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Updated: June 9, 2025
The words in themselves were kindly, but through them ran a note of bitterness, of cruel derision, that was faintly perceptible to Tremayne and to one or two others. Lord Wellington's piercing eyes looked a moment at O'Moy, then turned upon the prisoner. Suddenly he spoke, his voice as calm and level as his glance.
"So opportunely as to be suspicious, bedad!" said O'Moy. He had brightened suddenly, his Irish blood quickening at the immediate prospect of strife which this visit boded. "May the devil admire me, but there's a warm morning in store for Mr. Forjas, Ned." "Shall I leave you?" "By no means." The door opened, and the orderly admitted Miguel Forjas, the Portuguese Secretary of State.
They did not realise these things partly because they did not enjoy Wellington's full confidence, and in a greater measure because they were blinded by self-interest, because, as O'Moy told Forjas, they placed private considerations above public duty.
"Perhaps you will first read my letter." And he went to fetch it from the writing-table, where he had left it when completed an hour earlier. His lordship took the letter in silence, and after one piercing glance at O'Moy broke the seal. In the background, near the window, the tall figure of Colquhoun Grant stood stiffly erect, his hawk face inscrutable. "Ah! Your resignation, O'Moy.
That is the only conclusion the Portuguese Government can draw when I lay these papers before it. They will effectively silence all protests." "Shall I tell O'Moy?" inquired the colonel. "Oh, certainly," answered his lordship, instantly to change his mind. "Stay!" He considered, his chin in his hand, his eyes dreamy. "Better not, perhaps. Better not tell anybody.
"You'll be after telling me exactly what you mean," Sir Terence had said. It was in that moment that Tremayne and Lady O'Moy came arm in arm into the open on the hill-side, half-a-mile away very close and confidential. They came most opportunely to the Count's need, and he flung out a hand to indicate them to Sir Terence, a smile of pity on his lips.
He was your imperturbable young man, and he remained as calm now as O'Moy was excited. Although by some twenty years the adjutant's junior, there was between O'Moy and himself, as well as between Tremayne and the Butler family, with which he was remotely connected, a strong friendship, which was largely responsible for the captain's present appointment as Sir Terence's military secretary.
O'Moy looked at him, and looked away. "Yes," he agreed. "But he's still fonder of law and order and military discipline, and I should only be imperilling our friendship by pleading with him for this young blackguard." "The young blackguard is your brother-in-law," Tremayne reminded him. "Bad luck to you, Tremayne, don't I know it?
Lacking invention, he applied to Tremayne for assistance, and Tremayne glumly supplied him with the necessary lie that should meet Lady O'Moy's inquiries when they came. In the end, however, he was spared the necessity of falsehood. For the truth itself reached Lady O'Moy in an unexpected manner. It came about a month after that day when O'Moy had first received news of the escapade at Tavora.
"These poor roses of Portugal to their sister from England," said his softly caressing tenor voice. "Ye're a poet," said O'Moy tartly. "Having found Castalia here," said, the Count, "shall I not drink its limpid waters?" "Not, I hope, while there's an agreeable vintage of Port on the table. A morning whet, Samoval?" O'Moy invited him, taking up the decanter. "Two fingers, then no more.
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