absolute horror and consternation of the Irish Party, of what Mr. Chamberlain had said on hearing of the murders, and of Parnell's continuous threat, throughout that awful day, of retiring from public life altogether.
 
Willie said to me: "I wish you would urge Parnell not to talk so, Dick; he can't resign his seat now, the {170} thing's impossible; he must show that it simply does not touch him politically in any way."
 
I turned to Parnell and said: "I do absolutely agree with Willie about it, Mr. Parnell. It would be throwing the whole country over and a reflection upon all who joined in that Treaty."
 
Parnell at last roused himself and said: "Well, I will write to the G.O.M.[1] and offer to resign, and abide by his decision; the thing makes me feel hopeless of doing any good."
 
On the wall of the dining-room where we sat hung a large engraving of the "House" of 1880. All the members of that Parliament were in the picture, and among them, of course, Mr. Parnell and Captain O'Shea. As the maid turned to leave the room, after placing the coffee tray on a little side table, this picture, which hung immediately behind Parnell, fell to the floor with a crash that, in the state of nervous tension we were all in, brought us to our feet in alarm. Willie's chair overturned as he jumped up; but Parnell's was steady, held in a grip that showed his knuckles white as he held it slightly raised off the floor, while he stood, half turned, staring at the picture as it lay among the splintered glass.
 
Willie laughed, and, coming to help the parlourmaid to pick up the picture, exclaimed: "There goes Home Rule, Parnell!" But he also had in him a slight dash of the superstition that was so highly developed in Parnell's fatalistic nature, and his smile turned to gravity as he glanced at Parnell's tense expression and listened to my hasty explanation of the fall: "Perhaps the wire was rotten, or the maid had shaken the picture as she passed!" Parnell took the loose end of the wire in both hands and {171} tried to break it. He could not. Willie said: "Mary (the parlourmaid) was the other side of the room, so she could not have shaken it." Parnell said nothing, and we began to speak of other things.
 
Afterwards I said to him: "You did not really mind about that picture, did you? It was only a rotten wire!" and he answered: "It was an omen, I think, darling, but for whom? Willie or me?" and when I told him I wished he would not talk such nonsense, and that I did not believe in omens or want any falling pictures to be "omens" for either of them, he smiled and said no more.
 
The immediate consequence of the Phoenix Park murders was the introduction of a Crimes Bill by Sir William Harcourt on May 11th. Parnell was not approached on the subject. He was given no opportunity of criticizing the proposals and of suggesting any more moderate measure which might have appealed to that great body of Irish Nationalists who viewed the murders with horror. The new Bill went roughshod over Irish opinion, and the conciliatory effect of the Arrears Bill, introduced a few days later, was altogether marred.
 
The second reading of the latter measure was moved by Mr. Gladstone on May 22nd. In the course of his speech he said: "Eviction in the exercise of a legal right may be to the prejudice of your neighbours, may involve the highest reprehension, may even imply deep moral guilt. There may be outrages which—all things considered, the persons and the facts—may be less guilty in the sight of God than evictions."
 
The Bill was bitterly opposed by the Tory Party.
 
I had written to Mr. Gladstone expressing a wish that {172} he should see Mr. Parnell. He wrote in answer from Downing Street on May 25th, 1882, declining to do so in private, though in public he was more than ready to co-operate with Parnell.
 
I suggested in reply that we should meet and talk the matter over, and it was arranged that he should come to see me at Thomas's Hotel on June 2nd. He arrived punctually at three o'clock. We had a long talk about Parnell and about politics—chiefly, of course, as referring to Ireland. He was extremely agreeable and courteous, and I remember very well the great charm of manner he possessed, a charm that struck me afresh at each subsequent meeting. A natural charm and, no doubt, a natural insincerity, but one which is such an immense asset in the career of a great man: that of making others believe—or wish to believe—that they are on the same plane of intellect and diplomacy as himself! He was a very great old man, I thought, as his wonderful eagle's eyes showed just sufficient admiration in them to savour of homage without offence. And I may say here that, with all the perfect courtesy of which, when he chose, he was past master, he knew before the conclusion of our interview, and allowed me to know that he knew, what I............