Not long after her arrival at Glas-aitch-é she received a letter from her father, in which was enclosed another, with whose seal the upright gentleman had refrained from tampering. It was brought to him by an aged crone, who extracted a solemn promise that he would not open it.
'If ye promise,' she said, 'I'll believe ye, Arthur Wolfe, for ye're a good man, or ye would not be given so good a child.'
The eccentricity of the speech pleased the attorney-general, who sent on the letter. It was from his godson Theobald, and Doreen recognised with gratitude the delicate tact which induced her father to pretend that he did not know from whom it came. It removed from her mind the portion of its load which was endured on his behalf; for the young hero was safe. His vessel escaped as by a miracle through the centre of the English fleet. Hoche too was safe. Both were to join the army of the Sambre and Meuse at once. He spoke no more of help from France; was evidently as disappointed as Miss Wolfe was. The dream was over. His sword belonged to the French Republic now, his uniform was that of a French general. He must carve a name for himself among the ranks of the foes of France. Doreen thanked God that his pure young life had not been idly thrown away. Might it be reserved for glorious deeds on behalf of Erin in the future? It was not likely. Better far that he too should have abandoned hope; for Ireland was prostrate, never to rise either in his lifetime or in hers. All they could do was to bear as humbly as they might, shading their eyes from cruel sights--waiting as serenely as was possible for the call to a less hateful world.
So Doreen considered the seabirds and the transparent deeps, and patted little savages on the pate, and smiled her quiet smile, and made believe to be tranquilly resigned; though all the while she was entranced--numbed as by a spell.
Doreen was wrong. The French did not abandon so lightly their scheme of striking at Albion through Cinderella. They revictualled their fleet, made good the damage done by winds and waves, and looked forward to the accomplishment of their object within half a year or so of their first failure. To make victory doubly sure, a second fleet was got together in the Texel, under the command of the solid Dutchman, De Winter, who agreed with the Gallic Directory that now was the time or never; for the British navy was utterly disorganised--there were mutinies among the sailors at Plymouth and at Portsmouth, and one more serious still, under Parker, at the Nore. What moment could be better chosen for conveying an army to Ireland than one in which the mistress of the seas lay crippled; when the Channel--unusual circumstance--was open to the world? Wolfe Tone, however, did not recover his enthusiasm. The conduct of his brethren at home, when friendly vessels were in the offing, had been reprehensible--pusillanimous. Instead of rising and making a vigorous effort for freedom, those who pretended to be their chiefs had bickered and shilly-shallied among themselves--a sight to command the scorn of honest men--and the young hero was profoundly discouraged. He began to doubt his countrymen; yet would he not desert them though they seemed inclined to desert themselves, but joined the Texel fleet, under Daendels and De Winter, hoping and praying for the best. It was a fine fleet of fifteen sail of the line and ten frigates. If the wind would only blow fair--if the shoals and sandbanks of the Texel were once safely passed--then success was certain. For Admiral Duncan, who was watching, had but a few vessels under his command, and even some of these were called home in consequence of the Nore troubles.