CHAPTER I. A FIRESIDE GROUP
It was exactly forty-five years ago that a group, consisting of three
persons, drew their chairs around the fire of a handsome dinner-room
in Merrion Square, Dublin. The brilliantly lighted apartment, the table
still cumbered with decanters and dessert, and the sideboard resplendent
with a gorgeous service of plate, showed that the preparations had
been made for a much larger party, the last of whom had just taken his
departure.
Of the three who now drew near the cheerful blaze, more intent, as it
seemed, on confidential intercourse than the pleasures of the table, he
who occupied the centre was a tall and singularly handsome man, of some
six or seven-and-twenty years of age. His features, perfectly classical
in their regularity, conveyed the impression of one of a cold and
haughty temperament, unmoved by sudden impulse, but animated by a spirit
daringly ambitious. His dress was in the height of the then mode, and he
wore it with the air of a man of fashion and elegance.
This was Lord Castlereagh, the youthful Secretary for Ireland, one whose
career was then opening with every promise of future distinction.
At his right hand sat, or rather lounged, in all the carelessness
of habitual indolence, a young man some years his junior, his dark
complexion and eyes, his aquiline features, and short, thin upper lip
almost resembling a Spanish face.
His dress was the uniform of the Foot Guards,--a costume which well
became him, and set off to the fullest advantage a figure of perfect
symmetry. A manner of careless inattention in which he indulged,
contrasted strongly with the quick impatience of his dark glances and
the eager rapidity of his utterance when momentarily excited; for
the Honorable Dick Forester was only cool by training, and not by
temperament, and, at the time we speak of, his worldly education was
scarcely more than well begun.
The third figure--strikingly unlike the other two--was a man of fifty or
thereabouts, short and plethoric. His features, rosy and sensual, were
lit up by two gray eyes whose twinkle was an incessant provocative to
laughter. The mouth was, however, the great index to his character. It
was large and full, the under lip slightly projecting,--a circumstance
perhaps acquired in the long habit of a life where the tasting function
had been actively employed; for Con Heffernan was a gourmand of the
first water, and the most critical judge of a vintage the island could
boast. Two fingers of either hand were inserted in the capacious pockets
of a white vest, while, his head jauntily leaning to one side, he sat
the very ideal of self-satisfied ease and contentment. The aplomb--why
should there be a French word for an English quality?--he possessed was
not the vulgar ease of a presuming or underbred man,--far from it;
it was the impress of certain gifts which gave him an acknowledged
superiority in the society he moved in. He was shrewd, without
over-caution; he was ready-witted, but never rash; he possessed that
rare combination of quick intelligence with strong powers of judgment;
and, above all, he knew men, or at least such specimens of the race as
came before him in a varied life, well and thoroughly.
If he had a weak point in his character, it was a love of
popularity,--not that vulgar mob-worship which some men court and seek
after; no, it was the estimation of his own class and set he desired to
obtain. He was proud of his social position, and nervously sensitive in
whatever might prejudice or endanger it. His enemies--and Con was too
able a man not to have made some--said that his low origin was the
secret of his nature; that his ambiguous position in society demanded
exertions uncalled for from others less equivocally circumstanced; and
that Mr. Heffernan was, in secret, very far from esteeming the high and
titled associates with whom his daily life brought him in contact. If
this were the case, he was assuredly a consummate actor. No man ever
went through a longer or more searching trial unscathed, nor could an
expression be quoted, or an act mentioned, in which he derogated, even
for a moment, from the habits of "his order."
"You never did the thing better in your life, my Lord," said Con, as the
door closed upon the last departing guest. "You hit off Jack Massy to
perfection; and as for Watson, though he said nothing at the time,
I 'll wager my roan cob against Deane Moore's hackney--long odds,
I fancy--that you find him at the Treasury to-morrow morning, with a sly
request for five minutes' private conversation."
"I'm of your mind, Heffernan. I saw that he took the bait,--indeed, to
do the gentlemen justice, they are all open to conviction."
"You surely cannot blame them," said Con, "if they take a more
conciliating view of your Lordship's opinions when assisted by such
claret as this: this is old '72, if I mistake not."
"They sold it to me as such; but I own to you I 'm the poorest
connoisseur in the world as regards wine. Some one remarked this evening
that the '95 was richer in bouquet."
"It was Edward Harvey, my Lord. I heard him; but that was the year he
got his baronetcy, and he thinks the sun never shone so brightly
before; his father was selling Balbriggan stockings when this grape was
ripening, and now, the son has more than one foot on the steps of the
peerage." This was said with a short, quick glance beneath the eyelids,
and evidently more as a feeler than with any strong conviction of its
accuracy.
"No Government can afford to neglect its supporters, and the
acknowledgments must be proportioned to the sacrifices, as well as to
the abilities of the individuals who second it."
"By Jove! if these gentlemen are in the market," said Forester, who
broke silence for the first time, "I don't wonder at their price being a
high one; in consenting to the 'Union,' they are virtually voting their
own annihilation."
"By no means," said the Secretary, calmly; "the field open to their
ambition is imperial, and not provincial; the English Parliament will
form an arena for the display of ability as wide surely as this of
Dublin. Men of note and capacity will not be less rewarded: the losers
will be the small talkers, county squires of noisy politics, and crafty
lawyers of no principles; they will, perhaps, be obliged to remain at
home and look after their own affairs; but will the country be the worse
for that, while the advantages to trade and commerce are inconceivable?"
"I agree with you there," said Con; "we are likely to increase our
exports, by sending every clever fellow out of the country."
"Why not, if the market be a better one?"
"Would n't you spare us a few luxuries for home consumption?" said Con,
as he smacked his lips and looked at his glass through the candle.
His Lordship paid no attention to the remark, but, taking a small tablet
from his waistcoat-pocket, seemed to study its contents. "Are we certain
of Cuffe; is he pledged to us, Heffernan?"
"Yes, my Lord, he has no help for it; we are sure of him; he owes the
Crown eleven thousand pounds, and says the only ambition he possesses is
to make the debt twelve, and never pay it."
"What of that canting fellow from the North,--New-land?"
"He accepts your terms conditionally, my Lord," said Con, with a sly
roll of his eye. "If the arguments are equal to your liberality, he will
vote for you; but as yet he does not see the advantages of a Union."
"Not see them!" said Lord Castlereagh, with a look of irony; "why did
you not let him look at them from your own windows, Heffernan? The view
is enchanting for the Barrack Department."
"The poor man is short-sighted," said Con, with a sigh, "and never could
stretch his vision beyond the Custom House."
"Be it so, in the devil's name; a commissioner more or less shall never,
stop us!"
"What a set of rascals," muttered Forester between his teeth, as he
tossed off a bumper to swallow his indignation.
"Well, Forester, what of your mission? Have you heard from your friend
Darcy?"
"Yes; I have his note here. He cannot come over just now, but he has
given me an introduction to his father, and pledges himself I shall be
well received."
"What Darcy is that?" said Heffernan.
"The Knight of Gwynne," said his Lordship; "do you know him?"
"I believe, my Lord, there is not a gentleman in Ireland who could not
say yes to that question; while west of the Shannon, Maurice Darcy is a
name to swear by."
"We want such a man much," said the Secretary, in a low, distinct
utterance; "some well-known leader of public opinion is of great
value just now. How does he vote usually? I don't see his name in the
divisions."
"Oh, he rarely comes up to town, never liked Parliament; but when he
did attend the House, he usually sat with the Opposition, but, without
linking himself to party, spoke and voted independently, and, strange
to say, made considerable impression by conduct which in any other man
would have proved an utter failure."
"Did he speak well, then?"
"For the first five minutes you could think of nothing but his look
and appearance; he was the handsomest man in the House, a little
too particular, perhaps, in dress, but never finical; as he went on,
however, the easy fluency of his language, the grace and elegance of
his style, and the frank openness of his statements, carried his hearers
with him; and many who were guarded enough against the practised power
of the great speakers were entrapped by the unstudied, manly tone of the
Knight of Gwynne. You say truly, he would be a great card in your hands
at this time."
"We must have him at his own price, if he has one. Is he rich?"
"He has an immense estate, but, as I hear, greatly encumbered; but don't
think of money with him, that will never do."
"What's the bait, then? Does he care for rank? Has he any children grown
up?"
"One son and one daughter are all his family; and as for title, I don't
think that he 'd exchange that of Knight of Gwynne for a Dukedom. His
son is a lieutenant in the Guards."
"Yes; and the best fellow in the regiment," broke in Forester. "In every
quality of a high-spirited gentleman, Lionel Darcy has no superior."
"The better deserving of rapid promotion," said his Lordship, smiling
significantly.
"I should be sorry to offer it to him at the expense of his father's
principles," said Forester.
"Very little fear of your having to do so," said Heffernan, quickly;
"the Knight would be no easy purchase."
"You must see him, however, Dick." said the Secretary; "there is no
reason why he should not be with us on grounds of conviction. He is a
man of enlightened and liberal mind, and surely will not think the worse
of a measure because its advocates are in a position to serve his son's
interests."
"If that topic be kept very studiously out of sight, it were all the
more prudent," said Con, dryly.
"Of course; Forester will pay his visit, and only advert to the matter
with caution and delicacy. To gain him to our side is a circumstance of
so much moment that I say carte blanche for the terms."
"I knew the time that a foxhound would have been a higher bribe than a
blue ribbon with honest Maurice; but it's many years since we met, now,
and Heaven knows what changes time may have wrought in him. A smile
and a soft speech from a pretty woman, or a bold exploit of some
hare-brained fellow, were sure to find favor with him, when he would
have heard flattery from the lips of royalty without pride or emotion."
"His colleague in the county is with us; has he any influence over the
Knight?"
"Far from it. Mr. Hickman O'Reilly is the last man in the world to have
weight with Maurice Darcy, and if it be your intention to make O'Reilly
a peer, you could have taken no readier method to arm the Knight against
you. No, no; if you really are bent on having him, leave all thought of
a purchase aside; let Forester, as the friend and brother officer of
young Darcy, go down to Gwynne, make himself as agreeable to the Knight
as may be, and when he has one foot on the carriage-step at his
departure, turn sharply round, and say, 'Won't you vote with us,
Knight?' What between surprise and courtesy, he may be taken too short
for reflection, and if he say but 'Yes,' ever so low, he's yours. That's
my advice to you. It may seem a poor chance, but I fairly own I see no
better one."
"I should have thought rank might be acceptable in such a quarter," said
the Secretary, proudly.
"He has it, my Lord,--at least as much as would win all the respect any
rank could confer; and besides, these new peerages have no prestige
in their favor yet a while; we must wait for another generation. This
claret is perfect now, but I should not say it were quite so delicate in
flavor the first year it was bottled. The squibs and epigrams on the new
promotions are remembered where the blazons of the Heralds' College are
forgotten; that unlucky banker, for instance, that you made a Viscount
the other day, both his character and his credit have suffered for it."
"What was that you allude to?--an epigram, was it?"
"Yes, very short, but scarcely sweet. Here it is:--
"'With a name that is borrowed, a title that's bought,--'
you, remember, my Lord, how true both allegations are,--
"'With a name that is borrow'd, a title that's bought, Sir William would
fain be a gentleman thought; While his Wit is mere cunning, his Courage
but vapor, His Pride is but money, his Money but paper.'"
"Very severe, certainly," said his Lordship, in the same calm tone he
ever spoke. "Not your lines, Mr. Heffernan?"
"No, my Lord; a greater than Con Heffernan indited these,--one who did
not scruple to reply to yourself in the House in an imitation of your
own inimitable manner."
"Oh, I know whom you mean,--a very witty person indeed," said the
Secretary, smiling; "and if we were to be laughed out of office,
he might lead the Opposition. But these are very business-like,
matter-of-fact days we 're fallen upon. The cabinet that can give away
blue ribbons may afford to be indifferent to small jokers. But to revert
to matters more immediate: you must start at once, Forester, for the
West, see the Knight, and do whatever you can to bring him towards us.
I say carte blanche for the terms; I only wish our other elevations to
the peerage had half the pretension he has; and, whatever our friend Mr.
Heffernan may say, I opine to the mere matter of compact, which says, so
much for so much."
"Here's success to the mission, however its negotiations incline," said
Heffernan, as he drained off his glass and rose to depart. "We shall see
you again within ten days or a fortnight, I suppose?"
"Oh, certainly; I'll not linger in that wild district an hour longer
than I must." And so, with good night and good wishes, the party
separated,--Forester to make his preparations for a journey which, in
those days, was looked on as something formidable.
CHAPTER II. A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE.
Whatever the merits or demerits of the great question, the legislative
union between England and Ireland,--and assuredly we have neither the
temptation of duty nor inclination to discuss such here,--the means
employed by Ministers to carry the measure through Parliament were in
the last degree disgraceful. Never was bribery practised with more
open effrontery, never did corruption display itself with more daring
indifference to public opinion; the Treasury office was an open mart,
where votes were purchased, and men sold their country, delighted, as a
candid member of the party confessed,--delighted "to have a country to
sell."
The ardor of a political career, like the passion for the chase, would
seem in its high excitement to still many compunctious murmurings
of conscience which in calmer moments could not fail to be heard and
acknowledged: the desire to succeed, that ever-present impulse to
win, steels the heart against impressions which, under less pressing
excitements, had been most painful to endure; and, in this way,
honorable and high-minded men have often stooped to acts which,
with calmer judgment to guide them, they would have rejected with
indignation.
Such was Dick Forester's position at the moment. An aide-de-camp on the
staff of the Viceroy, a near relative of the Secretary, he was intrusted
with many secret and delicate negotiations, affairs in which, had he
been a third party, he would have as scrupulously condemned the tempter
as the tempted; the active zeal of agency allayed, however, all such
qualms of conscience, and every momentary pang of remorse was swallowed
up in the ardor for success.
Few men will deny in the abstract the cruelty of many field-sports they
persist in following; fewer still abandon them on such scruples; and
while Forester felt half ashamed to himself of the functions committed
to him, he would have been sorely disappointed if he had been passed
over in the selection of his relative's political adherents.
Of this nature were some of Dick Forester's reflections as he posted
along towards the West; nor was the scene through which he journeyed
suggestive of pleasanter thoughts. If any of our readers should
perchance be acquainted with that dreary line of country which lies
along the great western road of Ireland, they will not feel surprised
if the traveller's impressions of the land were not of the brightest or
fairest. The least reflective of mortals cannot pass through a dreary
and poverty-stricken district without imbibing some of the melancholy
which broods over the place. Forester was by no means such, and felt
deeply and sincerely for the misery he witnessed on every hand, and was
in the very crisis of some most patriotic scheme of benevolence, when
his carriage arrived in front of the little inn of Kilbeggan. Resisting,
without much violence to his inclinations, the civil request of the
landlord to alight, he leaned back to resume the broken thread of his
lucubrations, while fresh horses were put to. How long he thus waited,
or what progress his benign devices accomplished in the mean while, this
true history is unable to record; enough if we say that when he next
became aware of the incidents then actually happening around him, he
discovered that his carriage was standing fast in the same place as at
the moment of his arrival, and the rain falling in torrents, as before.
To let down the glass and call out to the postilions was a very natural
act; to do so with the addition of certain expletives not commonly used
in good society, was not an extraordinary one. Forester did both; but he
might have spared his eloquence and his indignation, for the postilions
were both in the stable, and his servant agreeably occupied in the bar
over the comforts of a smoking tumbler of punch. The merciful schemes so
late the uppermost object of his thoughts were routed in a moment, and,
vowing intentions of a very different purport to the whole household,
he opened the door and sprang out. Dark as the night was, he could see
that there were no horses to the carriage, and, with redoubled anger at
the delay, he strode into the inn.
"Holloa, I say--house here! Linwood! Where the devil is the fellow?"
"Here, sir," cried a smart-looking London servant, as he sprang from
the bar with his eyes bolting out of his head from the heat of the last
mouthful, swallowed in a second. "I've been a trying for horses, sir;
but they've never got 'em, though they 've been promising to let us have
a pair this half-hour."
"No horses! Do you mean that they've not got a pair of posters in a town
like this?"
"Yes, indeed, sir," interposed a dirty waiter in a nankeen jacket;
for the landlord was too indignant at the rejection of his proposal to
appear again, "we've four pair, besides a mare in foal; but there's a
deal of business on the line this week past, and there's a gentleman in
the parlor now has taken four of them."
"Taken four! Has he more than one carriage?"
"No, sir, a light chariot it is; but he likes to go fast."
"And so do I--when I can," muttered Forester, the last words being an
addition almost independent of him. "Could n't you tell him that there's
a gentleman here very much pressed to push on, and would take it as a
great favor if he'd divide the team?"
"To be sure, sir, I'll go and speak to him," said the waiter, as he
hurried away on the errand.
"I see how it is, sir," said Linwood, who, with true servant dexterity,
thought to turn his master's anger into any other channel than towards
himself, "they wants to get you to stop the night here."
"Confound this trickery! I'll pay what they please for the horses, only
let us have them.--Well, waiter, what does he say?"
"He says, sir," said the waiter, endeavoring to suppress a laugh, "if
you 'll come in and join him at supper, you shall have whatever you
like."
"Join him at supper! No, no; I'm hurried, I'm anxious to get forward,
and not the least hungry besides."
"Hadn't you better speak a word to him, anyhow?" said the waiter,
half opening the parlor door. And Forester, accepting the suggestion,
entered.
[Illustration: 041]
In the little low-ceilinged apartment of the small inn, at a table
very amply and as temptingly covered, sat a large and, for his age,
singularly handsome man. A forehead both high and broad surmounted
two clear blue eyes, whose brilliancy seemed to defy the wear of time;
regular and handsome teeth; and a complexion the very type of
health appeared to vouch for a strength of constitution rare at his
advanced age. His dress was the green coat so commonly worn by country
gentlemen, with leather breeches and boots, nor, though the season was
winter, did he appear to have any great-coat, or other defence against
the weather. He was heaping some turf upon the fire as Forester entered,
and, laughingly interrupting the operation, he stood up and bowed
courteously.
"I have taken a great liberty, sir, first, to suppose that any man at
this hour of the night is not the worse for something to eat and drink;
and, secondly, that he might have no objection to partake of either in
my company." Forester was not exactly prepared for a manner so palpably
that of the best society, and, at once repressing every sign of his
former impatience, replied by apologizing for a request which might
inconvenience the granter. "Let me help you to this grouse-pie, and
fill yourself a glass of sherry; and by the time you have taken some
refreshment, the horses will be put to. I am most happy to offer you a
seat."
"I am afraid there is a mistake somewhere," said Forester, half timidly.
"I heard you had engaged the only four horses here, and as my carriage
is without, my request was to obtain two if you--"
"But why not come with me? I 'm pressed, and must be up, if possible,
before morning. Remember, we are forty-eight miles from Dublin."
"Dublin! But I'm going the very opposite road. I'm for Westport."
"Oh, by Jove! that is different. What a stupid fellow the waiter is!
Never mind; sit down. Let us have a glass of wine together. You shall
have two of the horses. Old Wilkins must only make his spurs supply the
place of the leaders."
There was a hearty good-nature in every accent of the old man's voice,
and Forester drew his chair to the table, by no means sorry to spend
some time longer in his company.
There is a kind of conversation sacred to the occupations of the
table,--a mixture of the culinary and the social, the gustatory with
the agreeable. And the stranger led the way to this, with the art of
an accomplished proficient, and while recommending the good things to
Forester's attention, contrived to season their enjoyment by a tone at
once pleasing and cordial.
"I could have sworn you were hungry," said he, laughing, as Forester
helped himself for the second time to the grouse-pie. "I know you did
not expect so appetizing a supper in such a place; but Rickards has
always something in the larder for an old acquaintance, and I have been
travelling this road close upon sixty years now."
"And a dreary way it is," said Forester, "except for this most agreeable
incident. I never came so many miles before with so little to interest
me."
"Very true; it is a flat, monotonous-looking country, and poor besides;
but nothing like what I remember it as a boy."
"You surely do not mean that the people were ever worse off than they
seem now to be?"
"Ay, a hundred times worse off. They may be rack-rented and over-taxed
in some instances now,--not as many as you would suppose, after
all,--but then, they were held in actual slavery, nearly famished,
and all but naked; no roads, no markets; subject to the caprice of the
landowners on every occasion in life, and the faction fights--those
barbarous vestiges of a rude time--kept up and encouraged by those who
should have set the better example of mutual charity and good feeling.
These unhappy practices have not disappeared, but they are far less
frequent than formerly; and however the confession may seem to you a sad
one, to me there is a pride in saying, Ireland is improving."
"It is hard to conceive a people more miserably off than these," said
Forester, with a sigh.
"So they seem to your eyes; but let me remark that there is a transition
state between rude barbarism and civilization which always appears
more miserable than either; habits of life which suggest wants that
can rarely, if ever, be supplied. The struggle between poverty and
the desire for better, is a bitter conflict, and such is the actual
condition of this people. You are young enough to witness the fruits
of the reformation; I am too old ever to hope to see them, but I feel
assured that the day is coming."
"I like your theory well; it has Hope for its ally," said Forester, as
he gazed on the benevolent features of the old squire.
"It has even better, sir, it has truth; and hence it is that the
peasantry, as they approach nearer to the capital,--the seat of
civilization,--have fewest of those traits that please or attract
strangers; they are in the transition state I speak of; while down in
my wild country, you can see them in their native freshness, reckless
and improvident, but light-hearted and happy."
"Where may the country be you speak of, sir?" said Forester.
"The Far West, beside the Atlantic. You have heard of Mayo?"
"Oh, that is my destination at this moment; I am going beyond Westport,
to visit one of the chieftains there. I have not the honor to know him,
but I conclude that his style of living and habits will not be a bad
specimen of the gentry customs generally."
"I know that neighborhood tolerably well. May I ask the name of your
future host?"
"The Knight of Gwynne is his title--Mr. Darcy--"
"Oh! an old acquaintance,--I may almost say an old friend of mine," said
the other, smiling. "And so you are going to pass some time at Gywnne?"
"A week or so; I scarcely think I can spare more."
"They 'll call that a very inhospitable visit at Gwynne, sir; the
Knight's guests rarely stay less than a month. I have just left it,
and there were some there who had been since the beginning of the
partridge-shooting, and not the least welcome of the party."
"I am sorry I had not the good fortune to meet you there," said
Forester.
"Make your visit a fortnight, and I 'll join you, then," said the
old man, gayly. "I 'm going up to town to settle a wager,--a foolish
excursion, you 'll say, at my time of life; but it's too late to mend."
"The horses is put to, sir," said the waiter, announcing the fact for
something like the fourth time, without being attended to.
"Well, then, it is time to start. Am I to take it as a pledge that I
shall find you at Gwynne this day fortnight?"
"I cannot answer for my host," said Forester, laughing.
"Oh! old Darcy is sure to ask you to stay. By the way, would you permit
me to trouble you with five lines to a friend who is now stopping
there?"
"Of course; I shall be but too happy to be of any service to you."
The old gentleman sat down, and, tearing a leaf from a capacious
pocket-book, wrote a few hurried lines, which, having folded and sealed,
he addressed, "Bagenal Daly, Esquire, Gwynne Abbey."
"There, that's my commission; pray add my service to the Knight himself,
when you see him."
"Permit me to ask, how shall I designate his friend?"
"Oh! I forgot, you don't know me," said he, laughing. "I have half a
mind to leave the identification with your own descriptive powers."
"I'd wager five guineas I could make the portrait a resemblance."
"Done, then; I take the bet," said the other; "and I promise you, on the
word of a gentleman, I am known to every visitor in the house."
Each laughed heartily at the drollery of such a wager, and, with many a
profession of the pleasure a future meeting would afford to both, they
parted, less like casual acquaintances than as old and intimate friends.
CHAPTER III. GWYNNE ABBEY
When Forester parted with his chance companion at Kilbeggan, he pursued
his way without meeting a single incident worth recording; nor, although
he travelled with all the speed of posters, aided by the persuasive
power of additional half-crowns, shall we ask of our reader to accompany
him, but, at one bound, cross the whole island, and stand with us on the
margin of that glorious sheet of water which, begirt with mountains and
studded with its hundred islands, is known as Clue Bay.
At the southern extremity of the bay rises the great mountain of Croagh
Patrick, its summit nearly five thousand feet above the sea; on the side
next the ocean, it is bold and precipitous, crag rising above crag in
succession, and not even the track of a mountain goat visible on the
dangerous surface; landward, however, a gentle slope descends about the
lower third of the mountain, and imperceptibly is lost in the rich and
swelling landscape beneath. Here, sheltered from the western gales, and
favored by the fertility of the soil, the trees are seen to attain a
girth and height rarely met with elsewhere, while they preserve their
foliage to a much later period than in other parts of the country.
The ruins of an ancient church, whose very walls are washed by the
Atlantic, show that the luxuriant richness of the spot was known in
times past. They who founded these goodly edifices were no mean judges
of the resources of the land, and the rich woods and blossoming orchards
that still shelter their ruined shrines evidence with what correctness
they selected their resting-places.
The coast-road which leads from Westport skirts along the edge of the
bay, and is diversified by many a pretty cottage whose trellised walls
and rose-covered porches vouch for the mildness of the climate, and
are in summer resorted to as bathing-lodges by numbers from the inland
counties. The high-road has, however, a grander destiny than to such
humble, though picturesque, dwellings, for it suddenly ceases at the
gate of an immense demesne, whose boundary wall may be seen stretching
away for miles, and at last is traced high up the mountain side, where
it forms the enclosure of a deer park.
Two square and massive towers connected by an arch form the gateway,
and though ivy and honeysuckle have covered many an architectural device
which once were looked on with pride, a massive armorial escutcheon in
yellow stone forms the key of the arch, while two leopards supporting
a crown, with the motto, "Ne la touchez pas!" proclaim the territory of
the Knight of Gwynne.
Within, an avenue wide enough for a high-road led through a park of
great extent, dotted with trees single or in groups, and bounded by
a vast wood, whose waving tops were seen for miles of distance. If a
landscape-gardener would have deplored with uplifted hands the glorious
opportunities of embellishment which neglect or ignorance had suffered
to lie undeveloped within these grounds, a true lover of scenery would
have felt delighted at the wild and picturesque beauty around him, as,
sometimes, the road would dip into a deep glade, where the overhanging
banks were clothed with the dog-rose and the sweet-brier, still and
hushed to every sound save the song of the thrush or the not less sweet
ripple of the little stream that murmured past; and again, emerging from
the shade, it wound along some height whence the great mountain might
be seen, or, between the dark foliage, the blue surface of the sea,
swelling and heaving with ever-restless motion. All the elements of
great picturesque beauty were here, and in that glorious profusion with
which nature alone diffuses her wealth,--the mountain, the forest, and
the ocean, the greensward, the pebbly shore, the great rocks, the
banks blue with the violet and the veronica,--and all diversified and
contrasted to produce effects the most novel and enchanting.
Many a road and many a pathway led through these woods and valleys,
some grass-grown, as though disused, others bearing the track of recent
wheels, still, as you went, the hares and the rabbits felt no terror,
the wood-pigeon sat upon the branch above your head, nor was scared at
your approach; for though the Knight was a passionate lover of sport, it
was his fancy to preserve the demesne intact, nor would he suffer a shot
to be fired within its precincts. These may seem small and insignificant
matters to record, but they added indescribably to the charms of the
spot, completing, as they did, the ideas of tranquillity and peace
suggested by the scene.
The approach was of some miles in extent, not needlessly prolonged by
every device of sweep and winding, but in reality proceeding by its
nearest way to the house, which, for the advantage of a view over the
sea, was situated on the slope of the mountain. Nor was the building
unworthy of its proud position: originally an abbey, its architecture
still displayed the elaborate embellishment which characterized the
erections of the latter part of the sixteenth century.
A long faade, interrupted at intervals by square towers, formed the
front, the roof consisting of a succession of tall and pointed gables,
in each of which some good saint stood enshrined in stone; the windows,
throughout this long extent, were surmounted by pediments and figures
not rudely chiselled, but with high pretension as works of art, and
evidencing both taste and skill in the designer; while the great
entrance was a miracle of tracery and carving, the rich architraves
retreating one within another to the full depth of twelve feet, such
being the thickness of the external wall.
Spacious and imposing as this great mass of building appeared at first
sight, it formed but a fragment of the whole, and was in reality but the
side of a great quadrangle, the approach to which led through one of the
large towers, defended by fosse and drawbridge, while overhead the iron
spikes of a massive portcullis might be seen; for the Abbot of Gwynne
had been a "puissance" in days long past, and had his servitors in
steel, as well as his followers in sackcloth. This road, which was
excessively steep and difficult of access, was yet that by which
carriages were accustomed to approach the house; for the stables
occupied one entire wing of the quadrangle, the servants, of whom
there were a goodly company, holding possession of the suite of rooms
overhead, once the ancient dormitory of the monks of Gwynne.
In the middle of the courtyard was a large fountain, over which an
effigy of St. Francis had formerly stood; but the saint had unhappily
been used as a lay figure whereupon to brush hunting-coats and soiled
leathers, and gradually his proportions had suffered grievous injury,
till at last nothing remained of him save the legs, which were still
profaned as a saddle-tree; for grooms and stable-boys are irreverent in
their notions, and, probably, deemed it no disgrace for a saint to carry
such honorable trappings.
The appearance of the abbey from within was even more picturesque than
when seen from the outside, each side of the quadrangle displaying a
different era and style of architecture; for they had been built with
long intervals of time between them, and one wing, a low, two-storied
range, with jail-like windows and a small, narrow portal, bore, on a
three-cornered stone, the date 1304.
We shall not ask of our readers to accompany us further in our dry
description, nor even cast a glance up at that myriad of strange beasts
which, in dark gray stone, are frowning or grinning, or leaping or
rearing, from every angle and corner of the building,--a strange
company, whose representatives in real life it would puzzle the
zoologist to produce; but there they were, some with a coat-of-arms
between their paws, some supporting an ornamental capital, and others
actually, as it seemed, cutting their uncouth capers out of pure
idleness.
At the back of the abbey, and terraced on the mountain side, lay a
perfect wilderness of flower-gardens and fishponds, amid which a taste
more profane than that of the founders had erected sundry summer-houses
in rockwork, hermitages without hermits, and shrines without
worshippers, but all moss-grown, and old enough to make them objects of
curiosity, while some afforded glorious points of view over the distant
bay and the rich valley where stands the picturesque town of Westport.
The interior of this noble edifice was worthy of its appearance from
without. Independent of the ample accommodation for a great household,
there was a suite of state apartments running along the entire front and
part of one wing, and these were fitted up and furnished with a luxury
and costliness that would not have disgraced a royal palace. Here were
seen velvet hangings and rich tapestries upon the walls, floors inlaid
with tulip and sandal-wood, windows of richly stained glass threw a
mysterious and mellow light over richly carved furniture, the triumphs
of that art which the Netherlands once boasted; cabinets, curiously
inlaid with silver and tortoiseshell, many of them gifts of
distinguished donors, few without their associations of story; while
one chamber, the ancient hall of audience, was hung round with armor and
weapons, the trophies of long-buried ancestors, the proud memorials of
a noble line; dark suits of Milan mail, or richly inlaid cuirasses of
Spanish workmanship, with great two-handed swords and battle-axes, and,
stranger still, weapons of Eastern mould and fashion, for more than one
of the house had fought against the Turks, and crossed his broadsword
with the scimitar.
There were objects rare and curious enough within these walls to stay
and linger over; but even if we dared to take such a liberty with our
reader, our duty would not permit the dalliance, and it is to a very
different part of the building, and one destined for far other uses,
that we must now for a brief space conduct him.
In a small chamber of the ground-floor, whose curiously groined roof and
richly stained window showed that its occupancy had once been held
by those in station above the common, now sat two persons at a
well-garnished table, while before them, on the wide hearth, blazed a
cheerful fire of bog deal. On either side of the fireplace was a niche,
in which formerly some saintly effigy had stood, but now--such are
Time's chances--an earthenware pitcher, with a pewter lid, decorated
each, of whose contents the boon companions drank jovially to each
other. One of these was a short, fat old fellow of nigh eighty years;
his bowed legs and wide round shoulders the still surviving signs of
great personal strength in days gone by; his hair, white as snow, was
carefully brushed back from his forehead, and tied into "queue" behind.
Old as he was, the features were intelligent and pleasing, the hale and
hearty expression of good health and good temper animated them when
he spoke, nor were the words the less mellow to an Irish ear that they
smacked of the "sweet south," for Tate Sullivan was a Kerry man, and
possessed in full measure the attributes of that pleasant kingdom; he
was courteous and obliging, faithful in his affections, and if a bit
hasty in temper, the very first to discover and correct it. His failing
was the national one,--the proneness to conceal a truth if its
disclosure were disagreeable: he could not bring himself to bear bad
tidings; and this tendency had so grown with years that few who knew his
weakness could trust any version of a fact from his lips without making
due allowance for blarney.
[Illustration: 051]
For eight-and-forty years he had been a butler in the Knight's family,
and his reverence for his master went on increasing with his years;
in his eyes he was the happy concentration of every good quality of
humanity, nor could he bring himself to believe that his like would ever
come again.
Opposite to him sat one as unlike him in form and appearance as he was
in reality by character: a gaunt, thin, hollow-cheeked man of sixty-six
or seven, rueful and sad-looking, with a greenish gray complexion, and a
head of short, close gray hair, cut horseshoe fashion over the temples,
his long thin nose, pointed chin, and his cold green eye only wanted
the additional test of his accent to pronounce him from the North. So it
was, Sandy M'Grane was from Antrim, and a keener specimen of the "cold
countrie" need not have been looked for.
His dress was a wide-skirted, deep-cuffed brown coat, profusely studded
with large silver buttons richly crested, one sleeve of which, armless
and empty, was attached to his breast; a dark-crimson waistcoat, edged
with silver lace, descended below the hips; black leather breeches
and high black boots,--a strange costume, uniting in some respects the
attributes of in-door life and the road. On the high back of his oaken
chair hung a wide-brimmed felt hat and a black leather belt, from
which a short straight sword depended, the invariable companion of his
journeys; for Sandy had travelled in strange lands, where protective
police were unknown, and his master, Mr. Bagenal Daly, was one who ever
preferred his own administration of criminal law, when the occasion
required such, to the slower process of impartial justice.
Meagre and fleshless as he looked, he was possessed of great personal
strength, and it needed no acute physiognomist to pronounce, from the
character of his head and features, that courage had not been omitted
among the ingredients of his nature.
A word of explanation may be necessary as to how a western gentleman,
as Bagenal Daly was, should have attached to his person for some
forty years a native of a distant county, and one all whose habits and
sympathies seemed so little in unison with his own part of the country.
Short as the story is, we should not feel warranted in obtruding it on
our readers if it did not to a certain extent serve to illustrate the
characters of both master and man.
Mr. Daly when a very young man chanced to make an excursion to the
northern part of the island, the principal object of which was to see
the Giant's Causeway, and the scenery in the neighborhood. The visit was
undertaken with little foresight or precaution, and happened at the very
time of the year when severe gales from the north and west prevail, and
a heavy sea breaks along that iron-bound coast. Having come so far to
see the spot, he was unwilling to be baulked in his object; but still,
the guides and boatmen of the neighborhood refused to venture out, and,
notwithstanding the most tempting offers, would not risk their lives by
an enterprise so full of danger.
Daly's ardor for the expedition seemed to increase as the difficulty
to its accomplishment grew greater, and he endeavored, now by profuse
offers of money, now by taunting allusions to their want of courage, to
stimulate the men to accompany him; when, at last, a tall, hard-featured
young fellow stood forward and offered, if Daly himself would pull an
oar, to go along with him. Overjoyed at his success, Daly agreed to the
proposal; and although a heavy sea was then running, and the coast
for miles was covered with fragments of a wreck, the skiff was Boon
launched, and stood out to sea.
"I'll ga wi'ye to the twa caves and Dunluce; but I 'll no engage to ga
to Carrig-a-rede," said Sandy, as the sea broke in masses on the bow,
and fell in torrents over them.
After about an hour's rowing, during which the boat several times
narrowly escaped being swamped, and was already more than half full of
water, they arrived off the great cave, and could see the boiling surf
as, sent back with force, it issued beneath the rock, with a music
louder than thunder, while from the great cliffs overhead the water
poured in a thick shower, as each receding wave left a part behind it.
"The cobble" (so is the boat termed there) "is aye drawing in to shore,"
said Sandy; "I trow we 'd better pull back, noo."
"Not till we 've seen Carrig-a-rede, surely," said Daly, on whom danger
acted like the most exciting of all stimulants.
"Ye may go there by yersel," said Sandy, "when ye put me ashore; I tauld
you, I 'd no ga so far."
"Come, come, it's no time to flinch now," said Daly; "turn her head
about, and lean down to your oar."
"I 'll no do it," said Sandy, "nor will I let you either." And as he
spoke, he leaned forward to take the oar from Daly's hand. The young
man, irritated at the attempt, rudely repulsed him, and Sandy, whose
temper, if not as violent, was at least as determined, grappled with him
at once.
"You'll upset the boat--curse the fellow!" said Daly, who now found that
he had met his match in point of strength and daring.
"Let go the oar, man," cried Sandy, savagely.
"Never," said Daly, with a violent effort to free his hands.
"Then swim for it, if ye like better," said Sandy; and, placing one foot
on the gunwale, he gave a tremendous push, and the next instant they
were both struggling in the sea. For a long time they continued, almost
side by side, to buffet the dark water; but at last Daly began to
falter, his efforts became more labored, and his strength seemed
failing; Sandy turned his head, and seized him in the very struggle that
precedes sinking. They were still far from shore, but the hardy Northern
never hesitated; he held him by the arm, and after a long and desperate
effort succeeded in gaining the land.
"Ye got a bra wetting for your pains, anyhow," said Sandy; "but I 'm no
the best off either: I 'll never see the cobble mair."
Such were the first words Bagenal Daly heard when consciousness returned
to him; the rest of the story is soon told. Daly took Sandy into his
service, not without all due thought and consideration on the latter's
part, for he owned a small fishing-hut, for which he expected and
received due compensation, as well as for the cobble and the damage to
his habiliments by salt water,--all matters of which, as they were
left to his own uncontrolled valuation, he was well satisfied with the
arrangement; and thus began a companionship which had lasted to the very
moment we have presented him to our readers.
It is but fair to say that in all this time no one had ever heard from
Sandy's lips one syllable of the adventure we have related, nor did
he ever, in the remotest degree, allude to it in intercourse with his
master. Sandy was little disposed to descant either on the life or
the character of his master; the Scotch element of caution was mingled
strongly through his nature, and he preferred any other topic of
conversation than such as led to domestic events. Whether that he was
less on his guard on this evening, or that, esteeming Tate's perceptions
at no very high rate, so it is, he talked more freely and unadvisedly
than was his wont.
"Ye hae a bra berth o' it here, Maister Sullivan," said he, as he
smacked his lips after the smoking compound, whose odor pronounced it
mulled port; "I maun say, that a man wha has seen a good deal of life
might do far war' than settle down in a snug little nook like this;
maybe, ye hae no journeyed far in your time either."
"Indeed, 'tis true for you, Mr. M'Grane, I had not the opportunities you
had of seeing the world, and the strange people in foreign parts; they
tell me you was in Jericho, and Jerusalem, and Gibraltar."
"Further than that, Maister Sullivan. I hae been in very curious places
wi' Mr. Daly; this day nine years we were in the Rocky Mountains, among
the Red Indians."
"The Red Indians! blood alive! them was dangerous neighbors."
"Not in our case. My master was a chief among them, I was the doctor of
the tribe,--the 'Great Mystery Man,' they cau'd me; my master's name was
the 'Howling Wind.'"
"Sorra doubt, but it was not a bad one,--listen to him now;" and Tate
lifted his hand to enforce silence, while a cheer loud and sonorous rang
out, and floated in rich cadence along the arched corridors of the old
abbey; "'tis singing he is," added Tate, lower, while he opened the door
to listen.
"That's no a sang, that's the war-cry of the Manhattas," said Sandy,
gravely.
"The saints be praised it's no worse!" remarked Tate, with pious horror
in every feature. "I thought he was going to raise the divil. And who
was the man-haters, Mr. M'Grane?" added he, meekly.
"A vara fine set o' people; a leetle fond o' killing and eating their
neighbors, but friendly and ceevil to strangers; I hae a wife amang them
mysel."
"A wife! Is she a Christian, then?"
"Nae muck le o' that, but a douce, good-humored lassie for a' that."
"And she'sa black?"
"Na, na; she was a rich copper tint, something deeper than my waistcoat
here, but she had twa yellow streaks over her forehead, and the tip o'
her nose was blue."
"The mother of Heaven be near us! she was a beauty, by all accounts."
"Ay, that she was; the best-looking squaw of the tribe, and rare handy
wi' a hatchet."
"Divil fear her," muttered Tate, between his teeth. "And what was her
name, now?"
"Her name was Orroawaccanaboo, the 'Jumping Wild Cat.'"
"Oh, holy Moses!" exclaimed Tate, unable any longer to subdue his
feelings, "I would n't be her husband for a mine of goold."
"You are no sae far wrong there, my auld chap," said Sandy, without
showing any displeasure at this burst of feeling.
"And Mr. Daly, had he another--of these craytures?" said Tate, who felt
scruples in applying the epithet of the Church in such a predicament.
"He had twa," said Sandy, "forbye anein the mountains, that was too auld
to come down; puir lone body, she was unco' fond of a child's head and
shoulders wi' fish gravy!"
"To ate it! Do you mane for ating, Mr. M'Grane?"
"Ay, just so; butchers' shops is no sae plenty down in them parts. But
what's that! dinna ye hear a ringing o' the bell at the gate there?"
"I hear nothing, I can think of nothing! sorra bit! with the thought of
that ould baste in my head, bad luck to her!" exclaimed Tate, ruefully.
"A child's head and shoulders! Sure enough, that's the bell, and them
that's ringing it knows the way, too." And with these words Tate lighted
his lantern and issued forth to the gate tower, the keys of which were
each night deposited in his care.
As the massive gates fell back, four splashed and heated horses drew
forward a calche, from which, disengaging himself with speed, Dick
Forester descended, and endeavored, as well as the darkness would
permit, to survey the great pile of building around him.
"Coming to stop, yer honor?" said Tate, courteously uncovering his white
head.
"Yes. Will you present these letters and this card to your master?"
"I must show you your room first,--that's my orders always.--Tim, bring
up this luggage to 27.--Will yer honor have supper in the hall, or in
your own dressing-room?"
There is nothing more decisive as to the general tone of hospitality
pervading any house than the manner of the servants towards strangers;
and thus, few and simple as the old butler's words were, they were amply
sufficient to satisfy Forester that his reception would be a kindly one,
even though less ably accredited than by Lionel Darcy's introduction;
and he followed Tate Sullivan with the pleasant consciousness that he
was to lay his head beneath a friendly roof.
"Never mind the supper," said he; "a good night's rest is what I stand
most in need of. Show me to my room, and to-morrow I 'll pay my respects
to the Knight."
"This way then, sir," said Tate, entering a large hall, and leading
the way up a wide oak staircase, at the top of which was a corridor of
immense extent. Turning short at the head of this, Tate opened a small
empanelled door, and with a gesture of caution moved forwards. Forester
followed, not a little curious to know the meaning of the precaution,
and at the same instant the loud sounds of merry voices laughing and
talking reached him, but from what quarter he could not guess, when,
suddenly, his guide drew back a heavy cloth curtain, and he perceived
that they were traversing a long gallery, which ran along the entire
length of a great room, in the lower part of which a large company was
assembled. So sudden and unexpected was the sight that Forester started
with amazement, and stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, while
Tate Sullivan, as if enjoying his surprise, leaned his hands on his
knees and stared steadily at him.
The scene below was indeed enough to warrant his astonishment. In the
great hail, which had once been the refectory of the abbey, a party
of about thirty gentlemen were now seated around a table covered with
drinking vessels of every shape and material, as the tastes of the
guests inclined their potations. Claret, in great glass jugs holding
the quantity of two or three ordinary bottles; port, in huge square
decanters, both being drunk from the wood, as was the fashion of the
day; large china bowls of mulled wine, in which the oranges and limes
floated fragrantly; and here and there a great measure made of wood and
hooped with silver, called the "mether," contained the native beverage
in all its simplicity, and supplied the hard drinker with the liquor he
preferred to all,--"poteen." The guests were no less various than the
good things of which they partook. Old, young, and middle-aged; some men
stamped with the air and seeming of the very highest class; others as
undeniably drawn from the ranks of the mere country squire; a few were
dressed in all the accuracy of dinner costume; some wore the well-known
livery of Daly's Club, and others were in the easy negligence of morning
dress; while, scattered up and down, could be seen the red coat of a
hunter, whose splashed and stained scarlet spoke rather for the daring
than the dandyism of its wearer. But conspicuous above all was a figure
who, on an elevated seat, sat at the head of the table and presided over
the entertainment. He was a tall--a very tall--and powerfully built man,
whose age might have been guessed at anything, from five-and-forty to
seventy; for though his frame and figure indicated few touches of time,
his seared and wrinkled forehead boded advanced life. His head was long
and narrow, and had been entirely bald, were it not for a single stripe
of coal-black hair which grew down the very middle of it, and came to a
point on the forehead, looking exactly like the scalplock of an Indian
warrior. The features were long and melancholy in expression,--a
character increased by a drooping moustache of black hair, the points of
which descended below the chin. His eyes were black as a raven's wing,
and glanced with all the brilliancy and quickness of youth, while the
incessant motion of his arched eyebrows gave to their expression
a character of almost demoniac intelligence. His voice was low and
sonorous, and, although unmistakably Irish in accent, occasionally
lapsed into traits which might be called foreign, for no one that knew
him would have accused him of the vice of affectation. His dress was a
claret-colored coat edged with narrow silver lace, and a vest of white
satin, over which, by a blue ribbon, hung the medal of a foreign order;
white satin breeches and silk stockings, with shoes fastened by large
diamond buckles, completed a costume which well became a figure that had
lost nothing of its pretension to shapeliness and symmetry. His hands,
though remarkably large and bony, were scrupulously white and cared for,
and more than one ring of great value ornamented his huge and massive
fingers. Altogether, he was one whom the least critical would have
pronounced not of the common herd of humanity, and yet whose character
was by no means so easy to guess at from external traits.
Amid all the tumult and confusion of the scene, his influence seemed
felt everywhere, and his rich, solemn tones could be heard high above
the crash and din around. As Forester stood and leaned over the balcony,
the noise seemed to have reached its utmost; one of the company--a
short, square, bull-faced little squire--being interrupted in a song
by some of the party, while others--the greater number--equally loud,
called on him to proceed. It was one of the slang ditties of the
time,--a lyric suggested by that topic which furnished matter for
pamphlets and speeches and songs, dinners, debates, and even duels,--the
Union.
"Go on, Bodkin; go on, man! You never were in better voice in your
life," mingled with, "No, no; why introduce any party topic here?"--with
a murmured remark: "It's unfair, too. Hickman O'Reilly is with the
Government."
The tumult, which, without being angry, increased every moment, was at
last stilled by the voice of the chairman, saying,--
"If the song have a moral, Bodkin--"
"It has, I pledge my honor it has, your 'Grandeur.'" said Bodkin.
"Then finish it. Silence there, gentlemen." And Bodkin resumed his
chant:--
"'Trust me, Squire,' the dark man cried,
'I 'll follow close and mind you,
Nor however high the fence you ride,
I 'll ever be far behind you.'
"And true to his word, like a gentleman
He rode, there 'a no denying;
And though full twenty miles they ran,
He took all his ditches flying.
"The night now came, and down they sat,
And the Squire drank while he was able;
But though glass for glass the dark man took,
He left him under the table.
"When morning broke, the Squire's brains,
Though racking, were still much clearer.
'I know you well,' said he to his guest,
'Now that I see you nearer.
"'You 've play'd me a d----d scurvy trick:
Come, what have I lost--don't tease me.
Is it my soul?'   'Not at all,' says Nick;
'Just vote for the Union, to please me.'"
Amid the loud hurrahs and the louder laughter that fol-lowed this rude
chant Forester hurried on to his room, fully convinced that his mission
was not altogether so promising as he anticipated.
Undeniable in every respect as was the accommodation of his bed-chamber,
Forester lay awake half the night, the singular circumstances in which
he found himself occupied his thoughts, while at intervals came
the swelling sounds of some loud cheers from the party below, whose
boisterous gayety seemed to continue without interruption.
CHAPTER IV. THE DINNER-PARTY
It was late on the following day when Forester awoke, nor was it for
some time that he could satisfy himself how far he had been an actor, or
a mere spectator in the scene he had witnessed the preceding night.
The room and the guests were vividly impressed upon his memory, and the
excitement of the party, so different in its character from anything he
had seen in his own country, convinced him that the sea, narrow as it
was, separated two races very unlike in temperament.
What success should he have in this, his first, mission? was the
question ever rising to his mind; how should he acquit himself among
persons to whose habits of life, thought, and expression he felt himself
an utter stranger? Little as he had seen of the party, that little
showed him that the anti-Union feeling was in the ascendant, and that,
if a stray convert to the Ministerial doctrines was here and there to
be found, he was rather ashamed of his new convictions than resolute to
uphold and defend them. From these thoughts he wandered on to others,
about the characters of the party, and principally of the host himself,
who in every respect was unlike his anticipations. He opened his friend
Lionel's letter, and was surprised to find how filial affection had
blinded his judgment,--keen enough when exercised without the trammels
of prejudice. "If this," thought he, "be a fair specimen of Lionel's
portrait-painting, I must take care to form no high-flown expectations
of his mother and sister; and as he calls one somewhat haughty and
reserved in manner, and the other a blending of maternal pride with a
dash of his father's wilful but happy temperament, I take it for granted
that Lady Eleanor is a cold, disagreeable old lady, and her daughter
Helen a union of petted vanity and capriciousness, pretty much what my
good friend Lionel himself was when he joined us, but what he had the
good sense to cease to be very soon after."
Having satisfied himself that he fairly estimated the ladies of the
house, he set himself, with all the ingenuity of true speculation, to
account for the traits of character he had so good-naturedly conferred
on them. "Living in a remote, half-civilized neighborhood," thought he,
"without any intercourse save with some country squires and their wives
and daughters, they have learned, naturally enough, to feel their own
superiority to those about them; and possessing a place with such claims
to respect from association, as well as from its actual condition, they,
like all people who have few equals and no superiors, give themselves
a license to think and act independent of the world's prescription,
and become, consequently, very intolerable to every one unaccustomed
to acknowledge their sovereignty. I heartily wish Lionel had left these
worthy people to my own unassisted appreciation of them; his flourish
of trumpets has sadly spoiled the effect of the scene for me;" and with
this not over gracious reflection he proceeded to dress for the day.
"The squire has been twice at the door this morning, sir," said Lin
wood, as he arranged the dressing apparatus on the table; "he would
not let me awake you, however, and at last said, 'Present my cordial
respects to Mr. Forester, and say, that if he should like to ride with
the hounds, he'll find a horse ready for him, and a servant who will
show him the way.'"
"And are they out already?" said Forester.
"Yes, sir, gone two hours ago; they breakfasted at eight, and I heard a
whipper-in say they 'd twelve miles to go to the first cover."
"Why, it appeared to me that they were up all night."
"They broke up at four, sir, and except two gentlemen that are gone over
to Westport on business, but to be back for dinner, they're all mounted
to-day."
"And what is the dinner-hour, Linwood?"
"Six, sir, to the minute."
"And it's now only eleven," said Forester to himself, with a wearied
sigh; "how am I to get through the rest of the day? Are the ladies in
the drawing-room, Linwood?"
"Ladies! no, sir; there are no ladies in the house as I hear of."
"So much the better, then," thought his master; "passive endurance
is better any day than active boredom, and with all respect for Lady
Eleanor and her daughter, I 'd rather believe them such as Lionel paints
them, than have the less flattering impression nearer acquaintance would
as certainly leave behind it."
"The old butler wishes to know if you will breakfast in the library,
sir?" asked Linwood.
"Yes, that will do admirably; delighted I am to hear there is such a
thing here," muttered he; for already he had suffered the disappointment
the host's appearance had caused him to tinge all his thoughts with
bitterness, and make him regard his visit as an act of purgatorial
endurance.
In a large and well-furnished library, with a projecting window
offering a view over the entire of Clue Bay, Forester found a small
breakfast-table laid beside the fireplace. From the aspect of comfort
in everything around, to the elegance of the little service of Dresden,
with its accompaniment of ancient silver, the most fastidious critic
would not have withheld his praise, and the young Englishman fell into
a puzzled revery how so much of taste for the refinements of daily life
could consort with the strange specimen of society he had witnessed
the preceding evening. The book-shelves, too, in all their later
acquisitions, exhibited judgment in the works selected, and as Forester
ran his eye over the titles, he was more than ever at fault to reconcile
such readings with such habits. On the tables lay scattered the latest
of those political pamphlets which the great contested question of the
day evoked, many of them ably and powerfully written, and abounding
in strong sarcasm; of these, the greater number were attacks on the
meditated Union; some of them, too, bore pencil-marks and annotations,
from which Forester collected that the Knight's party leanings were by
no means to the Government side of the question.
"It will be hard, however," thought he, "but some inducement may be
found to tempt a man whose house and habits evidence such a taste for
enjoyment; he must have ambitions of one kind or other, and if not
for himself, his son, at least, must enter into his calculations. Your
ascetic or your anchorite may be difficult to treat with, but show me
the man with a good cook, a good stable, a good cellar, and the odds are
there is a lurking void somewhere in his heart, to discover which is to
have the mastery over him forever." Such were the conclusions the young
aide-de-camp came to after long and mature thought, nor were they very
unnatural in one whose short experience of life had shown him few, if
any, exceptions to his theory. He deemed it possible, besides, that,
although the Knight's politics should incline to the side of Opposition,
there might be no very determined or decided objection to the plans
of Government, and that, while proof against the temptations of vulgar
bribery, he might be won over by the flatteries and seductions of which
a Ministry can always be the dispensers. To open the negotiation with
this view was then the great object with Forester, to sound the depth of
the prejudices with which he had to deal, to examine their bearings
and importance, to avoid even to ruffle the slightest of national
susceptibilities, and to make it appear that, while Government could
have little doubt of the justice of their own views, they would not
permit a possibility of misconstruction to interfere with the certainty
of securing the adhesion of one so eminent and influential as the Knight
of Gwynne.
The old adage has commemorated the facility of that arithmetic which
consists in reckoning "without one's host," and there are few men of
warm and generous temperament who have not fallen, some time or other,
into the error. Forester was certainly not the exception; and so
thoroughly was he imbued with the spirit of his mission, and so
completely captivated by the force of his own argument, that he
walked up and down the ample apartment, repeating aloud, in broken and
disjointed sentences, some of those irrefutable positions and plausible
inducements by which he speculated on success. It was already the dusk
of the evening, the short hours of a wintry day had hurried to a close,
and, except where the bright glare of the wood fire was reflected on the
polished oaken floor, all was shrouded in shadow within that spacious
library. Now pushing aside some great deep-cushioned chair, now removing
from his path the projecting end of a table, Forester succeeded in
clearing a space in which, as he walked, he occasionally gave vent to
such reflections as these:--
"The necessities of the Empire, growing power and influence of England,
demand a consolidation of her interests and her efforts--this only to
be effected by the Act of Union--an English Parliament, the real seat
of legislation, and, as such, the suitable position for you, Sir Knight,
whose importance will now increase with the sphere in which you exercise
your abilities. I do not venture," said he, aloud, and with a voice
attuned to its most persuasive accents,--"I do not venture to discuss
with you a question in which your opportunities and judgment have given
you every advantage over me; I would merely direct your attention to
those points on which my relative, Lord Castlereagh, founds the hopes of
obtaining your support, and those views by which, in the success of the
measure, a more extended field of utility will open before you. If I do
not speak more fully on the gratitude which the Ministry will feel for
your co-operation, and the pledges they are most ready and willing to
advance, it is because I know--that is, I am certain that you--in fact,
it is the conviction that--in short--"
"In short, it is because bribery is an ugly theme, sir, and, like a bad
picture, only comes out the worse the more varnish you lay on it." These
words, uttered in a low, solemn voice from a corner of the apartment,
actually stunned Forester, who now stood peering through the gloom to
where the indistinct figure of a man was seen seated in the recess of a
large chair.
"Excuse me, Captain Forester," said he, rising, and coming forward with
his hand out; "but it has so seldom been my fortune to hear any argument
in defence of this measure that I could not bring myself to interrupt
you before. Let me, however, perform a more pleasing task, in bidding
you welcome to Gwynne Abbey. You slept well, I trust, for I left you in
a happy unconsciousness of this world and its cares." It required all
Forester's tact to subdue the uncomfortable sensations his surprise
excited, and receive the proffered welcome with becoming cordiality. But
in this he soon succeeded, not less from his own efforts than from the
easy and familiar tone of the speaker. "I have to thank you for a very
pleasant note you were kind enough to bring me," continued he, as he
seated himself beside the fire. "And how have you left Dublin? Is
the popular excitement as great as some weeks ago? or are the people
beginning to see that they have nothing to say to a measure which, like
venison and turtle, is a luxury only to be discussed by their betters?"
"I should say that there is more of moderation in the tone of all
parties of late," said Forester, diffidently, for he felt all the
awkwardness of alluding to a topic in which his own game had been so
palpably discovered.
"In that case, your friends have gained the victory. Patriotism, as we
call it in Ireland, requires to be fed by mob adulation; and when
the 'canaille' get hoarse, their idols walk over to the Treasury
benches.--But there 's the bell to dress; and I may as well tell you
that we are the models of punctuality in this house, and you have only
fifteen minutes for your toilet." With these words the old gentleman
arose and strode out of the room, while Forester hastened, on his side,
to prepare for the dinner-hour.
When the aide-de-camp had accomplished his dressing, he found the party
at table, where a vacant place was left for himself at the right hand of
the host.
"We gave you three minutes' grace, Captain Forester. I knew a candidate
lose his election in the county by very little more,"--and here he
dropped his voice to a whisper, only audible to Forester,--"and I'd
rather contract to keep the peace in a menagerie full of tigers than
hold in check the passions of twenty hungry fox-hunters while waiting
for dinner."
Forester cast his eyes over the table, and thought he perceived that his
delay had not prepossessed the company in his favor. The glances which
met his own round the board bore an expression of very unmistakable
dissatisfaction, and although the conversation was free and
unrestrained, he felt all the awkwardness of his position.
There was at the time we speak of--has it quite disappeared even yet?--a
very prevalent notion in most Irish circles that Englishmen in general,
and English officials in particular, assumed airs of superiority over
the natives of the country, treating them as very subordinate persons
in all the relations in which good-breeding and social intercourse are
concerned; and this impression, whether well or ill founded, induced
many to suspect intentional insult in those chance occurrences which
arise out of thoughtlessness and want of memory.
If the party now assembled manifested any portion of this feeling, it
was not sufficient to interrupt the flow of conversation, which took its
course in channels the most various and dissimilar. The individuals were
intimate, or, at least, familiar with each other, and, through all the
topics of hunting, farming, politics, and horse-racing, ran a tone of
free and easy raillery that kept a laugh moving up and down the table,
or occasionally occupying it entirely. The little chill which marked
Forester's first entrance into the room wore off soon, and ere the
dinner was over he had drunk wine with nearly every man of the party,
and accepted invitations to hunt, course, and shoot in at least a dozen
different quarters. Lionel Darcy's friend, as he was soon known to be,
was speedily made the object of every attention and civility among
the younger members of the company, while even the older and less
susceptible reserved their judgments on one they had at first received
with some distrust.
Forester had seen in the capital some specimens of those hard-drinking
habits which characterized the period, but was still unprepared for the
determined and resolute devotion to the bottle which at once succeeded
to the dinner. The claret-jugs coursed round the table with a rapidity
that seemed sleight of hand, and few refrained from filling a bumper
every time. With all his determination to preserve a cool head and a
calm judgment, Forester felt that, what between the noisy tumult of the
scene, the fumes of wine, and the still more intoxicating excitement of
this exaggerated conviviality, he could listen to tales of miraculous
performances in the hunting-field, or feats of strength and activity
more than mortal, with a degree of belief, or, at least, sufferance, he
could scarcely have summoned a few hours earlier.
If wine expands the heart, it has a similar influence on the credulity;
and belief, when divested of the trammels of cool judgment, takes a
flight which even imagination might envy. It was in a frame of mind
reduced to something like this, amid the loud voices of some, the louder
laughter of others, strange and absurd bets as eagerly accepted as
proffered, that he became suddenly mindful of his own wager made with
the stranger at Kilbeggan, and the result of which he had pledged
himself to test at the very first opportunity.
No sooner had he mentioned the fact than the interests of the company,
directed before into so many different channels, became centred upon the
circumstance, and questions and inquiries were rapidly poured in
upon him to explain the exact nature of the wager, which in the then
hallucination of the party was not an over-easy task.
"You are to describe the stranger, Captain Forester, and we are to
guess his name: that I take it is the substance of the bet," said a
thin-faced, dark-eyed man, with a soft silkiness of accent very unlike
the others. This was Mr. Hickman O'Reilly, member for the county, and
colleague of "the Knight" himself.
"Yes, that is exactly what I mean. If my portrait be recognized, I 've
won my bet."
"May I ask another question?" said Mr. O'Reilly. "Are we to pronounce
only from the evidence before us, or are we at liberty to guess the
party from other circumstances known to ourselves?"
"Of course, from the evidence only," interrupted a red-faced man of
about five-and-thirty, with an air and manner which boded no small
reliance on his own opinion; then, mimicking the solemnity of a judge,
he addressed the assembled party thus: "The gentlemen of the jury will
dismiss from their minds everything they may hear touching the case
outside this court, and base their verdict solely on the testimony
they shall now hear." These few words were delivered in a pompous and
snuffling tone, and, it was easy to see, from the laughter they excited,
were an accurate imitation of some one well known to the company.
Mr. Alexander MacDonough was, however, a tolerably successful mimic, and
had practised as an attorney until the death of an uncle enabled him
to exercise his abilities in the not less crafty calling of a squireen
gentleman; he was admitted by a kind of special favor into the best
county society, for no other reason, as it seemed, than that it never
occurred to any one to exclude him. He was a capital horseman, never
turned from a fence in his life, and a noted shot with the pistol,
in which his prowess had been more than once tried on "the ground."
Probably, however, these qualities would scarcely have procured him
acceptance where he now sat, if it were not that he was looked upon as
the necessary accompaniment of Mr. Hickman O'Reilly and his son Beecham,
not indeed to illustrate their virtues and display their good gifts, but
as a species of moral blister, irritating and maddening them eternally.
They had both more money and ambition than MacDonough, had taken higher
and wider views of life, and were strenuously working up from the slough
of a plebeian origin to the high and dry soil of patrician security. To
them, MacDonough was a perfect curse; he was what sailors call "a point
of departure," everlastingly reminding them of the spot from which they
had sailed, and tauntingly hinting how, with all their canvas spread,
they had scarcely gained blue water.
Of the O'Reillys a few words are necessary. Three generations were
still living, each depicting most strikingly the gradations by which
successful thrift and industry transmute the man of humble position into
the influential grade of an estated gentleman: the grandfather was an
apothecary of Loughrea; the son, an agent, a money-lender, and an M. P.;
and the grandson, an Etonian and a fellow-commoner of Balliol, emerging
into life with the prospect of a great estate, unencumbered with debt,
considerable county influence, and, not least of all, the ricochet of
that favor with which the Government regarded his pliant parent.
To all of these, MacDonough was insupportable, nor was there any visible
escape from the insolent familiarity of his manner. Flattery had been
tried in vain; all their blandishments could do nothing with one who
well knew that his own acceptance into society depended on his powers of
annoying; if not performing the part of torturer, he had no share in
the piece; a quarrel with him was equally out of the question, for even
supposing such an appeal safe,--which it was very far from being,--it
would have reflected most disadvantageously on the O'Reillys to have
been mixed up in altercation with a man so much beneath themselves as
Alexander MacDonough of "The Tenement;" for such, in slang phrase, did
he designate his country residence.
Let us now return from this long but indispensable digression to the
subject which suggested it.
So many questions were put, explanations demanded, doubts suggested,
and advices thrown out to Forester that it was not until after a
considerable lapse of time he was enabled to commence his description of
the unknown traveller, nor even then was he suffered to proceed
without interruption, a demand being made by MacDonough that the absent
individual was entitled to counsel, who should look after his interests,
and, if necessary, cross-examine the evidence. All this was done in that
style of comic seriousness to which Forester was so little accustomed
that, what with the effect of wine, heat, and noise, combined with the
well-assumed gravity of the party, he really forgot the absurdity of the
whole affair, and became as eager and attentive as though the event were
one of deep importance.
It was at last decided that MacDonough should act as counsel for the
unknown, and the company should vote separately, each writing down on a
slip of paper their impression of the individual designated, the result
being tested by the majority in favor of any one person.
"Gentlemen of the jury," said the host, in a voice of deep solemnity,
"you will hear and well weigh the evidence before you touching this
case, and decide with truth and conscience on its merits; so fill a
bumper and let us begin. Make your statement, Captain Forester."
The sudden silence succeeding to the tumultuous uproar, the directed
gaze of so many eager faces, and the evident attention with which his
statement was awaited, conspired to make Forester nervous and uneasy;
nor was it without something of an effort that he began the recital
of his adventure at Kilbeggan. Warming as he proceeded, he told of
the accident by which his acquaintance with the unknown traveller was
opened, and at length, having given so much of preliminary, entered upon
the description of the individual.
Whatever Forester's own impression of the stranger, he soon felt how
very difficult a task portrait-painting was, and how very unlike was his
representation of the individual in question. The sure way to fail in
any untried career is to suspect a failure; this he soon discovered, and
cut short a most imperfect description by abruptly saying, "If you
guess him now, gentlemen, I acknowledge the merit is far more in your
perspicuity than in my powers of description."
"Only a few questions before you leave the table, sir," said MacDonough,
addressing him with the mock sternness of a cross-examining barrister.
"You said the unknown was gifted with a most courteous and prepossessing
manner: pray what is the exact meaning of your phrase? for we uncouth
inhabitants of a remote region have very imperfect notions on such
subjects. My friend Dan Mahon here would call any man agreeable who
could drink fourteen tumblers, and not forget the whiskey in mixing the
fifteenth; Tom Callaghan, on the other hand, would test his breeding
by what he knew of a wether or a 'short-horn;' Giles, my neighbor here,
would ask, Did he lend you any money? and Mr. Hickman O'Reilly would
whisper a hope that he came of an old family."
The leer by which these words were accompanied gave them an impertinence
even greater than their simple signification; but however coarse the
sarcasm, it suited well the excited tone of the party, who laughed loud
and vociferously as he uttered it.
Strange as he was to the party, Forester saw that the allusion had a
personal application, and was very far from relishing a pleasantry
whose whole merit was its coarseness; he therefore answered in a tone of
rather haughty import, "The person I met, sir, was a gentleman; and the
word, so far as I know, has an easy signification, at least to all who
have had opportunities to learn it."
"I have no doubt of that, Captain Forester," replied MacDonough; "but
if we divided the house on it here, some of us might differ about the
definition. Your neighbor there, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly, thinks his own
countrymen very far down in the scale."
"A low fellow,--nobody pays attention to him," muttered young O'Reilly
in Forester's ear, as, with a cheek pale as death, he affected to seem
totally indifferent to the continued insolence of his tormentor.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly," interposed MacDonough, with a
significant smile, "but your observation was, I think, meant to apply to
me."
The young man made no answer, but proceeded to fill his glass with
claret, while his hand trembled so much that he spilled the wine about
the table. Forester stared at him, expecting each instant to hear his
reply to this appeal; but not a word escaped him, nor did he even look
towards the quarter from which the taunt proceeded.
"Didn't I tell you so, sir?" exclaimed MacDonough, with a triumphant
laugh. "There are various descriptions of gentlemen: some are contented
with qualities of home growth, and satisfied to act, think, and deport
themselves like their neighbors; others travel for this improvement, and
bring back habits and customs that seem strange in their own country;
now, I don't doubt but in England that young gentleman would be thought
all that was spirited and honorable."
"I have nothing to say to that, sir!" replied Forester, sternly; "but
if you would like to hear the opinion my fellow-countrymen would have of
yourself, I could perhaps favor you."
"Stop, stop! where are you hurrying to? No more of this nonsense," cried
the host, who had suddenly caught the last few words, while conversing
with a person on his left.
"I beg your pardon most humbly, sir," said MacDonough, whose faced was
flushed with passion, and whose lip trembled, notwithstanding all his
efforts to seem calm and collected, "but the gentleman was about to
communicate a trait of English society. I know you misunderstood him."
"Perhaps so," said the host; "what was it, Captain Forester? I believe I
did not hear you quite accurately."
"A very simple fact, sir," said Forester, coolly, "and one that can
scarcely astonish Mr. MacDonough to hear."
"And which is--?" said MacDonough, affecting a bland smile.
"Perhaps you 'd ask for a definition, if I employ a single word."
"Not this time," said MacDonough, still smiling in the same way.
"You are right, sir, it would be affectation to do so; for though you
may feel very natural doubts about what constitutes a gentleman, you
ought to be pretty sure what makes a blackguard."
The words seemed to fall like a shell in the company; one burst of
tumultuous uproar broke forth, voices in every tone and accent of
eagerness and excitement, when suddenly the host cried out, "Lock the
doors; no man leaves the room till this matter is settled; there shall
be no quarrelling beneath this roof so long as Bagenal Daly sits here
for his friend."
The caution came too late--MacDonough was gone.
CHAPTER V. AN AFTER-DINNER STORY
The unhappy event which so suddenly interrupted the conviviality of the
party scarcely made a more than momentary impression. Altercations
which ended most seriously were neither rare nor remarkable at the
dinner-tables of the country gentlemen, and if the present instance
caused an unusual interest, it was only because one of the parties was
an Englishman.
As for Forester himself, his first burst of anger over, he forgot all
in his astonishment that the host was not "the Knight" himself, but only
his representative and friend, Bagenal Daly.
"Come, Captain Forester," said he, "I owe you an amende for the
mystification I have practised upon you. You shall have it. Your
travelling acquaintance at Kilbeggan was the 'Knight of Gwynne;' and the
few lines he sent through your hands contained an earnest desire that
your stay here might be sufficiently prolonged to admit of his meeting
you at his return."
"I shall be extremely sorry," said Forester, in a low voice, "if
anything that has occurred to-night shall deprive me of that pleasure."
"No, no--nothing of the kind," said Daly, with a significant nod of his
head. "Leave that to me." Then, raising his voice, he added: "What do
you say to that claret, Conolly?"
"I agree with you," replied a rosy-cheeked old squire in a
hunting-dress, "it 's too old,--there's little spirit left in it."
"Quite true, Tom. Wine has its dotage, like the rest of us. All that the
best can do is to keep longest; and, after all, we scarcely can complain
of the vintage that has a taste of its once flavor at our age. It's a
long time since we were schoolfellows."
"It is not an hour less than--"
"Stop, Tom,--no more of that. Of all scores to go back upon, that of
years past is the saddest."
"By Jove! I don't think so," said the hearty old squire, as he tossed
off a bumper. "I never remember riding better than I did to-day. Ask
Beecham O'Reilly there which of us was first over the double ditch at
the red barn."
"You forget, sir," said the young gentleman referred to, "that I was on
an English-bred mare, and she doesn't understand these fences."
"Faith, she wasn't worse off, in that respect, than the man on her
back," said old Conolly, with a hearty chuckle. "If to look before you
leap be wisdom, you ought to be the shrewdest fellow in the country."
"Beecham, I believe, keeps a good place in Northamptonshire," said his
father, half proudly.
"Another argument in favor of the Union, I suppose," whispered a guest
in Conolly's ear.
"Well, well," sighed the old squire, "when I was a young man, we 'd
have thought of bringing over a dromedary from Asia as soon as an
English horse to cross the country with."
"Dick French was the only one I ever heard of backing a dromedary," said
a fat old farmer-like man, from the end of the table.
"How was that, Martin?" said Daly, with a look that showed he either
knew the story or anticipated something good.
"And by all accounts, it 's the devil to ride," resumed the old fellow;
"now it's the head down and the loins up, and then a roll to one side,
and then to the other, and a twist in the small of your back, as if it
were coming in two. Oh, by the good day! Dick gave me as bad as a stitch
in the side just telling me about it."
"But where did he get his experience, Martin? I never heard of it
before," said Daly.
"He was a fortnight in Egypt, sir," said the old farmer. "He was in a
frigate, or a man-of-war of one kind or another, off--the devil a one o'
me knows well where it was, but there was a consul there, a son of one
of his father's tenants--indeed, ould French got him the place from the
Government--and when he found out that Dick was on board the ship, what
does he do but writes him an invitation to pass a week or ten days with
him at his house, and that he 'd show him some sport. 'We 've elegant
hunting,' says he; 'not foxes or hares, but a big bird, bigger nor a
goose, they call--'By my conscience, I 'll forget my own name next, for
I heard Dick tell the story at least twenty times."
"Was it an ostrich?" said Tom.
"No; nor an oyster either, Mr. Conolly," said the old fellow, who
thought the question was meant to quiz him.
"'T was an ibis, Martin," cried Daly,--"an ibis."
"The devil a doubt of it,--that's the name. A crayture with legs as
long as Mr. Beecham O'Reilly's, and a way of going--half-flying,
half-walking--almost impossible to catch; and they hunt him on
dromedaries. Dick liked the notion well, and as he was a favorite on
board, he got lave for three days to go on shore and have his fun;
though the captain said, at parting, 'It's not many dromedaries you'll
see, Dick, for the Pasha has them all up the country at this time.' This
was true enough; sorra a bit of a camel or dromedary could be seen for
miles round. But however it was, the consul kept his word, and had one
for Dick the next morning,--a great strapping baste, all covered with
trappings of one kind or other; elegant shawls and little hearthrugs all
over him.
"The others were mounted on mules or asses, any way they could, and away
they went to look after the goose--the 'ibis,' I mean. Well, to be short
with it, they came up with one on the bank of the river, and soon gave
chase; he was a fine strong fellow, and well able to run. I wish you
heard Dick tell this part of it; never was there such sport in the
world, blazing away all together as fast as they could prime and load,
at one time at the goose, more times at each other; the mules kicking,
the asses braying, and Dick cantering about on his dromedary, upsetting
every one near him, and shouting like mad. At last he pinned the goose
up in a narrow corner among some old walls, and Dick thought he 'd
have the brush; but sorra step the dromedary would stir; he spurred and
kicked, and beat away with a stick as hard as he could, but it was all
no good,--it was the carpets maybe, that saved him; for there he stood
fast, just for all the world as if he was made of stone.
[Illustration: 077]
"Dick pulled out a pistol and fired a shot in his ear, but all to no
use; he minded it no more than before. 'Bad luck to you for a baste,'
says Dick, 'what ails you at all--are you going to die on me? Get along
now.' The divil receave the step I 'll go till I get some spirits
and wather!' says the dromedary, 'for I 'm clean smothered with them
b------y blankets;' and with them same words the head of the baste fell
off, and Dick saw the consul's own man wiping the perspiration off his
face, and blowing like a porpoise. 'How the divil the hind legs bears
it I can't think,' says he; 'for I 'm nigh dead, though I had a taste of
fresh air.'
"The murther was out, gentlemen, for ye see the consul could n't get
a raal dromedary, and was obliged to make one out of a Christian and a
black fellow he had for a cook, and sure enough in the beginning of the
day Dick says he went like a clipper; 'twas doubling after the goose
destroyed him."
Whether the true tale had or had not been familiar to most of the
company before, it produced the effect Bagenal Daly desired, by at first
creating a hearty roar of laughter, and then, as seems the consequence
in all cases of miraculous narrative, set several others upon recounting
stories of equal credibility. Daly encouraged this new turn of
conversation with all the art of one who knew how to lead men's thoughts
into a particular channel without exciting suspicion of his intentions
by either abruptness or over zeal: to any ordinary observer, indeed, he
would have now appeared a mere enjoyer of the scene, and not the spirit
who gave it guidance and direction.
In this way passed the hours long after midnight, when, one by one,
the guests retired to their rooms; Forester remaining at the table
in compliance with a signal which Daly had made him, until at length
Hickman O'Reilly stood up to go, the last of all, save Daly and the
young guardsman.
Passing round the table, he leaned over Forester's chair, and in a low,
cautious whisper, said, "You have put down the greatest bully in this
country, Captain Forester; do not spoil your victory by being drawn into
a disreputable quarrel! Good night, gentlemen both," said he, aloud, and
with a polite bow left the room.
"What was that he whispered?" said Daly, as the door closed and they
were left alone together.
Forester repeated the words.
"Ah, I guessed why he sat so late; he sees the game clearly enough.
You, sir, have taken up the glaive that was thrown down for his son's
acceptance, and he knows the consequence--clever fellow that he is! Had
you been less prompt, Beecham's poltroonery might have escaped notice;
and even now, if you were to decline a meeting--"
"But I have no intention of doing any such thing."
"Of course, I never supposed you had; but were you to be swayed by wrong
counsels and do so, Master Beecham would be saved even yet. Well, well,
I am sorry, Captain Forester, you should have met such a reception
amongst us, and my friend Darcy will be deeply grieved at it. However,
we have other occupation now than vain regret, so to bed as fast as you
can, and to sleep; the morning is not very far off, and we shall have
some one from MacDonough here by daybreak."
With a cordial shake-hands, like men who already knew and felt kindly
towards each other, they separated for the night.
While Forester was thus sensible of the manliness and straightforward
resolution that marked Bagenal Daly's character, he was very far from
feeling satisfied with the position in which he found himself placed. A
duel under any circumstances is scarcely an agreeable incident in one's
life; but a meeting whose origin is at a drinking-bout, and where
the antagonist is a noted fire-eater, and by that very reputation
discreditable, is still a great aggravation of the evil.
To have embroiled himself in a quarrel of this kind would, he well knew,
greatly prejudice him in the estimation of his cold-tempered relative,
Lord Castlereagh, who would not readily forgive an indiscretion that
should mar his own political views. As he sat in his dressing-room
revolving such unpleasant reflections, there came a gentle tap at the
door; he had but time to say, "Come in," when Mr. Hickman O'Reilly
entered.
"Will you excuse this intrusion, Captain Forester?" said he, with an
accent in which the blandest courtesy was mingled with a well-affected
cordiality; "but I really could not lay my head on a pillow in
tranquillity until I had seen and spoken to you in confidence. This
foolish altercation--"
"Oh, pray don't let that give you a moment's uneasiness! I believe I
understand the position the gentleman you allude to occupies in your
country society: that license is accorded him, and freedoms taken with
him, not habitually the case in the world at large."
"You are quite right, your views are strictly accurate. MacDonough is a
low fellow of very small fortune, no family,--indeed, what pretension he
has to associate with the gentry I am unable to guess, nor would you
have ever seen him under this roof had the Knight been at home; Mr.
Daly, however, who, being an old schoolfellow and friend of Darcy's,
does the honors here in his absence, is rather indiscriminate in his
hospitalities. You may have remarked around the table some
singular-looking guests,--in fact, he not only invites the whole
hunting-field, but half the farmers over whose ground we 've ridden,
and, were it not that they have sense and shame enough to see their own
place with truer eyes, we should have an election mob here every day of
the week; but this is not exactly the topic which led to my intruding
upon you. I wished, in the first place, to rest assured that you had no
intention of noticing the man's impertinence, or of accepting any
provocation on his part; in fact, were he admissible to such a
privilege, my son Beecham would have at once taken the whole upon
himself, it being more properly his quarrel than yours."
Forester, with all his efforts, was unable to repress a slight smile
at these words. O'Reilly noticed it, and colored up, while he added:
"Beecham, however, knew the impossibility of such a course,--in fact,
Captain Forester, I may venture to say, without any danger of being
misunderstood by you, that my son has imbibed more correct notions of
the world and its habits at your side of St. George's Channel than
could have fallen to him had his education been merely Irish."
This compliment, if well meant, was scarcely very successful, for
Forester bit his lip impatiently, but never made any answer. Whether
O'Reilly perceived the cause of this, or that, like a skilful painter,
he knew when to take his brush off the canvas, he arose at once and
said, "I leave you, then, with a mind much relieved. I feared that a
mistaken estimate of MacDonough's claims in society, and probably some
hot-brained counsels of Mr. Bagenal Daly--"
"You are quite in error there; let me assure you, sir, his view of the
matter is exactly my own," interrupted Forester, calmly.
"I am delighted to hear it, and have now only one request: will you
favor us with a few days' visit at Mount O'Reilly? I may say, without
vanity, that my son is more likely to be a suitable companion to you
than the company here may afford; we 've some good shooting and--"
"I must not suffer you to finish the catalogue of temptations," said
Forester, smiling courteously; "my hours are numbered already, and I
must be back in Dublin within a few days."
"Beecham will be sorely disappointed; in fact, we came back here to-day
for no other reason than to meet you at dinner. Daly told us of your
arrival. May we hope to see you at another opportunity? are your
engagements formed for Christmas yet?"
"I believe so,--Dorsetshire, I think," muttered Forester, with a tone
that plainly indicated a desire to cushion the subject at once; and Mr.
O'Reilly, with a ready tact, accepted the hint, and, wishing him a most
cordial goodnight, departed.
CHAPTER VI. A MESSAGE
While Forester slept soundly and without a dream, his long, light
breathing scarce audible within the quiet chamber, a glance within the
room of Bagenal Daly would have shown that, whatever the consequences
of the past night's troubles, he, at least, was not likely to be taken
unprepared. On the table in the middle of the apartment two wax candles
burned, two others, as yet unlighted, stood ready on the chimney-piece,
a pistol case lay open, displaying the weapons, whose trim and orderly
appearance denoted recent care, a fact attested by certain cloths
and flannels which lay about; a mould for bullets, and about a dozen
newly-cast balls most carefully filed and rubbed smooth with sandpaper,
were flanked by a small case of surgical instruments, with an ample
supply of lint and ligatures such as are used to secure bleeding
vessels, in the use of which few unprofessional persons could vie with
Bagenal Daly. A few sheets of paper lay also there, on which appeared
some recent writing; and in a large, deep armchair, ready dressed for
the day, sat Daly himself, sound asleep; one arm hung listlessly over
the chair, the other was supported in the breast of his waistcoat. The
strong, stern features, unrelaxed by repose, had the same impassive
expression of cold defiance as when awake, and if his lips muttered,
the accents were not less determined and firm than in his moments of
self-possession. He awoke from time to time and looked at his watch, and
once threw open the sash, and held out his hand to ascertain if it were
raining; but these interruptions did not interfere with his rest, for,
the minute after, he slept as soundly as before. Nor was he the only one
within that house who counted the hours thus anxiously. A lantern in the
stable beamed brightly, showing three horses ready saddled, the bridles
on the neck of each, and ready at a moment's notice to be bitted; while
pacing slowly to and fro, like a sentinel on his post, was the tall
figure of Sandy M'Grane, wrapped in a long cloth cloak, and his head
covered by a cap, whose shape and material spoke of a far-off land
and wild companionship; for it was the skin of a black fox, and the
workmanship the product of a squaw's fair fingers.
Sandy's patrol was occasionally extended to the gateway, where he
usually halted for a few seconds to listen, and then resumed his path as
leisurely as before. At last, he remained somewhat longer at the gate,
and bent his head more cautiously to hear; then, noiselessly unbarring
and unlocking the door, he leaned out. To an ear less practised than
his own the silence would have been complete. Not so with Sandy, whose
perceptions had received the last finish of an Indian education. He
retired hastily, and, approaching that part of the court beneath his
master's window, gave a long, low whistle. The next moment the casement
was opened, and Daly's head appeared.
"What now, Sandy? It is but a quarter past five."
"It may be so; but there 's a horse coming fast up the lower road."
"Listen again, and try if you hear it still."
Sandy did so, and was back in a few moments. "He's crossing the bridge
at 'the elms' now, and will be here in less than three minutes more."
"Watch the gate, then--let there be no noise--and come up by the back
stairs." With these words Daly closed the sash, and Sandy returned to
his post.
Ere many minutes elapsed, the door of Mr. Daly's chamber was opened, and
Sandy announced Major Hackett of Brough. As Bagenal Daly rose to meet
him, an expression of more than ordinary sternness was stamped upon his
bold features.
"Your servant informed me that I should find you in readiness to receive
me, Mr. Bagenal Daly," said the Major, a coarse-looking, carbuncled-face
man of about forty; "but perhaps the object of my visit would be better
accomplished if I could have a few minutes' conversation with a Captain
Forester who is here."
"If you can show me no sufficient cause to the contrary, sir," replied
Daly, proudly, "I shall act for him on this occasion."
"I beg pardon," said Hackett, smiling dubiously. "The business I came
upon induced me to suspect that, at your time of life--"
"Go on, sir,--finish your speech," said Daly, with' a fixed and steady
stare which, very far from reassuring, seemed only to increase the
Major's confusion.
"After all, Mr. Daly," resumed he, more hurriedly, "I have nothing
whatever to do with that. My duty is to convey a message from Mr.
Alexander MacDonough to a gentleman named Forester, here. If you will
accept the proposition, and assist in the necessary arrangements--"
"We are ready, sir,--quite ready. One of the consequences of admitting
dubious acquaintances to the intimacy of the table is such a case as the
present. I was guilty of one fault in this respect, but I shall show you
I was not unprepared for what might follow it." And as he spoke he
threw open the window and called out, "Sandy! awaken Captain Forester. I
suppose you are ready, Major Hackett, with your friend?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. MacDonough expects us at Cluan Point."
"And bridle the horses, Sandy," continued Daly, speaking from the
window.
"I conclude, from what I see," said Hackett, "that your friend is not
only decided against offering an apology for his offence, but desirous
of a meeting."
"Who said so, sir?--or what right have you to suppose that any gentleman
of good family and good prospects should indulge such an unnatural
caprice as to wish to risk character and life in a quarrel with Mr.
Alexander MacDonough?"
"Circumstanced as that gentleman is at this moment, your observations
are unsuitable, sir," replied the Major.
"So they are," said Daly, hastily; "or, rather, so they would have been,
if not provoked by your remark. But, hang me! if I think it signifies
much; if it were not that some of our country neighbors were
good-natured enough to treat this same Mr. MacDonough on terms of
equality before, I 'd have advised Captain Forester not to mind him.
My maxim is, there are always low fellows enough to shoot one another,
and never come trespassing among the manors of their betters."
"I must confess myself unprepared, sir, to hear language like this,"
said Hackett, sternly.
"Not a whit more than I feel at seeing myself negotiating a meeting with
a man turned out of the army with disgrace," said Daly, as his face grew
purple with anger. "Were it not that I would not risk a hint of dishonor
on this young Englishman's fame, I 'd never interchange three words with
Major Hackett."
"You shall answer for this, sir, and speedily too, by G----d!" said
Hackett, moving towards the door.
Daly burst into an insolent laugh, and said, "Your friend waits us at
Cluan?" The other bowed. "Well, within an hour we'll be there also,"
continued the old man; and Hackett retired without adding a syllable.
"We 've about five miles to ride, Captain Forester," said Daly, as they
issued forth beneath the deeply arched gate of the abbey; "but the road
is a mountain one, and will not admit of fast riding. A fine old place
it is," said he, as, halting his horse, he bestowed a gaze of admiration
on the venerable building, now dimly visible in the gray of the breaking
dawn. "The pious founders little dreamt of men leaving its portals on
such an errand as ours." Then, suddenly, with a changed voice, he added,
"Men are the same in every age and country; what our ancestors did in
steel breastplates, we do now in broadcloth; the law, as they call it,
must always be subservient to human passions, and the judge and the jury
come too late, since their function is penalty, and not prevention."
"But surely you do not think the world was better in the times when
might was right?" said Forester.
"The system worked better than we suspect," said the old man, gravely;
"there was such a thing as public opinion among men in those days,
although its exponents were neither pamphlets nor scurrilous newspapers.
The unjust and the cruel were held in reprobation, and the good and the
charitable had a fame as pure, although their deeds were not trumpeted
aloud or graven on marble. Believe me, sir, we are not by any means so
much wiser or better than those who went before us, and even if we were
both, we certainly are not happier. This eternal warfare, this hand to
hand and foot to foot straggle for rank, apd wealth, and power, that
goes on amongst us now, had no existence then, when a man's destiny was
carved out for him, and he was all but powerless to alter or control
it."
"That alone was no small evil," said Forester, interrupting him; "the
humbly born and the lowly were debarred from all the prizes of life, no
matter how great their deserts or how shining their abilities."
"Every rank and class had wherewithal to supply its own requirements,"
answered Daly, proudly, "and the menial had more time to indulge
affection for his master, when removed from the temptation to rival him.
That strong bond of attachment has all but disappeared from amongst us."
As he spoke, he turned in his saddle and called out, "Can we cross the
sands now, or is the tide making, Sandy?"
"It's no just making yet," said the servant, cautiously; "but when the
breakers are so heavy off the Point, it's aye safer to keep the road."
"The road be it, then," muttered Daly to himself; "men never are so
chary of life as when about to risk it."
The observation, although not intended, reached Forester's ears, and
he smiled and said, "Naturally enough, perhaps we ought not to be too
exacting with fortune."
Daly turned suddenly round, and, after a brief pause, asked, "What skill
have you with the pistol?"
"When the mark is a shilling I can hit it, three times out of four, at
twenty paces; but I never fired at a man."
"That does make a difference," said Daly, musingly; "nothing short of an
arrant coward could look calmly on a fellow-creature while he pointed a
loaded pistol at his heart. A brave man will always have self-possession
enough to feel the misery of his position. Had the feat been one of
vengeance, and not of love, Tell had never hit the apple, sir. But
there,--is not that a fire yonder?"
"Yes, I see a red glare through the mist."
"There's a fire on Cluan Point," said Sandy, riding up to his master's
side; "I trow it's a signal."
"Ah! meant to quicken us, perhaps; some fear of being surprised," said
Daly, hastily; "let us move on faster." And they spurred their horses to
a sharp trot as they descended the gentle slope, which, projecting far
out to sea, formed the promontory of Cluan.
It was at this moment the glorious panorama of Clue Bay broke forth
before Forester's astonished eyes. He looked with rapture on that
spacious sheet of water, which, in all the majesty of the great ocean,
came heaving and swelling against the rocky coast, or pouring its flood
of foam through the narrow channels between the islands. Of these, the
diversity seemed endless, some rich and verdant, teeming with abundance
and dotted with cottages; others, less fertile, were covered with sheep
or goats; while some, rugged and barren, frowned gloomily amid the
watery waste, and one, far out to sea, a bold and lofty cliff, showed
a faint twinkling star upon its side, the light for the homeward-bound
ships over the Atlantic.
"That's Clare Island yonder," said Bagenal Daly, as he observed the
direction of Forester's gaze; "I must show you the great cliff there.
What say you if we go to-morrow?"
"To-morrow!" repeated Forester, smiling faintly; "perhaps so."
CHAPTER VII. A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
When speaking of Gwynne Abbey to our readers, we omitted to mention
a very beautiful portion of the structure,--a small building which
adjoined the chapel, and went, for some reason or other, by name of the
"Sub-Prior's house." More recent in date than the other parts of the
abbey, it seemed as if here the architect had expended his skill in
showing of how much ornament and decoration the Gothic was capable.
The stone selected was of that pinkish hue that is seen in many of the
cathedrals in the North of England,--a material peculiarly favorable to
the labors of the chisel, and when protected from the rude influence
of weather possessing qualities of great endurance. This building
was surrounded on three sides by a flower-garden, which descended by
successive terraces to the edge of a small river pursuing its course to
the sea, into which it emerged about a mile distant. A very unmindful
observer would have been struck at once with the aspect of greater
care and cultivation bestowed here than on other portions of the
abbey grounds. The trim and orderly appearance of everything, from the
flowering shrubs that mingled their blossoms with the rich tracery of
the architraves, to the bright gravel of the walks, denoted attention,
while flowers of rare beauty, and plants of foreign growth, were seen
blending their odors with the wild heaths that shed their perfume
from the mountain side. The brilliant beauty of the spot was, indeed,
heightened by the wild and rugged grandeur of the scene, like a diamond
glittering brighter amid the dark dross of the mine.
On the side nearest to the bay, and with a view extending to the far-off
Island of Achill, an apartment opened by three large windows, the upper
compartments of which exhibited armorial bearings in stained glass.
If the view without presented a scene of the most grand and varied
loveliness, within this chamber art seemed to have vied in presenting
objects the most strange and beautiful. It was furnished in all the
gorgeous taste of the time of Louis XV. The ceiling, a deep mass
of carving relieved by gold, presented masses of fruit and flowers
fantastically interwoven, and hanging, as though suspended, above the
head. The walls were covered with cabinet pictures of great price, the
very frames objects of wonder and admiration. Large vases of Dresden
and Svres porcelain stood on brackets of massive silver, and one great
cabinet of ebony, inlaid with gold and tortoiseshell, displayed an
inscription that showed it was a present from the great Louis XIV.
himself.
It is not, however, to linger over the objects of rare and costly
excellence which here abounded that we have conducted our reader to this
chamber, and whither we would beg of him to accompany us about two hours
later than the events we have narrated in our last chapter.
At a breakfast-table whose equipage was, in price and elegance, in
exact keeping with all around, were two ladies. The elder of the two was
advanced in life, and although her hair was perfectly white, her regular
features and finely pencilled brow bore, even yet, great marks of
beauty. If the expression of the face was haughty, it was so without
anything of severity; it was a look of pride that denoted rather a
conscious sense of position and its duties, than any selfish assumption
of personal importance. Habitual delicacy of health contributed to
strengthen this expression, lending to it a character which, to an
incautious observer, might convey the notion of weariness or ennui. The
tones of her voice were low and measured, and perfectly devoid of any
peculiar accent. If to those more familiar with the cordial familiarity
of Irish manner, Lady Eleanor Darcy might seem cold and frigid, such
as knew more of the world at large, and were more conversant with
the general habits of society, could detect, through all the seeming
impassive-ness of her air, that desire to please, that anxiety to make
a favorable impression, which marked the character of one who in early
life had been the beauty of her circle. Even now, as she lay back
indolently within the deep recess of a cushioned chair, her attitude
evinced a gracefulness and ease which long habit seemed to have
identified with her nature.
At the opposite side of the table, and busy in the preparation of the
breakfast, stood a young girl whose age could not have been more than
eighteen. So striking was the resemblance between them that the least
acute of physiognomists must have pronounced her the daughter. She was
dressed with remarkable simplicity; but not all the absence of ornament
could detract from the first impression her appearance conveyed, that
she was one of birth and station. Her beauty was of that character
which, although attributed peculiarly to the Celtic race, seems
strangely enough to present its most striking examples among the
Anglo-Irish. Rich auburn hair, the color varying from dark brown to
a deep golden hue as the light falls more or less strongly on it, was
braided over a brow of classic beauty; her eyes were of blue, that deep
color which, in speaking or in moments of excitement, looks like dark
hazel or even black; these were fringed with long dark lashes which
habitually hung heavily over the eyes, giving them a character of
sleepy, almost indolent, beauty. The rest of her features, in unison
with these, were of that Greek mould which our historians attribute to
the Phoenician origin of our people,--a character by no means rare to be
seen to this day among the peasantry. If the mild and gentle indications
of womanly delicacy were told in every lineament of her face, there were
traits of decision and determination when she spoke not less evident.
From her mother she inherited the placid tenderness of English manner,
while from her father her nature imbibed the joyous animation and
buoyant light-heartedness of the Irish character.
"And there are but two letters, Mamma," said Helen, "in the bag this
morning?"
"But two," said Lady Eleanor; "one of them from Lionel."
"Oh, from Lionel!" cried the young girl, eagerly; "let me see it."
"Read this first," said Lady Eleanor, as she handed across the table
a letter bearing a large seal impressed with an Earl's coronet; "if I
mistake not very much, Helen, that's my cousin Lord Netherby's writing;
but what eventful circumstance could have caused his affectionate
remembrance of me, after something nigh twenty years' silence, is beyond
my power of divination."
Helen Darcy well knew that the theme on which her mother now touched was
the sorest subject on her mind, and, however anxiously she might, under
other circumstances, have pressed for a sight of her brother's letter,
she controlled all appearance of the wish, and opened the other without
speaking.
"It is dated from Carlton House, Mamma, the 2d------"
"He is in waiting, I suppose," said Lady Eleanor, calmly; and Helen
began.
"'My dear cousin--'"
"Ah! so he remembers the relationship at least," muttered the old lady
to herself.
"'My dear cousin, it would be a sad abuse of the small space a letter
affords, to inquire into the cause of our long silence; faults on both
sides might explain much of it. I was never a brilliant correspondent,
you were always an indolent one; if I wrote stupid letters, you sent
me very brief answers; and if you at last grew weary of giving gold for
brass, I can scarcely reproach you for stopping the exchange. Still, at
the risk of remaining unanswered, once more--'"
"This is intolerable," broke in Lady Eleanor; "he never replied to the
letter in which I asked him to be your godfather."
"'Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more I must throw
myself on your mercy. In the selfishness of age,--don't forget, my dear
coz, I am eleven years your senior,--in the selfishness of age--'"
The old lady smiled dubiously at these words, and Helen read on:--
"'I desire to draw closer around me those ties of kindred and family
which, however we may affect to think lightly of, all our experiences in
life tend to strengthen and support. Yes, my dear Eleanor, we are the
only two remaining of all those light-hearted boys and bright-eyed girls
that once played upon the terrace at Netherby. Poor Harry, your old
sweetheart at Eton, fell at Mysore. Dudley, with ability for anything,
would not wait patiently for the crowning honors of his career, took a
judgeship in Madras, and he, too, sleeps in the land of the stranger!
And our sweet Catherine! your only rival amongst us, how short-lived was
her triumph!--for so the world called her marriage with the Margrave:
she died of a broken heart at two-and-twenty! I know not why I have
called up these sad memories, except it be in the hope that, as
desolation deals heavily around us, we may draw more closely to each
other.'"
Lady Eleanor concealed her face with her handkerchief, and Helen, who
had gradually dropped her voice as she read, stopped altogether at these
words.
"Read on, dear," said the old lady, in a tone whose firmness was
slightly shaken.
"'A heart more worldly than yours, my dear Eleanor, would exclaim that
the parti was unequal,--that I, grown old and childless, with few
friends left, and no ambitions to strive for, stood in far more need
of your affectionate regard, than you, blessed with every tie to
existence, did of mine; and the verdict would be a just one, for, by
the law of that Nemesis we all feel more or less, even in this world,
you, whom we deemed rash and imprudent, have alone amongst us secured
the prize of that happiness we each sought by such different paths.'"
A heavy sigh that broke from her mother made Helen cease reading, but
at a motion of her hand she resumed: "'For all our sakes, then, my
dear cousin, only remember so much of the past as brings back pleasant
memories. Make my peace with your kind-hearted husband. If I can forgive
him all the pangs of jealousy he inflicted on me, he may well pardon
any slight transgressions on my part, and Lionel, too.--But, first,
tell me how have I offended my young kinsman? I have twice endeavored to
make his acquaintance, but in vain. Two very cold and chilling answers
to my invitations to Netherby are all I have been able to obtain from
him: the first was a plea of duty, which I could easily have arranged;
but the second note was too plain to be mistaken: "I'll none of you,"
was the tone of every line of it. But I will not be so easily repulsed:
I am determined to know him, and, more still, determined that he shall
know me. If you knew, my dear Eleanor, how proudly my heart beat at
hearing his Royal Highness speak of him!--he had seen him at Hounslow at
a review. It was a slight incident, but I am certain your son never told
it, and so I must. Lionel, in passing with his company, forgot to
lower the regimental flag before the Prince, on which Lord Maxwell, the
colonel, the most passionate man in England, rode up, and said something
in an angry tone. "I beg pardon, Colonel," said the Prince, "if I
interfere with the details of duty, but I have remarked that young
officer before, and, trust me, he 'll come off 'with flying colors,' on
more occasions than the present." The mot was slight, but the flattery
was perfect; indeed, there is not another man in the kingdom can compete
with his Royal Highness on this ground. Fascination is the only
word that can express the charm of his manner. To bring Lionel more
particularly under the Prince's notice, has long been a favorite scheme
of mine; and I may say, without arrogance, that my opportunities are not
inferior to most men's in this respect; I am an old courtier now,--no
small boast for one who still retains his share of favor. If the son
have any of his father's gifts, his success with the Prince is
certain. The manner of the highly-bred Irish gentleman has been already
pronounced by his Royal Highness as the type of what manner should
be, and, with your assistance, I have little doubt of seeing Lionel
appointed on the staff, here.
"'Now, I must hazard my reputation a little, and ask what is the name of
your second boy, and what is he doing?'"
Helen burst into a fit of laughter at these words, nor could Lady
Eleanor's chagrin prevent her joining in the emotion.
"This, he shall certainly have an answer to," said the old lady,
recovering her self-possession and her pride; "he shall hear that my
second boy is called Helen."
"After all, Mamma, is it not very kind of him to remember even so much?"
"I remember even more, Helen," interrupted Lady Eleanor; "and no great
kindness in the act either."
"Shall I read all the possible and impossible chances of pushing my
fortune in the Army or Navy, Mamma?" said Helen, archly, "for I see that
his Lordship is most profuse in offers for my advancement,--nay, if
I have a clerical vocation, here is a living actually waiting my
acceptance."
"Let us rather look for something that may explain the riddle, my dear,"
said Lady Eleanor, taking the letter in her own hand, while she lightly
skimmed over the last page. "No, I can find no clew to it here--Stay,
what have we in this corner?--'Politically speaking, there is no news
here; indeed, in that respect, your side of the Channel engrosses
all the interest; the great question of the "Union" still occupies all
attention. Virtually, we know the ministry have the majority, but
there will be still a very respectable fight, to amuse the world withal.
How does the Knight vote? With us, I hope and trust, for although I may
tell you, in confidence, the result is certain, his support would be
very grateful to the Government, and, while he himself can afford to
smile at ministerial flatteries, Lionel is a young fellow whom rapid
promotion would well become, and who would speedily distinguish himself,
if the occasion were favorable. At all events, let the Knight not vote
against the minister; this would be a crime never to be forgiven, and
personally offensive to his Royal Highness; and I trust Darcy is too
good a sportsman to prefer riding the last horse, even should he not
wish to mount the winner.'"
Here the letter concluded, amid protestations of regard most
affectionately worded, and warm wishes for a renewal of intimacy, only
to cease with life. Across this was written, with a different ink, and
in a hurried hand: "I have this moment seen Mr. Pitt; the Knight's vote
is very important. He may make any terms he pleases,--Pitt spoke of a
peerage; but I suppose that would not be thought advisable. Let me hear
your opinion. Lionel has been gazetted to a company this morning, en
attendant better."
Lady Eleanor, who had read these last lines to herself, here laid down
the letter without speaking, while the slight flush of her cheek and the
increased brilliancy of her eyes showed that her feelings were deeply
and powerfully excited.
"Well, Mamma, have you found the solution to this mystery?" said Helen,
as she gazed with affectionate solicitude on her mother's features.
"How unchangeable a thing is nature!" muttered Lady Eleanor,
unconsciously, aloud; "that boy was a crafty tuft-hunter at Eton."
"Of whom are you speaking, Mamma?"
"Lord Netherby, my dear, who would seem to have cultivated his natural
gift with great success; but," added she, after a pause, and in a voice
scarcely above a whisper, "I am scarcely as easy a dupe now as when he
persuaded me to take ash-berries in exchange for cherries. Let us hear
what Lionel says."
"As usual, Mamma, four lines in each page, and the last a blank," said
Helen, laughing:--"'My dear mother, what blandishments have you been
throwing over the War Office? They have just given me my company, which,
by the ordinary rules of the service, I had no pretension to hope for,
these five years to come! Our colonel, too, a perfect Tartar, overwhelms
me with civilities, and promises me a leave of absence on the first
vacancy. Have you seen Forester, of ours? and how do you like him? A
little cold or so at first, but you will not dislike that. His riding
will please my father. Get him to sing, if you can; his taste and voice
are both first-rate. Your worthy relative, Lord Netherby, bores me with
invitations to his houses, town and country. I say "No;" but he won't
be denied. Was he not rude, or indifferent, or something or other, once
upon a time, to the ancient house of Darcy? Give me the consigne, I
pray you, for I hear he has the best cock-shooting in England; and let
my virtue, if possible, be rewarded by a little indulgence. Tell Helen
they are all giving up powder here, and wear their hair as she does; but
not one of them half as good-looking.
Yours, as ever,
Lionel Darcy.
Hounslow, January 1st, 1800'"
"Is that Sullivan, there?" said Lady Eleanor, as her daughter finished
the reading of this brief epistle. "What does he mean by staring so at
the window? The old man seems to have lost his senses!"
"Ochone arie! ochone! ochone!" cried Tate, wringing his hands with the
gestures of violent grief, as he moved up and down before the windows.
"What has happened, Tate?" said Helen, as she threw open the sash to
address him.
"Ochone! he's kilt--he's murthered--cut down like a daisy in a May
morning. And he, the iligant, fine young man!"
"Whom do you mean? Speak plainly, Sullivan," said the commanding voice
of Lady Eleanor. "What is it?"
"'Tis the young officer from England, my lady, that came down the night
before last to see the master. Oh, murther! murther! if his honor was
here, the sorra bit of this grief we 'd have to-day--ochone!"
"Well, go on," said his mistress, sternly.
"And if he came down for joy, ''t is sorrow he supped for it,' the young
crayture! They soon finished him."
"Once for all, sir, speak out plainly, and say what has occurred."
"It's Mr. Bagenal Daly done it all, my lady,--divil a one of me cares
who hears me say it. He's a cruel man, ould as he is. He made him fight
a duel, the darling young man,--the 'moral' of Master Lionel himself;
and now he's kilt--ochone! ochone!"
"Can this dreadful story be true, Helen?" said Lady Eleanor, as the
faint color left her features. "Call Margaret; or, stay--Sullivan, is
Mr. Daly here?"
"That he is, never fear him. He's looking at his morning's work--he's in
the room where they carried the corpse; and the fine corpse it is."
"Go tell Mr. Daly that Lady Eleanor desires to see him at once."
"Go, and lose no time, Tate," said Helen, as, almost fainting with
terror, she half pushed the old man on his errand.
The mother and daughter sat silently gazing on each other for several
minutes, terror and dismay depicted in the face of each, nor were they
conscious of the lapse of time, when the door opening presented Mr.
Bagenal Daly before them. He was dressed in his usual suit of dark
brown, and with all his accustomed neatness. His long cravat, which,
edged with deep lace, hung negligently over his waistcoat, was spotless
in color and accurate in every fold, while his massive features were
devoid of the slightest signs of emotion or excitement.
For an instant Lady Eleanor was deceived by all these evidences of
tranquillity, but a glance at old Tate's face, as he stood near the
door, assured her that from such signs she had nothing to hope. Twice
had Mr. Bagenal Daly performed his courteous salutations, which, in the
etiquette of a past time, he made separately to each lady, and still
Lady Eleanor had not summoned courage to address him. At last he said,--
"Have I been mistaken, and must I apologize for a visit at an hour so
unseemly? But I heard that your Ladyship wished to see me."
"Quite true, Mr. Daly," interrupted Lady Eleanor, her habitual tact
supplying a courage her heart was far from feeling. "Will you be seated?
Leave the room, Sullivan. My daughter and I," continued she, speaking
with increased rapidity, to cover the emotion of the moment, "have just
heard something of a dreadful event which is said to have occurred this
morning. Old Sullivan so often exaggerates that we indulge the hope that
there may be little or no foundation for the story. Is it true, sir,
there has been a duel fought near this?" Her voice grew fainter as she
spoke, and at last became a mere whisper.
"Yes, madam," replied Daly, with an air of perfect calmness. "Two
gentlemen met this morning at Cluan Point, and both were wounded."
"Neither of them killed?"
"Wounded, madam," reiterated Daly, as if correcting a misconstruction.
"Are the wounds deemed dangerous, sir?"
"Mr. MacDonough's, madam, is not so. The inconvenience of using his left
hand on any similar occasion, in future, will be probably the extent
of the mishap. The other gentleman has not been equally fortunate,--his
life is in peril." Mr. Daly paused for a second, and then, perceiving
that Lady Eleanor still awaited a further explanation, added, with
gravity, "When taking his position on the ground, madam, instead of
standing half-front, as I took pains to point out to him, Captain
Forester--"
"Forester!--is that his name, sir?" interrupted Helen, as, in a hand
trembling with terror, she held out Lionel's letter towards her mother.
"A friend of my son's,--is he in the same regiment with Lionel?" asked
Lady Eleanor, eagerly.
Daly bowed, and answered, "The same, madam."
A low, faint sigh broke from Lady Eleanor, and, covering her eyes with
her hand, she sat for some moments without speaking.
"Has any one seen him, sir?" asked Helen, suddenly, and in a voice
that showed energy of character had the mastery over every feeling of
grief,--"is there a surgeon with him?"
"No, Miss Darcy," said Daly, with a certain haughtiness of manner. "I
believe, however, that, although not a professional person, my knowledge
of a gunshot wound is scarcely inferior to most men's. I have sent in
two directions for a surgeon; meanwhile, with my servant's aid, I have
succeeded in extracting the ball--I beg pardon, ladies, I think I heard
the noise of wheels; it is probably the doctor." And, with a deep bow
and a measured step, Mr. Bagenal Daly withdrew, leaving Lady Eleanor and
her daughter speechless, between grief and terror.
CHAPTER VIII. THE "HEAD" OF A FAMILY
When Bagenal Daly reached the courtyard, he was disappointed at finding
that, instead of the surgeon whose arrival was so anxiously looked for,
the visitor was no other than old Dr. Hickman, the father of Hickman
O'Reilly, M. P. for the county, and grandfather of that very promising
young gentleman slightly presented to our reader in an early chapter.
If the acorn be a very humble origin for the stately oak of the forest,
assuredly Peter Hickman, formerly of Loughrea, "Apothecary and Surgeon,"
was the most unpretending source for the high and mighty house of
O'Reilly. More strictly speaking, the process was only a "graft," and
it is but justice to him to say, that of this fact no one was more
thoroughly convinced than old Peter himself. Industry and thrift had
combined to render him tolerably well off in the world, when the death
of a brother who had sought his fortunes in the East--when fortunes were
to be found in that region--put him in possession of something above two
hundred thousand pounds. Even before this event, he had been known as
a shrewd contriver of small speculations, a safe investor of little
capital, was conversant, from the habits of his professional life, with
the private circumstances of every family of the country where money
was wanting, and where repayment was sure; the very temperament of
his patients suggested to him the knowledge by which he guided his
operations, and he could bring his skill as a medical man into his
service, and study his creditors with the eye of a physiologist.
When this great accession of wealth so suddenly occurred, far from
communicating his good fortune to his friends and neighbors, he merely
gave out that poor Tom had left him "his little savings," "though God
knows, in that faraway country, if he'd ever see any of it." His
guarded caution on the subject, and the steady persistence with which he
maintained his former mode of life, gave credence to the story, and the
utmost estimate of his wealth would not have gone beyond being a snug
old fellow "that might give up his business any day." This was,
however, the very last thing in his thoughts; the title of "Doctor," so
courteously bestowed in Ireland on the humbler walks of medicine, was
a "letter of marque" enabling him to cruise in latitudes otherwise
inaccessible. Any moneyed embarrassment of the country gentry, any
severe pressure to be averted by an opportune loan or the sale of landed
property, was speedily made available by him as a call to see whether
"the cough was easier;" or "how was the gouty ankle;" if the "mistress
was getting better of the nerves," "and the children gaining strength by
the camomile." And in this way he made one species of gain subservient
to another, while his character for kindness and benevolence was the
theme of the whole neighborhood.
For several years long he pursued this course without deviating, and
in that space had become the owner of estated property to a very great
extent, not only in his own, but in three neighboring counties. How
much longer he might have persisted in growing rich by stealth it is
difficult to say, when accident compelled him to change his tactique.
A very large property had been twice put up for sale in the county Mayo,
under the will of its late owner, the trustees being empowered to make a
great reduction in the price to any purchaser of the whole,--a condition
which, from the great value of the estates, seemed of little avail, no
single individual being supposed able to make such a purchase.
At last, and as a final effort to comply with the wishes of the
testator, the estate was offered at ten thousand pounds below the
original demand, when a bidder made his appearance, the offer was
accepted, and the apothecary of Lough-rea became the owner of one of the
most flourishing properties of the West, with influence sufficient to
return a member for the county.
The murder was now out, and the next act was to build a handsome but
unpretentious dwelling-house on a part of the estate, to which he
removed with his son, a widower with one child. The ancient family of
O'Reilly had been the owners of the property, and the name was still
retained to grace the new demesne, which was called Mount O'Reilly,
while Tom Hickman became Hickman O'Reilly, under the plea of some
relationship to the defunct,--a point which gained little credence in
the county, and drew from Bagenal Daly the remark "that he trusted that
they had a better title to the acres than the arms of the O'Reillys."
When old Peter had made this great spring, he would gladly have retired
to Loughrea once more, and pursued his old habits; but, like a blackleg
who has accidentally discovered his skill at the game, no one would play
with him again, and so he was fain to put up with his changed condition,
and be a "gentleman," as he called it, in spite of himself.
He it was who, under the pretence of a friendly call to see the Knight,
now drove into the courtyard of Gwynne Abbey. His equipage was a small
four-wheeled chair close to the ground, and drawn by a rough mountain
pony which, in size and shape, closely resembled a water-dog. The owner
of this unpretending conveyance was a very diminutive, thin old
man, with a long, almost transparent nose, the tip of which was of a
raspberry red; a stiff queue, formed of his wiry gray hair carefully
brushed back, even from the temples, made a graceful curve on his back,
or occasionally appeared in front of his left shoulder. His voice was
a feeble treble, with a tremulous quiver through all he said, while
he usually finished each sentence with a faint effort content with
his opinion; and this, on remarkable occasions, at a laugh, a kind
of acknowledgment to himself that he was would be followed by the
monosyllable "ay,"--a word which, brief as it was, struck terror into
many a heart, intimating, as it did, that old Peter had just satisfied
himself that he had made a good bargain, and that the other party was
"done."
The most remarkable circumstance of his appearance was his mode of
walking, and even here was displayed his wonted ingenuity. A partial
paralysis had for some years affected his limbs, and particularly the
muscles which raise and flex the legs; to obviate this infirmity, he
fastened a cord with a loop to either foot, and by drawing them up
alternately he was enabled to move forward, at a slow pace, to be sure,
and in a manner it was rather difficult to witness for the first time
with becoming gravity. This was more remarkable when he endeavored to
get on faster, for then the flexion, a process which required a little
time, was either imperfectly performed or altogether omitted, and
consequently he remained stationary, and only hopped from one leg to
the other after the fashion of a stage procession. His dress was a
rusty black coat with a standing collar, black shorts, and white cotton
stockings, over which the short black gaiters reached half way up the
leg; on the present occasion he also wore a spencer of light gray cloth,
as the day was cold and frosty, and his hat was fastened under his chin
by a ribbon.
"And so he is n't at home, Tate," said he, as he sat whipping the
pony from habit,--a process which the beast seemed to regard with a
contemptuous indifference.
"No, Docther," for by this title the old man was always addressed by
preference, "the Knight's up in Dublin; he went on Monday last."
"And this is the seventh of the month," muttered the other to himself.
"Faith, he takes it easy, anyhow! And you don't know when he'll be
home?"
"The sorra know I know, Docther; 't is maybe to-night he 'd come--maybe
to-morrow--maybe it would be three weeks or a month; and it's not but we
want him badly this day, if it was God's will he was here!" These
words were uttered in a tone that Tate intended should provoke
further questioning, for he was most eager to tell of the duel and its
consequences; but the "doctor" never noticed them, but merely muttered a
short "Ay."
"How do you do, Hickman?" cried out the deep voice of Bagenal Daly at
the same moment. "You did n't chance to see Mulville on the road, did
you?"
"How d'ye do, Mister Daly? I hope I see you well. I did n't meet Dr.
Mulville this morning,--is there anything that's wrong here? Who is it
that's ill?"
"A young fellow, a stranger, who has been burning powder with Mr.
MacDonough up at Cluan, and has been hit under the rib here."
"Well, well, what folly it is, and all about nothing, I 'll engage."
"So your grandson would tell you," said Daly, sternly; "for if he felt
it to be anything, this quarrel should have been his."
"Faix, and I'm glad he left it alone," said the other, complacently;
"'t is little good comes of the same fighting. I 'll be eighty-five if
I live to March next, and I never drew sword nor trigger yet against any
man."
"One reason for which forbearance is, sir, that you thereby escaped a
similar casualty to yourself. A laudable prudence, and likely to become
a family virtue."
The old doctor felt all the severity of this taunt against his grandson,
but he merely gave one of his half-subdued laughs, and said, in a low
voice, "Did you get a note from me, about a fortnight ago? Ay!"
"I received one from your attorney," said Daly, carelessly, "and I threw
it into the fire without reading it."
"That was hasty, that was rash, Mr. Daly," resumed the other, calmly;
"it was about the bond for the four thousand six hundred--"
"D----n me if I care what was the object of it! I happened to have some
weightier things to think of than usury and compound interest, as I,
indeed, have at this moment. By the by, if you have not forgotten the
old craft, come in and see this poor fellow. I 'm much mistaken, or his
time will be but short."
"Ay, ay, that's a debt there's no escaping!" muttered the old man,
combining his vein of moralizing with a sly sarcasm at Daly, while he
began the complicated series of manouvres by which he usually effected
his descent from the pony carriage.
In the large library, and on a bed hastily brought down for the purpose,
lay Forester, his dress disordered, and his features devoid of all
color. The glazed expression of his eye, and his pallid, half-parted
lips showed that he was suffering from great loss of blood, for,
unhappily, Mr. Daly's surgery had not succeeded in arresting this
symptom. His breathing was short and irregular, and in the convulsive
movement of his fingers might be seen the evidence of acute suffering.
At the side of the bed, calm, motionless, and self-possessed, with an
air as stern as a soldier at his post, stood Sandy M'Grane; he had been
ordered by his master to maintain a perfect silence, and to avoid, if
possible, even a reply to Forester's questions, should he speak to him.
The failure of the first few efforts on Forester's part to obtain an
infraction of this rule ended in his submitting to his destiny, and
supplying by signs the want of speech; in this way he had just succeeded
in procuring a drink of water, when Daly entered, followed by Hickman.
As with slow and noiseless steps they came forward, Forester turned
his head, and, catching a glance of the mechanism by which old Peter
regulated his progression, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable
laughter.
"Ye mauna do it, ye mauna do it, sir," said Sandy, sternly; "ye are
lying in a pool of blood this minute, and it's no time for a hearty
laugh. Ech! ech! sir," continued he, turning towards his master, "if we
had that salve the Delawares used to put on their wounds, I wadna say
but we 'd stap it yet."
By this time old Peter had laid his hand on the sick man's wrist, and,
with a large watch laid before him on the bed, was counting his pulse
aloud.
"It's a hundred and fifty," said he, in a whisper, which, although
intended for Daly's ear, was overheard by Forester; "but it's thin as a
thread, and looks like inward bleeding."
"What's to be done, then? have you anything to advise?" said Daly,
almost savagely.
"Very little," said Hickman, with a malignant grin, "except writing to
his friends. I know nothing else to serve him."
A brief shudder passed over Daly's stern features, rather like the
momentary sense of cold than proceeding from any mental emotion, and
then he said, "I spoke to you as a doctor, sir; and I ask you again, is
there nothing can be done for him?"
"Well, well, we might plug up the wound, to be sure, and give him a
little wine, for he's sinking fast. I 've got a case of instruments and
some lint in the gig--never go without the tools, Mr. Daly--there's no
knowing when one may meet a little accident like this."
"In Heaven's name, then, lose no time!" said Daly. "Whatever you can do,
do it at once."
The tone of command in which he spoke seemed to act like a charm on the
old doctor, for he turned at once to hobble from the room.
"My servant will bring what you want," said Daly, impatiently.
"No, no," said Peter, shaking his head, "I have them under lock and key
in the driving-box; there's no one opens that but myself."
Daly turned away with a muttered execration at the miser's suspicions,
and then, fixing his eyes steadily on Sandy's face, he gave a short
and significant nod. The servant instinctively looked after the doctor;
then, slowly moving across the floor, the nod was repeated, and Sandy,
wheeling round, made three strides, and, catching the old man round the
body with his remaining arm, carried him out of the room with the same
indifference to his struggles or his cries as a nurse would bestow on a
misbehaving urchin.
[Illustration: 108]
When Sandy deposited his burden beside the pony-carriage, old Peter's
passion had reached its climax, and assuredly, if the will could have
prompted the act, he would have stamped as roundly as he swore.
"It's an awfu' thing," observed Sandy, quaintly, "to see an auld carle,
wi' his twa legs in the grave, blaspheming that gate; but come awa',
tak' your gimcracks, and let's get back again, or, by the saul of my
body, I 'll pit you in the fountain!"
Reasoning on that excellent principle of analogy, that what had happened
might happen again even in a worse form, old Hickman unlocked the box
and delivered into Sandy's hands a black leather case, bearing as many
signs of long years and service as his own.
"Let me walk I let me walk!" cried he, in a supplicating tone.
"Av you ca' it walking," said Sandy, grimly; "but it's mair, far mair,
like the step o' a goose than a Christian man."
What success might have attended Peter's request it is difficult to
say, for at this moment the noise of a horse was heard galloping up the
avenue, and, immediately after, Mulville, the surgeon sent for by Mr.
Daly, entered the courtyard. Without deigning a look towards Hickman,
or paying even the slightest attention to his urgent demands for the
restoration of his pocket-case, Sandy seized Mulville by the arm and
hurried him away to the house.
The newly arrived doctor was an army surgeon, and proceeded, with all
the readiness experience had taught him, to examine Forester's wound;
while Sandy, to save time, opened old Hickman's case on the bed, and
arranged the instruments.
"Look here, Mr. Daly," said the doctor, as he drew some lint from the
antiquated leather pocket,--"look here, and see how our old friend
practises the art of medicine." He took up, as he spoke, a roll of
paper, and held it towards Daly: it was a packet of bill stamps of
various value, for old Peter could never suffer himself to be taken
short, and was always provided with the ready means of transacting money
affairs with his patients.
"Here's my d----d old bond," said Daly, laughing, as he drew forth a
much-crumpled and time-discolored parchment; "I'd venture to say the
man would deserve well of his country who would throw this confounded
pocket-book, and its whole contents, into that fire."
"Ye maybe want some o' the tools yet," said Sandy, dryly, for, taking
his master's observations in the light of a command, he was about to
commit the case and the paper to the flames.
"Take care! take care!" said Mulville, in a whisper; "it might be a
felony."
"It's devilish little Sandy would care what name they would give it,"
replied Daly; "he 'd put the owner on the top of them, and burn all
together, on a very brief hint;" then, lowering his voice, he added,
"What's his chance?"
"The chance of every young fellow of two or three-and-twenty to live
through what would kill any man of my time of life. With good care and
quiet, but quiet above all, he may rub through it. We must leave him
now."
"You 'll remain here," said Daly; "you 'll not quit this, I hope?"
"For a day or two at least, I 'll not leave him." And with this
satisfactory assurance Daly closed the door, leaving Sandy on guard over
the patient.
"Here's your case of instruments, Hickman," said Daly, as the old doctor
sat motionless in his gig, awaiting their reappearance; for, in his
dread of further violence, he had preferred thus patiently to await
their return, than venture once more into the company of Sandy M'Grane.
"We 've robbed you of nothing except some lint; and," added he in a
whisper to Muiville, "I very much doubt if that case were ever opened
and closed before with so slight an offence against the laws of
property."
Old Hickman by this time had opened the pocket-book, and was busily
engaged inspecting its contents.
"Ay, that's the bond!" said Daly, laughing; "you may well think how
small the chance of repayment is, when I did not think it worth while
burning it."
"It will be paid in good time," said Hickman, in a low cackle, "and the
interest too, maybe--ay!" And with sundry admonitions from the whip, and
successive chucks of the rein, the old pony threw up his head, shook his
tail crossly, and, with a step almost as measured as that of his master,
moved slowly out of the courtyard.
"So much for our century and our civilization!" said Daly, as he looked
after him; "the old miser that goes there has more power over our
country and its gentry than ever a feudal chief wielded in the days of
vassalage."
CHAPTER IX. "DALY'S."
It was upon one of the very coldest evenings of the memorably severe
January of 1800 that the doors of Daly's Club House were besieged by
carriages of every shape and description: some brilliant in all the
lustre of a perfect equipage; others more plainly denoting the country
gentleman or the professional man; and others, again, the chance
occupants of the various coach-stands, displayed every variety of
that now extinct family whose members went under the denominations of
"whiskeys," "jingles," and "noddies."
A heavy fall of sleet, accompanied with a cutting north wind, did not
prevent the assemblage of a considerable crowd, who, by the strange
sympathy of gregarious curiosity, were drawn up in front of the
building, satisfied to think that something unusual, of what nature they
knew not, was going forward within, and content to gaze on the brilliant
glare of the lustres as seen through the drawn curtains, and mark the
shadowy outlines of figures as they passed and repassed continually.
Leaving the mob, for it was in reality such, to speculate on the cause
of this extraordinary gathering, we shall at once proceed up the ample
stair and enter the great saloon of the Club, which, opening by eight
windows upon College Green, formed the conversation-room of the members.
Here were now assembled between three and four hundred persons, gathered
in groups and knots, and talking with all the eagerness some engrossing
topic could suggest. In dress, air, and manner they seemed to represent
sections of every social circle of the capital: some, in full Castle
costume, had just escaped from the table of the Viceroy; others, in
military uniform or the dress of the Club, contrasted with coats of
country squires or the even more ungainly quaintness of the lawyers'
costume. They were of every age, from the young man emerging into life,
to the old frequenter of the Club, who had occupied his own place and
chair for half a century, and in manner and style as various, many
preserving the courteous observances of the old school in all its
polished urbanity, and the younger part of the company exhibiting the
traits of a more independent, but certainly less graceful, politeness.
Happily for the social enjoyments of the time, political leanings had
not contributed their bitterness to private life, and men of opinions
the most opposite, and party connections most antagonistic, were here
met, willing to lay aside for a season the arms of encounter, or to use
them with only the sportive pleasantry of a polished wit. If this manly
spirit of mutual forbearance did not characterize the very last debates
of the Irish Parliament, it may in a great measure be attributed to the
nature of that influence by which the measure of the Union was carried;
for bribery not only corrupted the venal, but it soured and irritated
the men who rejected its seductions; and in this wise a difference was
created between the two parties, wider and more irreconcilable than all
which political animosity or mere party dislike could effect.
On the present occasion, however, the animating spirit of the assemblage
seemed to partake of nothing less than a feature of political acrimony;
and amid the chance phrases which met the ear, and the hearty bursts of
laughter that every moment broke forth, it was easy to collect that no
question of a party nature occupied their attention.
At the end of the room a group of some twenty persons stood or sat
around a chair in which a thin elderly gentleman was seated, his fine
and delicately marked features far more unequivocally proclaiming rank
than even the glittering star he wore on his breast. Without being in
reality very old, Lord Drogheda seemed so, for, partly from delicacy of
health, and partly, as some affirmed, from an affectation of age (a more
frequent thing than is expected), he had contracted a stoop, and walked
with every sign of debility.
"Well, gentlemen, how does time go?" said he, with an easy smile. "Are
we not near the hour?"
"Yes; it wants but eleven minutes of ten now, my Lord," said one of the
group. "Do you mean to hold him sharp to time?"
"Egad, I should think so," interrupted a red-whiskered squire, in
splashed top-boots. "I've ridden in from Kildare to-night to see the
match, and I protest against any put-off."
Lord Drogheda turned his eyes towards the speaker with a look in which
mildness was so marked, it could not be called reproof, but it evidently
confused him, as he added, "Of course, if the gentlemen who have heavy
wagers on it are content I must be also."
"I, for one, say 'sharp time,'" cried out a dapperly dressed young
fellow, with an open pocket-book in his hand; "play or pay is the only
rule in these cases."
"I 've backed my Lord at eight to ten, in hundreds," said another, "and
certainly I 'll claim my bet if the Knight is one minute late."
"Then you have just three to decide that question," said one at his
side. "My watch is with the Post-office."
"Quite, time enough left to order my carriage," said Lord Drogheda,
rising with an energy very different from his ordinary indolent habit.
"If the Knight of Gwynne should be accidentally delayed, gentlemen, I,
for my part, prefer being also absent. It will then be a matter of some
difficulty for the parties betting to say who is the delinquent." He
took his hat as he spoke, and was moving through the crowd, when a
sudden cheer from without was heard, and then, almost the instant after,
a confused sound of acclamation as the Knight of Gwynne entered, leaning
on the arm of Con Heffernan. Making his way with difficulty through the
crowd of welcoming friends and acquaintances, the Knight approached the
end of the room where Lord Drogheda now awaited him, standing.
"Not late, my Lord, though very near it," said he, extending his
hand. "If I should apologize, however, I have an excuse you will not
reject,--Con Heffernan's Burgundy is hard to part with."
"Very true, Knight," said his Lordship, smiling. "With a friend one sees
so seldom, a little dalliance is most pardonable."
This sarcasm was met by a ready laugh, for Heffernan was better known
as a guest at other tables than a host at his own; nor did he, at whose
expense the jest was made, refrain from joining in the mirth, while he
added,--
"The Burgundy, like one of your Lordship's bons mots, is perhaps
appreciated the more highly because of its rarity."
"Very true, Heffernan," replied Lord Drogheda; "we should keep our wit
and wine only for our best friends."
"Faith, then," whispered the red-whiskered squire who spoke before, "if
the liquor does not gain more by keeping than the wit, I'd recommend Con
to drink it off a little faster."
"Or, better still," interposed the Knight, "only give it to those
who understand its flavor. But we are, if I mistake not, losing very
valuable time. What say you to the small room off the library, or will
your Lordship remain here?"
"Here, if equally agreeable to you. We are both of us too old in the
harness to care much for being surrounded by spectators."
"Is it true, Con," said a friend in Heffernan's ear, "that Darcy has
laid fifty thousand on this party?"
"I believe you are rather under than over the mark," whispered
Heffernan. "The wager has been off and on these last eight or ten years.
It was made at Hutchinson's one evening when we all had drunk a good
deal of wine. At first, whist was talked of; but Drogheda objected to
Darcy's naming Vicars as his partner."
"More fool he! Vicars is a first-rate player, but confoundedly unlucky."
"Be that as it may, they fixed on piquet as the game, and, if accounts
be true, all the better for Darcy. They say he has beaten the best
players in France."
"And what is really the stake? One hears so many absurd versions of it."
"The Ballydermot property."
"The whole of it?"
"Every acre, with the demesne, house, plate, pictures, carriages,
wine,--begad! I 'm not sure if the livery servants are not
included,--against fifty thousand pounds. You know Drogheda has lent him
a very large sum on a mortgage of that property already, and this will
make the thing about double or quits."
"Well, Heffernan," cried the Knight, "are you making your book there?
When you've quite finished, let me have a pinch of that excellent snuff
of yours."
"Why not try mine?" said Lord Drogheda, pushing a magnificently jewelled
box, containing a miniature, across the table.
"'T would be a bad augury, my Lord," said Darcy, laughing. "If I
remember aright, you won this handsome box from the Duke de Richelieu."
"Ah! you know that story, then?"
"I was present at the time, and remember the circumstance perfectly. The
King was leaning over the Duke's chair, watching the game--"
"Quite true. The Duke affected not to know that his Majesty was there,
and when he placed the box on the table, cried, 'A thousand louis
against the portrait of the King!' There was no declining such a wager
at such a moment, although, intrinsically, the box was not worth half
the sum. I accepted, and won it."
"And the Duke then offered to give you twice the money for it back
again?"
"He did so, and I refused. I shall not readily forget the sweet, sad
smile of the King as he tapped the wily courtier on the shoulder, and
said, 'Ah! Monsieur le Duc, do you only value your King when you've lost
him?' They were prophetic words! Well, well! we 've got upon a sorrowful
theme; let's change it."
"Here are the cards, at last," said the Knight, taking a sealed packet
from the waiter's hand, and breaking it open on the table. "Now,
Heffernan, order me a glass of claret negus, and take care that no one
comes to worry us with news of the House."
"It's a sugar bill, or a new clause in the Corporation Act, or something
of that kind, they 're working at," said Lord Drogheda, negligently.
"No, my Lord," interposed Heffernan, slyly, "it's a bill to permit your
Lordship's nephew to hold the living of Ardragh with his deanery."
"All right and proper," said his Lordship, endeavoring to hide a rising
flush on his cheek by an opportune laugh. "Tom is a capital fellow, and
a good parson too."
"And ought never to omit the prayer for the Parliament!" muttered
Heffernan, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders, who relished the
allusion heartily.
"The deal is with you, Knight," said Lord Drogheda, pushing the cards
across the table.
The moment afterwards, a pin could not have fallen unheard in that
crowded assembly. Even they who were not themselves bettors felt the
deepest interest in the game where the stake was so great, and all who
could set value on skill and address were curious to watch the progress
of the contest. Not a word was spoken on either side as the cards fell
upon the table, and although many of the bystanders displayed looks
of more eager anxiety, the players showed by their intentness how
strenuously each struggled for the victory.
After the lapse of about half an hour, a low, murmuring noise spread
through the room, and the news was circulated that the first game was
over, and the Knight was the winner. The players, however, were silent
as before, and the deal went over without a word.
"One moment, my Lord," said Darcy, as he gently interposed his hand to
prevent Lord Drogheda taking up his cards,--"a single moment. You will
call me faint-hearted for it, but I do not care. I beseech you, let the
party cease here. It is a great favor; but as I could not ask it if I
had lost the game, give me, I pray, so much of advantage for my good
luck."
"You forget, Knight, that I, as a loser, could not accede to your
proposal; what would be said of any man who, with such a stake at issue,
accepted an offer like this?"
"My dear Lord, don't you think that you and I might afford to have our
actions canvassed, and yet be very little afraid of criticism?" said
Darcy, proudly.
"No, no, my dear Darcy, I really could not do this; besides, you must
concede something to mortified vanity. Now, I am anxious to have my
revenge."
"Be it so, my Lord," said the Knight, with a sigh, and the game began.
The looks and glances which were interchanged by those about during
this brief colloquy showed how little sympathy there was felt with the
generosity of either side. The bettors had set their hearts on gain, and
cared little for the feelings of the players.
"You see he was right," whispered the red-whiskered squire to his
neighbor; "my Lord has won the game in one hand." And so it was; in less
than five minutes the party was over.
"Now for the conqueror," cried the Knight of Gwynne, who, somewhat
nettled at a success which seemed to lessen the generous character of
his own proposal, dealt the cards hastily, as if anxious to conclude.
"Now, Darcy, we have a better opportunity," said Lord Drogheda, smiling;
"what say you to draw stakes as we stand?"
"Willingly, most willingly, my Lord. If a bad cause saps courage, I have
reason to be low at heart. This foolish wager has cost me the loss of
three nights' sleep, and if you are content--"
"But are these gentlemen here satisfied?" said Lord Drogheda; and an
almost universal cry of "No" was the reply.
"Then if we are to play for the bystanders, my Lord, let us not delay
them," said the Knight, as he took up his cards and began to arrange
them.
"Darcy has it, by Jove!--the game is his," was muttered from one to
another in the crowd behind his chair, and the report, gaining currency,
was soon circulated in the larger room without.
"Have you anything heavy on it, Con?" said a fashionably dressed man to
Heffernan, who endeavored to force his way through the crowd to where
the Knight sat.
"Look at Heffernan!" said another. "They say he never bets; but mark the
excitement of his face now!"
"What is it, Heffernan?" said the Knight, as the other leaned over his
chair and tried to whisper something in his ear. "Is that a queen, my
Lord? In that case I believe the game is mine.--What is it, Heffernan?"
and he bent his ear to listen; then, suddenly dashing the cards upon the
table, cried out, "Great Heaven! is this true?--the young fellow I met
at Kilbeggan?"
"The same," whispered Heffernan, rapidly; "a brother officer of your son
Lionel's--a cousin of Lord Castle-reagh's--a fine, dashing fellow, too."
"Where is he wounded?" asked Darcy, eagerly.
"Finish your game--I must tell you all about it," said Heffernan,
folding up a letter which he had taken from his pocket a few minutes
before.
"Your pardon, my Lord," said Darcy, with a look full of agitation; "I
have just heard very bad news.--I play the knave." A murmur ran through
the crowd behind him.
"You meant the king, I know, Knight," said Lord Drogheda, restoring the
card to his hand as he spoke, but a loud expression of dissatisfaction
arose from those at his side.
"You are right, my Lord, I did intend the king," said the Knight; "but
these gentlemen insist upon the knave, and, if you 'll permit me, I 'll
play it."
The whole fortune of the game hung upon the card, and, after a brief
struggle, the Knight was beaten.
"Even so, my Lord," said the Knight, smiling calmly, "you have beaten
me against luck; Fortune will not do everything. The Roman satirist goes
even further, and says she can do nothing." He rose as he said these
words, and looked around for Heffernan.
"If you want Con Heffernan, Knight," said one of the party, "I think he
has gone down to the House."
"The very man," said Darcy. "Good-night, my Lord,--good-night, gentlemen
all."
"I did not believe that anything could shake Darcy's nerve, but he
certainly played that game ill," said a bystander.
"Heffernan could tell us more about it," said another; "rely on it,
Master Con and the devil knew why that knave was played."
CHAPTER X. AN INTRIGUE DETECTED
Of all the evil influences which swayed the destinies of Ireland in
latter days, none can compare, in extent of importance, with the fatal
taste for prodigality that characterized the habits of the gentry.
Reckless, wasteful extravagance, in every detail of life, suggested
modes of acting and thinking at variance with all individual and,
consequently, all national prosperity. Hospitality was pushed to
profusion, liberality became a spendthrift habit. The good and the bad
qualities of the Irish temperament alike contributed to this passion;
there was the wish to please, the desire to receive courteously, and
entertain with splendor within doors, and to appear with proportionate
magnificence without.
A proud sense of what they deemed befitting their station induced the
gentry to vie in expenditure with the richly endowed officials of the
Government, and the very thought of prudence or foresight in matters of
expense would have been stigmatized as a meanness by those who believed
they were sustaining the honor of their country while sapping the
foundation of its prosperity.
If we have little to plead in defence or in palliation of such habits,
we can at least affirm that in many cases they were practised with a
taste and elegance that shed lustre over the period. Unlike the vulgar
displays of newly acquired wealth, they exhibited in a striking light
the generous and high-spirited features of the native character, which
deemed that nothing could be too good for the guest, nor any expenditure
for his entertainment either too costly or too difficult. The fatal
facility of Irish nature, and the still more ruinous influence of
example, hurried men along on this road to ruin; and as political
prospects grew darker, a reckless indifference to the future succeeded,
in which little care was taken for the morrow, until, at last,
thoughtless extravagance became a habit, and moneyed difficulties the
lot of almost every family of Ireland.
That a gentry so embarrassed, and with such prospects of ruin before
them, should have been easy victims to Ministerial seduction, is far
less surprising than that so many were to be seen who could prefer
their integrity to the rich bribes of Government patronage; and it is
a redeeming feature of the day that amid all the lavish and heedless
course of prodigality and excess there were some who could face
poverty with stouter hearts than they could endure the stigma of gilded
corruption: nor is it the history of every Parliament that can say as
much.
Let us leave this theme, even at the hazard of being misunderstood, for
the moment, by our reader, and turn to the Knight of Gwynne, who now
was seated at his breakfast in a large parlor of his house in Henrietta
Street. Sad and deserted as it seems now, this was in those days the
choice residence of Irish aristocracy, and the names of peers and
baronets on every door told of a class which, now, should be sought for
in scattered fragments among the distant cities of the Continent.
The Knight was reading the morning papers, in which, amid the
fashionable news, was an account of his own wager with Lord Drogheda,
when a carriage drove up hastily to the door, and, immediately after,
the loud summons of a footman resounded through the street.
While the Knight was yet wondering who this early visitor should prove,
the servant announced Mr. Con Heffernan.
"The very man I wished to see," cried Darcy, eagerly; "tell me all about
this unfortunate business. But, first of all, is he out of danger?"
"Quite safe. I understand, for a time, it was a very doubtful thing;
Daly's surgery, it would seem, rather increased the hazard. He began
searching for the ball regardless of the bleeding, and the young fellow
was very near sinking under loss of blood."
"The whole affair was his doing!" said the Knight, impatiently. "How Mr.
MacDonough could have found himself at my table is more than I can
well imagine; that when he got there, something like this would follow,
does not surprise me. Daly is really too bad. Well, well, I hoped to
have set off for the abbey to-day, but I must stay here, I find;
Drogheda is kind enough to let me redeem Ballydermot, and I must see
Gleeson about it. It's rather a heavy blow just now."
"I am afraid I am not altogether blameless," said Heffernan, timidly.
"I ought not to have mentioned that unlucky business till the game was
over; but I thought your nerve was proof against anything."
"So it was, Heffernan," said the Knight, laughing, "some five-and-twenty
years ago; but this shattered wreck has little remains of the old
three-decker. I should have won that game."
"It's all past and over now, so never think more about it."
"Yes, I should have won the game. Drogheda saw my advantage: he went
on with the very suit in my hand, and when he reached over for his
snuff-box, his hand trembled like in an ague-fit."
"Come, don't let the thing dwell in your mind. There is another and a
heavier game to play, and you 're certain to win there, if you do but
like it."
"I don't clearly understand you," said Darcy, doubtingly.
"I'll be explicit enough, then," said Heffernan, taking a chair and
seating himself directly in front of the Knight. "You know the position
of the Government at this moment. They have secured a safe and certain
majority,--the 'Union' is carried. When I say 'carried,' I mean that
there is not a doubt on any reasonable mind but that the bill will pass.
The lists show a majority of seven, perhaps eight, for the Ministry;
and if they had but one in their favor, Pitt is determined to go through
with it. Now, we all very well know how this has been done. Our people
have behaved infamously, disgracefully,--there's no mincing the matter.
You heard of Fox--?"
"No. What of him?"
"He has just accepted the escheatorship of--I forget what or where, but
he vacates his seat to make room for Courtenay."
"Sam Courtenay?--Scrub, as we used to call him?"
"Scrub,--exactly so. Well, he comes in for Roscommon, and is to have a
place under the new commission of twelve hundred a year. But to go back
to what I was saying: Castlereagh has bought these fellows at his
price or their own; some were dear enough, some were cheap. Barton, for
instance, takes it out in Castle dinners, and has sold his birthright
for the Viceroy's venison."
"May good digestion wait on appetite!" repeated Darcy, laughing.
"Well, let's not waste more time on them, but come to what I mean.
Castlereagh wants to know how you mean to vote: some have told him you
would be on his side; others, myself among the number, say the reverse.
In fact, little as you may think about the matter, heavy bets are laid
at this moment on the question, and--But I won't mention names; enough
if I say a friend of ours--an old friend, too--has a thousand on it."
The Knight tapped his snuff-box calmly, and with his blandest smile
begged Heffernan to proceed.
"Faith! I 've nearly told all I had to say. Every one well knows that,
whatever decision you come to, it will be unbiassed by everything save
your own conscientious sense of right; and as arguments are pretty
nearly equal on the question,--for, in truth, after having heard
and read most of what has been written or spoken on the point,--I
'm regularly nonplussed on which side to see the advantage. The real
question seems to be, Can we go on as we are?"
"I think not," observed the Knight, gravely. "A Parliament which has
exhibited its venality so openly can have little pretension to public
confidence."
"The very remark I made myself," cried Heffernan, triumphantly.
"The men who sell themselves to-day to the Crown will, if need be, sell
themselves to-morrow to the mob."
"My own words, by Jove!--my very words."
"A dependent Parliament, attempting separate and independent
legislation, means an absurdity."
"There is no other name for it," cried Heffernan, in ecstasy.
"I have known Ireland for something more than half a century now," said
the Knight, with a touch of melancholy in his voice, "and yet never
before saw so much of social disorder as at present, and perhaps we are
only at the beginning of it. The scenes we have witnessed in France
have been more bloody and more cruel, but they will leave less permanent
results behind them than our own revolution; for such, after all, it is.
The property of the country is changing hands, the old aristocracy are
dying out, if not dead; their new successors have neither any hold on
the affection of the people, nor a bond of union with each other. See
what will come of it; the old game of feudalism will be tried by these
men of yesterday, and the peasantry, whose reverence for birth is a
religion, will turn on them, and the time is not very distant, perhaps,
when the men who would not harm the landlord's dog will have little
reverence for the landlord's self."
"You have drawn a sad picture," said Heffernan, either feeling or
affecting to feel the truthfulness of the Knight's delineation.
"Our share in the ruin," said the Knight, rising, and pacing the room
with rapid strides,--"our share is not undeserved. We had a distinct
and defined duty to perform, and we neglected it; instead of extending
civilization, we were the messengers of barbarism among the people."
"Your own estates, I have heard, are a refutation of your theory,"
interposed Heffernan, insinuatingly.
"My estates--" repeated the Knight; and then, stopping suddenly, with
a changed voice, he said, "Heffernan, we have got into a long and
very unprofitable theme; let us try back, if we can, and see whence we
started: we were talking of the Union."
"Just so," said Heffernan, not sorry to resume the subject which induced
his visit.
"I have determined not to vote on the measure," said the Knight,
solemnly; "my reasons for the course I adopt I hope to be able to
justify when the proper time arrives; meanwhile, it will prevent
unnecessary speculation, and equally unnecessary solicitation, if I tell
you frankly what I mean to do. Such is my present resolve."
The word "solicitation" fell from the Knight's lips with such a peculiar
expression that Heffernan at once saw his own game was detected,
and, like a clever tactician, resolved to make the best of his forced
position.
"You have been frank with me, Knight; I'll not be less candid
with you, I came here to convey to you a distinct offer from the
Government,--not of any personal favor or advantage, that, they well
knew, you would reject,--but, in the event of your support, to take
any suggestion you might make on the new Bill into their serious and
favorable consideration; to advise with you how, in short, the measure
might be made to meet your views, and, so to say, admit you into
conclave with the Cabinet."
"All this is very flattering," said the Knight, with a smile of evident
satisfaction, "but I scarcely see how the opinions of a very humble
country gentleman can weigh in the grave councils of a Government."
"The best proof is the fact itself," replied Heffernan, artfully. "Were
I to tell you of other reasons, you might suspect me of an intention to
canvass your support on very different grounds."
"I confess I'm in the dark; explain yourself more fully."
"This is a day for sincerity," said Heffernan, smiling, "and so, here
it is: the Prince has taken a special liking to your son Lionel, and has
given him his company."
"His company! I never heard of it."
"Strange enough that he should not have written to you on the subject,
but the fact is unquestionable; and, as I was saying, he is a frequent
guest at Carlton House, and admitted into the choice circle of his Royal
Highness's parties: if, in the freedom of that intimacy with which he is
honored by the Prince, the question should have arisen, how his father
meant to vote, the fact was not surprising, no more than that Captain
Darcy should have replied--"
"Lionel never pledged himself to control my vote, depend upon that,
Mr. Heffernan," said the Knight, reddening.
"Nor did I say so," interposed Heffernan. "Hear me out: your son is
reported to have answered, 'My father's family have been too trained in
loyalty, sire, not to give their voice for what they believe the best
interests of the empire: your Royal Highness may doubt his judgment,
his honor will, I am certain, never be called in question.' The Prince
laughed good-naturedly, and said, 'Enough, Darcy,--quite enough; it will
give me great satisfaction to think as highly of the father as I do of
the son; there is a vacancy on the staff, and I can offer you the post
of an extra aide-de-camp.'"
"This is very good news,--the best I 've heard for many a day,
Heffernan; and for its accuracy--"
"Lord Castlereagh is the guarantee," added Heffernan, hastily; "I had it
from his own lips."
"I 'll wait on him this morning. I can at least express my gratitude for
his Royal Highness's kindness to my boy."
"You 'll not have far to go," said Heffernan, smiling.
"How so?--what do you mean?"
"Lord Castlereagh is at the door this moment in that carriage;" and
Hefifernan pointed to the chariot which, with its blinds closely drawn,
stood before the street door.
The Knight moved hastily towards the door, and then, turning suddenly,
burst into a hearty laugh,--a laugh so racy and full of enjoyment that
Heffernan himself joined in it, without knowing wherefore.
"You are a clever fellow, Hefifernan!" said the Knight, as he lay back
in a deep-cushioned chair, and wiped his eyes, now streaming with tears
of laughter,--"a devilish clever fellow! The whole affair reminds me of
poor Jack Morris."
"Faith! I don't see your meaning," said Hefifernan, half fearful that
all was not right.
"You knew Jack,--we all knew him. Well, poor Morris was going home one
night,--from the theatre, I believe it was,--but, just as he reached Ely
Place, he saw, by the light of a lamp, a gentlemanlike fellow trying to
make out an address on a letter, and endeavoring, as well as he could,
to spell out the words by the uncertain light. 'Devilish provoking!'
said the stranger, half aloud; 'I wrote it myself, and yet cannot read
a word of it.' 'Can I be of any service?' said Jack. Poor fellow! he was
always ready for anything kind or good-natured. 'Thank you,' said the
other; 'but I 'm a stranger in Dublin,--only arrived this evening from
Liverpool,--and cannot remember the name or the street of my hotel,
although I noted both down on this letter.' 'Show it to me,' said Jack,
taking the document. But although he held it every way, and tried all
manner of guesses, he never could hit on the name the stranger wanted.
'Never mind,' said Jack; 'don't bother yourself about it. Come home
with, me and have an oyster,--I 'll give you a bed; 't will be time
enough after breakfast to-morrow to hunt out the hotel.' To make short
of it, the stranger complied; after all the natural expressions of
gratitude and shame, home they went, supped, finished two bottles of
claret, and chatted away till past two o'clock. 'You 'd like to get to
bed, I see,' said Jack, as the stranger seemed growing somewhat drowsy,
and so he rang the bell and ordered the servant to show the gentleman
to his room. 'And, Martin,' said he, 'take care that everything is
comfortable, and be sure you have a nightcap.' 'Oh! I 've a nightcap
myself,' said the stranger, pulling one, neatly folded, out of his coat
pocket. 'Have you, by G--d!' said Jack. 'If you have, then, you 'll not
sleep here. A man that's so ready for a contingency has generally some
hand in contriving it.' And so he put him out of doors, and never saw
more of him. Eh, Heffernan, was Jack right?" And again the old man
broke into a hearty laugh, in which Heffernan, notwithstanding his
discomfiture, could not refrain from participating.
"Well," said he, as he arose to leave the room, "I feel twenty years
younger for that hearty laugh. It reminds me of the jolly days we used
to have long ago, with Price Godfrey and Bagenal Daly. By the way, where
is Bagenal now, and what is he doing?"
"Pretty much what he always was doing,--mischief and devilment," said
the Knight, half angrily.
"Is he still the member for Old-Castle? I forget what fate the petition
had."
"The fate of the counsel that undertook it is easily remembered," said
the Knight. "Bagenal called him out for daring to take such a liberty
with a man who had represented the borough for thirty years, and shot
him in the hip. 'You shall have a plumper, by Jove,' said Bagenal;
and he gave him one. Men grew shy of the case afterwards, and it was
dropped, and so Bagenal still represents the place. Good-by, Heffernan;
don't forget Jack Morris." And so saying, the Knight took leave of his
visitor, and returned to his chair at the breakfast-table.
CHAPTER XI. THE KNIGHT AND HIS AGENT.
The news of Lionel's promotion, and the flattering notice which the
Prince had taken of him, made the Knight very indifferent about his
heavy loss of the preceding evening. It was, to be sure, an immense sum;
but as Gleeson was arranging his affairs, it was only "raising" so much
more, and thus preventing the estate from leaving the family. Such was
his own very mode of settling the matter in his own mind, nor did he
bestow more time on the consideration than enabled him to arrive at this
satisfactory conclusion.
If ever there was an agent designed to compensate for the easy,
careless habits of such a principal, it was Mr. Gleeson, or, as he was
universally known in the world of that day, "Honest Tom Gleeson." In him
seemed concentrated all those peculiar gifts which made up the perfect
man of business. He was cautious, painstaking, and methodical; of a
temper which nothing could ruffle, and with a patience no provocation
could exhaust; punctual as a clock, neither precipitate nor dilatory, he
appeared prompt to the slow, and seemed almost tardy to the hasty man.
In the management of several large estates--he might have had many
more if he would have accepted the charge--Mr. Gleeson had amassed a
considerable fortune; but so devotedly did he attach himself to the
interests of his employers, so thoroughly identify their fortunes
with his own, that he gave little time to the cares of his immediate
property. By his skill and intelligence many country gentlemen had
emerged from embarrassments that threatened to engulf their entire
fortunes; and his aid in a difficulty was looked upon as a certain
guarantee of success. It was not very surprising if a man endowed with
qualities like these should have usurped something of ascendency over
his employers. To a certain extent their destiny lay in his hands. Of
the difficulties by which they were pressed he alone knew either the
nature or amount, while by what straits these should be overcome none
but himself could offer a suggestion. If in all his dealings the most
strict regard to honor was observable, so did he seem also inexhaustible
in his contrivances to rescue an embarrassed or encumbered estate. There
was often the greatest difficulty in securing his services, solicitation
and interest were even required to engage him; but once retained, he
applied his energies to the task, and with such zeal and acuteness that
it was said no case, however desperate, had yet failed in his hands.
For several years past he had managed all the Knight's estates; and
such was the complication and entanglement of the property, loaded with
mortgages and rent-charges, embarrassed with dowries and annuities, that
nothing short of his admirable skill could have supported the means of
that expensive and wasteful mode of life which the Knight insisted on
pursuing, and all restriction on which he deemed unfitting his station.
If Gleeson represented the urgent necessity of retrenchment, the very
word was enough to cut short the negotiation; until, at last, the agent
was fain to rest content with the fruits of good management, and merely
venture from time to time on a cautious suggestion regarding the immense
expense of the Knight's household.
With all his guardedness and care, these representations were not always
safe; for though the Knight would sometimes meet them with some jocular
or witty reply, or some bantering allusion to the agent's taste
for money-getting, at other times he would receive the advice with
impatience or ill-humor, so that, at last, Gleeson limited all
complaints on this score to his letters to Lady Eleanor, with whom he
maintained a close and confidential correspondence.
This reserve on Gleeson's part had its effects on the Knight, who felt
a proportionate delicacy in avowing any act of extravagance that should
demand a fresh call for money, and thus embarrass the negotiation by
which the agent was endeavoring to extricate the property.
If Darcy felt the loss of the preceding night, it was far more from the
necessity of avowing it to Gleeson than from the amount of the money,
considerable as it was; and he, therefore, set out to call upon him, in
a frame of mind far less at ease than he desired to persuade himself he
enjoyed.
Mr. Gleeson lived about three miles from Dublin, so that the Knight had
abundant time to meditate as he went along, and think over the interview
that awaited him. His revery was only broken by a sudden change from the
high-road to the noiseless quiet of the neat avenue which led up to the
house.
Mr. Gleeson's abode had been an ancient manor-house in the Gwynne
family, a building of such antiquity as to date from the time of the
Knights Templars; and though once a favored residence of the Darcys,
had, from the circumstances of a dreadful crime committed beneath its
roof,--the murder of a servant by his master,--been at first deserted,
and subsequently utterly neglected by the owners, so that at last it
fell into ruin and decay. The roof was partly fallen in, the windows
shattered and broken, the rich ceilings rotten and discolored with damp;
it presented an aspect of desolation, when Mr. Gleeson proposed to
take it on lease. Nor was the ruin only within doors, but without; the
ornamental planting had been torn up, or used as firewood; the gardens
pillaged and overrun with cattle; and the large trees--among which
were some rare and remarkable ones--were lopped and torn by the country
people, who trespassed and committed their depredations without fear or
impediment. Now, however, the whole aspect was changed; the same spirit
of order that exercised its happy influence in the management of distant
properties had arrested the progress of destruction here, and, happily,
in sufficient time to preserve some of the features which, in days past,
had made this the most beautiful seat in the county.
It was not without a feeling of astonishment that the Knight surveyed
the change. An interval of twelve years--for such had been the length of
time since he was last there--had worked magic in all around. Clumps had
sprung up into ornamental groups, saplings become graceful trees, sickly
evergreens that leaned their frail stems against a stake were now richly
leaved hollies or fragrant laurustinas; and the marshy pond, that seemed
stagnant with rank grass and duckweed, was a clear lake fed by a silvery
cascade which descended in quaint but graceful terraces from the very
end of the neat lawn.
In Darcy's eyes, the only fault was the excessive neatness perceptible
in everything; the very gravel seemed to shine with a peculiar lustre,
the alleys were swept clean, not even a withered leaf was suffered to
disfigure them, while the shrubs had an air of trim propriety, like the
self-satisfied air of a Sunday citizen.
The brilliant lustre of the heavy brass knocker, the white and spotless
flags of the stone hall, and the immaculate accuracy of the staid
footman who opened the door, were types of the prevailing tastes and
habits of the proprietor. A mere glance at the orderly arrangement of
Mr. Gleeson's study would have confirmed the impression of his strict
notions and regularity of discipline: not a book was out of place;
the boxes, labelled with high and titled names, were ranged with a
drill-like precision upon the shelves; the very letters that lay in
the baskets beside the table fell with an attention to staid decorum
becoming the rigid habits of the place.
The Knight had some minutes to bestow in contemplation of these objects
before Gleeson entered; he had only that morning arrived from a distant
journey, and was dressing when the Knight was announced. With a bland,
soft manner, and an air compounded of diffidence and self-importance,
Mr. Gleeson made his approaches.
"You have anticipated me, sir," said he, placing a chair for the Knight;
"I had ordered the carriage to call upon you. May I beg you to excuse
the question, but my anxiety will not permit me to defer it: there is
no truth, or very little, I trust, in the paragraph I 've just read in
Carrick's paper--"
"About a party at piquet with Lord Drogheda?" interrupted Darcy.
"The same."
"Every word of it correct, Gleeson," said the Knight, who,
notwithstanding the occasion, could not control the temptation to laugh
at the terrified expression of the agent's face.
"But surely the sum was exaggerated; the paper says, the lands and
demesne of Ballydermot, with the house, furniture, plate, wine,
equipage, garden utensils--"
"I 'm not sure that we mentioned the watering-pots," said Darcy,
smiling; "but the wine hogsheads are certainly included."
"A rental of clear three thousand four hundred and seventy-eight pounds,
odd shillings, on a lease of lives renewable forever--pepercorn fine!"
exclaimed Gleeson, closing his eyes, and folding his hands upon his
breast, like a martyr resigning himself to the torture.
"So much for going on spades without the head of the suit!" observed
the Knight; "and yet any man might have made the same blunder; and then,
Heffernan, with his interruption,--altogether, Gleeson, the whole was
mismanaged sadly."
"The greater, part of the land tithe free," moaned Gleeson to himself;
"it was a grant from the Crown to your ancestor, Everard Darcy."
"If it was the king gave it, Gleeson, it was the queen lost it."
"The lands of Corrabeg, Dunragheedaghan, and Muscarooney, let
at fifteen shillings an acre, with a right to cut turf on the
Derryslattery bog! not to speak of Knocksadowd! lost, and no
redemption!"
"Yes, Gleeson, that's the point I'm coming to; there is a proviso in
favor of redemption, whenever your grief will permit you to hear it."
Gleeson gave a brief cough, blew his nose with considerable energy,
and with an air of submissive sorrow apologized for yielding to his
feelings. "I have been so many years, sir, the guardian--if I may so
say--of that property that I cannot think of being severed from its
interests without deep, very deep, regret."
"By Jove! Gleeson, so do I! you have no monopoly of the sorrow, believe
me. I acknowledge, readily, the full extent of my culpability. This
foolish bet came to pass at a dinner at Hutchison's,--it was the
crowning point of a bragging conversation about play,--and Drogheda, it
seems, booked it, though I totally forgot all about it. I'm certain
he never intended to push the wager on me, but when reminded of it, of
course I had nothing else for it but to express my readiness to meet
him. I must say he behaved nobly all through; and even when Heffer-nan's
stupid interruption had somewhat ruffled my nerves, he begged I
would reconsider the card--he saw I had made a mistake--very handsome
that!--his backers, I assure you, did not seem as much disposed to
extend the courtesy. I relieved their minds, however, I stood by my
play, and--"
"And lost an estate of three thousand--"
"Quite correct; I'm sure no man knows the rental better. And now, let us
see how to keep it in the family."
The stare of amazement with which Gleeson heard these words might have
met a proposition far more extravagant still, and he repeated the speech
to himself, as if weighing every syllable in a balance.
"Yes, Gleeson, that was exactly what I said; now that we are engaged
in liquidating, let us proceed with the good work. If I have given you
enlarged occasion for the exercise of your abilities, I 'm only acting
like Peter Henessy,--old Peter, that held the mill at Brown's Barn."
The agent looked up with an expression in which all interest to learn
the precedent alluded to was lost in astonishment at the levity of a man
who could jest at such a moment.
"I see you never heard it, and, as the lawyers say, the rule will apply.
I 'll tell it to you. When Peter was dying, he sent for old Rush of the
Priory to give him absolution; he would not have the parish priest, for
he was a 'hard man,' as Peter said, with little compassion for human
weakness, never loved pork nor 'poteen,' but seemed to have a relish for
fasts and vigils. 'Rush will do,' said he to all the family applications
in favor of the other,--'I 'll have Father Rush;' and so he had, and
Rush came, and they were four hours at it, for Peter had a long score
of reminiscences to bring up, and it was not without considerable
difficulty, it is said, that Rush could apply the remedies of the Church
to the various infractions of the old sinner. At last, however, it was
arranged, and Peter lay back in bed very tired and fatigued; for, I
assure you, Gleeson, whatever you may think of it, confessing one's
iniquities is excessively wearying to the spirits. 'Is it all right,
Father?' said he, as the good priest counted over the roll of ragged
bank-notes that were to be devoted to the purchase of different masses
and offerings. 'It will do well,' said Rush; 'make your mind easy, your
peace is made now.' 'And are you sure it's quite safe?' said Peter;
'a pound more or less is nothing now compared to--what you know,'--for
Peter was polite, and followed the poet's counsel. ''Tis safe and sure
both,' said Rush; 'I have the whole of the sins under my thumb now, and
don't fret yourself.' 'Take another thirty shillings then, Father,' said
he, pushing the note over to him, 'and let Whaley have the two barrels
of seed oats--the smut is in them, and they 're not worth sixpence;
but, when we are at it, Father, dear, let us do the thing complete:
what signifies a trifle like that among the rest?' Such was Peter's
philosophy, Gleeson, and, if not very laudable as he applied it, it
would seem to suit our present emergency remarkably well."
Gleeson vouchsafed but a very sickly smile as the Knight finished, and,
taking up a bundle of papers from the table, proceeded to search for
something amongst them.
"This loss was most inopportune, sir--"
"No doubt of it, Gleeson; it were far better had I won my wager,"
said the Knight, half testily; but the agent, scarce noticing the
interruption, went on:--
"Mr. Lionel has drawn on me for seven hundred, and so late as Wednesday
last I was obliged to meet a bill of his amounting to twelve hundred and
eighty pounds. Thus, you will perceive that he has this year overdrawn
his allowance considerably. He seems to have been as unlucky as
yourself, sir."
Soft and silky as the accents were, there was a tincture of sarcasm in
the way these words were uttered that did not escape Darcy's notice;
but he made no reply, and appeared to listen attentively as the other
resumed:--
"Then, the expenses of the abbey have been enormous this year; you would
scarcely credit the outlay for the hunting establishment; and, as I
learn from Lady Eleanor that you rarely, if ever, take the field
yourself--"
"Never mind that, Gleeson," broke in the Knight, suddenly. "I 'll not
sell a horse or part with a dog amongst them. My income must well be
able to afford me the luxuries I have always been used to. I 'm not to
be told that, with a rental of eighteen thousand a year--"
"A rental, sir, I grant you," said Gleeson, interrupting him; "you said
quite correctly,--the rental is even more than you stated; but consider
the charges on that rental,--the heavy sums raised on mortgages, the
debt incurred by building, the two contested elections, your losses on
the turf: these make sad inroads in the amount of your income."
"I tell you frankly, Gleeson," said the Knight, starting up and pacing
the room with hasty steps, "I 've neither head nor patience for details
of this kind. I was induced to believe that my embarrassments, such as
they are, were in course of liquidation; that by raising two hundred
and fifty thousand pounds at four-and-a-half, or even five per cent, we
should be enabled to clear off the heavy debts, for which we are paying
ten, twelve,--ay, by Jove! I believe fifteen per cent."
"Upon my word, I believe you do not exaggerate," said Gleeson, in a
conciliating accent. "Hickman's bond, though nominally bearing six per
cent, is actually treble that sum. He holds 'The Grove' at the rent of
a cottier's tenure, and with the right of cutting timber in Clon-a-gauve
wood,--a right he is by no means chary of exercising."
"That must be stopped, and at once," broke in Darcy, with a heightened
color. "The old man is actually making a clearing of the whole mountain
side; the last time I was up there, Lionel and I counted two hundred and
eighteen trees marked for the hatchet. I ordered Finn not to permit one
of them to be touched; to go with a message from me to Hickman, saying
that there was a wide difference between cutting timber for farm
purposes and carrying on a trade in rivalry with the Baltic. Oaks of
twenty, eighty, ay, a hundred and fifty years' growth, the finest trees
on the property, were among those I counted."
"And did he desist, sir?" asked Gleeson, with a half cunning look.
"Did he?--what a question you ask me! By Heavens! if he barked a sapling
in that wood after my warning, I 'd have sent the Derrahinchy boys
down to his place, and they would not have left a twig standing on his
cockney territory. Devilish lucky he 'd be if they stopped there, and
left him a house to shelter him."
"He's a very unsafe enemy, sir," observed Gleeson, timidly.
"By Jove! Gleeson, I think you are bent on driving me distracted this
morning. You have hit upon perhaps the only theme on which I cannot
control my irritability, and I beg of you, once and for all, to change
it."
"I should never have alluded to Mr. Hickman, sir, but that I wished
to remark to you that he is in a position which requires all our
watchfulness; he has within the last three weeks bought up Drake's
mortgage, and also Belson's bond for seventeen thousand, and, I know
from a source of unquestionable accuracy, is at this moment negotiating
for the purchase of Martin Hamilton's bond, amounting to twenty-one
thousand more; so that, in fact, with the exception of that small debt
to Batty and Rowe, he will remain the sole creditor."
"The sole creditor!" exclaimed Darcy, growing pale as marble,--"Peter
Hickman the sole creditor!"
"To be sure, this privilege he will not long enjoy," said Gleeson, with
a degree of alacrity he had not assumed before; "when our arrangements
are perfected with the London house of Bicknell and Jervis, we can pay
off Hickman at once; he shall have a check for the whole amount the very
same day."
"And how soon may we hope for this happy event, Gleeson?" cried the
Knight, recovering his wonted voice and manner.
"It will not be distant now, sir; one of the deeds is ready at this
moment, or at least will be to-morrow. On your signing it, we shall have
some very trifling delays, and the money can be forthcoming by the end
of the next week. The other will be perfected and compared by Wednesday
week."
"So that within three weeks, or a month at furthest, Gieeson, we shall
have cut the cable with the old pirate?"
"Three weeks, I trust, will see all finished; that is, if this affair of
Ballydermot does not interfere."
"It shall not do so," cried the Knight, resolutely; "let it go. Drogheda
is a gentleman at least, and if our old acres are to fall into other
hands, let their possessor have blood in his veins, and he will not
tyrannize over the people; but Hickman--"
"Very right, sir, Hickman might foreclose on the 24th of this month."
"Gieeson, no more of this; I 'm not equal to it," said the Knight,
faintly; and he sat down with a wearied sigh, and covered his face with
his hands. The emotion, painful as it was, passed over soon, and the
Knight, with a voice calm and measured as before, said, "You will
take care, Gieeson, that my son's bills are provided for; London is
an expensive place, and particularly for a young fellow situated like
Lionel; you may venture on a gentle--mind, a very gentle--remonstrance
respecting his repeated calls for money; hint something about
arrangements just pending, which require a little more prudence than
usual. Do it cautiously, Gieeson; be very guarded. I remember when I
was a young fellow being driven to the Jews by an old agent of my
grandfather's; he wrote me a regular homily on thrift and economy, and
to show I had benefited by the lesson, I went straightway and raised a
loan at something very like sixty per cent."
"You may rely upon my prudence, sir," said Gieeson. "I think I can
promise that Mr. Lionel will not take offence at my freedom. May I say
Tuesday to wait on you with the deeds,--Tuesday morning?"
"Of course, whenever you appoint, I 'll be ready. I hoped to have
left town this week; but these are too important matters to bear
postponement. Tuesday, then, be it." And with a friendly shake-hands,
they parted,--Gleeson, to the duties of his laborious life; the Knight,
with a mind less at ease than was his wont, but still bearing no trace
of discomposure on his manly and handsome countenance.
CHAPTER XII. A FIRST VISIT
"Whenever Captain Forester is quite able to bear the fatigue,
Sullivan,--mind that you say 'quite able,'--it will give me much
pleasure to receive him."
Such was the answer Lady Eleanor Darcy returned to a polite message from
the young officer, expressing his desire to visit Lady Eleanor and
thank her for the unwearied kindness she had bestowed on him during his
illness.
Lady Eleanor and her daughter were seated in the same chamber in which
they have already been introduced to the reader. It was towards the
close of a dark and gloomy day, the air heavy and overcast towards the
land, while, over the sea, masses of black, misshapen cloud were drifted
along hurriedly, the presage of a coming storm. The pine wood blazed
brightly on the wide hearth, and threw its mellow lustre over the
antique carvings and the porcelain ornaments of the chamber, contrasting
the glow of in-door comfort with the bleak and cheerless look of all
without, where the crashing noise of breaking branches mingled with the
yet sadder sound of the swollen torrent from the mountain.
It may be remarked that persons who have lived much on the seaside,
and near a coast abounding in difficulties or dangers, are far more
susceptible of the influences of weather than those who pass their
lives inland. Storm and shipwreck become, in a measure, inseparably
associated. The loud beating of the waves upon the rocky shore, the
deafening thunder of the swollen breakers, speak with a voice to their
hearts, full of most meaning terror. The moaning accents of the spent
wind, and the wailing cry of the petrel, awake thoughts of those who
journey over "the great waters," amid perils more dreadful than all of
man's devising.
Partly from these causes, partly from influences of a different kind,
both mother and daughter felt unusually sad and depressed, and had
sat for a long interval without speaking, when Forester's message was
delivered, requesting leave to pay his personal respects.
Had the visit been one of mere ceremony, Lady Eleanor would have
declined it at once; her thoughts were wandering far away, engrossed by
topics of dear and painful interest, and she would not have constrained
herself to change their current and direction for an ordinary matter of
conventional intercourse. But this was a different case; it was her son
Lionel's friend, his chosen companion among his brother officers, the
guest, too, who, wounded and almost dying beneath her roof, had been a
charge of intense anxiety to her for weeks past.
"There is something strange, Helen, is there not, in this notion of
acquaintanceship with one we have never seen; but now, after weeks of
watching and inquiry, after nights of anxiety and days of care, I feel
as if I ought to be very intimate with this same friend of Lionel's."
"It is more for that very reason, Mamma, and simply because he is
Lionel's friend."
"No, my dear child, not so; it is the tie that binds us to all for whom
we have felt interested, and in whose sorrows we have taken a share.
Lionel has doubtless many friends in his regiment, and yet it is very
unlikely any of them would cause me even a momentary impatience to see
and know what they are like."
"And do you confess to such in the present case?" said Helen, smiling.
"I own it, I have a strange feeling of half curiosity, and should
be disappointed if the real Captain Forester does not come up to the
standard of the ideal one."
"Captain Forester, my Lady," said Sullivan, as he threw open the door of
the apartment, and, with a step which all his efforts could not render
firm, and a frame greatly reduced by suffering, he entered. So little
was he prepared for the appearance of the ladies who now stood to
receive him, that, despite his habitual tact, a slight expression of
surprise marked his features, and a heightened color dyed his cheek as
he saluted them in turn.
With an air which perfectly blended kindliness and grace, Lady Eleanor
held out her hand, and said, "My daughter, Captain Forester;" and then,
pointing to a chair beside her own, begged of him to be seated.
The unaccustomed exertion, the feeling of surprise, and the nervous
irritability of convalescence, all conspired to make Forester ill at
ease, and it was with a low, faint sigh he sank into the chair.
"I had hoped, madam," said he, in a weak and tremulous accent,--"I had
hoped to be able to speak my gratitude to you,--to express at least
some portion of what I feel for kindness to which I owe my life; but
the greatness of the obligation would seem too much for such strength as
mine. I must leave it to my mother to say how deeply your kindness has
affected us."
The accents in which these few words were uttered, particularly that
which marked the mention of his mother, seemed to strike a chord in
Lady Eleanor's heart, and her hand trembled as she took from Forester a
sealed letter which he withdrew from another.
"Julia Wallincourt," said Lady Eleanor, unconsciously reading half aloud
the signature on the envelope of the letter.
"My mother, madam," said Forester, bowing.
"The Countess of Wallincourt!" exclaimed Lady Eleanor, with a heightened
color and a look of excited and even anxious import.
"Yes, madam, the widowed Countess of the Earl of Wallincourt, late
Ambassador at Madrid; am I to have the happiness of hearing that my
mother is known to you?"
"I had, sir, the pleasure,--the honor of meeting Lady Julia D'Esterre;
to have enjoyed that pleasure, even once, is quite enough never to
forget it." Then, turning to her daughter, she added: "You have often
heard me speak of Lady Julia's beauty, Helen; she was certainly the
most lovely person I ever saw, but the charm of her appearance was even
inferior to the fascination of her manner."
"She retains it all, madam," cried Forester, as his eyes sparkled
with enthusiastic delight; "she has lost nothing of that power of
captivating; and as for beauty, I confess I know nothing higher in
that quality than what conveys elevation of sentiment, with purity and
tenderness of heart: this she possesses still."
"And your elder brother, Captain Forester?" inquired Lady Eleanor, with
a manner intended to express interest, but in reality meant to direct
the conversation into another channel.
"He is in Spain still, madam; he was Secretary of the Embassy when my
father died, and replaced him in the mission."
There was a pause, a long and chilling silence, after these words, that
each party felt embarrassing, and yet were unable to break; at last
Forester, turning towards Helen, asked "when she had heard from her
brother?"
"Not for some days past," replied she; "but Lionel is such an irregular
correspondent, we think nothing of his long intervals of silence. You
have heard of his promotion, perhaps?"
"No; pray let me learn the good news."
"He has got his company. Some very unexpected--I might say, from
Lionel's account, some very inexplicable--piece of good fortune has
aided his advancement, and he now writes himself, greatly to his own
delight, it would appear, Captain Darcy."
"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales," said Lady Eleanor, with a look
of pride, "has been pleased to notice my son, and has appointed him an
extra aide-de-camp."
"Indeed!" cried Forester; "I am rejoiced at it, with all my heart. I
always thought, if the Prince were to know him, he 'd be charmed with
his agreeability. Lionel has the very qualities that win their way
at Carlton House: buoyant spirit, courtly address, tact equal to any
emergency,--all these are his; and the Prince likes to see handsome
fellows about his Court. I am overjoyed at this piece of intelligence."
There was a hearty frankness with which he spoke this that captivated
both mother and daughter.
There are few more winning traits of human nature than the unaffected,
heartfelt admiration of one young man for the qualities and endowments
of another, and never are they more likely to meet appreciation than
when exhibited in presence of the mother of the lauded one. And thus the
simple expression of Forester's delight at his friend's advancement went
further to exalt himself in the good graces of Lady Eleanor than the
display of any powers of pleasing, however ingeniously or artfully
exercised.
As through the openings of a dense wood we come unexpectedly upon a view
of a wide tract of country, unfolding features of landscape unthought of
and unlooked for, so occasionally doth it happen that, in conversation,
a chance allusion, a mere word, will develop sources of interest buried
up to that very moment, and display themes of mutual enjoyment which
were unknown before. This was now the case. Lionel's name, which evoked
the mother's pride and the sister's affection, called also into play the
generous warmth of Forester's attachment to him.
Thus pleasantly glided on the hours, and none remarked how time was
passing, or even heeded the howling storm that raged without, while
anecdotes and traits of Lionel were recorded, and comments passed upon
his character and temper such as a friend might utter and a mother love
to hear.
At last Forester rose. More than once during the interview a
consciousness crossed his mind that he was outstaying the ordinary
limits of a visit; but at each moment some observation of Lady Eleanor
or her daughter, or some newly remembered incident in Lionel's career,
would occur, and delay his departure. At last he stood up, and, warned
by the thickening darkness of how time had sped, was endeavoring to
mutter some words of apology, when Lady Eleanor interrupted him with,--
"Pray do not let us suppose you felt the hours too long, Captain
Forester; the theme you selected will always make my daughter and
myself insensible to the lapse of time. If I did not fear we should be
trespassing on both your kindness and health together, I should venture
to request you would dine with us."
Forester's sparkling eyes and flushed cheek replied to the invitation
before he had words to say how gladly he accepted it.
"I feel more reconciled to making this request, sir," said Lady Eleanor,
"because in your present state of weakness you cannot enjoy the society
of a pleasanter party, and it is a fortunate thing that you can combine
a prudent action with a kind one."
Forester appreciated the flattery of the remark, and, with a broken
acknowledgment of its import, moved towards the door.
"No, no," said Lady Eleanor, "pray don't think of dressing; you have all
the privilege of an invalid, and a--friend also."
The pause which preceded the word brought a slight blush into her cheek,
but when it was uttered, she seemed to have resumed her self-possession.
"We shall leave you now with the newspapers, which I suppose you are
longing to look at, and join you at the dinner-table." And as she spoke,
she took her daughter's arm and passed into an adjoining room, leaving
Forester in one of those pleasant reveries which so often break in upon
the hours of returning health, and compensate for all the sufferings of
a sick-bed.
"How strange and how unceasing are the anomalies of Irish life!"
thought he, as he sat alone, ruminating on the past. "Splendor, poverty,
elevation of sentiment, savage ferocity, delicacy the most refined,
barbarism the most revolting, pass before the mind's eye in the quick
succession of the objects in a magic lantern. Here, in these few
weeks, what characters and incidents have been revealed to me! and how
invariably have I found myself wrong in every effort to decipher
them! Nor are the indications of mind and temper in themselves so
very singular, as the fact of meeting them under circumstances and in
situations so unlikely. For instance, who would have expected to see
a Lady Eleanor Darcy here, in this wild region, with all the polished
grace and dignity of manner the best circles alone possess; and her
daughter, haughtier, perhaps, than the mother, more reserved, more timid
it may be, and yet with all the elegance of a Court in every gesture
and every movement. Lionel told me she was handsome,--he might have
said downright beautiful. Where were these, fascinations nurtured and
cultivated? Is it here, on the margin of this lonely bay, amid scenes of
reckless dissipation?"
Of this kind were his musings; nor, amid them all, did one thought
obtrude of the cause which threw him first into such companionship,
nor of that mission, to discharge which was the end and object of his
coming.
CHAPTER XIII. A TREATY REJECTED
Forester's recovery was slow, at least so his friends in the capital
thought it, for to each letter requiring to know when he might be
expected back again, the one reply forever was returned, "As soon as
he felt able to leave Gwynne Abbey." Nor was the answer, perhaps,
injudiciously couched.
From the evening of his first introduction to Lady Eleanor and her
daughter, his visits were frequent, sometimes occupying the entire
morning, and always prolonged far into the night. Never did an intimacy
make more rapid progress; so many tastes and so many topics were in
common to all, for while the ladies had profited by reading and study in
matters which he had little cultivated, yet the groundwork of an early
good education enabled him to join in discussions, and take part
in conversation which both interested at the time, and suggested
improvement afterward; and if Lady Eleanor knew less of the late events
which formed the staple of London small-talk, she was well informed on
the characters and passages of the early portion of the reign, which
gave all the charm of a history to reminiscences purely personal.
With the wits and distinguished men of that day she had lived in great
intimacy, and felt a pride in contrasting the displays of intellectual
wealth, so common then, with the flatter and more prosaic habita since
introduced into society. "Eccentricities and absurdities," she would
say, "have replaced in the world the more brilliant exhibitions of
cultivated and gifted minds, and I must confess to preferring the social
qualities of Horace Walpole to the exaggerations of Bagenal Daly, or the
ludicrous caprices of Buck Whaley."
"I think Mr. Daly charming, for my part," said Helen, laughing. "I'm
certain that he is a miracle of truth, as he is of adventure; if
everything he relates is not strictly accurate and matter of fact, it is
because the real is always inferior to the ideal. The things ought to
have happened as he states."
"It is, at least, ben trovato," broke in Forester; "yet I go further,
and place perfect confidence in his narratives, and truly I have heard
some strange ones in our morning rides together."
"I suspected as much," said Lady Eleanor, "a new listener is such a
boon to him; so, then, you have heard how he carried away the Infanta of
Spain, compelled the Elector of Saxony to take off his boots, made
the Doge of Venice drunk, and instructed the Pasha of Trebizond in the
mysteries of an Irish jig."
"Not a word of these have I heard as yet."
"Indeed! then what, in all mercy, has he been talking of,--India, China,
or North America, perhaps?"
"Still less; he has never wandered from Ireland and Irish life, and I
must say, as far as adventure and incident are concerned, it would have
been quite unnecessary for him to have strayed beyond it."
"You are perfectly right there," said Lady Eleanor, with some
seriousness in the tone; "our home anomalies may shame all foreign
wonders: he himself could scarcely find his parallel in any land."
"He has a sincere affection for Lionel, Mamma," said Helen, in an accent
of deprecating meaning.
"And that very same regard gave the bias to Lionel's taste for every
species of absurdity! Believe me, Helen, Irish blood is too stimulating
an ingredient to enter into a family oftener than once in four
generations. Mr. Daly's has been unadulterated for centuries, and the
consequence is, that, although neither deficient in strong sense or
quick perception, he acts always on the impulse that precedes judgment,
and both his generosity and his injustice outrun the mark."
"I love that same rash temperament," said Helen, flushing as she spoke;
"it is a fine thing to see so much of warm and generous nature survive
all that he must have seen of the littleness of mankind."
"There! Captain Forester, there! Have I not reason on my side? You
thought me very unjust towards poor Mr. Daly,--I know you did; but it
demands all my watchfulness to prevent him being equally the model for
my daughter, as he is for my son's imitation."
"There are traits in his character any might well be proud to
imitate," said Helen, warmly; "his life has been a series of generous,
single-minded actions; and," added she, archly "if Mamma thinks it
prudent and safe to warn her children against some of Mr. Daly's
eccentricities, no one is more ready to acknowledge his real worth than
she is."
"Helen is right," said Lady Eleanor; "if we could always be certain
that Mr. Daly's imitators would copy the truly great features of his
character, we might forgive them falling into his weaknesses; and now,
can any one tell me why we have not seen him for some days past? He is
in the Abbey?"
"Yes, we rode out together yesterday morning to look at the wreck near
the Sound of Achill; strange enough, I only learned from a chance remark
of one of the sailors that Daly had been in the boat, the night before,
that took the people off the wreck."
"So like him!" exclaimed Helen, with enthusiasm.
"He is angry with me, I know he is," said Lady Eleanor, musingly.
"I asked his advice respecting the answer I should send to a certain
letter, and then rejected the counsel. He would have forgiven me had I
run counter to his opinions without asking; but when I called him into
consultation, the offence became a grave one."
"I declare, Mamma, I side with him; his arguments were clear, strong,
and unanswerable, and the best proof of it is, you have never had the
courage to follow your own determination since you listened to him."
"I have a great mind to choose an umpire between us. What say you,
Captain Forester, will you hear the case? Helen shall take Mr. Daly's
side; I will make my own statement."
"It's a novel idea," said Helen, laughing, "that the umpire should be
selected by one of the litigating parties."
"Then you doubt my impartiality, Miss Darcy?"
"If I am to accept you as a judge, I 'll not prejudice the Court against
myself, by avowing my opinions of it," said she, archly.
"When I spoke of your arbitration, Captain Forester," said Lady Eleanor,
"I really meant fairly, for upon all the topics we have discussed
together, politics, or anything bordering on political opinions, have
never come uppermost; and, up to this moment, I have not the slightest
notion what are your political leanings, Whig or Tory."
"So the point in dispute is a political one?" asked Forester,
cautiously.
"Not exactly," interposed Helen; "the policy of a certain reply to a
certain demand is the question at issue; but the advice of any party in
the matter might be tinged by his party leanings, if he have any."
"If I judge Captain Forester aright, he has troubled his head very
little about party squabbles," said Lady Eleanor; "and in any case,
he can scarcely take a deep interest in a question which is almost
peculiarly Irish."
Forester bowed,--partly in pretended acquiescence of this speech, partly
to conceal a deep flush that mounted suddenly to his cheek; for he felt
by no means pleased at a remark that might be held to reflect on his
political knowledge.
"Be thou the judge, then," said Lady Eleanor. "And, first of all, read
that letter." And she took from her work-box her cousin Lord Netherby's
letter, and handed it to Forester.
"I reserve my right to dispute that document being evidence," said
Helen, laughing; "nor is there any proof of the handwriting being Lord
Netherby's. Mamma herself acknowledges she has not heard from him for
nearly twenty years."
This cunning speech, meant to intimate the precise relation of the two
parties, was understood at once by Forester, who could with difficulty
control a smile, although Lady Eleanor looked far from pleased.
There was now a pause, while Forester read over the long letter with due
attention, somewhat puzzled to conceive to what particular portion of it
the matter in dispute referred.
"You have not read the postscript," said Helen, as she saw him folding
the letter, without remarking the few concluding lines.
Forester twice read over the passage alluded to, and at once whatever
had been mysterious or difficult was revealed before him. Lord
Netherby's wily temptation was made manifest, not the less palpably,
perhaps, because the reader was himself involved in the very same
scheme.
"You have now seen my cousin's letter," said Lady Eleanor, "and the
whole question is whether the reply should be limited to a suitable
acknowledgment of its kind expressions, and a grateful sense of the
Prince's condescension, or should convey--"
"Mamma means," interrupted Helen, laughingly,--"Mamma means, that we
might also avow our sincere gratitude for the rich temptation offered in
requital of my father's vote on the 'nion.'"
"No minister would dare to make such a proposition to the Knight of
Gwynne," said Lady Eleanor, haughtily.
"Ministers are very enterprising nowadays, Mamma," rejoined Helen;
"I have never heard any one speak of Mr. Pitt's cowardice, and Lord
Castlereagh has had courage to invite old Mr. Hickman to dinner!"
Forester would gladly have acknowledged his relationship to the
Secretary, but the moment seemed unpropitious, and the avowal would have
had the semblance of a rebuke; so he covered his confusion by a laugh,
and said nothing.
"We can scarcely contemn the hardihood of a Government that has made
Crofton a bishop, and Hawes a general," said Helen, with a flashing
eye and a lip curled in superciliousness. "Nothing short of a profound
reliance on the piety of the Church and the bravery of the Army would
support such a policy as that!"
Lady Eleanor seemed provoked at the hardy tone of Helen's speech; but
the mother's look was proud, as she gazed on the brilliant expression of
her daughter's beauty, now heightened by the excitement of the moment.
"Is it not possible, Miss Darcy," said Forester, in a voice at
once timid and insinuating,--"is it not possible that the measure
contemplated by the Government may have results so beneficial as to more
than compensate for evils like these?"
"A Jesuit, or a Tory, or both," cried Helen. "Mamma, you have chosen
your umpire most judiciously; his is exactly the impartiality needed."
"Nay, but hear me out," cried the young officer, whose cheek was
crimsoned with shame. "If the measure be a good one,--well, let me beg
the question, if it be a good one--and yet, the time for propounding it
is either inopportune or unfortunate, and, consequently, the support it
might claim on its own merits be withheld either from prejudice,
party connection, or any similar cause,--you would not call a ministry
culpable who should anticipate the happy working of a judicious Act, by
securing the assistance of those whose convictions are easily won
over, in preference to the slower process of convincing the men of more
upright and honest intentions."
"You have begged so much in the commencement, and assumed so much in
the conclusion, sir, that I am at a loss to which end of your speech to
address my answer; but I will say this much: it is but sorry evidence
of a measure's goodness when it can only meet with the approval of the
venal. I don't prize the beauty so highly that is only recognized by the
blind man."
"Distorted vision, Miss Darcy, may lead to impressions more erroneous
than even blindness."
"I may have the infirmity you speak of," said she, quickly, "but
assuredly I'll not wear Government spectacles to correct it."
If Forester was surprised at finding a young lady so deeply interested
in a political question, he was still more so on hearing the tone of
determination she spoke in, and would gladly, had he known how, have
given the conversation a less serious turn.
"We have been all the time forgetting the real question at issue," said
Lady Eleanor. "I 'm sure I never intended to listen to a discussion on
the merits or demerits of the Union, on which you both grow so eloquent;
will you then kindly return to whence we started, and advise me as to
the reply to this letter."
[Illustration: 152]
"I do not perceive any remarkable difficulty, madam," said Forester,
addressing himself exclusively to Lady Eleanor. "The Knight of Gwynne
has doubtless strong opinions on this question; they are either in favor
of, or adverse to, the Government views: if the former, your reply is
easy and most satisfactory; if the latter, perhaps he would condescend
to explain the nature of his objections, to state whether it be to
anything in the detail of the measure he is adverse to, or to the
principle of the Bill itself. A declaration like this will open a door
to negotiation, without the slightest imputation on either side. A
minister may well afford to offer his reasons for any line of policy to
one as eminent in station and ability as the Knight of Gwynne, and I
trust I am not indiscreet in assuming that the Knight would not be
derogating from that station in listening to, and canvassing, such
explanations."
"Lord Castlereagh, 'aut---,'" said Helen, starting up from her seat, and
making a low courtesy before Forester, who, feeling himself in a measure
detected, blushed till his face became scarlet.
"My dear Helen, at this rate we shall never--But what is this?--who have
we here?"
This sudden exclamation was caused by the appearance of a small
four-wheeled carriage drawn up at the gate of the flower-garden, from
which old Hickman's voice could now be heard, inquiring if Lady Eleanor
were at home.
"Yes, Sullivan," said she, with a sigh, "and order luncheon." Then, as
the servant left the room, she added, "I am always better pleased when
the visits of that family are paid by the old gentleman, whom I prefer
to the son or the grandson. They are better performers, I admit, but he
is an actor of nature's own making."
"Do you know him, Captain Forester?" asked Helen.
But, before he could reply, the door was opened, and Sullivan announced,
by his ancient title, "Doctor Hickman."
Strange and grotesque as in every respect he looked, the venerable
character of old age secured him a respectful, almost a cordial,
reception; and as Lady Eleanor advanced to him, there was that urbanity
and courtesy in her manner which are so nearly allied to the expression
of actual esteem. It was true, there was little in the old man's
nature to elicit such feelings towards him; he was a grasping miser,
covetousness and money-getting filled up his heart, and every avenue
leading to it. The passion for gain had alone given the interest to his
life, and developed into activity any intelligence he possessed. While
his son valued wealth as the only stepping-stone to a position of
eminence and rank, old Hickman loved riches for their own sake. The bank
was, in his estimation, the fountain of all honor, and a strong credit
there better than all the reputation the world could confer. These were
harsh traits. But then he was old; long years of infirmity were bringing
him each hour closer to the time when the passion of his existence must
be abandoned; and a feeling of pity was excited at the sight of that
withered, careworn face, to which the insensate cravings of avarice lent
an unnatural look of shrewdness and intelligence.
"What a cold morning for your drive, Mr. Hickman," said Lady Eleanor,
kindly. "Captain Forester, may I ask you to stir the fire? Mr.
Hickman--Captain Forester."
"Ah, Miss Helen, beautiful as ever!" exclaimed the old man, as, with a
look of real admiration, he gazed on Miss Darcy. "I don't know how
it is, Lady Eleanor, but the young ladies never dressed so becomingly
formerly. Captain Forester, your humble servant; I'm glad to see you
about again,--indeed, I did n't think it very likely once that you'd
ever leave the library on your own feet; Mac-Donough 's a dead shot they
tell me--ay, ay!"
"I hope your friends at 'The Grove' are well, sir?" said Lady Eleanor,
desirous of interrupting a topic she saw to be particularly distressing
to Forester.
"No, indeed, my Lady; my son Bob--Mr. Hickman O'Reilly, I mean--God
forgive me, I'm sure they take trouble enough to teach me that
name--he's got a kind of a water-brash, what we call a pyrosis. I tell
him it's the French dishes he eats for dinner, things he never was
brought op to, concoctions of lemon juice, and cloves, and saffron, and
garlic, in meat roasted--no, but stewed into chips."
"You prefer our national cookery, Mr. Hickman?"
"Yes, my Lady, with the gravy in it; the crag-end,--if your Ladyship
knows what's the crag-end of a--"
"Indeed, Mr. Hickman," said Lady Eleanor, smiling, "I'm deplorably
ignorant about everything that concerns the household. Helen affects to
be very deep in these matters; but I suspect it is only a superficial
knowledge, got up to amuse the Knight."
"I beg, Mamma, you will not infer any such reproach on my skill in
menage. Papa called my omelette  la cur perfect."
"I should like to hear Mr. Hickman's judgment on it," said Lady Eleanor,
with a sly smile.
"If it's a plain joint, my Lady, boiled or roasted, without spices or
devilment in it, but just the way Providence intended--"
"May I ask, sir, how you suppose Providence intended to recommend any
particular kind of cookery?" said Helen, seriously.
"Whatever is most natural, most simple, the easiest to do," stammered
out Hickman, not over pleased at being asked for an explanation.
"Then the Cossack ranks first in the art," exclaimed Forester; "for
nothing can be more simple or easier than to take a slice of a live ox
and hang it up in the sun for ten or fifteen minutes."
"Them's barbarians," said Hickman, with an emphasis that made the
listeners find it no easy task to keep down a laugh.
"Luncheon, my Lady," said old Tate Sullivan, as with a reverential bow
he opened the folding-doors into a small breakfast parlor, where an
exquisitely served table was laid out.
"Practice before precept, Mr. Hickman," said Lady Eleanor; "will
you join us at luncheon, where I hope you may find something to your
liking?"
As the old man seated himself at the table, his eye ranged over the
cabinet pictures that covered the walls, the richly chased silver on the
table, and the massive wine-coolers that stood on the sideboard, with an
eye whose brilliancy betokened far more the covetous taste of the miser
than the pleased expression of mere connoisseurship; nor could he
recall himself from their admiration to hear Forester's twice-repeated
question as to what he would eat.
"'T is elegant fine plate, no doubt of it," muttered he, below his
breath; "and the pictures may be worth as much more--ay!"
The last monosyllable was the only part of his speech audible, and being
interpreted by Forester as a reply to his request, he at once helped the
old gentleman to a very highly seasoned French dish before him.
"Eh! what's this?" said Hickman, as he surveyed his plate with unfeigned
astonishment; "if I did n't see it laid down on your Ladyship's table, I
'd swear it was a bit of Gal way marble."
"It's a glatine truffe, Mr. Hickman," said Forester, who was well
aware of its merits.
"Be it so, in the name of God!" said Hickman, with resignation, as
though to say that any one who could eat it might take the trouble to
learn the name. "Ay, my Lady, that 's what I like, a slice of Kerry
beef,--a beast made for man's eating."
"Mr. Hickman's pony is more of an epicure than his master," said
Forester, as he arose from his chair and moved towards the glass-door
that opened on the garden; "he has just eaten the top of your
lemon-tree."
"And by way of dessert, he is now cropping my japonica," cried Helen,
as she sprang from the room to rescue her favorite plant. Forester
followed her, and Lady Eleanor was left alone with the doctor.
"Now, my Lady, that I have the opportunity,--and sure it was luck
gave it to me,--would you give me the favor of a little private
conversation?"
"If the matter be on business, Mr. Hickman, I must frankly own I should
prefer your addressing yourself to the Knight; he will be home early
next week."
"It is--and it is not, my Lady--but, there! they're coming back, now,
and it is too late;" and so he heaved a heavy sigh, and lay back in his
chair, as though worn out and disappointed.
"Well, then, in the library, Mr. Hickman," said Lady Eleanor,
compassionately, "when you've eaten some luncheon."
"No more, my Lady; 'tis elegant fine beef as ever I tasted, and the
gravy in it, but I'm not hungry now."
Lady Eleanor, without a guess as to what might form the subject of
his communication, perceived that he was agitated and anxious; and so,
requesting Forester and her daughter to continue their luncheon, she
added: "And I have something to tell Mr. Hickman, if he will give five
minutes of his company in the next room."
Taking a chair near the fire, Lady Eleanor motioned to the doctor to
be seated; but the old man was so engaged in admiring the room and its
furniture that he seemed insensible to all else. As his eye wandered
over the many objects of taste and luxury on every side, his lips
muttered unceasingly, but the sound was inarticulate.
"I cannot pledge myself that we shall remain long uninterrupted, Mr.
Hickman," said Lady Eleanor, "so pray lose no time in the communication
you have to make."
"I humbly ask pardon, my Lady," said the old man, in a voice of
deep humility; "I'm old and feeble now, and my senses none of the
clearest,--but sure it's time for them to be worn out; ninety-one I
'll be, if I live to Lady-day." It was his habit to exaggerate his
age; besides, there was a tremulous pathos in his accents to which Lady
Eleanor was far from feeling insensible, and she awaited in silence what
was to follow.
"Well, well," sighed the old man, "if I succeed in this, the last act of
my long life, I 'm well content to go whenever the Lord pleases." And
so saying, he took from his coat-pocket the ominous-looking old leather
case to which we have already alluded, and searched for some time amid
its contents. "Ay! here it is--that is it--it is only a memorandum, my
Lady, but it will show what I mean." And he handed the paper to Lady
Eleanor.
It was some time before she had arranged her spectacles and adjusted
herself to peruse the document; but before she had concluded, her hand
trembled violently, and all color forsook her cheek. Meanwhile; the
doctor sat with his filmy eyes directed towards her, as if watching
the working of his spell; and when the paper fell from her fingers, he
uttered a low "Ay," as though to say his success was certain.
"Two hundred thousand pounds!" exclaimed she, with a shudder; "this
cannot be true."
"It is all true, my Lady, and so is this too;" and he took from his hat
a newspaper and presented it to her.
"The Ballydermot property! The whole estate lost at cards! This is a
calumny, sir,--the libellous impertinence of a newspaper paragraphist.
I'll not believe it."
"''T 's true, notwithstanding, my Lady. Harvey Dawson was there himself,
and saw it all; and as for the other, the deeds and mortgages are at
this moment in the hands of my son's solicitor."
"And this may be foreclosed--"
"On the 24th, at noon, my Lady," continued Hickman, as he folded the
memorandum and replaced it in his pocket-book.
"Well, sir," said she, as, with a great effort to master her emotion,
she addressed him in a steady and even commanding voice, "the next thing
is to learn what are your intentions respecting this debt? You have not
purchased all these various liabilities of my husband's without some
definite object. Speak it out--what is it? Has Mr. Hickman O'Reilly's
ambition increased so rapidly that he desires to date his letters from
Gwynne Abbey?"
"The Saints forbid it, my Lady," said the old man, with a pious horror.
"I 'd never come here this day on such an errand as that. If it was not
to propose what was agreeable, you 'd not see me here--"
"Well, sir, what is the proposition? Let me hear it at once, for my
patience never bears much dallying with."
"I am coming to it, my Lady," muttered Hickman, who already felt really
ashamed at the deep emotion his news evoked. "There are two ways of
doing it--" A gesture of impatience from Lady Eleanor stopped him, but,
after a brief pause, he resumed: "Bear with me, my Lady. Old age and
infirmity are always prolix; but I'll do my best."
It would be as unfair a trial of the reader's endurance as it proved to
Lady Eleanor's, were we to relate the slow steps by which Mr. Hickman
announced his plan, the substance of which, divested of all his own
circumlocution and occasional interruptions, was simply this: a promise
had been made by Lord Castlereagh to Hickman O'Reilly that if, through
his influence, exercised by means of moneyed arrangements or otherwise,
the Knight of Gwynne would vote with the Government on the "Union,"
he should be elevated to the Peerage, an object which, however
inconsiderable in the old man's esteem, both his son and grandson had
set their hearts upon. For this service they, in requital, would extend
the loan to another period of seven years, stipulating only for some
trifling advantages regarding the right of cutting timber, some coast
fisheries, and other matters to be mentioned afterwards,--points which,
although evidently of minor importance, were recapitulated by the old
man with a circumstantial minuteness.
It was only by a powerful effort that Lady Eleanor could control her
rising indignation at this proposal, while the very thought of Hickman
O'Reilly as a Peer, and member of that proud "Order" of which her own
haughty family formed a part, was an insult almost beyond endurance.
"Go on, sir," said she, with a forced composure which deceived old
Hickman completely, and made him suppose that his negotiation was
proceeding favorably.
"I 'm sure, my Lady, it 's little satisfaction all this grandeur would
give me. I 'd rather be twenty years younger, and in the back parlor of
my old shop at Loughrea than the first peer in the kingdom."
"Ambition is not your failing, then, sir," said she, with a glance
which, to one more quick-sighted, would have conveyed the full measure
of her scorn.
"That it is n't, my Lady; but they insist upon it."
"And is the Peerage to be enriched by the enrolment of your name among
its members? I thought, sir, it was your son."
"Bob--Mr. Hickman, I mean--suggests that I should be the first lord in
the family, my Lady, because then Beecham's title won't seem so new when
it comes to him. 'T is the only use they can make of me now--ay!" and
the word was accented with a venomous sharpness that told the secret
anger he had himself awakened by his remark.
"The Knight of Gwynne," said Lady Eleanor, proudly, "has often regretted
to me the few opportunities he had embraced through life of serving his
country; I have no doubt, sir, when he hears your proposal, that he will
rejoice at this occasion of making an amende. I will write to him by
this post. Is there anything more you wish to add, Mr. Hickman?" said
she, as, having risen from her chair, she perceived that the old man
remained seated.
"Yes, indeed, my Lady, there is, and I don't think I 'd have the heart
for it, if it was n't your Ladyship's kindness about the other business;
and even now, maybe, it would take you by surprise."
"You can scarcely do that, sir, after what I have just listened to,"
said she, with a smile.
"Well, there 's no use in going round about the bush, and this is what
I mean. We thought there might be a difficulty, perhaps, about the vote;
that the Knight might have promised his friends, or said something or
other how he 'd go, and would n't be able to get out of it so easily,
so we saw another way of serving his views about the money. You see, my
Lady, we considered it all well amongst us."
"We should feel deeply grateful, sir, to know how far this family has
occupied your kind solicitude. But proceed."
"If the Knight does n't like to vote with the Government, of course
there is no use in Bob doing it; so he 'll be a Patriot, my Lady,--and
why not? Ha! ha! ha! they 'll be breaking the windows all over Dublin,
and he may as well save the glass!--ay!"
"Forgive me, sir, if I cannot see how this has any reference to my
family."
"I'm coming to it--coming fast, my Lady. We were thinking then how we
could help the Knight, and do a good turn to ourselves; and the way we
hit upon was this: to reduce the interest on the whole debt to five per
cent, make a settlement of half the amount on Miss Darcy, and then, if
the young lady had no objection to my grandson, Beecham--"
"Stop, sir," said Lady Eleanor; "I never could suppose you meant to
offend me intentionally,--I cannot permit of your doing so through
inadvertence or ignorance. I will therefore request that this
conversation may cease. Age has many privileges, Mr. Hickman, but there
are some it can never confer: one of these is the right to insult a lady
and--a mother."
The last words were sobbed rather than spoken: affection and pride, both
outraged together, almost choked her utterance, and Lady Eleanor sat
down trembling in every limb, while the old man, only half conscious of
the emotion he had evoked, peered at her in stolid amazement through his
spectacles.
Any one who knew nothing of old Hickman's character might well have
pitied his perplexity at that moment; doubts of every kind and sort
passed through his mind as rapidly as his timeworn faculties permitted,
and at last he settled down into the conviction that Lady Eleanor might
have thought his demand respecting fortune too exorbitant, although
not deeming the proposition, in other respects, ineligible. To this
conclusion the habits of his own mind insensibly disposed him.
"Ay, my Lady," said he, after a pause, "'tis a deal of money, no doubt;
but it won't be going out of the family, and that's more than could be
said if you refuse the offer."
"Sir!" exclaimed Lady Eleanor, in a tone that to any one less obtusely
endowed would have been an appeal not requiring repetition; but the old
man had only senses for his own views, and went on:--
"They tell me that Mr. Lionel is just as free with his money as his
father; throws it out with both hands, horse-racing and high play, and
every extravagance he can think of. Well, and if that's true, my Lady,
sure it 's well worth while to think that you 'll have a decent house to
put your head under when your daughter's married to Beecham. He has no
wasteful ways, but can look after the main chance as well as any boy
ever I seen. This notion about Miss Helen is the only thing like
expense I ever knew him take up, and sure"--here he dropped his voice to
soliloquy--"sure, maybe, that same will pay well, after all--ay!"
"My head! my head is bursting with blood," sighed Lady Eleanor; but the
last words alone reached Hickman's ears.
"Ay! blood's a fine thing, no doubt of it, but, faith, it won't pay
interest on a mortgage; nor I never heard of it staying the execution of
a writ! 'T is little good blood I had in my veins, and yet I contrived
to scrape a trifle together notwithstanding--ay!"
"I do not feel myself very well, Mr. Hickman," said Lady Eleanor; "may
I request you will send my daughter to me, and excuse me if I wish you a
good morning."
"Shall I hint anything to the young lady about what we were saying?"
said he, in a tone of most confidential import.
"At your peril, sir!" said Lady Eleanor, with a look that at once seemed
to transfix him; and the old man, muttering his adieu, hobbled from
the room, while Lady Eleanor leaned back in her chair, overcome by the
conflict of her emotions.
"Is he gone?" said Lady Eleanor, faintly, as her daughter entered.
"Yes, Mamma; but are you ill? You look dreadfully pale and agitated."
"Wearied--fatigued, my dear, nothing more. Tell Captain Forester I must
release him from his engagement to us to-day; I cannot come to dinner."
And, so saying, she covered her eyes with her hand, and seemed lost in
deep thought.
CHAPTER XIV. "THE MECHANISM OP CORRUPTION"
"Well, Heffernan," said Lord Castlereagh, as they sat over their wine
alone in a small dining-room of the Secretary's Lodge,--"well, even with
Hackett, we shall be run close. I don't fancy the thought of another
division so nearly matched; our fellows don't see the honor of a
Thermopylae."
"Very true, my Lord; and the desertions are numerous, as they always
will be when men receive the bounty before they are enlisted."
"Yes; but what would you do? We make a man a Commissioner or a
sinecurist for his vote,--he vacates his seat on taking office; and,
instead of standing the brunt of another election, coolly says, 'That,
differing as he must do from his constituents on an important measure,
he restores the trust they had committed into his hands--'"
"'He hopes unsullied,'--don't forget that, my Lord."
"Yes,--'he hopes unsullied,--and prefers to retire from the active
career of politics, carrying with him the esteem and regard of his
former friends, rather than endanger their good opinion by supporting
measures to which they are conscientiously opposed.'"
"Felicitous conjuncture, that unites patriotism and profit!" exclaimed
Heffernan. "Happy man, that can draw tears from the Mob, and two
thousand a year from the Treasury!"
"And yet I see no remedy for it," sighed the Secretary.
"There is one, notwithstanding; but it demands considerable address and
skill. You have always been too solicitous about the estimation of the
men you bought were held in,--always thinking of what would be said
and thought of them. You pushed the system so far that the fellows
themselves caught up the delusion, and began to fancy they had
characters to lose. All this was wrong,--radically, thoroughly wrong.
When the butcher smears a red streak round a lamb's neck,--we call it
'raddling' in Ireland, my Lord,--any child knows he 's destined for
the knife; now, when you 'raddled' your flock, you wanted the world to
believe you were going to make pets of them, and you said as much, and
so often that the beasts themselves believed it, and began cutting their
gambols accordingly. Why not have paraded them openly to the shambles?
It was their bleating you wanted, and nothing else."
"You forget, Heffernan, how many men would have refused our offers if we
had not made a show, at least, of respect for their scruples."
"I don't think so, my Lord; you offered a bonus on prudery, and hence
you met nothing but coyness. I'd have taken another line with them."
"And what might that be?" asked Lord Castlereagh, eagerly.
"Compromise them," said Heffernan, sternly. "I never knew the man
yet, nor woman either, that you could n't place in such a position of
entanglement that every effort to go right should seem a struggle to do
wrong; and vice versa. You don't agree with me! Well, my Lord, I ask
you if, in your experience of public men, you have ever met one less
likely to be captured in this way than my friend Darcy?"
"From what I have seen and heard of the Knight of Gwynne, I acknowledge
his character has all those elements of frankness and candor which
should except him from such an embarrassment."
"Well, he 's in the net already," said Heffernan, rubbing his hands
gleefully.
"Why, you told me he refused to join us, and actually saw through your
negotiation."
"So he did, and, in return for his keen-sightedness, I 've compromised
him with his party,--you did n't perceive it, but the trick succeeded to
perfection. When the Knight told me that he would not vote on the Union,
or any measure pertaining to it, I waited for Ponsonby's motion, and
made Holmes and Dawson spread the rumor at Daly's and through town that
Darcy was to speak on the division, well knowing he would not rise.
About eleven o'clock, just as Toler sat down, Prendergast got up to
reply, but there was a shout of 'Darcy! Darcy!' and Prendergast resumed
his seat amid great confusion. At that moment I left the bench beside
you, and walked over to Darcy's side of the House, and whispered a few
words in his ear--an invitation to sup, I believe it was; but while he
was answering me, I nodded towards you, and, as I went down the steps,
muttered loud enough to be heard, 'All right!' Every eye was turned at
once towards him, and he, having no intention of speaking, nor having
made any preparation, felt both confused and amazed, and left the House
about five minutes afterwards, while Prendergast was bungling out his
tiresome reply. Before Darcy reached the Club House, the report was
current that he was bought, and old Gillespie was circumstantially
recounting how that his title was 'Lord Darcy in England,'--'Baron
Gwynne in that part of the United Kingdom called Ireland.'"
"Not even success, Heffernan," said the Secretary, with an air of
severity,--"not even success will excuse a trick of this kind."
Heffernan looked steadily towards him, as if he half doubted the
sincerity of the speech; it seemed something above or beyond his
comprehension.
"Yes," said Lord Castlereagh, "you heard me quite correctly. I repeat
it, advantages obtained in this fashion are too dearly purchased."
"What an admirable actor John Kemble is, my Lord," said Heffernan, with
a quiet smile; "don't you think so?"
Lord Castlereagh nodded his assent: the transition was too abrupt to
please him, and he appeared to suspect that it concealed some other
object than that of changing the topic.
"Kemble," continued Heffernan, while he sipped his wine carelessly,--"
Kemble is, I suspect strongly, the greatest actor we have ever had on
the English stage. Have you seen him in 'Macbeth'?"
"Several times, and always with renewed pleasure," said the Secretary,
gradually recovering from his reserve.
"What a force of passion he throws into the part! How terrible he makes
the conflict between a great purpose and a weak nature! Do you remember
his horror at the murderers who come to tell of Banquo's death? The
sight of their bloody hands shocks him as though they were not the
evidences of his own success."
Lord Castlereagh's calm countenance became for a second crimson, and his
lip trembled with struggling indignation; and then, as if subduing
the temptation of anger, he broke into a low, easy laugh, and with
an imitation at Kemble's manner, called out, "There 's blood upon thy
face!"
"Talking of a bloody hand, my Lord," said Heffernan, at once resuming
his former easy jocularity, "reminds me of that Mr. Hickman, or Hickman
O'Reilly, as the fashion is to call him: is he to have the baronetcy?"
"Not, certainly, if we can secure him without it."
"And I think we ought. It should be quite sufficient remuneration for a
man like him to vote with the Government; his father became a Protestant
because it was the gentlemanly faith; and I don't see why the son should
not choose his politics on the same principle. Have you ever asked him
to dinner, my Lord?"
"Yes, and his father, too. I have had the three generations, but I
rather fear the party did not go off well. I had not in those days,
Heffernan, the benefit of your admirable counsels, and picked my company
unwisely."
"A great mistake with such men as these," said Heffernan, oracularly;
"the guests should have been the cream of your Lordship's noble
acquaintance. I 'd have had an Earl and a Marquis at either side of each
of them; I 'd have turned their heads with noble names, and pelted them
with the Peerage the whole time of dinner; when he had taken wine with
a chamberlain and some lords-in-waiting, if your Lordship would
only address him, in a voice loud enough to be heard, as 'O'Reilly,'
referring to him on a point of sporting etiquette or country gentleman's
life, I think you might spare the baronetage the honor of his alliance.
Do you think, on a proper representation, and with due securities
against the repetition of the offence, the chancellor would let himself
be called 'Clare'? only for once, remember,--because I 'm satisfied, if
this could be arranged, O'Reilly is yours."
"I 'd rather depute you to ask the question," said Lord Castlereagh,
laughing; "assuredly I 'll not do so myself. But when do these people
come to town?--to-morrow or next day, I suppose."
"On Friday next they will all be here. Old Hickman comes up to receive
something like two hundred and twenty thousand pounds,--for Darcy has
raised the money to pay off the incumbrances,--the son is coming for the
debate, and the grandson is to be balloted for at Daly's."
"You have made yourself master of all their arrangements, Heffernan: may
I ask if they afford you any clew to assisting us in our object?"
"When can you give a dinner, my Lord?" said the other.
"Any day after Wednesday,--nay, Wednesday itself; I might easily get off
Brooke's dinner for that day."
"The sooner the better; time is of great consequence now. Shall we say
Wednesday?"
"Be it so; now for the party."
"A small one: selectness is the type of cordiality. The invitation must
be verbal, done in your own admirable way: 'Don't be late, gentlemen,
for Beerhaven and Drogheda are to meet you, and you know they scold if
the soup suffers,'--something in that style. Now let us see who are our
men."
"Begin with Beerhaven and Drogheda, they are sure cards."
"Well, then, Massey Hamilton,--but he's only a commoner,--to be sure his
uncle's a Duke, but, confound him, he never talks of him! I might draw
him out about the Highlands and deer-stalking, and the Christmas revels
at Clanchattagan; he 's three--Kilgoff four; he 's first-rate, and will
discuss his noble descent till his carriage is announced. Loughdooner,
five--"
"He's another bore, Heffernan."
"I know he is, my Lord; but he has seven daughters, and will
consequently make up to young Beecham, who is a great prize in the wheel
matrimonial. We shall want a Bishop to say grace; I think Dunmore is the
man: he is the last of your Lordship's making, and can't refuse a short
invitation."
"Six, and the three Hickmans nine, and ourselves eleven; now for the
twelfth--"
"Darcy, of course," said Heffernan; "he must be asked, and, if possible,
induced to come; Hickman O'Reilly will be far more easily managed if we
make him suppose that we have already secured Darcy ourselves."
"He'll decline, Heffernan; depend upon it, he'll not come."
"You think he saw through my ruse in the House,--not a bit of it;
he is the least suspecting man in Ireland, and I 'll make that very
circumstance the reason of his coming. Hint to him that rumor says he
is coquetting with the Government, and he 'll go any lengths to brave
public opinion by confronting it,--that's Darcy, or I 'm much mistaken
in my man; and, to say truth, my Lord, it's an error I rarely fall
into." A smile of self-satisfaction lit up Heffernan's features as he
spoke; for, like many cunning people, his weak point was vanity.
"You may call me as a witness to character whenever you please," said
Lord Castlereagh, who, in indulging the self-glorification of the other,
was now taking his own revenge; "you certainly knew Upton better than I
did."
"Depend upon it," said Heffernan, as he leaned back in his chair and
delivered his words in a tone of authority,--"depend upon it, the great
events of life never betray the man, it is the small, every-day dropping
occurrences both make and mar him. I made Upton my friend for life by
missing a woodcock he aimed at; he brought down the bird, and I bagged
the sportsman. Ah, my Lord, the real science of life is knowing how to
be gracefully in the wrong; how to make those slips that reflect on your
own prudence, by exhibiting the superior wisdom of your acquaintances.
Of the men who compassionate your folly or deplore your weakness, you
may borrow money, from the fellows who envy your abilities and extol
your capacity, you 'll never get sixpence."
"How came it, Heffernan, that you never took office?" said Lord
Castlereagh, suddenly, as if the idea forced itself abruptly upon him.
"I'll tell you, my Lord," replied Heffernan, speaking in a lower tone,
and as if imparting a deep secret, "they could not spare me--that's the
real fact--they could not spare me. Reflect, for a moment, what kind
of thing the Government of Ireland is; see the difficulty, nay, the
impossibility, of any set of men arriving here fresh from England being
able to find out their way, or make any guess at the leading
characters about them: every retiring official likes to embarrass his
successor,--that's all natural and fair; then, what a mass of blunders
and mistakes await the newly come Viceroy or Secretary! In the midst
of the bleak expanse of pathless waste I was the sign-post. The new
players, who took up the cards when the game was half over, could know
nothing of what trumps were in, or what tricks were taken. I was there
to tell them all; they soon saw that I could do this; and they also saw
that I wanted nothing from any party."
"That must be confessed on every hand, Heffernan. Never was support more
generous and independent than yours! and the subject reminds me of
a namesake, and, as I hear, a nephew of yours, the Reverend Joshua
Heffernan,--is not that the name?"
"It is, my Lord, my nephew; but I'm not aware of having asked anything
for him; I never--"
"But I did, Heffernan, and I do. He shall have the living of Drumslade;
I spoke to the Lord-Lieutenant about it yesterday. There is a hitch
somewhere, but we'll get over it."
"What may be the obstacle you allude to?" said Heffernan, with more
anxiety than he wished to evince.
"Lord Killgobbin says the presentation was promised to his brother, for
his influence over Rochfort."
"Not a bit of it, my Lord. It was I secured Rochfort. The case was
this. He is separated from his wife, Lady Mary, who had a life annuity
chargeable on Rochfort's pension from the Ordnance. Cook enabled me to
get him twelve thousand pounds on the secret service list, provided he
surrendered the pension. Rochfort was only too happy to do so, because
it would spite his wife; and the next Gazette announced 'that the member
for Dun raven had declared his intention of voting with the Government,
but, to prevent even the breath of slander on his motives, had
surrendered his retiring pension as a Store-keeper-General.' There never
was a finer theme for editorial panegyric, and in good sooth your
Lordship's press made the most of it. What a patriot!"
"What a scoundrel!" muttered Lord Castlereagh; and it would have
puzzled a listener, had there been one, to say on whom the epithet was
conferred.
"As for Killgobbin or his brother having influence over Rochfort, it's
all absurd. Why, my Lord, it was that same brother married Rochfort to
Lady Mary."
"That is conclusive," said Lord Castlereagh, laughing.
"Faith, I think so," rejoined Heffernan; "if you do recover after being
hanged, I don't see that you want to make a friend of the fellow that
pinioned your hands in the 'press-room.' If there's no other reason
against Jos's promotion than this--"
"If there were, I 'd endeavor to overcome it," said Lord Castlereagh.
"Won't you take more wine? Pray let's have another bottle."
"No more, my Lord; it's only in such safe company I ever drink so
freely," said Heffernan, laughing, as he rose to say, "Good-night."
"You 'll take measures for Wednesday, then; that is agreed upon?"
"All settled," said Heffernan, as he left the room. "Good-bye."
"There's a building debt on that same living of seventeen hundred
pounds," said Lord Castlereagh, musing; "I'll easily satisfy Killgobbin
that we mean to do better for his brother."
"Take office, indeed!" muttered Heffernan, as he lay back in his
carriage; "there 's something better than that,--governing the men that
hold office, holding the reins, pocketing the fare, and never paying the
breakage when the coach upsets. No, no, my Lord, you are a clever
fellow for your years, but you must live longer before you measure Con
Heffernan."
CHAPTER XV. THE KNIGHT'S NOTIONS OF FINANCE
Heffernan's calculations were all correct, and the Knight accepted Lord
Castlereagh's invitation, simply because rumor attributed to him an
alliance with the Government "It is a pity," said he, laughing, "so much
good calumny should have so little to feed upon; so here goes to give it
something."
Darcy had as little time as inclination to waste on the topic, as the
whole interval was occupied in law business with Gleeson, who arrived
each morning with a chariot full of parchments, and almost worried the
Knight to death by reciting deeds and indentures, to one word of which
throughout he could not pay the least attention. He affected to listen,
however, as he saw how much Gleeson desired it, and he wrote his name
everywhere and to everything he was asked.
"By Jove!" cried he, at last, "I could have run through the whole estate
with less fatigue of mind or body than it has cost me to keep a hold of
it."
Through all the arrangements, there was but one point on which he felt
anxious, and the same question recurred at every moment, "This cannot
compromise Lionel in any way?--this will lead to no future charge upon
the estate after my death?" Indeed, he would not consent to any plan
which in the slightest degree affected his son's interests, being
determined that whatever his extravagances, the penalty should end with
himself.
While these matters were progressing, old Hickman studiously avoided
meeting the Knight; a sense of his discomfiture at the abbey--a fact
he supposed must have reached Darcy's ears--and the conviction that his
long-cherished game to obtain the property was seen through, abashed the
old man, and led him to affect illness when the Knight called.
A pleasant letter which the post had brought from Lionel routed every
other consideration from Darcy's mind. His son was coming over to see
him, and bringing three or four of his brother officers to have a peep
at "the West," and a few days' hunting with the Knight's pack. Every
line of this letter glowed with buoyancy and high spirits; schemes for
amusement alternating with the anticipated amazement of his English
friends at the style of living they were to witness at Gwynne Abbey.
"We shall have but eight days with you, my leave from the Prince will
go no further," wrote he; "but I know well how much may be done in
that short space. Above all, secure Daly; I wish our fellows to see him
particularly. I do not ask about the stable, because I know the horses
are always in condition; but let Dan give the black horse plenty of work
every day; and if the brown mare we got from Mulloch can be ridden by
any one, she must have a saddle on her now. We hope to have four days'
hunting; and let the woodcocks take care of themselves in the intervals,
for we are bent on massacre."
The postscript was brief, but it surprised Darcy more than all the rest.
"Only think of my spending four days last week down in Essex with a
worthy kinsman of my mother's, Lord Netherby: a splendid place, glorious
shooting, and the best greyhounds I ever saw run. He understands
everything but horses; but I have taken on me to enlighten him a little,
and have sent down four grays from Guildfords' yesterday,--better than
any we have in the Prince's stables; he is a fine fellow, though I
did n't like him at first; a great courtier in his way, but au fond
warm-hearted and generous. Keep my secret from my mother, but he intends
coming over with us. Adieu! dear father. Look to Forester, don't let
him run away before we arrive. Cut Dublin and its confounded politics.
Netherby says the ministers have an immense majority,--the less reason
for swelling or decreasing it.
"Yours ever,
"Lionel Darcy."
"And so our trusty and well-beloved cousin of Netherby is coming to
visit us," said the Knight, musing. "Well, Lionel, I confess myself half
of your mind. I did not like him at first: the better impression is yet
to come. In any case, let us receive him suitably; and, fortunately,
here's Gleeson to help the arrangement--Well, Gleeson, I hope matters
are making some progress. Are we to see the last of these parchments
soon? Here's a letter from my son. Read it, and you 'll see I must get
back to 'the West' at once."
Gleeson perused the letter, and when he had finished, returned it into
the Knight's hand without speaking.
"Can we conclude this week?" asked Darcy.
"There are several points yet, sir, of great difficulty. Some I have
already submitted for counsel's opinion; one in particular, as regards
the serving the notice of repayment: there would appear to be a doubt on
this head."
"There can be none in reality," said Darcy, hastily. "I have Hickman's
letter, in his own handwriting, averring his readiness to release the
mortgage at any day."
"Is the document witnessed, and on a stamp?" asked Gleeson, cautiously.
"Of course it is not. Those are scarcely the forms of a note between two
private gentlemen."
"It might be of use in equity, no doubt," muttered Gleeson, "or before
a jury; but we have no time for these considerations now. The
Attorney-General thinks--"
"Never mind the Attorney-General. Have we the money to repay? Well, does
Hickman refuse to accept it?"
"He has not been asked as yet, sir," said Gleeson, whose business
notions were not a little ruffled by this abrupt mode of procedure.
"And, in Heaven's name, Gleeson! why pester yourself and me with
overcoming obstacles that may never arise? Wait on Hickman at
once,--to-day. Tell him we are prepared, and desirous of paying off
these incumbrances. If he objects, hear his objection."
"He will refer me to his solicitor, sir,--Mr. Kennedy, of Hume
Street,--a very respectable man, no higher in the profession, but I may
remark, in confidence, one who has no objection to a suit in equity or a
trial at bar. It is not money Hickman wants, sir. He is perfectly
satisfied with his security."
"What the devil is it, then? He's not Shylock, is he?" said Darcy,
laughing.
"Not very unlike, perhaps, sir; but in the present instance, it is your
influence with the Government he desires."
"But I have none, Gleeson,--actually none. No man knows that better than
you do. I could not make a gauger or a tide-waiter to-morrow."
"But you might, sir,--you might make a peer of the realm if you wished
it. Hickman knows this; and whatever scruples you might have in
adopting the necessary steps, his conscience could never recognize
them as worthy a moment's consideration."
"This is a topic I 'll scarcely discuss with him," said the Knight,
proudly. "I never, so far as I know, promised to pay a percentage in my
principles as well as in my gold. Mr. Hickman has a fair claim on the
one; on the other, neither he nor any other man shall make an unjust
demand. I am not of Christie Ford's mind," added he, laughingly.
"He says, Gleeson, that if the English are bent on taking away our
Parliament, the only revenge we have left is to spoil their peerage.
This is but a sorry theme to joke upon, after all; and, to come back,
what say you to trying my plan? I am to meet the old fellow at dinner,
on Wednesday next, at Lord Castlereagh's."
"Indeed, sir!" said Gleeson, with a mixture of surprise and agitation
greatly disproportioned to the intelligence.
"Yes. Why does that astonish you? The Secretary is too shrewd to neglect
such men as these; they are the rising influences of Ireland."
Gleeson muttered a half assent; but evidently too much occupied with his
own reflections to pay due attention to the Knight's remark, continued
to himself, "on Wednesday!" then added aloud, "On Monday he is to be in
Kildare. He told me he would remain there to receive his rents, and on
Wednesday return to town. I believe, sir, there may be good counsel in
your words. I 'll try on Monday. I 'll follow him down to Kildare, and
as the papers relative to the abbey property are all in readiness, I'll
endeavor to conclude that at once. So you are to meet at dinner?"
"That same dinner-party seems to puzzle you," said the Knight, smiling.
"No, not at all, sir," replied Gleeson, hurriedly. "You were desirous
of getting home next week to meet Mr. Lionel--Captain Darcy I must call
him; if this arrangement can be made, there will be no difficulty
in your return. But of course you will not leave town before it is
completed."
The Knight pledged himself to be guided by his man of business in all
respects; but when they parted, he could not conceal from himself that
Gleeson's agitated and troubled manner, so very unlike his usual calm
deportment, boded difficulties and embarrassments which to his own eyes
were invisible.
CHAPTER XVI. A HURRIED VISIT
It was on a severe night, with frequent gusts of stormy wind shaking the
doors and window-frames, or carrying along the drifted flakes of snow
with which the air was charged, that Lady Eleanor, her daughter, and
Forester, were seated round the fire. All the appliances of indoor
comfort by which they were surrounded seemed insufficient to dispel a
sense of sadness that pervaded the little party. Conversation flowed
not as it was wont, in its pleasant current, diverging here and there as
fancy or caprice suggested; the sentences were few and brief, the pauses
between them long and frequent; a feeling of awkwardness, too, mingled
with the gloom, for, at intervals, each would make an endeavor to
relieve the weariness of time, and in the effort show a consciousness of
constraint.
Lady Eleanor lay back in her deep chair, and, with half-closed lids,
seemed lost in thought. Helen was working at her embroidery, and,
apparently, diligently too, although a shrewd observer might have
remarked on the slow progress the work was making, and how inevitably
her balls of colored worsted seemed bent on entanglement; while Forester
sat silently gazing on the wood fire, and watching the bright sparks as
they flitted and danced above the red flame; his brow was clouded, and
his look sorrowful; not without reason, perhaps: it was to be his last
evening at the abbey; the last of those hours of happiness which seemed
all the fairer when about to part with them forever.
Lady Eleanor seemed grieved at his approaching departure. From the habit
of his mind, and the nature of his education, he was more companionable
to her than Lionel.
She saw in him many qualities of high and sterling value, and even in
his prejudices she could trace back several of those traits which marked
her own youth, when, in the pride of her English breeding, she would
tolerate no deviation from the habits of her own country. It was true,
many of these notions had given way since his residence at the abbey;
many of his opinions had undergone modification or change, but still he
was distinctively English.
Helen, who possessed no standard by which to measure such prejudices,
was far less indulgent towards them; her joyous, happy nature--the
heirloom of her father's house--led her rather to jest than argue on
these topics, and she contrasted the less apt and ready apprehension
of Forester with the native quickness of her brother Lionel,
disadvantageous to the former. She was sorry, too, that he was going;
more so, because his society was so pleasing to her mother, and that
before him, Lady Eleanor exerted herself in a way which eventually
reacted favorably on her own health and spirits. Further than this, her
interest in him was weak.
Not so Forester: he was hopelessly, inextricably, in love, not the less
so that he would not acknowledge it to himself; far more so because he
had made no impression on the object of his passion. There is a period
in every story of affection when the flame grows the brighter because
unreflected, and seems the more concentrated because unreturned.
Forester was in this precise stage of the malady; he was as much piqued
by the indifference as fascinated by the charms of Helen Darcy. The very
exertions he made for victory stimulated his own passion; while, in her
efforts to interest or amuse him, he could not help feeling the evidence
of her indifference to him.
We have said that the conversation was broken and interrupted; at length
it almost ceased altogether, a stray remark of Lady Eleanor's, followed
by a short reply from Forester, alone breaking the silence. Nor
were these always very pertinent, inasmuch as the young aide-de-camp
occasionally answered his own reflections, and not the queries of his
hostess.
"An interesting time in Dublin, no doubt," said Lady Eleanor, half
talking to herself; "for though the forces are unequal, and victory and
defeat predestined, there will be a struggle still."
"Yes, madam, a brief one," answered Forester, dreamily, comprehending
only a part of her remark.
"A brief and a vain one," echoed Lady Eleanor.
"Say, rather, a glorious one," interposed Helen; "the last cheer of a
sinking crew!"
Forester looked up, startled into attention by the energy of these few
words.
"I should say so too, Helen," remarked her mother, "if they were not
accessory to their own misfortunes."
"Nay, nay, Mamma, you must not remember their failings in their hour of
distress; there is a noble-hearted minority untainted yet."
"There will be a majority of eighteen," said Forester, whose thoughts
were wandering away, while he endeavored to address himself to what he
believed they were saying; nor was he aware of his error till aroused by
the laughter of Lady Eleanor and her daughter.
"Eighteen!" reiterated he, solemnly.
"How few!" remarked Lady Eleanor, almost scornfully.
"You should say, how costly, Mamma!" exclaimed Helen. "These gentlemen
are as precious from their price as their rarity!"
"That is scarcely fair, Miss Darcy," said Forester, at once recalled to
himself by the tone of mockery she spoke in; "many adopted the views
of Government, after duly weighing every consideration of the measure:
some, to my own knowledge, resisted offers of great personal advantage,
and Lord Castlereagh was not aware of their adhesion--"
"Till he had them en poche, I suppose," said Helen, sarcastically;
"just as you have been pleased to do with my ball of yellow worsted, and
for which I shall be thankful if you will restore it to me."
Forester blushed deeply, as he drew from his coat-pocket the worsted,
which in a moment of abstraction he had lifted from the ground, and
thrust into his pocket, without knowing.
Had any moderately shrewd observer witnessed his confusion, and her
enjoyment of it, he would easily have understood the precise relation of
the two parties to each other. Forester's absence of mind betrayed
his engaged affection as palpably as Helen's laughter did her own
indifference.
Lady Eleanor did not remark either; her thoughts still rested on
the topic of which they had spoken, for it was a subject of no
inconsiderable difficulty to her. Whatever her sense of indignant
contempt for the bribed adherents of the Ministry, her convictions
always inclined to these measures, whose origin was from her native
country; her predilections were strongly English; not only her happiest
days had been passed there, but she was constantly contrasting the
position they would have occupied and sustained in that favored land,
against the wasteful and purposeless extravagance of their life in
Ireland.
Was it too late to amend? was the question ever rising to her mind, now
if even yet the Knight should be induced to adopt the more ambitious
course? Every accidental circumstance seemed favorable to the notion:
the Government craving his support; her own relatives, influential
as they were from rank and station, soliciting it; the Prince himself
according favors which could no more be rejected than acknowledged
ungraciously.
"What a career for Lionel! What a future for Helen!" such were
reflections that would press themselves upon her, but to whose
disentanglement her mind suggested no remedy.
"'Tis Mr. Daly, my Lady," said Tate, for something like the fourth time,
without being attended to. "'T is Mr. Daly wants leave to visit you."
"Mr. Bagenal Daly, Mamma, wishes to know if you'll receive him?"
"Mr. Daly is exactly the kind of person to suggest this impracticable
line of policy," said Lady Eleanor, with half-closed eyes; for the name
alone had struck her, and she had not heard what was said.
"My dear Mamma," said Helen, rising, and leaning over her chair, "it is
a visit he proposes; nothing so very impracticable in that, I hope!"
and then, at a gesture from her mother, continued to Tate, "Lady Eleanor
will be very happy to see Mr. Daly."
Lady Eleanor had scarcely aroused herself from her revery when Bagenal
Daly entered. His manner was stately, perhaps somewhat colder than
usual, and he took his seat with an air of formal politeness.
"I have come, my Lady," said he, slowly, "to learn if I can be of any
service in the capital; unexpected news has just reached me, requiring
my immediate departure for Dublin."
"Not to-night, sir, I hope; it is very severe, and likely, I fear, to
continue so."
"To-night, madam, within an hour, I expect to be on the road."
"Could you defer a little longer, and we may be fellow-travellers," said
Forester; "I was to start to-morrow morning, but my packing can soon be
made."
"I should hope," said Lady Eleanor, smiling, "that you will not leave us
unprotected, gentlemen, and that one, at least, will remain here."
This speech, apparently addressed to both, was specially intended for
Forester, whose cheek tingled with a flush of pleasure as he heard it.
"I have no doubt, madam, that Captain Forester, whose age and profession
are more in accordance with gallantry, will respond to your desire."
"If I could really fancy that I was not yielding to my own wishes only,"
stammered out Forester.
"Nay, I make it a request."
"There, sir, how happy to be entreated to what one's wishes incline
them," added Daly; "you may go through a deal of life without being
twice so fortunate. I should apologize for so brief a notice of my
departure, Lady Eleanor, but the intelligence I have received is
pressing." Here he dropped his voice to a whisper. "The Ministers have
hurried forward their bill, and I shall scarcely be in time for the
second reading."
"All accounts agree in saying that the Government majority is certain,"
observed Lady Eleanor, calmly.
"It is to be feared, madam, that such rumors are well founded, but the
party who form the forlorn hope have their devoirs also."
"I am a very indifferent politician, Mr. Daly, but it strikes me that
a body so manifestly corrupt, give the strongest possible reasons for
their own destruction."
"Were they all so, madam, I should join in the sentiment as freely as
you utter it," replied Daly, proudly; "but it is a heavy sentence that
would condemn the whole crew because there was a mutiny in the steerage;
besides, these rights and privileges are held only in trust; no man can
in honor or justice vote away that of which he is only the temporary
occupant; forgive me, I beg, for daring to discuss the topic, but I
thought the Knight had made you a convert to his own opinions."
"We have never spoken on the subject, Mr. Daly," replied Lady Eleanor,
coldly; "the Knight dislikes the intrusion of a political matter within
the circle of his family, and for that reason, perhaps," added she, with
a smile, "my daughter and myself feel for it all the temptation of a
forbidden pleasure."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Helen, who heard the last few words of her mother's
speech, "I am as violent a partisan as Mr. Daly could ask for; indeed,
I am not certain if all my doctrines are not of his own teaching; I fear
the Premier, distrust the Cabinet, and put no faith in the Secretary for
Ireland; is not that the first article of our creed?--nay, nay, fear was
no part of your instruction."
"And yet I have fears, my dear Helen, and very great fears just now,"
said Daly in a low whisper, only audible by herself, and she turned
her full and beaming eyes upon him for an explanation. As if anxious
to escape the interrogatory, Daly arose hastily. "I must crave
your indulgence for an abrupt leave-taking, Lady Eleanor," said he,
approaching, as he kissed the hand held out to him; "I shall be able to
tell the Knight that I left you both well, and under safe protection.
Captain Forester, adieu; you need no admonition of mine respecting your
charge;" and, with a low and courtly salute, he departed.
"Rely upon it, Captain Forester, he's bent on mischief now. I never
saw him particularly mild and quiet in his manner that it was not the
prelude to some desperate ebullition," said Lady Eleanor.
"He is the very strangest of all mortals."
"Say, the most single-minded and straightforward," interposed Helen,
"and I 'll agree with you."
"When men of strong minds and ambitious views are curbed and held
in within the petty sphere of a small social circle, they are, to my
thinking, intolerable. It is making a drawing-room pet of a tiger; every
step he takes upsets a vase or smashes a jar. You smile at my simile."
"I 'm sure it's a most happy one," said Forester, continuing.
"I enter a dissent," cried Helen, playfully. "He's a tiger, if you will,
with his foes, but in all the relations of private life, gentleness
itself; for my part, I can imagine no more pleasing contrast to the
modern code of manners than Mr. Bagenal Daly."
"There, Captain Forester, if you would win Miss Darcy's favor, you have
now the model for your imitation."
Forester's face flushed, and he appeared overwhelmed with confusion,
while Helen went on with her embroidery, tranquil as before.
"I believe," resumed Lady Eleanor,--"I believe, after all, I am unjust
to him; but much may be forgiven me for being so; he has made my son a
wild, thoughtless boy, and my daughter--"
"No indiscretions, Mamma," cried Helen, holding up her hand.
"Well, he has made my daughter telle que vous la voyez."
Forester was too well bred to venture on a word of flattery or
compliment, but his glowing color and sparkling eyes spoke his
admiration.
Lady Eleanor's quick glance remarked this; and, as if the thought had
never occurred before, she seemed amazed, either at the fact or at her
own previous inattention.
"Let us finish that second volume you were reading, Captain Forester,"
said she, glad to cut short the discussion. And, without a word, he took
the book and began to read.
CHAPTER XVII. BAGENAL DALY'S JOURNEY TO DUBLIN
It is not our desire to practise any mystery with our reader, nor would
the present occasion warrant such. Mr. Daly's hurried departure for
Dublin was caused by the receipt of tidings which had that morning
reached him, conveying the startling intelligence that his friend the
Knight had accepted terms from the Government, and pledged himself to
support their favored measure.
It was a time when men were accustomed to witness the most flagrant
breaches of honor and good faith. No station was too high to be above
the reach of this reproach, no position too humble not to make its
possessor a mark for corruption. It was an epidemic of dishonesty, and
people ceased to wonder as they heard of each new victim to the malady.
Bagenal Daly well knew that no man could be more exempt from an
imputation of this nature than the Knight of Gwynne: every act of his
life, every sentiment he professed, every trait of his character, flatly
contradicted the supposition. But he also knew that though Darcy was
unassailable by all the temptations of bribery, come in what shape
they might, that his frank and generous spirit would expose him to the
stratagems and devices of a wily and insidious party, and that if, by
any accident, an expression should fall from him in all the freedom of
convivial enjoyment that could be tortured into even the resemblance
of a pledge, he well knew that his friend would deem any sacrifice of
personal feeling light in the balance, rather than not adhere to it.
Resolved not to lose a moment, he despatched Sandy to order horses along
the line, and having passed the remainder of the day in the preparations
for his departure, he left the abbey before midnight. A less determined
traveller might have hesitated on setting out on such a night: the long
menacing storm had at length burst forth, and the air resounded with a
chaos of noise, amid which the roaring breakers and the crash of falling
trees were uppermost; with difficulty the horses were enabled to keep
their feet, as the sea washed heavily over the wall and deluged the
road, while at intervals the fallen timber obstructed the way and
delayed his progress. Difficulty was, however, the most enjoyable
stimulant to Daly's nature; he loved an obstacle as other men enjoy a
pleasure, and, as he grew older, so far from yielding to the indolence
of years, his hardy spirit seemed to revel in the thought that amid
dangers and perils his whole life had been passed, yet never had he
suffered himself to be a beaten enemy.
The whole of that night, and all the following day, the violence of the
storm was unabated; uprooted trees and wrecked villages met his eye as
he passed, while, in the larger towns, the houses were strongly barred
and shuttered, and scarcely one living thing to be seen through
the streets. Nothing short of the united influence of bribery and
intimidation could procure horses in such a season, and had any
messenger of less sturdy pretensions than honest Sandy been despatched
to order them, they would have been flatly refused. Bagenal Daly and his
man were, however, too well known in that part of Ireland to make such a
course advisable, and though postboys and ostlers condoled together, the
signal of Daly's appearance silenced every thought of opposition, and
the words, "I 'm ready!" were an order to dash forward none dared to
disobey.
So had it continued until he reached Moate, where he found a message
from Sandy, informing him that no horses could be procured, and that he
must bring on those from Athlone the entire way to Kilbeggan.
"You hear me," cried Daly to the astonished postboy, who for the last
two miles had spared neither whip nor spur, in the glad anticipation of
a speedy shelter,--"you hear me. To Kilbeggan."
"Oh, begorra! that's impossible, yer honor. If it was the month of May,
and the road was a bowling-green, the bastes couldn't do it."
"Go on!" cried Daly, shutting up the glass, and throwing himself back in
the chaise.
[Illustration: 185]
But the postboy only buttoned up the collar of his coat around his face,
thrust his whip into his boot, and, drawing his sleeves over his hands,
sat a perfect picture of fatalism.
"I say, go on!" shouted Daly, as he lowered the front window of the
chaise.
A low muttering from the driver, still impassive as before, was all the
reply, and at the same instant a sharp report was heard, and a pistol
bullet whizzed beside his hat.
"Will you go now?" cried Bagenal Daly, as he levelled another weapon
on the window; but no second entreaty was necessary, and, with his
bead bent down almost to the mane, and with a mingled cry for mercy
and imprecation together, he drove the spurs into his jaded beast, and
whipped with all his might through the almost deserted town. With the
despairing energy of one who felt his life was in peril, the wretched
postboy hurried madly forward, urging the tired animals up the hills,
and caring neither for rut nor hollow on his onward course, till at
length, blown and exhausted, the animals came to a dead stand, and,
with heaving flanks and outstretched forelegs, refused to budge a step
farther.
"There!" cried the postboy, as, dropping from the saddle, he fell on his
knees upon the road, "shoot, and be d------d to you; I can do no more."
The terrified expression of the fellow's face as the lamp of the
chaise threw its light upon him, seemed to change the current of Daly's
thoughts, for he laughed loud and heartily as he looked upon him.
"Come, come," said he, good-humoredly, "is not that Kilbeggan where I
see the lights yonder?"
"Sorra bit of it," sighed the other, "it is only Horseleap."
"Well, push on to Horseleap; perhaps they 've horses there."
"Begorra! you might as well look for black tay in a bog-hole; 't is a
poor 'shebeen' is the only thing in the village;" and, so saying, he
took the bridle on his arm, and walked along before the horses, who,
with drooping heads, tottered after at a foot pace.
About half an hour of such travelling brought Daly in front of a
miserable cabin, over the door of which a creaking sign proclaimed
accommodation for man and beast. To the partial truth of this statement
the bright glare of a fire that shone between the chinks of the shutters
bore witness, and, disengaging himself from the chaise, Daly knocked
loudly for admission. There are few less conciliating sounds to the
ears of a hot-tempered man than those hesitating whispers which, while
exposed to a storm himself, he hears deliberating on the question of his
admission. Such were the mutterings Daly now listened to, and to which
he was about to reply by forcing his entrance, when the door was opened
by a man in the dress of a peasant, who somewhat sulkily demanded what
he wanted.
"Horses, if you have them, to reach Kilbeggan," said Daly, "and if you
have not, a good fire and shelter until they can be procured;" and as
he spoke, he pushed past the man, and entered the room from which the
blazing light proceeded.
With his back to the fire, and hands thrust carelessly into the pockets
of his coat, stood a man of eight-and-thirty or forty years of age;
in dress, air, and appearance he might have been taken for a country
horse-dealer; and so, indeed, his well-worn top-boots and green coat,
cut in jockey fashion, seemed to bespeak him. He was rather under the
middle size, but powerfully built, his wide chest, long arms, and bowed
legs all indicating the possession of that strength which is never the
accompaniment of more perfect symmetry.
Although Daly's appearance unquestionably proclaimed his class in
life, the other exhibited no mark of deference or respect to him as he
entered, but maintained his position with the same easy indifference as
at first.
"You make yourself at home here, good friend, if one might judge from
the way you knocked at the door," said he, addressing Daly with a look
whose easy familiarity was itself an impertinence.
"I have yet to learn," said Daly, sternly, "that a gentleman must
practise any peculiar ceremony when seeking the shelter of a 'shebeen,'
not to speak of the right by which such as you address me as your good
friend."
An insolent laugh, that Daly fancied was re-echoed by some one without,
was the first reply to this speech; when, after a few minutes, the man
added, "I see you 're a stranger in these parts."
"If I had not been so, the chance is I should have taught you somewhat
better manners before this time. Move aside, sir, and let me see the
fire."
But the other never budged in the slightest, standing in the same easy
posture as before.
Daly's dark face grew darker, and his heavy brows met in a deep frown,
while, with a spring that showed no touch of time in his strong frame,
he bounded forward and seized the man by the collar. Few men were Daly's
equals in point of strength; but although he with whom he now grappled
made no resistance whatever, Daly never stirred him from the spot, to
which he seemed fast and firmly rooted.
"Well, that's enough of it!" said the fellow, as with a rough jerk he
freed himself from the grasp, and sent Daly several paces back into the
room.
"Not so!" cried Daly, whose passion now boiled over, and, drawing a
pistol from his bosom, he levelled it at him. Quick as the motion was,
the other was equally ready, for his hand now presented a similar weapon
at Daly's head.
"Move aside, or--"
A coarse, insulting laugh drowned Daly's words, and he pulled the
trigger; but the pistol snapped without exploding.
"There it is, now," cried the fellow, rudely; "luck's against you, old
boy, so you 'd better keep yourself cool and easy;" and with these words
he uncocked the weapon and replaced it in his bosom. Daly watched the
moment, and with a bound placed himself beside him, when, bringing
his leg in front, he caught the man round the middle, and hurled him
headlong on the ground.
He fell as if he had been shot; but, rolling over, he leaned upon his
elbow and looked up, without the slightest sign of passion or even
excitement on his features.
"I 'd know that trip in a thousand; begad, you 're Bagenal Daly, and
nobody else!"
Although not a little surprised at the recognition, Daly suffered no
sign of astonishment to escape him, but drew his chair to the fire, and
stretched out his legs before the blaze. Meanwhile, the other, having
arisen, leaned over the back of a chair, and stared at him steadfastly.
"I am as glad as a hundred-pound note, now, you did n't provoke me to
lay a hand on you, Mr. Daly," said he, slowly, and in a voice not devoid
of a touch of feeling; "'t is n't often I bear malice, but I 'd never
forgive myself the longest day I 'd live."
Daly turned his eyes towards him, and, for some minutes, they continued
to look at each other without speaking.
"I see you don't remember me, sir," said the stranger, at length; "but
I 've a better memory, and a better reason to have it besides: you saved
my life once."
"Saved your life!" repeated Daly, thoughtfully; "I 've not the slightest
recollection of ever having seen you before."
"It's all true I 'm telling, for all that," replied the other; "and
although it happened above five-and-twenty years since, I'm not much
changed, they tell me, in look or appearance." He paused at these words,
as if to give Daly time to recognize him; but the effort seemed in vain,
as, after along and patient scrutiny, Daly said, "No, I cannot remember
you."
"Let me see, then," said the man, "if I can't refresh your memory. Were
you in Dublin in the winter of '75?"
"Yes; I had a house in Stephen's Green--"
"And used to drive four black thoroughbreds without winkers?"
"It's clear that you know me, at least," said Daly; "go on."
"Well, sir, do you remember, it was about a week before Christmas,
that Captain Burke Fitzsimon was robbed of a pair of pistols in the
guard-room of the Upper Castle Yard, in noonday, ay, and tied with his
own sash to the guard-bed?"
"By Jove! I do. He was regularly laughed out of the regiment."
"Faix, and many that laughed at him mightn't have behaved a deal better
than he did," replied the other, with a dogged sternness in his
manner. He became silent after these words, and appeared deeply sunk in
meditation, when suddenly he drew two splendidly chased pistols from
his bosom, and held them out to Daly as he said, "There they are, and as
good as they are handsome, true at thirty paces, and never fail."
Daly gazed alternately from the pistols to their owner, but never
uttered a word.
"That same day," resumed the man, "you were walking down the quay near
the end of Watling Street, when there was a cry of 'Stop thief!--stop
him!--a hundred guineas to the man that takes him!' and shortly after
a man crossed the quay, pursued closely by several people, one of them,
and the foremost, being Tom Lambert, the constable, the strongest man,
they said, of his day, in Ireland. The fellow that ran could beat them
all, and was doing it too, when, just as he had gained Bloody Bridge,
he saw a child on the pathway all covered with blood, and a bulldog
standing over him, worrying him--"
"I have it all," said Daly, interrupting him; "'tis as fresh before me
as if it happened yesterday. The robber stopped to save the child, and,
seizing the bulldog by the throat, hurled him over the wall into the
Liffey. Lambert, as you call him, had by this time come close up, and
was within two yards of the man, when I, feeling compassion for a fellow
that could be generous at such a moment, laid my hand on the constable's
arm to stop him; he struck me; but if he did, he had his reward, for
I threw him over the hip on the crown of his head, and he had a brain
fever after it that almost brought him to death's door. And where were
you all this time, and what were you doing?"
"I was down Barrack Street, across the park, and near Knockmaroon Gate,
before they could find a door to stretch Tom Lambert on."
"You!" said Daly, staring at him; "why, it was Freney, they told me,
performed that exploit for a wager."
"So it was, sir," said the man, standing up and crossing his arms, not
without something of pride in his look,--"I'm Freney."
Daly arose and gazed at the man with all that curious scrutiny one
bestows upon some remarkable object, measuring his strong, athletic
frame with the eye of a connoisseur, and, as it were, calculating the
physical resources of so powerful a figure.
"You see, sir," said the robber, at last, "I was right when I told you
that you saved my life: there were thirteen indictments hanging over my
head that day, and if I 'd been taken they 'd have hanged me as round as
a turnip."
"You owe it to yourself," said Daly; "had you not stopped for the child,
it was just as likely that I 'd have tripped you up myself."
"'Tis a feeling I never could get over," said the robber; "'twas a
little boy, about the same age as that, that saved the Kells coach the
night I stopped it near Dangan. And now, sir, let me ask you what in the
world brought you into the village of Horseleap? For I am sure," added
he with a laugh, "it was never to look after me."
"You are right there, friend; I'm on my way up to town to be present at
the debate in Parliament on the Union,--a question that has its interest
for yourself too."
"How so, sir?" said the other, curiously.
"Plainly enough, man; if they carry the Union, they'll not leave a man
worth robbing in the island. You 'll have to take to an honest calling,
Freney,--turn cattle-drover. By the way, they tell me you 're a good
judge of a horse."
"Except yourself, there's not a better in the island; and if you 've no
objection, I 'll mount and keep you company as far as Maynooth, where
you 'll easily get horses--and it will be broad daylight by that
time--to bring you into Dublin."
"I accept the offer willingly. I'll venture to say we shall not be
robbed on the journey."
"Well, sir, the horses won't be here for an hour yet, and if you 'll
join me in a bit of supper I was going to have when you came in, it will
help to pass the time till we are ready to start."
Daly assented, not the less readily that he had not eaten anything since
morning, and Freney left the room to hasten the preparations for the
meal.
"Come, Freney," said Daly, as the other entered the room a few moments
after, "was it the strength of conscious rectitude that made you stand
my fire as you did a while ago, or did you think me so bad a marksman at
four paces?"
"Neither, sir," replied the robber, laughing; "I saw the pan of the lock
half open as you drew it from your pocket, and I knew the priming must
have fallen out; but for that--"
"You had probably fired, yourself?"
"Just so," rejoined he, with a short nod. "I could have shot you before
you levelled at me. Now, sir, here's something far better than burning
powder. I am sure you are too old a traveller not to be able to eat a
rasher of bacon."
"And this I take to be as free of any allegiance to the king as
yourself," said Daly, as he poured out a wineglass-ful of "poteen" from
a short black bottle.
"You 're right, sir," said Freney, with a laugh. "We 're both duty free.
Let me help you to an egg."
"I never ate better bacon in my life," said Daly, who seemed to relish
his supper with considerable gusto.
"I'm glad you like it, sir. It is a notion of mine that Costy Moore of
Kilcock cures a pig better than any man in this part of Ireland; and
though his shop is next the police-barracks, I went in there myself to
buy this."
Daly stared, with something of admiration in his look, at the man whose
epicurism was indulged at the hazard of his neck; and he pledged the
robber with a motion of the head that betokened a high sense of his
daring. "I've heard you have had some close escapes, Freney."
"I was never taken but once, sir. A woman hid my shoes when I was
asleep. I was at the foot of the Galtee mountains: the ground is hard
and full of sharp shingle, and I could n't run. They brought me into
Clonmel, and I was in the heaviest irons in the jail before two hours
were over. That's the strong jail, Mr. Daly; they 've the best walls and
the thickest doors there I have ever seen in any jail in Ireland. For,"
added he, with a sly laugh, "I went over them all, in a friendly sort of
a way."
"A kind of professional tour, Freney?"
"Just so, sir; taking a bird's-eye view of the country from the drop,
because, maybe, I would n't have time for it at another opportunity."
"You 're a hardened villain!" said Daly, looking at him with an
expression the robber felt to be a finished compliment.
"That's no lie, Mr. Daly; and if I wasn't, could I go on for twenty
years, hunted down like a wild beast, with fellows tracking me all day,
and lying in watch for me all night? Where we are sitting now is the
only spot in the whole island where I can say I 'm safe. This is my
brother's cabin."
"Your brother is the same man that opened the door for me?"
Freney nodded, and went on: "He's a poor laboring man, with four acres
of wet bog for a farm, and a young woman, in the ague, for a wife, and
if it was n't for myself he 'd be starving; and would you believe it,
now, he 'd not take to the road for one night--just one single night--to
be as rich as the Duke of Leinster; and here am I"--and, as he spoke,
his chest expanded, and his dark eyes flashed wildly--"here am I, that
would rather be on my black mare's back, with my holsters at the
saddle, watching the sounds of wheels on a lonely road, than I 'd be any
gentleman in the land, barring your own self."
"And why me?" said Daly, in a voice whose melancholy cadence made it
solemn as a death-bell.
"Just because you 're the only man I ever heard tell of that was fond of
danger for the fun of it. Did n't I see the leap you took at the Black
Lough, just to show the English Lord-Lieutenant how an Irish gentleman
rides, with the rein in your mouth, and your hands behind your back?
Isn't that true?"
Daly nodded, and muttered, "I have the old horse still."
"By the good day! I 'd spend a week in Newgate to see you on his back."
"Well, Freney," said Daly, who seemed not disposed to encourage
a conversation so personal in its allusions, "where have you been
lately?--in the South?"
"No, sir; I spent the last fortnight watching an old fox that doubled on
me at last,--old Hickman, of Loughrea, that used to be."
"Old Hickman!--what of him?" cried Daly, whose interest became at once
excited by the mention of the name.
"I found out, sir, that he was to be down here at Kildare to receive his
rents,--for he owns a fine estate here,--and that, besides, Tom Gleeson,
the great agent from Dublin, was to meet him, as some said, to pay him
a large sum of money for the Knight of Gwynne,--some heavy debt, I
believe, owing for many a year."
"Yes, go on. What then?"
"Well. I knew the reason Hickman wanted the money here: Lord Tyrawley
was going to sell him a part of Gore's Wood, for hard cash--d 'ye
mind, sir, hard cash--down on the nail, for my Lord likes high play at
Daly's--"
"D----n Lord Tyrawley!" said Daly, impatiently. "What of Hickman?"
"Well, d----n him too! He's a shabby negur. I stopped 'him at Ball's
Bridge once, and got but three guineas and some shillings for my pains.
But to come back to old Hickman: I found he had arrived at the 'Black
Dog,' and that Gleeson had come the same evening, and so I disguised
myself like an old farmer the next morning, and pretended I wanted
his advice about an asthma that I had, just to see the lie of the old
premises, and whether he was alone, or had the two bailiffs with him,
as usual. There they were, sir, sure enough, and well armed too, and
fresh hasps on the door, to lock it inside, all secure as a bank. I saw
these things while the old doctor was writing the prescription, for
he tore a leaf out of his pocket-book to order me some stuff for the
cough,--faith, 't is pills of another kind they 'd have given me if they
found me out. That was all I got for my guinea in goold, not to speak
of the danger;" and, so saying, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from
his pocket, and held it out towards Daly. "That's not it, sir; 't is the
other side the writing is on."
But Daly's eyes were fixed upon the paper, which he held firmly between
both hands.
"Ay, I see what you are looking at," said Freney; "that was a kind of
memorandum the old fellow made of the money Gleeson paid him the day
before."
Daly paid no attention to the remark, but muttered half aloud the
contents of the document before him: "Check on Ball for eighteen
thousand, payable at sight,--thirty-six thousand eight hundred and
ten pounds in notes of the Bank of England,--gold, seventeen hundred
guineas."
"There was a lob," cried Freney, as he rubbed his hands together. "I was
set up for life if I got half of it! And now, Mr. Daly, just tell me one
thing: isn't Mr. Darcy there as bad as myself, to take all this money
for his vote?"
"How do you mean?" said Daly, sternly.
"I mean that a gentleman born and bred as he is, oughtn't to sell his
country for goold; that if a blackguard like myself takes to the road,
it's all natural and reasonable, and the world's little worse off when
they hang half a dozen of my kind; but for a real born gentleman of the
old stock of the land to go and take money for his vote in Parliament!"
"And who dares to say he did so?" cried Daly, indignantly.
"Faix, that's the story up in Dublin; they say he 'd no other way of
clearing off the debts on his property. Bad cess to me if I 'd do it!
Here I am, a robber and a highwayman, I don't deny it, but may I wear
hemp for a handkerchief if I 'd sell my country. Bad luck to the Union,
and all that votes for it," said he, as, filling a bumper of whiskey, he
tossed it off to this laudable sentiment.
"If you had n't wronged my friend the Knight of Gwynne, I'm not certain
that I wouldn't have pledged your toast myself."
"If he 's a friend of yours I say nothing against him; but sure when
he--"
"Once for all," said Daly, sternly, "this story is false;" while he
added, in a low muttering to himself, "corruption must needs have
spread widely when such a calumny was even ventured on.--And so, Freney,
Hickman escaped you?"
"He did, sir," said Freney, sighing; "he made a lodgment in Kildare next
day, and more of the money he carried up to town, guarded all the way
by the two fellows I told you. Ah! Mr. Daly, if all the world was as
cunning as old Peter, I might give up the road as a bad job. There! do
you hear that? Listen, sir."
"What is it?" said Daly, after a moment's silence.
"They're my nags, sir, coming up the road. I'd know their trot if I
heard it among a troop of dragoons. 'T is clippers they are."
As he spoke he arose from the table, and, lighting a small lantern he
always carried with him, hastened to the door, where already the two
horses were standing, a bare-legged "gossoon" holding the bridles.
[Illustration: 197]
"Well, Jemmy, what 's the news to-night?" said Freney.
"Nothing, sir, at all. I passed the down mail at Seery's Mill, and when
the coachman heard the step of the horses, he laid on the wheelers
wid all his might, and sat down on the footboard, and the two outside
passengers lay flat as a pancake on the top when I passed. I could n't
help giving a screech out of me for fun, and the old guard let fly,
and sent a ball through my 'caubeen;'" and as he said these words he
exhibited his ragged felt hat, which, in addition to its other injuries,
now displayed a round bullet-hole through either side.
"Serve you right," said Freney, harshly; "I wish he'd levelled three
inches lower. That young rascal, sir, keeps the whole road in a state of
alarm that stops all business on it." Then he added, in a whisper, "but
he never failed me in his life. I 've only to say when and where I want
the horses, and I 'd lay my neck on it he's there."
Daly, who had been for some minutes examining the two horses by the
lantern with all the skill of an adept, now turned the light full upon
the figure of the boy whose encomium was thus pronounced. The urchin,
as if conscious that he was passing an inspection, set his tattered
hat jauntily on one side, and with one arm a-kimbo, and a leg advanced,
stood the very perfection of ragged, self-sufficient rascality. Though
at most not above fourteen years of age, and short in size even for
that, his features had the shrewd intelligence of manhood; a round,
wide head, covered with dark red hair, projected over two eyes set
wide apart, whose bad expression was ingeniously improved by a habit of
squinting at pleasure,--a practice with which he now amused himself, as
Mr. Daly continued to stare at him. His nose, which a wound had partly
separated from the forehead, was short and wide, leaving an unnatural
length to the lower part of the face, where an enormous mouth, garnished
with large and regular teeth, was seen,--a feature that actually gave a
look of ferocity even to a face so young.
"It's plain to see what destiny awaits that young scoundrel," said Daly,
as he gazed almost sadly at the assemblage of bad passions so palpably
displayed in his countenance.
"I 'd wager the young devil knows it himself, and can see the gallows
even now before him."
A wild burst of frantic laughter broke from the urchin as, in the
exuberance of his merriment, he capered round Daly with gambols the most
strange and uncouth, and then, mimicking an air of self-admiration,
he strutted past, while he broke into one of the slang ditties of the
day:--
"With beauty and manners to plaze,
I 'll seek a rich wife, and I 'll find her,
And live like a Lord all my days,
And sing, Tally-high-ho the Grinder!"
Freney actually screamed with laughter as he watched the mingled
astonishment and horror depicted in Daly's face.
"That fellow's fate will lie heavily on your heart yet," said Daly, in a
voice whose solemn tones at once arrested Freney's merriment, while
the "gossoon," with increased animation and in a wilder strain, burst
forth,--
"My Lord cheats at play like a rogue,
And my Lady flings honor behind her;
And why wold n't I be in vogue,
And sing, Tally-high-ho the Grinder!"
"Come," said Daly, turning away, for, amid all his disgust, a sense of
the ludicrous was stealing over him, and the temptation to laugh was
struggling in him,--"come, let us be off; you have nothing to wait for,
I suppose?"
"Nothing, sir; I'm ready this instant. Here, Jemmy, take this
portmanteau, and meet us outside of Maynooth, under the old castle
wall."
"Stay," cried Daly, whose misgivings about the safe arrival of his
luggage would have made him prefer any other mode of transmission; "he
'll scarcely be in time."
"Not in time! I wish I'd a bet of fifty guineas on it that he would
not visit every stable on the road, and know every traveller's name and
business, and yet be a good half hour before us. Off with you! Away!"
Diving under the two horses, the "gossoon" appeared at the other side
of the road, and then, with a wild spring in the air, and an unearthly
shout of laughter, he cleared the fence before him and disappeared,
while as he went the strain of his slang song still floated in the air,
and the refrain, "Tally-high-ho the Grinder," could be heard through the
stillness of the night.
"Take the dark horse, sir; you 're heavier than me," said Freney, as he
held the stirrup.
"A clever hack, faith," said Daly, as he seated himself in the saddle,
and gathered up the reins.
"And mounts you well," cried Freney, admiring both horse and rider once
more by the light before he extinguished the lantern.
The storm had now considerably abated, and they rode on at a brisk pace,
nor did they draw rein till the tall ruined castle of Maynooth could be
seen, rearing its dark head against the murky sky.
"We part here," said Daly, who for some time had been lost in thought,
"and I have nothing but thanks to offer you for this night's service,
Freney; but if the time should come that I can do you a good turn--"
"I 'll never ask it, sir," said Freney, interrupting him.
"And why not? Are you too proud?"
"Not too proud to be under any obligation to you," said the robber,
stopping him, "but too proud of the honor you did me this night by
keeping my company, ever to hurt your fame by letting the world know it.
No, Mr. Daly, I knew your courage well; but this was the bravest thing
ever you did."
He sprang from his horse as he spoke, and gave a long, shrill whistle. A
deep silence followed, and he repeated the signal, and, soon after, the
tramp of naked feet was heard on the road, and Jemmy advanced towards
them at his ordinary sling trot.
"Take the trunk up to the town."
"No, no," said Daly, "I'll do that myself;" and he relieved the urchin
of his burden, taking the opportunity to slip some crown-pieces into his
willing hand while he did so.
"Good-bye, sir," said Freney, taking off his hat with courteous
deference.
"Good-bye, Freney," said Daly, as he seized the robber's hand and shook
it warmly. "I 'll soon be shaking hands with twenty fellows not a whit
more honest," said Daly, as he looked after him through the gloom.
"Hang me if I don't think he's better company, too!" and with this very
flattering reflection on some parties unknown, he plodded along towards
the town.
Here, again, new disappointment awaited him: a sudden summons had called
the members of both political parties to the capital, and horses were
not to be had at any price.
"'T is the Lord's marciful providence left him only the one arm," said
a waiter, as he ushered Daly into a sitting-room, and cast a glance of
most meaning terror at the retiring figure of Sandy.
"What do you mean?" asked Daly, hastily.
"It's what he smashed the best chaise in the yard, as if it was a
taycup, this morning. Mr. Tisdal ordered it to be ready at seven
o'clock, to take him up to town, and, when it came to the door, up
comes that long fellow with his one arm, and says, 'This will do for my
master,' says he, and cool and aisy he gets up into the chaise, and sits
down, and when he was once there, by my conscience you might as well try
to drain the canal with a cullender as get him out again! We had a fight
that lasted nigh an hour, and signs on it, there's many a black eye in
the stable-yard to show for it; but he beat them all off, and kept his
ground. 'Never mind,' said Mr. Tisdal, and he whispered a word to the
master; and what did they do, sir, but nailed him up fast in the chaise,
and unharnessed the horses, put them to a jaunting-car, and started with
Mr. Tisdal before you could turn round."
"And Sandy," cried Daly, "what did he do?"
"Sandy?--av it's that you call him,--a divil a doubt but he's sandy and
stony too,--he made a drive at the front panel wid one leg, and away
it went; and he smashed open the door with his fist; and put that short
stump of an arm through the wood as if it was cheese. 'T is a holy
show, the same chaise now! And when he got out, may I never spread a
tablecloth if you'd see a crayture in the street: they run in every
direction, as if it was the duke's bull was out of the paddock, and it's
only a while ago he grew raysonable."
However little satisfactory the exploit was to the innkeeper and his
household, it seemed to sharpen Daly's enjoyment of his breakfast, and
compensate him for the delay to which he was condemned. The messenger
sent to seek for horses returned at last without them, and there was now
no alternative but to await, with such patience as he could muster, some
chaise for town, and thus reach Dublin before nightfall.
A return chaise from Kilcock was at last secured, and Daly, with his
servant on the box, proceeded towards Dublin.
It was dark when they reached the capital, and drove with all the speed
they could accomplish to the Knight's house in Henrietta Street. Great
was Daly's discomfort to learn that his friend Darcy had just driven
from the door.
"Where to?" said he, as he held his watch in his hand, as if considering
the chances of still overtaking him.
"To a dinner-party, sir, at Lord Castlereagh's," said the servant.
"At Lord Castlereagh's!" And nothing but the presence of the man
repressed the passionate exclamation that quivered on his lip.
"Yes, sir, his Lordship and Mr. Heffernan called here--"
"Mr. Heffernan,--Mr. Con Heffernan do you mean?" interrupted he,
quickly. "Ah! I have it now. And when was this visit?"
"On Monday last, sir."
"On Monday," said Daly to himself. "The very day the letter was written
to me: there's something in it, after all. Drive to Kildare Place, and
as fast as you can," said he, aloud, as he sprang into the chaise.
The steps were up, the door banged to, the horses lashed into a gallop,
and the next moment saw the chaise at the end of the street.
Short as the distance was,--scarcely a mile to Heffer-nan's
house,--Daly's impatient anxiety made him think it an eternity. His
object was to reach the house before Heffernan started; for he judged
rightly that not only was the Secretary's dinner planned by that astute
gentleman, but that its whole conduct and machinery rested on his
dexterity.
"I know the fellow well," muttered Daly,--"ay, and, by Heaven! he knows
me. His mock candor and his counterfeit generosity have but a
bad chance with such men as myself; but Darcy's open, unsuspecting
temperament is the very metal he can weld and fashion to his liking."
It was in the midst of reflections like these, mingled with passionate
bursts of impatience at the pace, which was, notwithstanding, a sharp
gallop, that they dashed up to Heffer-nan's door. To make way for them,
a chariot that stood there was obliged to move on.
"Whose carriage is this?" said Daly, as, without waiting for the steps
to be lowered, he sprang to the ground.
"Mr. Heffernan's, sir."
"He is at home, then?"
"Yes, sir; but just about to leave for a dinner-party."
"Stand by that chariot, Sandy, and take care that no one enters it till
I come back," whispered Daly in his servant's ear. And Sandy took up bis
post at the door like a sentinel on duty. "Tell your master," said
Daly to the servant, who stood at the open hall-door, "that a gentleman
desires to speak with him."
"He's just going out, sir."
"Give my message," said Daly, sternly.
"With what name, sir?"
"Repeat the words as I have given them to you, and don't dictate to me
how I am to announce myself," said he, harshly, as he opened the door
and walked into the parlor.
Scarcely had he reached the fireplace when a bustle without proclaimed
that Heffernan was passing downstairs, and the confused sound of voices
was heard as he and his servant spoke together. "Ah! very well," said
Heffernan, aloud; "you may tell the gentleman, John, that I can't see
him at present. I 've no notion of keeping dinner waiting half an hour."
And so saying, he passed out to enter the carriage.
"Na, na," said Sandy, as the footman offered his arm to assist his
master to mount the steps; "ye maun wait a wee. I trow ye hae no seen my
master yet."
"What means this insolence? Who is this fellow?--push him aside."
"That's na sae easy to do," replied Sandy, gravely; "and though I hae
but one arm, ye 'll no be proud of yer-sel 'gin you try the game."
"Who are you? By what right do you stop me here?" said Heffernan, who,
contrary to his wont, was already in a passion.
"I'm Bagenal Daly's man; and there's himsel in the parlor, and he'll
tell you mair, maybe."
The mention of that name seemed to act like a spell upon Heffernan, and,
without waiting for another word, he turned back hastily, and re-entered
the house. He stopped as he laid his hand on the handle of the door, and
his face, when the light fell on it, was pale as death; and although no
other sign of agitation was perceptible, the expression of his features
was very different from ordinary. The pause, brief as it was, seemed
sufficient to rally him, for, opening the door with an appearance
of haste, he advanced towards Daly, and, with an outstretched hand,
exclaimed,--
"My dear Mr. Daly, I little knew who it was I declined to see. They gave
me no name, and I was just stepping into my carriage when your servant
told me you were here. I need not tell you that I would not deny myself
to you."
"I believe not, sir," said Daly, with a strong emphasis on the words. "I
have come a long journey to see and speak with you."
"May I ask it, as a great favor, that you will let our interview be for
to-morrow morning? You may name your hour, or as many of them as you
like--or will you dine with me?"
"We 'll dine together to-day, sir," said Daly.
"That's impossible," said Heffernan, with a smile which all his tact
could not make an easy one. "I have been engaged for four days to
Lord Castlereagh,--a party which I had some share in assembling
together,--and, indeed, already I am five-and-twenty minutes late."
"I regret deeply, sir," said Daly, as, crossing his hands behind his
back, he slowly walked up and down the room,--"I regret deeply that
I must deprive the noble Secretary's dinner-party of so very gifted a
guest. I know something of Mr. Heffernan's entertaining powers, and I
have heard even more of them; but for all that, I must be unrelenting,
and--"
"The thing is really impossible."
"You will dine with me to-day," was the cool answer of Daly, as, fixing
his eyes steadily on him, he uttered the words in a low, determined
tone.
"Once for all, sir--" said Heffernan, as he moved towards the door.
"Once for all," repeated Daly, "I will have my way. This is no piece of
caprice,--no sudden outbreak of that eccentricity which you and others
affect to fasten on me. No, Mr. Heffernan; I have come a hundred and
fifty miles with an object, and not all the wily dexterity of even you
shall balk me. To be plain, sir, there are reports current in the clubs
and society generally that you have been the means of securing the
Knight of Gwynne to the side of Government. I know--ay, and you
know--how many of these rumors originate on the shallow foundation of
men being seen together in public, and cultivating an intimacy on purely
social grounds. Now, Mr. Heffernan, Darcy's opinions, it is well known,
are not those of the Ministry, and the only result of such calumnies
will be that he, the head of a family, and a country gentleman of the
highest rank, will be drawn into a dangerous altercation with some of
those lounging puppies that circulate such slanders. I am his friend,
and, as it happens, with no such ties to life and station as he
possesses. I will, if possible, place myself in a similar position, and,
to do so, I know no readier road than by keeping your company. I will
give the gentlemen every pretext to talk of me as they have done of him;
and if I hear a mutter, or if I see a signal that the most suspicious
nature can torture into an affront, I will teach the parties that
if they let their tongues run glibly, they at least shall keep their
hair-triggers in order. Now, sir, you 'll not only dine with me to-day,
but you 'll do so in the large room of the Club. I 've given you my
reasons, and I tell you flatly that I will hear nothing in opposition to
them; for I am quite ready to open the ball with Mr. Con Heffernan."
Heffernan's courage had been proved on more than one occasion; but,
somehow, he had his own reasons, it would seem, for declining the gage
of battle here. That they were valid ones would appear from the evident
struggle compliance cost him, as, with a quivering lip and whisper, he
said:
"There may be much force in what you say, Mr. Daly,--your motives,
at least, are unquestionable. I will offer, therefore, no further
opposition." So saying, he opened the door to permit Daly to pass out.
"To the Club," said he to the footman, as they both seated themselves in
the chariot.
"The Club, sir!" repeated the astonished servant.
"Yes, to Daly's Club," said Bagenal himself. And they drove off.
CHAPTER XVIII. LORD CASTLEREAGH'S DINNER-PARTY.
The day of Lord Castlereagh's dinner-party had arrived, and the guests,
all save Mr. Heffernan, were assembled in the drawing-room. The party
was small and select, and his Lordship had gone through the usual
routine of introducings, when Hamilton asked if he still expected any
one.
"Yes; Mr. Heffernan promised to make one of our twelve; he is generally
punctuality itself, and I cannot understand what detains him."
"He said he 'd call for me on his way," said Lord Beerhaven, "and I
waited some time for him; but as I would not risk spoiling your
Lordship's entres, I came away at last."
This speech was made by one who felt no small uneasiness on his own part
respecting the cookery, and took the occasion of suggesting his fears,
as a hint to order dinner.
"Shall we vote him present, then?" said Lord Castle-reagh, who saw the
look of dismay the further prospect of waiting threw over the party.
"By all means," said Lord Beerhaven; "Heffernan never eats soup."
"I don't think he cares much for fish, either," said Hamilton.
"I think our friend Con is fond of walnuts," said the Knight, dryly.
"Them 's the unwholesomest things he could eat," muttered old Hickman,
who, although seated in a corner of the room, and partly masked by his
son and grandson, could not be altogether secluded from earshot.
"Are they indeed?" said the bishop, turning sharply round; for the theme
of health was one that engaged all his sympathies; and although his
short apron covered a goodly rotundity of form, eating exacted to the
full as many pains as it afforded pleasures to the Churchman.
"Yes, my Lord," said Hickman, highly gratified to obtain such exalted
notice; "there's an essential oil in them that destroys the mucous
membrane--"
"Destroys the mucous membrane!" said the bishop, interrupting him.
"Mine is pretty much in that way already," said Lord Beerhaven,
querulously; "five-and-twenty minutes past six."
"No, no, my dear Darcy," said Lord Drogheda, who, having drawn the
Knight aside, was speaking in an earnest but low tone, "I never was
easier in my life, on the score of money; don't let the thing give you
any trouble; consult Gleeson about it, he's a clever fellow, and take
your own time for the payment."
"Gleeson is a clever fellow, my Lord, but there are straits that prove
too much even for his ingenuity."
"Ah! I know what you mean," said Lord Drogheda, secretly, "you 've heard
of that Spanish-American affair,--yes, he made a bad hit there; some say
he'll lose fifty thousand by it."
Dinner was at this moment announced, and the Knight was unable to learn
further on a subject the little he had heard of which gave him great
sorrow. Unfortunately, too, his position at table was opposite, not
next, to Lord Drogheda, and he was thus compelled to wait for another
opportunity of interrogating him.
Lord Castlereagh has left behind him one reputation which no political
or party animosity has ever availed to detract from, that of being the
most perfect host that ever dispensed the honors of a table. Whatever
seeming reserve or coldness he maintained at other times, here he
was courteous to cordiality; his manner, the happy union of thorough
good-breeding and friendly ease. Gifted with a most retentive memory,
and well versed on almost every topic that could arise, he possessed
that most difficult art, the power of developing the resources and
information of others, without ever making any parade of his own
acquirements; or, what is still harder, without betraying the effort
which, in hands less adroit, becomes the most vulgar of all tricks,
called "drawing out."
With all these advantages, and well suited as he was to meet every
emergency of a social meeting, he felt on the present occasion far
less at ease than was his wont. The party was one of Heffernan's
contriving,--the elements were such as he himself would never have
dreamed of collecting together,--and he relied upon his "ancient" to
conduct the plan he had so skilfully laid down. It was, as he muttered
to himself, "Heffernan's Bill," and he was not coming forward to explain
its provisions or state its object.
Happily for the success of such meetings in general, the adjuncts
contribute almost equally with the intellectual resources of the party;
and here Heffernan, although absent, had left a trace of his skill. The
dinner was admirable. Lord Castlereagh knew nothing of such matters;
the most simple, nay, the most ill-dressed, meats would have met equal
approval from him with the greatest triumphs of the art; and as to wine,
he mixed up his madeira, his claret, and his burgundy together in a
fashion which sadly deteriorated him in the estimation of many of his
more cultivated acquaintances.
All the detail of the dinner was perfect, and Lord Beer-haven, his
fears on that score allayed, emerged from the cloud of his own dreary
anticipations, and became one of the pleasantest of the party. And thus
the influence of good cheer and easy converse extended its happy sway
until even Mr. Hickman O'Reilly began to suffer less anxiety respecting
his father's presence, and felt relieved at the preoccupation the good
things of the table exacted from the old doctor.
The party was of that magnitude which, while enabling the guests to form
into the twos and threes of conversational intimacy, yet affords, from
time to time, the opportunity of generalizing the subject discussed, and
drawing, as it were, into a common centre the social abilities of each.
And there Lord Castlereagh shone conspicuously, for at the same time
that he called forth all the anecdotic stores of Lord Beerhaven, and the
witty repartee for which Hamilton was noted, he shrouded the obtrusive
old Hickman, or gave a character of quaint originality to remarks which,
with less flattering introduction, had been deemed low-lived and vulgar.
The wine went freely round, and claret, whose flavor might have found
acceptance with the most critical, began to work its influence upon
the party, producing that pleasant amalgamation in which individual
peculiarities are felt to be the attractive, and not the repelling,
properties of social intercourse.
"What splendid action that horse you drive has, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly,"
said Lord Loughdooner, who had paid the most marked attention to him
during dinner. "That's the style of moving they 're so mad after in
London,--high and fast at the same time."
"I gave three hundred and fifty for him," lisped out the youth,
carelessly, "and think him cheap."
"Cheap at three hundred and fifty!" exclaimed old Hickman, who had heard
the fact for the first time. "May I never stir from the spot, but you
told me forty pounds."
"When you can pick up another at that price let me know, I beg you,"
said Lord Loughdooner, coming to the rescue, and with a smile that
seemed to say, "How well you quizzed the old gentleman! I say, Hamilton,
who bought your gray?"
"Ecclesmere bought him for his uncle."
"Why, he starts, or shies, or something of that sort, don't he?"
"No, my Lord, he 'comes down,' which is what the uncle does not; and as
he stands between Ecclesmere and the Marquisate--"
"That's what I've always maintained," said the bishop to Lord
Castlereagh. "The potato disposes to acidity. I know the poor people
correct that by avoiding animal food,--a most invaluable fact."
"There are good grounds for your remark," said Lord Castlereagh to the
Knight, while he smiled an easy assent to the bishop, without attending
to him, "and the social relations of the country will demand the
earliest care of the Government whenever measures of immediate
importance permit this consideration. We have been unfortunate in not
drawing closer to us men who, like yourself, are thoroughly acquainted
with the condition of the people generally. It is not too late--"
"Too late for what?" interrupted Lord Drogheda. "Not too late for more
claret, I trust; and the decanter has been standing opposite to me these
ten minutes."
"A thousand pardons!--O'Reilly, will you touch that bell? Thanks."
The tone of easy familiarity with which he spoke covered Hickman with a
flush of ecstatic pleasure.
"They ginger them up so, nowadays," said Lord Loughdooner to Beecham
O'Reilly.
"Ginger!" chimed in Hickman,--"the devil a finer thing for the stomach.
I ask your pardon, my Lord, for saying his name, but I 'll give you a
receipt for the windy bile worth a guinea-note."
"Take a pinch of snuff, Dr. Hickman," said Lord Castle-reagh, who saw
the mortification of the two generations at the old man's vulgarity.
"Thank you, my Lord. 'Tis blackguard I like best: them brown snuffs
ruins the nose entirely.--I was saying about the mixture," said he,
addressing the bishop. "Take a pint of infusion of gentian, and put a
pinch of coriander seeds, and the peel of a Chaney orange--"
"I recommend a bumper of that claret, my Lord," said Lord Castlereagh,
determined to cut short the prescription, which now was being listened
to by the whole board; "and when I add the health of the primate, I
'm sure you 'll not refuse me." The toast was drunk with all suitable
honors, and the Secretary resumed in a whisper: "He wants our best
wishes on that score, poor fellow, if they could serve him. He's not
long to be with us, I fear."
"Indeed, my Lord!" said the bishop, eagerly.
"Alas! too true," sighed Lord Castlereagh; "he 'll be a severe loss,
too. I wanted to have some minutes' talk with you on the matter. These
are times of no common emergency, and the men we promote are of great
consequence at this moment. Say to-morrow, about one."
"I 'll be punctual," said the bishop, taking out his tablets to make a
note of what his memory would retain to the end of his life.
Lord Castlereagh caught the Knight's eye at the instant, and they both
smiled, without being able to control their emotion.
"And so," said Lord Castlereagh, hastening to conceal his laugh, "my
young relation continues to enjoy the hospitalities of your house.
I don't doubt in the least that he reckons that wound the luckiest
incident of his life."
"My friend Darcy paid even more dearly for it," said Lord Drogheda,
overhearing the remark; "but for Heffernan's tidings, I should certainly
have lost my wager."
"I assure you, Knight," broke in Hickman O'Reilly, "it was through no
fault of mine that the altercation ended so seriously. I visited Captain
Forester in his room, and thought I obtained his pledge to take no
further notice of the affair."
"And I, too, told him the style of fellow MacDonough was," said Beecham,
affectedly.
"I have heard honorable mention of both facts, gentlemen," said Darcy,
dryly; "that nothing could have less contributed to a breach of the
peace than Mr. Beecham O'Reilly's conduct, my friend Daly is willing to
vouch for."
"I wish his own had been equally prudent and pacific," said Hickman
O'Reilly, reddening at the taunt conveyed in the Knight's speech.
"Daly is unquestionably the best friend on the ground--"
"On or off the ground, my Lord Loughdooner," interrupted the Knight,
warmly; "he may be, now and then, somewhat hasty or rash; but rich as
our country is in men of generous natures, Bagenal Daly is second to
none."
"I protest, gentlemen," said the bishop, gravely; "I wish I could hear a
better reason for the panegyric than his skill as a duellist."
"True for you, my Lord," muttered old Hickman, in a whisper; "he's
readier with a pistol-bullet than with the interest on his bond."
"He 'd favor you with a discharge in full, sir, if he heard the
observation," said Hamilton, laughing.
"A letter, my Lord," said a servant, presenting a sealed epistle to the
Secretary.
"Heffernan's writing, gentlemen, so I shall, with your permission, read
it." He broke the seal, and read aloud: "'My dear Lord,--An adventure,
which would be laughable if it were not so provoking, prevents my coming
to dinner, so I must leave the menagerie--'" Here he dropped his voice,
and, crumpling up the letter, laughingly remarked, "Oh, we shall hear it
all later on, I 've no doubt."
"By the by, my Lord, there's a House to-night, is there not?"
"No, bishop; we moved an adjournment for to-morrow evening. You 'll come
down for the debate, won't you?"
The bishop nodded significantly, and sipped his wine. There was now a
pause. This was the great topic of the day, and yet, up to this moment,
not even a chance allusion to politics had been dropped, and all
recoiled from adventuring, even by a word, on a theme which might lead
to disagreement or discordance. Old Hickman, however, dated his origin
in life too far back for such scruples, and, leaning across the table,
said, with an accent to which wine imparted a tone of peculiar cunning,
"I wish you well through it, my Lord; for, by all accounts, it is dirty
work."
The roar of laughter that followed the speech actually shook the table,
Lord Castlereagh giving way to it with as much zest as the guests
themselves. Twice he essayed to speak, but each time a fresh burst of
mirth interrupted him, while old Hickman, unable to divine the source of
the merriment, stared at each person in turn, and at last muttered his
consolatory "Ay," but with a voice that showed he was far from feeling
satisfied.
"I wish you'd made that speech in the House, Mr. Hickman," said
Lord Drogheda; "I do believe you'd have been the most popular man in
Ireland."
"I confess," said Lord Castlereagh, wiping his eyes, "I cannot conceive
a more dangerous opponent to the Bill."
"If he held your own bill, with a protest on it," whispered Hamilton,
"your opinion would not be easily gainsaid."
"May I ask for a cup of coffee?" said the bishop, rising, for he saw
that although as yet no untoward results had followed, at any moment
something unpleasant might occur. The party rose with him, and adjourned
to the drawing-room.
"Singular old man!" said Lord Castlereagh, in a whisper to the Knight.
"Shrewd and cunning, no doubt, but scarcely calculated, as our friend
Drogheda thinks, to distinguish himself in the House of Commons."
"Do you think the Upper House would suit him better, my Lord?" said
Darcy, slyly.
"I see, Knight," said Lord Castlereagh, laughing, "you have caught up
the popular joke of the day."
"I trust, my Lord, it may be no more than a joke."
"Can you doubt it?"
"At the present moment," said the Knight, gravely, "I see no reason
for doubting anything merely on the score of its unlikelihood; your
Lordship's colleagues have given us some sharp lessons on the subject of
credulity, and we should be more unteachable than the savage if we had
not learnt something by this time."
Lord Castlereagh was about to answer, when Lord Drogheda came forward
to say "Good night." The others were going too, and in the bustle of
leave-taking some moments were passed.
"Your carriage has not come yet, sir," replied a servant to the Knight.
"Shall we take you home, Darcy," said Lord Drogheda; "or are you going
to the Club?"
"Let me say no to that offer, Knight," interposed Lord Castlereagh, "and
give me the pleasure of your company till the carriage arrives."
Darcy acceded to a request, the courteous mode of making which had
already secured its acceptance, and the Knight sat down at the fire
tte--tte with the Secretary.
"I was most anxious for a moment like this," said Lord Castlereagh, with
the air of one abandoning himself to the full liberty of sincerity. "It
very seldom happens to men placed like myself to have even a few brief
minutes' intercourse with any out of the rank of partisans or opponents.
"I will not disguise from you how highly I should value the alliance of
yourself to our party; I place the greatest price upon such support, but
there is something better and more valuable than even a vote in a strong
division, and that is, the candid judgment of a man who has enjoyed
your opportunities and your powers of forming an opinion. Tell me now,
frankly,--for we are here in all freedom of intercourse,--what do you
object to? What do you fear from this contemplated enactment?"
"Let me rather hear," said the Knight, smiling, "what do you hope from
it,--how you propose it to become the remedy of our existing evils?
Because I shall thereby see whether your Lordship and myself are
like-minded on the score of the disease, before we begin to discuss the
remedy."
"Be it so, then," said the Secretary, gayly; and at once, without
hesitation, he commenced a short and most explicit statement of
the Government intentions. Arguments that formed the staple of long
Parliamentary harangues he condensed into a sentence or two; views that,
dilated upon, sufficed to fill the columns of a newspaper, he displayed
palpably and boldly, exhibiting powers of clear and rapid eloquence
for which so few gave him credit in public life. Not an epithet nor
an expression could have been retrenched from a detail which denoted
faculties of admirable training, assisted by a memory almost miraculous.
Stating in order the various objections to the measure, he answered
each in turn; and wherever the reply was not sufficiently ample and
conclusive, he adroitly took occasion to undervalue either the opinion
or the source from which it originated, exhibiting, while restraining,
considerable powers of sarcasm, and a thorough insight into the
character of the public men of the period.
If the Knight was unconvinced by the arguments, he was no less
astonished by the abilities of the Secretary. Up to that hour he had
been a follower of the popular notion of the Opposition party, which
agreed in decrying his talents, and making his displays as a speaker
the touchstone of his capacity. Darcy was too clever himself to linger
longer in this delusion. He saw the great and varied resources of
the youthful statesman tested by a question of no common difficulty, and
he could not control the temptation of telling him, as he concluded,--
"You have made me a convert to the union--"
"Have I, indeed?" cried the Secretary, in an ecstasy of pleasure.
"Hear me out, my Lord,--to the union of great political abilities with
the most captivating powers of conversation. Yes, my Lord, I am
old enough to make such a remark without the hazard of being deemed
impertinent or a flatterer,--your success in life is certain."
"But the Bill!" cried Lord Castlereagh, while his handsome face was
flushed between delight and eagerness,--"the Bill!"
"Is an admirable Bill for England, my Lord, and were there not two
sides to a contract, would be perfect,--indeed, until I heard the
lucid statement you have just made, I never saw one-tenth part of the
advantages it must render to your country, nor, consequently,--for we
move not in parallel lines,--the great danger with which it is fraught
to mine. Let me now explain more fully."
With these words the Knight entered upon the question of the Union
in all its relations to Ireland; and while never conceding, nor even
extenuating, the difficulties attendant upon a double legislature, he
proceeded to show the probable train of events that must result on the
passing of the measure, strengthening his anticipations by facts derived
from deep knowledge of the country.
Far be it from us to endeavor to recapitulate his arguments: some of
them, now forgotten, were difficult enough to answer; others, treasured
up, have been fashionable fallacies in our own day. Such as they were,
they were the reasons why an Irish gentleman demurred to surrendering
privileges that gave his own country rank, place, and preeminence,
without the evidence of any certain or adequate compensation.
"Do not tell me, my Lord, that we shall hold our influence and our
station in the Imperial Parliament. There are many reasons against such
a belief. We shall be in the minority, a great minority; a minority
branded with provincialism as our badge, and accused of prejudice and
narrow-sightedness, from the very fact of our nationality. No, no; we
shall occupy a very different position in your country: and who will
take our places here? That's a point your Lordship has not touched upon,
but I 'll tell you. The demagogue, the public disturber, the licensed
hawker of small grievances, every briefless lawyer of bad fortune
and worse language, every mendicant patriot that can minister to the
passions of a people deserted by their natural protectors,--the day will
come, my Lord, when these men will grow ambitious, their aspirings may
become troublesome; if you coerce them, they are martyrs,--conciliate
them, and they are privileged. What will happen then? You will be asked
to repeal the Union, you will be charged with all the venality by which
you carried your Bill, every injustice with which it is chargeable, and
with a hundred other faults and crimes with which it is unconnected. You
will be asked, I say, to repeal the Union, and make of this miserable
rabble, these dregs and sweepings of party, a Parliament. You shake your
head. No, no, it is by no means impossible,--nay, I don't think it even
remote. I speak as an old man, and age, if it have many deficiencies as
regards the past, has at least some prophetic foresight for the future.
You will be asked to repeal the Union, to give a Parliament to a country
which you have drained of its wealth, from which you have seduced the
aristocracy; to restore a deliberative body to a land whose resources
for self-legislation you have studiously and industriously ruined.
Think, then, twice of a measure from which, if it fail, there is no
retreat, and the opposition to which may come in a worse form than a
vote in the House of Commons. I see you deem my anticipations have more
gloom than truthfulness; I hope it may be so."
"The Knight of Gwynne's carriage," cried a servant, throwing wide the
door.
"How opportune!" said Darcy, laughing; "it is so satisfactory to have
the last shot at the enemy."
"Pray don't go yet,--a few moments more."
"Not a second, my Lord; I dare not. The fact is, I have strenuously
avoided this subject; an old friend of mine, Bagenal Daly, has wearied
me of it,--he is an Anti-Unionist, but on grounds I scarcely concur in.
Your Lordship's defence of the measure I also demur to. I am like poor
old Murray, the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, who, when called on
for his opinion in a case where Judge Wallace was in favor of a rule,
and Judge Mayne against it, he said, 'I agree with my brother Mayne for
the cogent reasons laid down by my brother Wallace.'"
"So," said the Secretary, laughing heartily, "I have convinced you
against myself."
"Exactly, my Lord. I came here this evening intending not to vote on the
Bill,--indeed, I accepted your Lordship's hospitality without a thought
upon a party question; I am equally certain you will acquit me of being
a spy in the camp. To-morrow I intend to vote against you."
"I wish I could have the same esteem for my friends that I now pledge
for my--"
"Don't say 'enemy,' my Lord; we both aspire to the same end,--our
country's good. If we take different roads, it is because each thinks
his own path the shortest. Good night."
Lord Castlereagh accompanied the Knight to his carriage, and again shook
his hand cordially as they parted.
CHAPTER XIX. A DAY OF EXCITEMENT
Great was the Knight's astonishment, and not less his satisfaction,
as he entered the breakfast-room the morning after his dinner with the
Secretary, to find Bagenal Daly there before him. They met with all
the cordial warmth of men whose friendship had continued without
interruption for nigh half a century; each well disposed to prize good
faith and integrity at a time when so many lapsed from the path of honor
and principle.
"Well, Darcy," cried Daly, the first greetings over, "there is little
hope left us; that rascally newspaper already proclaims the triumph,--a
majority of twenty-eight."
"They calculate on many more; you remember what old Hayes, of the
Recruiting Staff, used to say: 'There was no getting fellows to enlist
when the bounty was high; make it half-a-crown,' said he, 'and I 'll
raise a battalion in a fortnight.'"
"Is Castlereagh adopting the policy?"
"Yes, and with infinite success! Some that held out for English Peerages
are fain to take Irish Baronetcies, expectant Bishops put up with
Deaneries, and an acquaintance of ours, that would take nothing below
a separate command, is now satisfied to make his son a clerk in the War
Office."
"I 'm sorry for it," said Daly, as he arose and paced the room backwards
and forwards, "sincerely sorry. I had fostered the hope that if they
succeeded in corrupting our gentry, they had polluted their own
Peerage. I wish every fellow had been bought by an Earldom at least. I
would like to think that this Judas Peerage might become a jest and a
scoff among their order."
"Have no such expectation, Bagenal," said the Knight, reflectively;
"their origin will be forgiven before the first generation dies out.
To all purposes of worldly respect and esteem, they 'll be as high and
mighty Lords as the best blood of all the Howards. The penalty will fall
upon England in another form."
"How? Where?"
"In the Lower House, politics will become a trade to live by, and the
Irish party, with such an admirable market for grievances, will be a
strong and compact body in Parliament, too numerous to be bought by
anything save great concessions. Englishmen will never understand the
truth of the condition of the country from these men, nor how little
personal importance they possess at home. They will be regarded as the
exponents of Irish opinion; they will browbeat, denounce, threaten,
fawn, and flatter by turns; and Ireland, instead of being easier to
govern, will be rendered ten times more difficult, by all the obscuring
influences of falsehood and misrepresentation. But let us quit the
theme. How have you left all at the Abbey?"
"Well and happy; here are my despatches." And he laid on the table
several letters, the first the Knight had received since his arrival,
save a few hurried lines from Lady Eleanor. Darcy broke the envelopes,
and skimmed the contents of each.
"How good!" cried he, handing Lord Netherby's letter across the table;
"this is really amusing!"
"I have seen it," said Daly, dryly. "Lady Eleanor asked my opinion as to
what answer she should make."
"Insolent old miser!" broke in Darcy, who, without attending to Daly's
remark, had been reading Lady Eleanor's account of Dr. Hickman's
proposal. "I say, Bagenal, you 'll not believe this. What social
earthquakes are we to look for next? Read that." And with a trembling
hand he presented the letter to Daly.
If the Knight's passion had been more openly displayed, Daly's
indignation seemed to evoke deeper emotion, for his brows met, and his
stern lips were clenched, as he perused the lines.
"Darcy," said he, at length, "O'Reilly must apologize for this; he must
be made to disavow any share in the old man's impertinence--"
"No, no," interrupted Darcy, "never speak of it again; rest assured that
Lady Eleanor received the offer suitably. The best thing we can do is to
forget it. If," added he, after a pause, "the daring that prompted such
a proposition has not a deeper foundation than mere presumption. You
know these Hickmans have purchased up my bonds and other securities?"
"I heard as much."
"Well, Gleeson is making arrangements for the payment. One large sum,
something like 20,000--"
"Was paid the day before yesterday," said Daly; "here is a memorandum of
the moneys."
"How the deuce came you by the information? I have heard nothing of it
yet."
"That entails somewhat of a story," said Daly; "but I 'll be brief with
it." And in a few words he narrated his meeting with the robber Freney,
and how he had availed himself of his hospitality and safe convoy as far
as Maynooth.
"Ireland forever!" said the Knight, in a burst of happy laughter; "for
every species of incongruity, where was ever its equal? An independent
member of the Legislature sups with a highwayman, and takes a loan of
his hackney!"
"Ay, faith," said Daly, joining in the laugh; "and had I not been one
of the Opposition, I had been worth robbing, and consequently not so
civilly treated. By Jove! Darcy, I felt an evening with Freney to be
a devilish good preparation for the company I should be keeping up in
town."
"I'll wager ten pounds you talked politics together."
"That we did, and he is as stout an Anti-Unionist as the best of
us, though he told me he signed a petition in favor of the Bill when
confined in Clonmel jail."
"Is that true, Bagenal? did they hawk a petition for signature among the
prisoners of a jail?"
"He took his oath of it to me, and I intend to declare it in the House."
"What if asked for your authority?"
"I 'll give it," said Daly, determinedly. "Ay, faith, and if I catch a
sneer or a scoff amongst them, I 'll tell them that a highwayman is
about as respectable and somewhat more courageous than a bribed
representative."
If the Knight enjoyed the absurdity of Daly's supper with the noted
Freney, he laughed till the tears came at the account of his dining with
Con Heffernan. Darcy could appreciate the dismay of Heffernan, and the
cool, imperturbable tyranny of Daly's manner throughout, and would have
given largely to have witnessed the tte--tte.
"I will do him the justice to say," said Daly, "that when he found
escape impossible, he behaved as well as any man, his conversation was
easy and unaffected, and his manner perfectly well-bred. Freney was more
anecdotic, but Heffernan saw deeper into mankind."
"I hope you hinted the comparison?" said Darcy, slyly.
"Yes, I observed upon the superiority practical men possess in all
the relations of social intercourse, and quoted Freney and himself as
instances!"
"And he took it well?"
"Admirably. Once, and only once, did he show a little disposition to
turn restive; it was when I remarked upon the discrepancy in point of
destiny, the one being employed to empty, the other to fill, the pockets
of his Majesty's lieges. He winced, but it was over in a second. His
time was up at ten o'clock, but we sat chatting till near twelve, and
we parted with what the French term a 'sense of the most distinguished
consideration' on each side."
"By Jove! I envy the fellows who sat at the other tables and saw you."
"They were most discreet in their observations," remarked Daly,
significantly. "One young fellow, it is true, coughed twice or thrice as
a signal to a friend across the room, but I ordered the waiter to bring
me a plate, and, taking three or four bullets out of my pocket, sent
them over to him, with my respectful compliments, as 'admirable pills
for a cough.' The cure was miraculous."
"Excellent! Men have taken out a patent for a poorer remedy. And now,
Bagenal, for the reason of your journey. What, in the name of everything
strange and eccentric, brought you up to town? Don't affect to tell me
you came for the debate."
"And why not?" said Daly, who, unwilling to reveal the true cause,
preferred to do battle on this pretence. "I admit as freely as ever I
did, I'm no lover of Parliament. I have slight respect or esteem
for deliberative assemblies split up into factions and parties. A
Government, to my thinking, should represent unity as the chief element
of strength; but such as it is,--bad enough and base enough, in all
conscience,--yet it is the last remnant of national power left, the
frail barrier between us and downright provincialism. But I had another
reason for coming up,--half-a-dozen other reasons, for that matter,--one
of them was, to see your invaluable business man, Gleeson, who, from
some caprice or other about a higher rate of interest, has withdrawn
my sister's fortune from the funds to invest it in some confounded
mortgage. I suppose it's all right, and judicious to boot; but Maria,
like every other Daly I ever heard of, has a will of her own, and has
commissioned me to have the money restored to its former destination.
I verily believe, Darcy, the most troublesome animal on the face of
the globe is an old maid with a small funded capital. At one moment
deploring the low rate of interest and dying for a more profitable
use of the money; at another, decrying all deposit save the Bank,
she inveighs against public theft and private credit, and takes off
three-and-a-half per cent of her happiness in pure fretting."
"Is she quite well?" said the Knight, in an accent which a more shrewd
observer than Daly might have perceived was marked by some agitation.
"I never knew her better; as fearless as we both remember her at
sixteen; and, save those strange intervals of depression she has labored
under all through her life, the same gay-hearted spirit she was when the
flattered heiress and beauty long, long years ago."
The Knight heaved a sigh. It might have been for the years thus passed,
the pleasant days of early youth and manhood so suddenly called up
before him; it might have been that other and more tender memories
were crowding on his mind; but he turned away, and leaned on the
chimney-piece, lost in deep thought.
"Poor girl," said Daly, "there is no question of it, Darcy, but she must
have formed some unfortunate attachment; she had pride enough always to
rescue her from the dangers of an unsuitable marriage, but her heart, I
feel convinced, was touched, and yet I never could find a clew to it. I
suspected something of the kind when she refused Donington,--a
handsome fellow, and an old title. I pressed her myself on the
subject,--it was the only time I did so,--and I guessed at once, from
a chance phrase she dropped, that there had been an old attachment
somewhere. Well, well, what a lesson might be read from both our
fortunes! The beauty--and you remember how handsome she was--the beauty
with a splendid fortune, a reduced maiden lady; and myself"--he heaved
a heavy sigh, and, with clasped hands, sat back in the chair, as he
added--"the shattered wreck of every hope I once set out with."
The two old men's eyes met, and, although undesignedly, exchanged looks
of deepest, most affectionate interest. Daly was the first to rally from
his brief access of despondency, and he did so with the physical effort
he would have used to shake a load from his shoulders.
"Well, Darcy, let us be up and stirring; there's a meeting at
Barrington's at two: we must not fail to be there."
"I wish to see Gleeson in the mean while," said the Knight; "I am uneasy
to learn what has been done with Hickman, and what day I can leave
town."
"Send Sandy out with a note, and tell him to come to dinner here at
six."
"Agreed; nothing could be better; we can talk over our business matters
comfortably, and be down at the House by nine or ten."
The note was soon written, and Sandy despatched, with orders to wait for
Gleeson's return, in case he should be absent when he arrived.
The day for the evening of which was fixed the second reading of the
Bill of Union, was a busy one in Dublin. Accounts the most opposite and
contradictory were everywhere in circulation: some asserting that the
Ministerial majority was certain; others, equally positive, alleging
that many of their supposed supporters had lapsed in their allegiance,
and that the most enormous offers had been made, without success, to
parties hitherto believed amongst the ranks of the Government. The
streets were crowded, not by persons engaged in the usual affairs of
trade and traffic, but by groups and knots talking eagerly over
the coming event, and discussing every rumor that chance or scandal
suggested.
Various meetings were held in different parts of the town: at some,
the Government party were canvassing the modes of reaching the House
in safety, and how best they might escape the violence of the mob; at
others, the Opposition deliberated on the prospects before them, and by
what stratagems the debate might be prolonged till the period when, the
Wicklow election over, Mr. Grattan might be expected to take his seat
in the House, since, by a trick of "the Castle party," the writ had been
delayed to that very morning.
Con Heffernan's carriage was seen everywhere, and some avowed that at
five o'clock he was driving with the third pair of posters he had that
day employed. Bagenal Daly was also a conspicuous character "on town;"
on foot and alone, he was at once recognized by the mob, who cheered him
as an old but long-lost-sight-of acquaintance. The densest crowd made
way for him as he came, and every mark of respect was shown him by those
who set a higher price on his eccentricity and daring than even upon his
patriotism; and a murmuring commentary on his character followed him as
he went.
"By my conscience! it 's well for them they have n't to fight for the
Union, or they would n't like old Bagenal Daly agin them!"
"He looks as fresh and bould as ever he did," said another; "sorra a day
oulder than he was twenty-eight years ago, when I seen him tried for his
life at Newgate."
"Was you there, Mickey?" cried two or three in a breath.
"Faix was I, as near as I am to you. 'Twas a coal-heaver he kilt, a
chap that was called Big Sam; and they say he was bribed by some of the
gentlemen at Daly's Club House to come up to Bagenal Daly in the street
and insult him about the beard he wears on his upper lip, and sure
enough so he did,--it was Ash Wednesday mor by token,--and Sam had a
smut on his face just to imitat(e) Mr. Daly's. 'We are a purty pair,
ain't we?' says Sam, grinning at him, when they met on Essex Bridge. And
wid that he slips his arm inside Mr. Daly's to hook wid his."
"To walk beside him, is't?"
"Just so, divil a less. 'Come round to the other side of me,' says Daly,
'for I want to step into Kertland's shop.' And in they went together,
and Daly asks for a pound of strong white soap, and pays down
one-and-eight-pence for it, and out they comes again quite friendly
as before. 'Where to now?' says Sam, for he held a grip of him like
a bailiff. 'Across the bridge,' says Daly; and so it was. When they
reached the middle arch of the bridge, Daly made a spring and got
himself free, and then, stooping down, caught Sam by the knees, and
before you could say 'Jack Robinson,' hurled him over the battlements
into the Liffey. 'You can wash your face now,' says he, and he threw the
soap after him; divil a word more he said, but walked on, as cool as you
saw him there."
"And Sam?" said several together.
"Sam was drowned; there came a fresh in the river, and they took him up
beyond the North Wall--a corpse."
"Millia murther! what did Daly do?"
"He took his trial for it, and sorra excuse he gave one way or other,
but that he 'did n't know the blackguard couldn't swim.'"
"And they let him off?"
"Let him off? Arrah, is it hang a gentleman?"
"True for you," chimed in the bystanders; "them that makes the laws
knows better than that!"
Such was one of the narratives his reappearance in Dublin again brought
up; and, singular enough, by the respect shown him by the mob, derived
much of its source in that same feeling of awe and dread they manifested
towards one they believed privileged to do whatever he pleased. Alas
for human nature! the qualities which find favor with the multitude are
never the finer and better traits of the heart, but rather the sterner
features that emanate from a strong will and firm purpose.
[Illustration: 229]
If the voices of the closely compacted mass which filled the streets and
avenues of Dublin on that day could have been taken, it would have been
found that Bagenal Daly had an overwhelming majority; while, on a
converse scrutiny, it would appear that not a gentleman in Ireland
entertained for that mob sentiments of such thorough contempt as he did.
Nor was the sentiment concealed by him. The crowd which, growing as it
went, followed him from place to place throughout the city, would break
forth at intervals into some spontaneous shout of admiration, and a
cheer for Bagenal Daly, commanded by some deep throat, would be answered
in a deafening roar of voices. Then would Daly turn, and, as the moving
mass fell back, scowl upon their unwashed faces with such a look of
scorn that even they half felt the insult. In such wise was his progress
through the streets of Dublin, now moving slowly onward, now turning to
confront the mob that in slavish adulation still tracked his steps.
It was at a moment like this, when, standing at bay, he scowled upon the
dense throng, Heffernan's carriage drove slowly past, and Con, leaning
from the window, called out in a dramatic tone, "Thy friends, Siccius
Dentatus, thy friends!"
Daly started, and as his cheek reddened, answered, "Ay, and by my soul,
for the turning of a straw, I 'd make them your enemies." And as if
responsive to the threat, a groan for "the Castle hack, three groans for
Con Heffernan," were shouted out in tones that shook the street. For
a second or two Daly's face brightened, and his eyes sparkled with the
fire of enterprise, and he gazed on the countless mass with a look of
indecision; but, suddenly folding his arms, he dropped his head, and
muttered, "No, no, it would n't do; robbery and pillage would be
the whole of it;" and, without raising his eyes again, walked slowly
homewards.
The hours wore on, and six o'clock came, but no sign of Gleeson, nor had
Sandy returned with any answer.
"And yet I am positive he is not from home," said Darcy. "He pledged
himself not to leave this until the whole business was completed. Honest
Tom Gleeson is a man to keep to the strictest letter of his word."
"I 'd not think that less likely," said Daly, sententiously, "if the
world had spared him the epithet. I hate the cant of calling a man
by some title that should be common to all men,--at least, to all
gentlemen."
"I cannot agree with you," said Darcy. "I deem it a proud thing for any
one so to have impressed his reputation for honorable dealing on society
that the very mention of his name suggests his character."
"Perhaps I am soured by what we have seen around us," said Daly; "but
the mention of every virtue latterly has been generally followed by the
announcement of the purchase of its possessor. I never hear of a
good character that I don't think it is a puffing advertisement of 'a
high-priced article to be had cheap for cash.'"
"You'll think better of the world after a glass or two of Madeira," said
Darcy, laughing; "and rather than hear you inveigh against mankind, I'll
let Gleeson eat his soup cold." And, so saying, he rang the bell and
ordered dinner.
The two friends dined pleasantly, and although, from time to time, some
stray thought of Gleeson's absence would obtrude, they chatted away
agreeably till past nine o'clock.
"I begin to suspect that Sandy may have met some acquaintance, and
lingered to pledge 'old times' with him," said Darcy, looking at his
watch. "It is now nearly twenty minutes past nine."
"I'll stake my life on it, Sandy is true to his mission. He'd not turn
from the duty intrusted to him to hobnob with a Prince of the Blood.
Here he comes, however; there was a knock at the door."
But no; it was a few hurried lines in pencil from the House, begging
of them to come up at once, as the Ministerial party was mustering
in strength, and the Opposition benches filling but slowly. While
deliberating on what course to take, a second summons came from one of
the leading men of the party. It was brief, but significant: "Come up
quickly. They are evidently pushed hard. Toler has sent a message to
O'Donnell, and they are gone out, and Harvey says Castlereagh has six of
his fellows ready to provoke us.--W. T."
"That looks like business, Darcy," cried Daly, in a transport of
delight. "Let us lose no time; there's no knowing how soon so much good
valor may ooze out."
"But Gleeson--"
"If he comes, let him follow us to the House. We can walk; there's no
use waiting for the carriage." Then added, in a mutter to himself, "I 'd
give a hundred down to have a shot at the Attorney-General. There,
that 's Sandy's voice in the hall;" and at the same instant the trusty
servant entered.
"Well, have you seen him?"
"Is he at home?"
"No, sirs, he's no at hame, that's clear. When I asked for him, they
told me he was in bed, asleep, for that he was just arrived after a
long journey; and so I waited a bit, and gaed out for a walk into the
shrubberies, where I could have a look at his chamber windows, and sure
enough they were a' closed. I waited a while longer, but he was still
sleeping, and they dared na wake him; and so it came to nigh five
o'clock, and then I was fain to send up the bit letter by the flunkie,
and ask for the answer; but none came."
"Did you say that the letter was from me?" said the Knight, hastily.
"Na, sir; but I tauld them what most people mind as well, that Mister
Bagenal Daly sent me. It's a name few folk are fond to trifle wi'."
"Go on, Sandy," said Daly, "What then?"
"Weel, sir, I sat down on the stair at the foot of the big clock, and
said to mysel, 'I 'll gie ye ten minutes mair, but not a second after.'
And sure enough ye might hear every tick of her through the house, a'
was so still and silent. Short as the time was, I thought it wad never
gae past, for I did no tak my eyes aff o' her face. When the ten minutes
was up, I stole gently up the stair, and opened the door. A was dark
inside, so I opened the window, and there was the bed--empty; nobody
had lain in it syne it was made. There was a bit ashes in the grate,
and some burned paper on the hearth, but na other sign that onybody
was there at a', sae I crept back again, and met the flunkie as he was
coming up, for he had just missed me, and was in a real fright where I
was gone to. I saw by his face that he was found out, and so I laid my
hand on his shoulder, and said, 'Ye ha tauld me ane lee; ye maun tak
care no to tell me anither. Where is yer maister?' Then came out the
truth. Mr. Gleeson was gane awa to England. He sailed for Liverpool in
the 'Shamrock.'"
"Impossible!" said Darcy. "He could not be away from Dublin at this
moment."
"It's even sae," replied Sandy, gravely; "for when I heard a' that I
could from the flunkie, I put him into the library, and locked the door
on him, and then went round to the stable-yard, where the coachman was
sitting in the harness-room, smoking. 'And so he's off to England,' said
I to him, as if I kenned it a'.
"'Just sae,' said he, wi' the pipe in his mouth. "'And he's nae to be
back for some time,' said I, speerin' at him.
"'On Friday,' said he; and he smoked away, and never a word mair could I
get out o' him."
"Why, Sandy," said the Knight, laughing, "they'd make you a prefect of
police if they had you in France."
"I dinna ken, sir," said Sandy, not exactly appreciating what the nature
of the appointment might portend.
"I only hope Gleeson may not hear of the perquisition on his return,"
said the Knight, in a whisper to Daly. "Our friend Sandy pushes his
spirit of inquiry somewhat far."
"I don't know that," said Daly, thoughtfully; "he's a shrewd fellow,
and rarely makes a mistake of that kind. But come, let us lose no more
time."
"I half suspect the reason of this mystery about Gleeson," said the
Knight, who stood musing deeply on the event; "a few words Drogheda let
fall yesterday, going in to dinner,--some unfortunate speculation in
South America: this may require his keeping out of the way for a little
time. But why not say so, manfully?--I'm sure I'm ready to assist him."
"Come along, Darcy, we must walk; they say no carriage can get through
the mob." And, with these words, he took the Knight's arm and sallied
forth, while Sandy followed, conveying a large cloth cloak over his arm,
which only partially concealed an ominous-looking box of mahogany wood,
strapped with brass.
A crowd awaited them as they reached the street, by which they were
escorted through the denser mass that thronged the great thoroughfare,
the mere mention of their names being sufficient to force a passage even
where the mob stood thickest.
The space in front of the Parliament House and before the College was
filled with soldiers; while patrols of cavalry traversed every avenue
leading to it, for information had reached the Government that violence
might be apprehended from a mob whose force and numbers were alluded
to by members within the House in terms meant to intimidate, while the
presence of the soldiery was retorted by the Opposition as a measure of
tyranny and oppression of the Castle party. Brushing somewhat roughly
through the armed line, Daly, with the Knight beside him, entered the
space, and was passing onward, when a bustle and a confused uproar
behind him arrested his steps. Believing that it might be to Sandy's
progress some objection was offered, Daly wheeled round, when he saw two
policemen in the act of dragging away a boy, whose loud cries for help
from the mob were incessant, while he mingled the name of Mr. Daly
through his entreaties.
"What is it?" said Daly. "Does the fellow want me?"
[Illustration: 234]
"Never mind him," said Darcy; "the boy has caught up your name, and
that's all."
But the urchin struggled and kicked with all his might; and, although
overpowered by superior strength, gave battle to the last, screaming at
the top of his voice, "One word with Mr. Daly,--just one word!"
Bagenal Daly turned back, and, approaching the scene of contest, said,
"Have you anything to say to me? I am Mr. Daly."
"If they 'd let me go my hands, I 've something to give you," said the
boy, who, although sorely bruised and beaten, seemed to care less for
his own troubles than for the object of his enterprise.
At a word from Daly, the policemen relinquished their hold, and stood
guard on either side, while the boy, giving himself a shake, leered up
in Daly's face with an expression he could not fail to recognize.
"There's a way to treat a young gentleman at home for the Christmas
holidays!" said the imp, with a compassionate glance at his torn and
tattered garments, while the words and the tone they were uttered in
sent a shout of laughter through the mob.
"What, Jemmy!" said Daly, stooping down and accosting him in a whisper,
for it was no other than that reputable youth himself, "you here?"
"Just so, sir. Ain't I in a nice way to appear at the Privy Council?"
The police were growing impatient at the continued insolence of
the fellow, and were about to lay hold on him once more, when Daly
interposed, and said, in a still lower voice, "Have you anything to tell
me?"
"I 've a bit of paper for you somewhere, from one you know, if them
blackguards the 'polis' has not made me lose it."
"Be quick, then," said Daly, "and see after it." For Darcy was chafed at
a delay he could not see any reason for.
"Here it is," said the imp, taking a piece of dirty and crumpled paper
from the lining of his hat; "there, you have it now safe and sure. Give
my best respects to Alderman Darby," added he to the police; "say I was
too hurried to call;" and with that he dived between the legs of one of
them, dashed through the line of soldiers, and was speedily concealed
among the dense crowd outside, where shouts of approving laughter
welcomed him.
"A rendezvous or a challenge, Bagenal,--which?" said the Knight,
laughing, as Daly stood endeavoring, by the light of a lamp in the
corridor, to decipher the torn scrawl.
The other made no reply, but, holding the paper close to his eyes, stood
silent and motionless. At last an expression of impatient anger burst
from him: "That imp of h--ll has almost effaced the words,--I cannot
make them out!" Then he added, in a low muttering, "I trust in Heaven I
have not read them aright. Come here, Darcy." And, so saying, he grasped
the Knight's hand, and led him along to one of the many small chambers
used as offices of the House.
"Ah! they're looking anxiously out for you, sir," said a young man who
stood with his back to the fire, reading a paper. "Mr. Ponsonby has just
been here."
"Leave us together here for a few minutes," said Daly, "and let there
be no interruption." And as he spoke, he motioned to the door with a
gesture there was no mistaking. The clerk left the room, and they were
alone.
"Maurice Darcy," said Daly, as he turned the key in the lock, "you have
a stout heart and a courage I never saw fail, and you need both at this
moment."
"What is it, Bagenal?" gasped the Knight, as a most deadly pallor
covered his face. "Is my wife--are my children--"
"No, no; be calm, Darcy, they are all well."
"Go on, then," cried he, with a firmer voice; "I'll listen to you
patiently."
"Read that," said Daly, as he held the paper near the candle; and
the Knight read aloud: "'Honored Sir,--I saw the other night you were
troubled when I spoke of Gleeson, and I take the occasion of--'"
"'warning you,' I think the words are," broke in Daly.
"So it is:--'warning you honest Tom is away to America!'" The paper fell
from Darcy's hand, and he staggered back into a seat.
"With they say above a hundred thousand pounds, Darcy," continued Daly,
taking up the fragment. "If the news be true--"
"If so, I'm ruined; he received the whole loan on Saturday last,--he
could not delay Hickman's payment beyond Wednesday without suspicion."
"Ah! I see it all, and the American packet does not sail till to-morrow
morning from Liverpool."
"But it may all be false," said Darcy. "Who writes you this story?"
"It is signed 'F.,' and Freney is the man; I know the fellow that
brought it."
"I 'll not believe a word of it, Bagenal," said the Knight, impetuously.
"I 'll not credit the calumny of a highwayman against the honor of one I
have known and respected for years. It is false, depend upon it."
"Yet how it tallies with Sandy's tidings; there is something in it.
Hush! Darcy, don't speak; there is some one passing."
The sounds of feet and voices were heard at the same instant without,
and among them the clear, distinctive accents of Hickman O'Reilly.
"Yes," said he, "if the news had come a little earlier, Lord
Castlereagh, would have found some of our patriots less stern in virtue.
Gleeson will have carried away half a province with him."
"There," whispered Daly, "you heard that,--the news is about already."
But Darcy was now totally overcome, and, with his head resting on the
table, neither spoke nor stirred. "Bagenal," said he, at length, but in
a voice faint as a whisper, "I am too ill to face the House; let us turn
homewards."
"I 'll see for a carriage," said Daly, who issued forth to take the
first he could find.
"I say, Hamilton," cried a member, as he alighted from his chariot,
"there's the Knight of Gwynne and Bagenal Daly in Castlereagh's
carriage."
"Daly said he could drive a coach-and-six through the Bill!" replied the
other; "perhaps he's gone to practise with a pair first."
CHAPTER XX. THE ADJOURNED DEBATE
Although the debate had commenced at seven o'clock, none of the great
speakers on either side arose before eleven. Some fierce skirmishes had,
indeed, occurred; personalities and sarcasms the most cutting had been
interchanged with a freedom that showed that if shame were in a great
measure departed, personal daring and intrepidity were qualities still
in repute. The Ministerial party, no longer timid or wavering, took
no pains to conceal their sense of coming victory, and even Lord
Castlereagh, usually so guarded on every outward observance, entered the
House and took his seat with a smile of conscious triumph that did not
escape observation from either friends or opponents.
The tactics of the Treasury benches, too, seemed changed: not waiting,
as hitherto, to receive and repel the attack of the Opposition, they
now became themselves the assailants, and evinced, by the readiness and
frequency of their assaults, the perfect organization they had attained.
The Opposition members, who opened the debate, were suffered to proceed
without any attempt at reply, an ironical cheer, a well-put question,
some home-thrust as to former opinions, alone breaking the thread of an
argument which, even from its monotony, was becoming less effective.
Sir Henry Parnell, the late Chancellor of the Exchequer, and who had
been dismissed from office for his opinions on the Union, was the first
speaker; with a moderation, in part the result of his former position
with regard to those who had been his colleagues, he limited himself to
a strict examination of the measure in its bearings and consequences,
and never, even for a moment, digressed into anything like reflection on
the motives of its advocates. His speech was able and argumentative, but
evidently unsatisfactory to his party, who seemed impatient and uneasy
till he concluded, and hailed Ponsonby, who rose after him, with cheers
that showed their expectations were now, at least, more likely to be
realized.
Whether the occasion alone was the cause, or that catching the
excitement of his supporters, Ponsonby deviated from the usually calm
and temperate character he was accustomed to assume in the House, and
became warm and impassioned. Disdaining to examine the relative merits
or demerits of the proposed Bill, he boldly pronounced Parliament
incompetent to decide it, and concluded by declaring that, if carried,
the measure might endanger not only the ties of amity between the two
nations, but dissolve those of allegiance also. A loud burst of mingled
indignation and irony broke from the Treasury benches at this daring
flight, when the speaker, at once collecting himself, turned the whole
force of his attack on the Secretary. With slow and measured intonation,
he depicted the various stages of his political career, recalling to
memory the liberal pledges he had once contracted, and the various
shades of defection by which he had at last reached the position in
which he could "betray Ireland."
None were prepared for the degree of eloquent power Ponsonby displayed
on this occasion; and the effect of such a speech from one habitually
calm, even to coldness, was overwhelming. It was not Lord Castlereagh's
intention to have spoken at this early hour of the debate; but,
apologizing for occupying the time of the House by a personality, he
arose, not self-possessed and at ease, but flushed and excited.
Without adverting for a second to the measure in debate, he launched
forth into a most violent invective on his adversary. With a vehement
passion that only his nearest friends knew him to possess, he exposed
every act of his political life; taunted him with holding opinions
liberal enough to be a patriot, but sufficiently plastic to be
marketable; he accused his very calmness as being a hypocritical
affectation of fairness, while in reality it was but the tacit admission
of his readiness to be bought; and at length pushed his violent sarcasm
so far that a loud cry of "Order!" burst forth from the Opposition,
while cheers of defiance were heard along the densely crowded ranks of
the Ministerial party.
From this moment the discussion assumed a most bitter character;
assertions and denials, uttered in language the most insulting, were
heard at every moment, and no speaker could proceed without some
interruption which demanded several minutes to subdue. More than one
member was seen to cross the floor and interchange a few words with
an adversary, the import of which, as he returned to his place, no
physiognomist need have doubted. It was not debate or discussion, it was
the vehement outpouring of personal and political hatred, by men whose
passions were no longer restrainable, and many of whom saw in this
the last occasion of their ever being able to confront their enemies.
Language that could not be uttered with impunity elsewhere, was heard at
every moment; open declarations were made that, the Bill once carried,
allegiance and loyalty were dissolved; and Sir Neil O'Donnell went so
far as to say that he regarded the measure as an act of treason, and
would place himself at the head of his regiment to oppose and annul it.
It was in a momentary pause of this bitter conflict that rumor announced
the arrival of the Knight of Gwynne and Bagenal Daly at the House. Never
were reinforcements more gladly hailed by a weakened and disabled army;
cheers of triumphant delight broke from the Opposition benches, answered
by others, not less loud and taunting, from the Ministerial side,
and every eye was turned eagerly towards the door by which they were
expected to enter.
To such a pitch of violence had partisanship carried the members on both
sides, expressions of open defiance and insult were exchanged in the
midst of this scene of tumult, nor was the authority of the Speaker able
to restore order for several minutes; when at last the doors were thrown
open, and Hickman O'Reilly entered, and walked up the body of the
House. Shouts of loud laughter now resounded from either side; such
an apparition at the moment was the most ludicrous contrast to that
expected, and a boisterous gayety succeeded to the late scene of
acrimony and intemperance.
The individual himself seemed somewhat puzzled at these unlooked-for
marks of public notice, and stared around him in astonishment, till his
eyes rested on the spot where Lord Castlereagh sat whispering with
Mr. Corry. Brief as was the glance, it seemed to have conveyed some
momentous intelligence to the gazer, for he became at first scarlet, and
then pale as death; he looked again, but the Secretary had turned his
head away, and Corry was coolly unfolding the plaits of a white cambric
handkerchief, and apparently only occupied with that object. At this
moment Hickman was standing with one foot upon the steps which led
towards the Treasury benches: he wheeled abruptly round, and walked
over to the other side of the House, where he sat down between Egan and
Ponsonby.
The cheers of the Opposition now burst forth anew, and with a deafening
clamor, while from back and cross benches, and everywhere within reach,
hands were eagerly stretched forth to grasp O'Reilly's. Never was
support less expected, never an alliance less speculated on, and
the cries of exultation were almost maddening. How long the scene of
tumultuous excitement might have lasted, it is difficult to say, when
Lord Castlereagh rose, with a calm dignity of manner that never in the
most trying moments forsook him. "He begged to remind the gentlemen
opposite that if these triumphant expressions were not indecorous, they
were at least premature; that the momentous occasion on which they were
met demanded all the temperate and calm consideration which they could
bestow upon it; that the time for the adoption of any course would
not be distant, and would sufficiently show to which side, with most
propriety, the expression of triumph belonged."
The hint was significant; the foreshadowed victory was too plainly
and too palpably predicted to admit of a doubt, and a chilling silence
succeeded to the former uproar. The individual whose address this long
scene of tumult had interrupted was now suffered to proceed. He was a
law-serjeant, a man of inferior capacity and small professional repute,
whose advocacy of the Government plan had raised him to an unbecoming
and dangerous eminence at the Bar. Without the slightest pretensions as
a speaker, or one quality that should adorn a statesman, he possessed
other gifts scarcely less valuable at that day: he was a ready
pistol; he came of a fighting family, not one of whom did not owe some
advancement in life to a cool hand and a steady eye; and he occupied his
place in the Ministerial van by virtue of this signal accomplishment.
As incapable of feeling the keen sarcasm of his opponents as he was
of using a similar weapon, he was yet irascible from temperament,
and overbearing in manner, and was used by his party as men employ a
fire-ship,--with a strong conviction that it may damage more than the
enemy.
To cover the deficiencies of his oratory, as well as to add poignancy to
his personalities, it was the invariable custom of his friends to cheer
him vociferously at the end of every sentence which contained anything
like attack on the Opposition; and to this species of backing he was
indebted for the courage that made him assail men incomparably above him
in every quality of intellect.
Mr. Plunkett was now the object of his invective, nor was the boldness
of such a daring its least recommendation. Few of the Government side
of the House would have adventured to cross weapons with this master
of sarcasm and irony; none but the Serjeant Nickolls could have done so
without a strong fear of consequences. He, however, was unconcerned for
the result as it affected himself personally; and as for the withering
storm that awaited him, the triple hide of his native dulness was an
armor of proof that nothing could penetrate. From Plunkett he passed on
to Bushe, from Bushe to Grattan; no game flew too high for his shafts,
nor was any invective coarse enough to level at the great leaders of the
Opposition. If the overbearing insolence of his harangue delighted his
own party, it called down peals of laughter from his opponents, who
cheered every figurative absurdity and every illogical conclusion with
shouts of ironical admiration.
Lord Castlereagh saw the mischief, and would gladly have cut short the
oration; but the speaker was revelling in an imaginary victory, and
would listen to no suggestions whatever. Passing from the great names of
the Irish party, he launched forth in terms of insult towards the
county members, whom he openly accused of holding their opinions under
a mistaken hope that they were a marketable commodity, and that as
some stanch adherents of the Crown had reaped the honors due to "their
loyalty," these quasi-patriots were only waiting for their price. The
allusion was so palpable that every eye was turned to where Hickman
O'Reilly sat, and whose confusion was now overwhelming.
"Ay," continued the speaker, now carried beyond all self-restraint by
the evident sensation he had caused, "there are gentlemen opposite whose
confessions would reveal much of this kind of independence. I have my
eye on some of them,--men who will be Patriots if they cannot be Peers,
ready to put on the cap of liberty for the Mob if they cannot get the
coronet from the Crown. Many, too, are absent from this debate: they
stand out, perhaps, for high terms; they have got Peerages for their
wives, and now, like a hackney-coachman, not content with their fare,
they want 'something for themselves.' I heard of two such a while ago;
they even came as far as the lobby of this House, where they halted and
hesitated: a mitre or a regiment, a blue ribbon or a red one, would have
turned the scale, perhaps. Why are they not here now? I ask, what has
become of them?"
"Name! name!" screamed the Opposition, in a torrent of mad excitement,
while the Government party, outrageous at the blundering folly of the
whole harangue, endeavored to pull the speaker back into his seat. Never
was such a scene: one party lashed to madness by suspected treachery and
open insult; the other indignant at the stupidity of a man who, in his
attempts at attack, had raked up every calumny against his own friends.
Already, more than one hand was laid on his arms to press him down
into his seat, when he, with the obstinacy of thorough dullness, shook
himself free, and called out, "I 'm ready to name."
Again the cries of "Name!" were shouted, mingled with no less vociferous
cries of "No, no!" and the struggle now had every appearance of a
personal one, when the Speaker, calling to order, asked if it was the
sense of the House that the Serjeant should gives the names he alluded
to.
"I 'll soon cut the matter short," called out the Serjeant, in a voice
that resounded through every corridor of the House. "I mean the Knight
of Gwynne and Bagenal Daly."
A cry of "Order! order!" now arose from all parts of the House, the
direct mention of any member by name being a liberty unprecedented.
"I beg to correct myself," said the Serjeant. "I should have said the
honorable members for Mayo and Old Castle. I ask again, why are they not
here?"
"Better you had never put the question," said a deep, low voice from
beneath the gallery; and at the same instant Bagenal Daly advanced along
one of the passages, and took his place at the table directly in front
of the Serjeant. A tremendous cheer now broke from the Opposition
benches, which the Ministerial party in vain essayed to return.
"I perceive, sir," said the Serjeant, with an effort to resume his
former ease,--"I perceive I have succeeded in conjuring up one at least
of these truant spirits, and I cannot do better than leave him to make
his explanations to the House."
With this lame, disjointed conclusion the learned Serjeant sat down; and
although the greatest exertions were made by his friends to cover this
palpable failure, the cries of derision drowned all other sounds, and
before they were silenced, a shout of "Daly! Daly!--Bagenal Daly!"
resounded through the building.
Daly arose slowly, and saluted the Speaker with a most deferential
courtesy. It was several minutes before the tumult had sufficiently
subsided to make his words audible; but when silence prevailed, he was
heard to regret, in terms of unaffected ease, that any circumstance
might occur which should occupy the time of the House by observations
from one so rude and unlettered as himself, nor would he now venture
on the trespass, were the occasion merely a personal one. From this
he proceeded to state that great emergencies were always occurring, in
which even the humblest opinions should be made known as evidencing the
probable impressions upon others as lowly circumstanced as he who now
addressed them.
"Such is the present one," said he, raising his voice, and looking
around him with a glance of bold defiance. "You are about to take away
the right of self-government from a nation, and every man in the land,
not only such as sit here, sir, but every man to whose future ambition
a seat in this House may form a goal, every man has a deep interest in
your proceedings. It is a grave and weighty question, whose
conditions impose the conviction that we are unfit to legislate for
ourselves,--that we are too weak, or too venal, or too ignorant, or too
dishonest. To that conclusion you must come, or no other. Absence from
Ireland must suggest enlightenment on her interests; distance must lend
knowledge as well as enchantment, or an English Parliament cannot be
better than our own. I have listened attentively, but unconvinced, to
all arguments on this head; I have heard over and over again the long
catalogue of benefits to accrue to this country when the power of
realizing them herself has been wrested from her, and I have thought of
Lear and his daughters! It would seem to me, however, that the social
welfare and the commercial prosperity of a people are themes too vulgar
for the high consideration of our times. The real question at issue is
not whether a Parliament should or should not continue to sit here, but
what shall I, and others like me, benefit by voting it away forever?"
"Order! order!" called out several voices.
But Daly resumed: "I ask pardon. It is more parliamentary to put the
case differently, and I shall, under correction, do so. Well, sir,
we may benefit largely. I trust I am not disorderly in saying that
peerages, bishoprics, regiments, frigates, commissionerships, and Heaven
knows what more, will reward us when our utility to the State has met
the approval of an Imperial Parliament. I can well credit every promise
of such gratitude, and have only to ask in turn, Are these the arguments
that should sway us now? Is it because we are bungling legislators that
they wish for us in London?--is it because we are venal they seek our
company, because we are inefficient they ask for our cooperation? Are
they so supremely right-minded, honorable, and far-seeing that they need
the alloy of our dulness to make them mortal? And suppose such the case,
will it be gratifying to us to become the helots to this people? Will
our national pride be flattered because our eloquence is sneered at,
our law derided, our political knowledge a scoff, and our very accent a
joke? Do not tell me such things are unlikely; we are far weaker on the
point than we like to confess. For myself, I can imagine the sense of
shame--of deep, heartfelt, abasing shame--I should feel at seeing some
of those I see here rise in a British House of Commons to address that
body, while the rumor should run, 'He is the member for Meath or for
Wicklow.' I can picture to myself such a man: a man of low origin and
mean capacity; a man who carves his path in life less from his own
keen abilities than that others shrink from his contact, and leave him
unopposed in every struggle; a pettifogger at the Bar; a place-hunter
at the Parliament; half beggar, half bravo, with a petition for the
Minister, and a pistol for the Opposition. Imagine a man like this,
and reflect upon the feeling of every gentleman at hearing the rumor
announce, 'Ay, that's a learned Serjeant, a leader at the Bar of
Ireland.'"
The last words were delivered in a tone of direct personality, as,
turning towards where Nickolls sat, Daly threw at him a look of
defiance. The whole House arose as if one man, with cheers and
counter-cheers, and loud yells of insult, mingled with cries of "Order!"
Nor was it till after a long and desperate wordy altercation that the
clamor was subdued, and decorum at length restored. Then it was remarked
that Nickolls had left the House.
The Speaker immediately ordered the Serjeant of the House to place Daly
under arrest,--a measure which, however dictated by propriety, seemed to
call forth a burst of indignation from the Opposition benches.
"I hope, sir," said Daly, rising with an air of most admirably feigned
humility,--"I hope, sir, you will not execute this threat,--the
inconvenience to me will be very great: I was about to pair off with the
honorable and learned member for Newry."
The mention of the town for which the Serjeant sat in Parliament renewed
the laughter which now prevailed on both sides of the House.
"I cannot understand the mirth of the gentlemen opposite," said Daly,
with affected simplicity, "without it be from their astonishment that
the Government can spare so able and so eloquent an advocate as the
honorable and learned gentleman; but let them reassure themselves and
look around, and, believe me, they'll find the Treasury benches filled
by gentlemen as like him as possible."
The Speaker reissued the order to the Serjeant-at-Arms, and Daly now
came forward to the table and begged in all form to know the reason of
such severity. "If, sir," said he, in conclusion,--"if I could believe
it possible that you anticipate any personal collision between myself
and any member of this House, I have only to say that I am bound over
in the sum of two thousand pounds to keep the peace within the limits of
this kingdom. I take out a license at two pounds fifteen to kill game,
it is true; but I 'd not pay sixpence for the privilege to shoot a
lawyer."
The fact of the heavy recognizances to which Daly alluded was at once
confirmed by several members, and after a brief conversation with the
Speaker the matter was dropped.
It was, as may be supposed, a considerable time before the debate could
assume its due decorum and solemnity after an incident like this; for
although hostile collisions were neither few nor unfrequent, an insult
of so violent a character had never before been witnessed.
At length, however, order was restored, and another speaker addressed
the House. All had assumed its wonted propriety, when a messenger
delivered into Daly's hands a small sealed note; he glanced at the
contents and rose immediately. Lord Castlereagh's quick eye caught
the motion, and he at once called on the Speaker to interfere. "I have
myself seen a letter conveyed to the honorable member's hands," said he;
"it requires no peculiar gift of divination to guess the object."
"I will satisfy the noble lord at once," said Daly; "there is the letter
I have received: I pledge my word of honor the subject is purely a
private one, having no reference whatever to anything that has passed
here." He held out the letter as he spoke, but Lord Castlereagh declined
to peruse it, and expressed his regret at having made the remark. Daly
bowed courteously to him, and left the House.
"Well, Sandy," said he, as soon as he reached the corridor, where his
faithful follower stood waiting his coming, "what success?"
"No sae bad," said Sandy. "I 've got a wherry, ane of them Wicklow
craft; she's only half-decked, but she's a stout-looking sea-boat, and
broad in the beam."
"And the wind, how's that?"
"As it should be,--west, or west wi' a point north."
"Is there enough of it?"
"Enough! I trow there is," said Sanders, with a grin; "if there be no a
blast too much. Hear till it now." And, as if waiting for the remark,
a tremendous gust of wind shook the strong building, while the clanking
sound of falling slates and chimney-pots resounded through the street.
"There's music for ye," said Sandy; "there came a clap like that when I
had a'maist made the bargain, and the carles would no budge without ten
guineas mair. I promised them fifty, and the handsel whatever your honor
liked after."
"It's all right,--quite right," said Daly, wishing to stop details he
never listened to with patience.
"It's a' right, I know weel enough," said Sandy, querulously; "but it
wad no be a' right av ye went yersel'; they 'd have a gude penny, forbye
what I say."
"And what say the fellows of this wind,--is it like to last?"
"It will blow hard from the west for three or four days mair, and then
draw round to the north."
"But we shall get to Liverpool before noon to-morrow."
"Maybe," said Sandy, with a low, dry laugh.
"Well, I mean if we do get there. You told them I 'd double the pay if
we catch the American ship in the Mersey. I'd triple it; let them know
that."
"They canna do mair than they can do: ten pounds is as good as ten
hundred."
While this conversation was going forward, they had walked on together,
and were now at the entrance door of the House, where a group of four
persons stood under the shadow of the portico.
"Mr. Daly, I presume," said one, advancing, and touching his hat in
salutation. "We have waited somewhat impatiently for your coming."
"I should regret it, sir, if I was aware you did me the honor to expect
me."
"I am the friend of Serjeant Nickolls, sir," said the other, in a voice
meant to be eloquently meaning.
"For your sake, the fact is to be deplored," answered Daly, calmly. "But
proceed."
With a great effort to subdue his passion, the other resumed: "It does
not require your experience in such matters to know that the insult you
have passed upon a high-minded and honorable gentleman--the gross and
outrageous insult--should be atoned for by a meeting. We are here for
this purpose, ready to accompany you, as soon as you have provided
yourself with a friend, to wherever you appoint."
"Are you aware," said Daly, in a whisper, "that I am bound over in heavy
recognizances--"
"Ah, indeed!" interrupted the other; "that, perhaps, may explain--"
"Explain what, sir?" said Daly, as he grasped the formidable weapon
which, more club than walking-stick, he invariably carried.
"I meant nothing; I would only observe--"
"Never observe, sir, when there's nothing to be remarked. I was
informing you that I am bound over to keep the peace in this same
kingdom of Ireland; circumstances compel me to be in England to-morrow
morning,--circumstances of such moment that I have myself hired a vessel
to convey me thither,--and although the object of my journey is far from
agreeable, I shall deem it one of the happiest coincidences of my life
if it can accommodate your friend's wishes. Nothing prevents my giving
him the satisfaction he desires on English ground. I have sincere
pleasure in offering him, and every gentleman of his party, a passage
over--the tide serves in half an hour. Eh, Sandy?"
"At a quarter to twelve, sir."
"The wind is fair."
"It is a hurricane," replied the other, almost shuddering.
"It blows fresh," was Daly's cool remark.
For a moment or two the stranger returned to his party, with whom he
talked eagerly, and the voices of the others were also heard, speaking
in evident excitement.
"You have the pistols safe, Sandy?" whispered Daly.
"They 're a' safe, and in the wherry; but you 'll no want them this
time, I trow," said Sandy, with a shrug of his shoulders; "yon folk
would rather bide where they are the night, than tak' a bit o' pleasure
in the Channel."
Daly smiled, and turned away to hide it, when the stranger again came
forward. "I have consulted with my friends, Mr. Daly, who are also
the friends of Serjeant Nickolls; they are of opinion that, under
the circumstances of your being bound over, this affair cannot with
propriety go further, although it might not, perhaps, be unreasonable
to expect that you, feeling the peculiar situation in which you stand,
might express some portion of regret at the utterance of this most
severe attack."
"You are really misinformed on the whole of the business," said Daly.
"In the few words I offered to the House, I was but responding to the
question of your friend, who asked, I think somewhat needlessly, 'Where
was Bagenal Daly?' I have no regrets to express for any terms I applied
to him, though I may feel sorry that the forms of the House prevented
my saying more. I am ready to meet him now; or, as he seems to dislike
a breeze, when the weather is calmer. Tell him so; but tell him besides,
that if he utters one syllable in my absence that the most malevolent
gossip of a club-room can construe into an imputation on me, by G--d
I'll break every bone in his cowardly carcass! Come, Sandy, lead on.
Good evening, sir. I wish you a bolder friend, or better weather." So
saying, he moved forward, and was soon hastening towards the North Wall,
where the wherry was moored.
"It's unco like the night we were wrecked in the Gulf," said Sandy. "I
mind the moon had that same blue color, and the clouds were a' below,
and none above her."
"So it is, Sandy,--there 's a heavy sea outside, I 'm sure. How many men
have we?"
"Four, and a bit o' a lad that's as gude as anither. Lord save us! there
was a flash! I wish it wud come to rain, and beat down the sea; we 'd
have aye wind enough after."
"Where does she lie?"
"Yonder, sir, where you see the light bobbing. By my certie, but the
chiels were no far wrang. A bit fighting 's hard bought by a trip to sea
on such a night as this."
CHAPTER XXI. TWO OF A TRADE
When the newspapers announced the division on the adjourned debate,
they also proclaimed the flight of the defaulter; and, wide as was the
disparity between the two events in point of importance, it would be
difficult to say which more engaged the attention of the Dublin public
on that morning, the majority for the Minister, or the published perfidy
of "Honest Tom Gleeson."
Such is, however, the all-engrossing interest of a local topic, aided,
as in the present case, by almost incredulous amazement, the agent's
flight was talked of and discussed in circles where the great political
event was heard as a matter of course. Where had he fled to? What sum
had he carried away with him? Who would be the principal losers? were
all the questions eagerly discussed, but none of which excited so
much diversity of opinion as the single one: What was the cause of his
defalcation? His agencies were numerous and profitable, his mode of life
neither extravagant nor ostentatious; how could a man with so few habits
of expense have contracted debts of any considerable amount, or what
circumstances could induce him to relinquish a station of respectability
and competence for a life-long of dishonorable exile?
Such has been our progress of late years in the art of revealing to the
world at large the hidden springs of every action and event around us
that a secret is in reality the only thing now impossible. Forty-five
years ago, this wonderful exercise of knowledge was in a great measure
unknown; the guessers were then a large and respectable class
in society, and men were content with what mathematicians call
approximation. In our own more accurate days, what between the
newspaper, the club-room, and "'Change," such mystery is no longer
practicable. One day, or two at furthest, would now proclaim every item
in a man's schedule, and afford that most sympathetic of all bodies,
the world, the fruitful theme of expatiating on his folly or his
criminality. In the times we refer to, however, it was only the "Con
Heffermans" of society that ventured even to speculate on the secret
causes of these events.
Although the debate had lasted from eight o'clock in the evening to past
eleven on the following morning, before twelve Mr. Heffernan's carriage
was at the door, and the owner, without any trace of fatigue, set off
to ascertain so much as might be learned of this strange and unexpected
catastrophe. It was no mere passion to know the current gossip of the
day, no prying taste for the last piece of scandal in circulation,--Con
Heffernan was above such weaknesses; but he had a habit--one which
some men practise even yet with success--of whenever the game was safe,
taking credit to himself for casualties in which he had no possible
connection, and attributing events in which he had no share to his own
direct influence. After all, he was in this only imitating the great
navigators of the globe, who have established the rule that discovery
gives a right only second to actual creation.
This was, however, a really provoking case; no one knew anything of
Gleeson's embarrassments. Several of those for whom he acted as agent
were in Dublin, but they were more amazed than all others at his flight;
most of them had settled accounts with him very lately, some men owed
him small sums. "Darcy perhaps knows something about him," was a speech
Heffernan heard more than once repeated; but Darcy's house was shut
up, and the servant announced "he had left town that morning." Hickman
O'Reilly was the next chance; not that he had any direct intercourse
with Gleeson, but his general acquaintanceship with moneyed men and
matters made him a likely source of information; while a small sealed
note addressed to Dr. Hickman was in possession of a banker with whom
Gleeson had transacted business the day before his departure. But
O'Reilly had left town with his son. "The doctor, sir, is here still;
he does not go before to-morrow," said the servant, who, knowing that
Heffernan was a person of some consequence in the Dublin world, thought
proper to give this piece of unasked news.
"Will you give Mr. Con Heffernan's compliments, and say he would be glad
to have the opportunity of a few minutes' conversation?" The servant
returned immediately, and showed him upstairs into a back drawing-room,
where, before a table covered with law papers and parchments, sat the
venerable doctor. He had not as yet performed the usual offices of
a toilet, and, with unshaven chin and uncombed hair, looked the most
melancholy contrast of age, neglect, and misery, with the gorgeous
furniture of a most splendid apartment.
He lifted his head as the door opened, and stared fixedly at the
new-comer, with an expression at once fierce and anxious, so that
Heffernan, when speaking of him afterwards, said that, "Dressed as he
was, in an old flannel morning-gown, dotted with black tufts, he looked
for all the world like a sick tiger making his will."
"Your humble servant, sir," said he, coldly, as Heffernan advanced
with an air of cordiality; nor were the words and the accents they were
uttered in lost upon the man they were addressed to. He saw how the land
lay, in a second, and said eagerly, "He has not left town, I trust, sir;
I sincerely hope your son has not gone."
"Yes, sir, he's off; I'm sure I don't know what he'd wait for."
"Too precipitate,--too rash by far, Mr. Hickman," said Heffernan,
seating himself, and wiping his forehead with an air of well-assumed
chagrin.
"Maybe so," repeated the old man two or three times over, while he
lowered his spectacles to his nose, and began hunting among his papers,
as though he had other occupation in hand of more moment than the
present topic.
"Are you aware, sir," said Heffernan, drawing his chair close up, and
speaking in a most confidential whisper,--"are you aware, sir, that your
son mistook the signal,--that when Mr. Corry took out his handkerchief
and opened it on his knee, that it was in token of Lord Castlereagh's
acquiescence of Mr. O'Reilly's demand,--that, in short, the peerage was
at that moment his own if he wished it?"
The look of dogged incredulity in the old man's face would have silenced
a more sensitive advocate than Heffer-nan; but he went on: "If any
one should feel angry at what has occurred, I am the person; I was the
guarantee for your son's vote, and I have now to meet Lord Castle-reagh
without one word of possible explanation."
"Hickman told me," said the old man, with a voice steady and composed,
"that if Mr. Corry did not raise the handkerchief to his mouth, the
terms were not agreed upon; that opening it before him only meant the
bargain was not quite off: more delay, more talk, Mr. Heffernan; and I
think there was enough of that already."
"A complete mistake, sir,--a total misconception on his part."
"Just like Beecham being blackballed at the club," said the doctor, with
a sarcastic bitterness all his own.
"With that, of course, we cannot be charged," said Heffernan. "Why was
he put up without our being apprised of it? The blackballing was Bagenal
Daly's doing--"
"So I heard," interrupted the other; "they told me that; and here, look
here, here's Daly's bond for four thousand six hundred. Maybe he won't
be so ready with his bank-notes as he was with his black ball--ay!"
"But, to go back to the affair of the House--"
"We won't go back to it, sir, if it's the same to you. I 'm glad, with
all my heart, the folly is over,--sorra use I could see in it, except
the expense, and there's plenty of that. The old families, as they
call them, can't last forever, no more than old houses and old castles;
there's an end of everything in time, and if Hickman waits, maybe his
turn will come as others' did before him. Where 's the Darcys now, I 'd
like to know?--" Here he paused and stammered, and at last stopped dead
short, an expression of as much confusion as age and wrinkles would
permit covering his hard, contracted features.
"You say truly," said Heffernan, finishing what he guessed to be the
sentiment,--"you say truly, the Darcys have run their race; when men's
incumbrances have reached the point that his have, family influence soon
decays. Now, this business of Gleeson's--" Had he fired a shot close to
the old man's ear he could not have startled him more effectually than
by the mention of this name.
"What of Gleeson?" said he, drawing in his breath, and holding on the
chair with both hands.
"You know that he is gone,--fled away no one knows where?"
"Gleeson! Honest Tom Gleeson ran away!" exclaimed Hickman; "no, no,
that's impossible,--I'd never believe that."
"Strange enough, sir, that the paragraphs here have not convinced you,"
said Heffernan, taking up the newspaper which lay on the table, and
where the mark of snuffy fingers denoted the very passage in question.
"Ay! I did n't notice it before," muttered the doctor, as he took up the
paper, affecting to read, but in reality to conceal his own confusion.
"They say the news nearly killed Darcy; he only heard it when going into
the House last night, and was seized with an apoplectic fit, and carried
home insensible." This latter was, it is perhaps needless to say, pure
invention of Heffernan, who found it necessary to continue talking as
a means of detecting old Hickman's game. "Total ruin to that family of
course results. Gleeson had raised immense sums to pay off the debts,
and carried all away with him."
"Ay!" muttered the doctor, as he seemed greatly occupied in arranging
his papers on the table.
"You 'll be a loser too, sir, by all accounts," added Heffernan.
"Not much,--a mere trifle," said the doctor, without looking up from the
papers. "But maybe he's not gone, after all; I won't believe it yet."
"There seems little doubt on that head," said Heffernan; "he changed
three thousand pounds in notes for gold at Ball's after the bank was
closed on Tuesday, and then went over to Finlay's, where he said he had
a lodgment to make. He left his great-coat behind him, and never came
back for it. I found that paper--it was the only one--in the breast
pocket."
"What is it? what is it?" repeated the old man, clutching eagerly at it.
"Nothing of any consequence," said Heffernan, smiling; and he handed
him a printed notice, setting forth that the United States barque, the
"Congress," of five hundred tons burden, would sail for New York on
Wednesday, the 16th instant, at an hour before high water. "That looked
suspicious, didn't it?" said Heffernan; "and on inquiry I found he
had drawn largely out of, not only the banks in town, but from the
provincial ones also. Now, that note addressed to yourself, for
instance--"
"What note?" said Hickman, starting round as his face became pale as
ashes; "give it to me--give it at once!"
But Heffernan held it firmly between his fingers, and merely shook his
head, while, with a gentle smile, he said, "The banker who intrusted
this letter to my hands was well aware of what importance it might
prove in a court of justice, should this disastrous event demand a legal
investigation."
The old doctor listened with breathless interest to every word of this
speech, and merely muttered at the close the words, "The note, the
note!"
"I have promised to restore the paper to the banker," said Heffernan.
"So you shall,--let me read it," cried Hickman, eagerly; and he clutched
from Heffernan's fingers the document, before the other had seemingly
determined whether he would yield to his demand.
"There it is for you, sir," said the doctor; "make what you can of it;"
and he threw the paper across the table.
The note contained merely the words, "Ten thousand pounds." There was no
signature or any date, but the handwriting was Gleeson's.
"Ten thousand pounds," repeated Heffernan, slowly; "a large sum!"
"So it is," chimed in Hickman, with a grin of self-satisfaction, while
a consciousness that the mystery, whatever it might be, was beyond the
reach of Heffernan's skill, gave him a look of excessive cunning, which
sat strangely on features so old and time-worn.
"Well, Mr. Hickman," said Heffernan, as he arose to take leave, "I have
neither the right nor the inclination to pry into any man's secrets.
This affair of Gleeson's will be sifted to the bottom one day or other,
and that small transaction of the ten thousand pounds as well as the
rest. It was not to discuss him or his fortunes I came here. I hoped to
have seen Mr. O'Reilly, and explained away a very serious misconception.
Lord Castlereagh regrets it, not for the sake of the loss of Mr.
O'Reilly's support, valuable as that unquestionably is, but because
a wrong interpretation would seem to infer that the conduct of
the Treasury bench was disingenuous. You will, I trust, make this
explanation for me, and in the name of his Lordship."
"Faith, I won't promise it," said old Hickman, looking up from a long
column of figures which he was for some minutes poring over; "I don't
understand them things at all; if Bob wanted to be a lord, 't is
more than ever I did,--I don't see much pleasure there is in being a
gentleman. I know, for my part, I 'd rather sit in the back parlor of
my little shop in Loughrea, where I could have a chat over a tumbler of
punch with a neighbor, than all the grandeur in life."
"These simple, unostentatious tastes do you credit before the world,
sir," said Heffernan, with a well put-on look of admiration.
"I don't know whether they do or not," said Hickman, "but I know they
help to make a good credit with the bank, and that's better--ay!"
Heffernan affected to relish the joke, and descended the stairs,
laughing as he went; but scarcely had he reached his carriage, however,
than he muttered a heavy malediction on the sordid old miser whose
iniquities were not less glaring because Con had utterly failed to
unravel anything of his mystery.
"To Lord Castlereagh's," said he to the footman, and then lay back to
ponder over his late interview.
The noble Secretary was not up when Con arrived, but had left orders
that Mr. Heffernan should be shown up to his room whenever he came.
It was now about five o'clock in the afternoon, and Lord Castlereagh,
wrapped up in a loose morning-gown, lay on the bed where he had thrown
himself, without undressing, on reaching home. A debate of more than
fifteen hours, with all its strong and exciting passages, had completely
exhausted his strength, while the short and disturbed sleep had wearied
rather than refreshed him. The bed and the table beside it were covered
with the morning papers and open letters and despatches, for, tired as
he was, he could not refrain from learning the news of the day.
"Well, my Lord," said Heffernan, with his habitual smile, as he
stepped noiselessly across the floor, "I believe I may wish you joy at
last,--the battle is gained now."
"Heigho!" was the reply of the Secretary, while he extended two fingers
of his hand in salutation. "What hour is it, Heffernan?"
"It is near five; but really there 's not a creature to be seen in the
streets, and, except old Killgobbin airing his pocket-handkerchief
at the fire, not a soul at the Club. Last night's struggle has nearly
killed every one."
"Who is this Mr. Gleeson that has run off with so much money,--did you
know him?"
"Oh, yes, we all knew 'honest Tom Gleeson.'"
"Ah! that was his sobriquet, was it?" said the Secretary, smiling.
"Yes, my Lord, such was he,--or such, at least, was he believed to be,
till yesterday evening. You know it's the last glass of wine always
makes a man tipsy."
"And who is ruined, Heffernan,--any of our friends?"
"As yet there's no saying. Drogheda will lose something considerable, I
believe; but at the banks the opinion is that Darcy will be the heaviest
loser of any."
"The Knight?"
"Yes, the Knight of Gwynne."
"I am sincerely sorry to hear it," said Lord Castlereagh, with an energy
of tone he had not displayed before; "if I had met half-a-dozen such
men as he is, I should have had some scruples--" He paused, and at the
instant caught sight of a very peculiar smile on Heffernan's features;
then, suddenly changing the topic, he said, "What of Nickolls,--is he
shot?"
"No, my Lord, there was no meeting. Bagenal Daly, so goes the story,
proposed going over to the Isle of Man in a row-boat."
"What, last night!" said the Secretary, laughing.
"Yes, when it was blowing the roof off the Custom House; he offered
him his choice of weapons, from a blunderbuss to a harpoon, and his own
distance, over a handkerchief, or fifty yards with a rifle."
"And was Nickolls deaf to all such seductions?"
"Quite so, my Lord; even when Daly said to him, 'I think it a public
duty to shoot a fellow like you, for, if you are suffered to live, the
Government will make a judge of you one of these days.'"
"What profound solicitude for the purity of the judgment seat!"
"Daly has reason to think of these things; he has been in the dock
already, and perhaps suspects he may be again."
"Poor Darcy!" said Lord Castlereagh to himself, in a half whisper, "I
wish I knew you were not a sufferer by this fellow's flight. By the bye,
Heffernan, sit down and write a few lines to Forester; say that Lord
Cornwallis is greatly displeased at his protracted absence. I am tired
of making excuses for him, and as I dine there to-day, I shall be
tormented all the evening."
"Darcy's daughter is very good-looking, I hear," said Heffernan, smiling
slyly, "and should have a large fortune if matters go right."
"Very possibly; but old Lady Wallincourt is the proudest dowager
in England, and looks to the blood-royal for alliances. Forester is
entirely dependent on her; and that reminds me of a most solemn pledge I
made her to look after her 'dear Dick,' and prevent any entanglement
in this barbarous land,--as if I had nothing else to think of! Write at
once, Heffernan, and order him up; say he 'll lose his appointment by
any further delay, and that I am much annoyed at his absence."
While Heffernan descended to the library to write, Lord Castlereagh
turned once more to sleep until it was time to dress for the Viceroy's
dinner.
CHAPTER XXII. "A WARNING" AND "A PARTING."
If we wanted any evidence of how little avail all worldly wisdom is,
we might take it from the fact that our severest calamities are
often impending us at the moments we deem ourselves most secure from
misfortune. Thus was it that while the events were happening whose
influence was to shadow over all the sunshine of her life, Lady Eleanor
Darcy never felt more at ease. That same morning the post had brought
her a letter from the Knight,--only a few lines, hastily written, but
enough to allay all her anxiety. He spoke of law arrangements, then
almost completed, by which any immediate pressure regarding money might
be at once obviated, and promised, for the very first time in his life,
to submit to any plan of retrenchment she desired to adopt. Had it been
in her power, she could not have dictated lines more full of pleasant
anticipation. The only drawback on the happiness of her lot in life was
the wasteful extravagance of a mode of living which savored far more of
feudal barbarism than of modern luxury.
Partly from long habit and association, partly from indolence of
character, but more than either from a compassionate consideration
of those whose livelihood might be impaired by any change in his
establishment, the Knight had resisted all suggestion of alteration. He
viewed the very peculations around him as vested rights, and the most
he could pledge himself to was, that when the present race died out he
would not appoint any successors.
The same post that brought this pleasant letter, conveyed one of far
less grateful import to Forester. It was a long epistle from his mother,
carefully worded, and so characteristic withal, that if it were any part
of our object to introduce that lady to our readers, we could not more
easily do so than through her own letter. Such is not, however, our
intention; enough if we say that it was a species of domestic homily,
where moral principles and worldly wisdom found themselves so
inextricably interwoven, no mean skill could have disentangled them. She
had learned, as careful mothers somehow always contrive to learn, that
her son was domesticated in the house with a very charming and beautiful
girl, and the occasion seemed suitable to enforce some of those
excellent precepts which hitherto had been deficient in force for want
of a practical example.
Had Lady Wallincourt limited herself to cautious counsels about falling
in love with some rustic beauty in a remote region, Forester might have
treated the advice as one of those matter-of-course events which cause
no more surprise than the receipt of a printed circular; but she went
further. She deemed this a fitting occasion to instruct her son into
the mystery of that craft, which, in her own experience of life, she had
seen make more than one man's fortune, and by being adepts in which many
of her own family had attained to high and lasting honors. This science
was neither more nor less than success in female society. "I will not
insult either your good taste or your understanding," wrote she, "by
any warning against falling in love in Ireland. Beauty is--France
excepted--pretty equally distributed through the world; neither is there
any nationality in good looks, for, nowadays, admixture of race has
obliterated every peculiarity of origin. In all, then, that concerns
manner, tone, and breeding, your own country possesses the true
standard: every deviation from this is a fault. What is conventional
must be right, because it is the exponent of general opinion on those
topics for which each feels interested. Now, the Irish, my dear boy, the
Irish are never conventional; they are clannish, provincial, peculiar,
but never conventional. Their pride would seem to be rather to ruffle
than fall in with the general sympathies of society. They forget that
the social world is a great compact, and they are always striving for
individual successes by personal distinction: this is the very acme of
vulgarity.
"If they, however, are very indifferent models for imitation, they
afford an excellent school for your own training; they are a shrewd,
quick-sighted race, with a strong sense of the ludicrous, and are what
the French call malin to a degree. To win favor among them without any
subservient imitation of their own habits, which would be contemptible,
is not over easy.
"If I am rightly informed, you are at present well circumstanced to
profit by my counsels. I am told of a very agreeable and very pretty
girl with whom you ride and walk out constantly, and, far from feeling
any maternal uneasiness,--for I trust I know my son,--I am rejoiced at
the circumstance. Make the most of such an advantage by exercising your
own abilities and powers of pleasing, give yourself the habit of
talking your very best on every topic, without pedantry or any sign
of premeditation. Practise that blending of courteous deference to a
woman's opinions with a subdued consciousness of your own powers, which
I have spoken to you of in your dear father's character. Seldom venture
on an axiom, never tell an anecdote; be most guarded in any indulgence
of humor: a laugh is the most dangerous of all triumphs. It is the
habit to reproach us with our frigidity,--I believe not without reason;
cultivate, then, a certain amount of warmth which may suggest the idea
of earnestness, apart from all suspicion of enthusiasm, which I have
often told you is low-lived. Watch carefully by what qualities your
success is more advanced; examine yourself as to what defects you
experience in your own character; make yourself esteemed as a means of
being estimable; win regard, and the habit of pleasing will give a charm
to your manner, even when you are not desirous to secure affection. Your
poor dear father often confessed the inestimable advantages of his first
affairs of the heart, and used to say, whenever by any adroit exercise
of his captivation he had gained over an adverse Maid of Honor, I owe
that to Louisa, for such was the name of the young lady,--I forget now
who she was. The mechanism of the heart is alike in all lands; the means
of success in Ireland will win victory where the prize is higher. In all
this, remember, I by no means advise you to sport with any young lady's
feelings, nor to win more of her affection than may assure you that
the entire could also become yours: a polite chess-player will rest
satisfied to say, 'check,' without pushing the adversary to 'mate.'
"It will soon be time you should leave the army, and I hope to find you
have acquired some other education by the pursuit than mere knowledge of
dress."
This is a short specimen of the maternal Machiavelism by which "the most
fascinating woman of her set" hoped to instruct her son, and teach him
the road to fortune.
Such is the fatal depravity of every human heart that any subtle appeal
to selfishness, if it fail to flex the victim to the will, at least
shakes the strong sense of conscious rectitude, and makes our very
worthiness seem weakness.
Forester's first impression was almost anger as he read these lines,
the second time he perused them he was far less shocked, and at last
was puzzled whether more to wonder at the keen worldly knowledge they
betrayed, or the solicitude of that affection which consented to unveil
so much of life for his guidance. The result of all these conflicting
emotions was depression of spirits, and a discontent with himself and
all the world; nor could the fascinations of that little circle in which
he lived so intimately, subdue the feeling.
Lady Eleanor saw this, and exerted herself with all her wonted powers to
amuse and interest him; Helen, too, delighted at the favorable change in
her mother's spirits, contributed to sustain the tone of light-hearted
pleasantry, while she could not restrain a jest upon Forester's unusual
gloominess.
The manner whose fascinations had hitherto so many charms, now almost
irritated him; the poison of suspicion had been imbibed, and he
continually asked himself, what if the very subtlety his mother's letter
spoke of was now practised by her? If all the varied hues of captivation
her changing humor wore were but the deep practised lures of coquetry?
His self-love was piqued by the thought, as well as his perceptive
shrewdness, and he set himself, as he believed, to decipher her real
nature; but, such is the blindness of mere egotism, in reality to
misunderstand and mistake her.
How often it happens in life that the moment a doubt prevails as to some
trait or feature of our character, we should exactly seize upon that
very instant to indulge in some weakness or passing levity that may
strengthen a mere suspicion, or make it a certainty.
Helen never seemed gayer than on this evening, scarcely noticing
Forester, save when to jest upon his morose and silent mood; she talked,
and laughed, and sang in all the free joyousness of a happy heart,
unconsciously displaying powers of mind and feeling which, in calmer
moments, lay dormant and concealed.
The evening wore on, and Helen had just risen from her harp,--where she
was playing one of those wild, half-sad, half-playful melodies of her
country,--when a gentle tap came to the door, and, without waiting for
leave to enter, old Tate appeared.
The old man was pale, and his features wore an expression of extreme
terror; but he was doing his very utmost, as it seemed, to struggle
against some inward fear, as, with a smile of far more melancholy than
mirth, he said, "Did ye hear it, my Lady? I 'm sure ye heerd it."
"Heard what, Tate?" said Lady Eleanor.
"The--but I see Miss Helen's laughing at me. Ah! don't then, Miss,
darlin',--don't laugh."
"What was it, Tate? Tell us what you heard."
"The Banshee, my Lady! Ay, there 's the way,--I knew how 't would be;
you 'd only laugh when I tould you."
"Where was it you heard it?" said Lady Eleanor, affecting seriousness to
gratify the old man's superstition.
"Under the east window, my Lady; then it moved across the flower-garden,
and down to the shore beneath the big rocks."
"What was it like, Tate?"
"'T was like a funeral 'coyne' first, Miss, when ye heerd it far away in
the mountain; and then it rose, and swelled fuller and stronger, till
it swam all round me, and at last died away to the light, soft cry of an
infant."
"Exactly, Tate; it was Captain Forester sighing. I never heard a better
description in my life."
"Ah! don't laugh, my Lady,--don't now, Miss Helen, dear. I never knew
luck nor grace come of laughing when the warnin' was come. 'T is the
Captain, there, looks sad and thoughtful,--the Heavens bless him for it!
He knows 'tis no time for laughing."
Forester might have accepted the eulogy in better part, perhaps, had he
understood it; but as it was, he turned abruptly about, and asked Lady
Eleanor for an explanation of the whole mystery.
"Tate thinks he has heard--"
"Thinks!" interrupted the old man, with a sorrowful gesture of both
hands. "Musha! I'd take the Gospel on it; I heard it as plain as I hear
your Ladyship now."
Lady Eleanor smiled, and went on--"the cry of the Banshee, that dreadful
warning which, in the superstition of the country, always betokens
death, or at least some great calamity, to the house it is heard to wail
over."
"A polite attention, to say the least," said Forester, smiling
sarcastically, "of the witch or fairy or whatever it is, to announce
to people an approaching misfortune. And has every cabin got its own
Ban--what do you call it?"
"The cabins has none," said Tate, with a loot of severe reproach, the
most remote possible from his habitual air of deference; "'tis only the
ouldest and most ancient families, like his honor the Knight's, has a
Banshee. But it's no use talking; I see nobody believes me."
"Yes, Tate, I do," cried Helen, with an earnestness of manner, either
really felt, or assumed to gratify the poor old man's superstitious
veneration; "just tell me how you heard it first."
"Like that!" whispered Tate, as he held up his hand to enforce silence;
and at the same instant a low, plaintive cry was heard, as if beneath
the very window. The accent was not of pain or suffering, but of
melancholy so soft, so touching, and yet so intense, that it stilled
every voice within the room, where now each long-drawn breath was
audible.
There is a lurking trait of superstition in every human heart, which
will resist, at some one moment or other, every effort of reason and
every scoff of irony. An instant before, and Forester was ready to jest
with the old man's terrors, and now his own spirit was not all devoid
of them. The feeling was, however, but of a moment's duration; suspicion
again assumed its sway, and, seizing his hat, he rushed from the room,
to search the flower-garden and examine every spot where any one might
lie concealed.
"There he goes now, as if he could see her; and maybe 't would be
as well for him he did n't," said Tate, as, in contempt of the English
incredulity, he gazed after the eager youth. "Is his honor well, my
Lady?--when did you hear from him?"
"We heard this very day, Tate; he is perfectly well."
"And Master Lionel--the captain, I mane--but I only think he's a child
still."
"Quite well, too," said Helen. "Don't alarm yourself, Tate; you know how
sadly the wind can sigh through these old walls at times, and under the
yew-trees, too, it sounds drearily; I 've shuddered to myself often, as
I 've heard it."
"God grant it!" said old Tate, piously; but the shake of his head and
the muttering sounds between his teeth attested that he laid no such
flattering unction to his heart as mere disbelief might offer. "'T is
n't a death-cry, anyhow, Miss Helen," whispered he to Miss Darcy, as he
moved towards the door; "for I went down to the back of the abbey, where
Sir Everard was buried, and all was still there."
"Well, go to bed now, Tate, and don't think more about it; if the
wind--"
"Ah! the wind! the wind!" said he, querulously; "that's the way it
always is,--as if God Almighty had no other way of talking to our hearts
than the cry of the night-wind."
"Well, Captain Forester, what success? Have you confronted the spectre?"
said Lady Eleanor, as he re-entered the apartment.
"Except having fallen into a holly-bush, where I rivalled the
complaining accents of the old witch, I have no adventure to recount;
all is perfectly still and tranquil without."
"You have got your cheek scratched for following the siren," said Lady
Eleanor, laughing; "pray put another log on the fire, it is fearfully
chilly here."
Old Tate withdrew slowly and unwillingly; he saw that his intelligence
had failed to produce a proper sense of terror on their minds; and his
own load of anxiety was heavier, from want of participation.
The conversation, by that strange instinct which influences the least
as well as the most credulous people, now turned on the superstitions
of the peasantry, and many a legend and story were remembered by Lady
Eleanor and her daughter, in which these popular beliefs formed a chief
feature.
"It is unfair and unwise," said Lady Eleanor, at the conclusion of one
of these stories, "to undervalue such influences; the sailor, who passes
his life in dangers, watches the elements with an eye and an air that
training have rendered almost preternaturally observant, and he sees the
sign of storm where others would but mark the glow of a red sunset;
so among a primitive people communing much with their own hearts in
solitary, unfrequented places, imagination becomes developed in undue
proportion, and the mind seeks relief in creative efforts from the
wearying sense of loneliness; but even these are less idle fancies than
conclusions come to from long and deep thought. Some strange process
of analogy would seem the parent of superstitions which we know to be
common to all lands."
"Which means, that you half believe in a Banshee!" said Forester,
smiling.
"Not so; but that I cannot consent to despise the frame of mind which
suggests these beliefs, although I have no faith in the apparitions.
Poor Tate, there, had never dreamed of hearing the Banshee cry if some
painful thought of impending misfortune had not suggested her presence;
his fears may not be unfounded, although the form they take be
preternatural."
"I protest against all such plausibilities," said Helen. "I 'm for the
Banshee, as the Republicans say in France, 'one and indivisible.' I 'll
not accept of natural explanations. Mr. Bagenal Daly says, we may
well believe in spirits, when we put faith in the mere ghost of a
Parliament."
"Helen is throwing out a bait for a political discussion," said Lady
Eleanor, laughing, "and so I 'll even say good night, Captain Forester,
and pleasant dreams of the Banshee."
Forester rose and took his leave, which, somehow, was colder than usual.
His mother's counsels had got possession of his mind, and distrust
perverted every former source of pleasure.
"Her manner is all coquetry," said he, angrily, to himself, as he walked
towards his room.
Poor fellow! and what if it were? Coquetry is but a gilding, to be
sure; but it can never be well laid on if the substance beneath is not a
precious metal.
There was, at the place where the river opened into the sea, a small
inlet of the bay guarded by two bold and rocky headlands, between which
the tide swept with uncommon violence, accumulating in time a kind
of bar, over which, even in calm weather, the waves were lashed into
breakers, while the waters within were still as a mountain lake. The
ancient ruin we have already alluded to passingly, stood on a little
eminence fronting this small creek, and although unmarked by any
architectural beauty, or any pretensions, save the humble possession of
four rude walls pierced by narrow windows, and a low doorway formed of
three large stones, was yet, in the eyes of the country people, endowed
with some superior holiness,--so it is certain the little churchyard
around bespoke. It was crowded with graves, whose humble monuments
consisted in wooden crosses, decorated in recent cases with little
garlands of paper or wild flowers, as piety or affection suggested. The
fragments of ship-timber around showed that they who slept beneath had
been mostly fishermen, for the chapel was peculiarly esteemed by them;
and at the opening of the fishing season a mass was invariably offered
here for the success of the herring-fishery, by a priest from a
neighboring parish, whose expenses were willingly and liberally rewarded
by the fishermen.
In exact proportion with the reverence in which this spot was regarded
by day was the fear and dread entertained of it by night. Stories of
ghosts and evil spirits were rife far and near of that lonely ruin, and
the hardiest seamen, who would brave the wild waves of the Atlantic,
would not venture alone within these deserted walls after dark. Helen
remembered, as a child, having been once there after sunset, induced by
an intense curiosity to hear or see something of those sounds and shapes
her nurse had told of, and what alarm her absence created among the
household increased when it was discovered where she had been.
The same strange desire to hear if it might be that sad and wailing
voice which all had so distinctly heard in the drawing-room, led her,
when she had wished her mother good-night, to leave her chamber, and,
crossing the flower-garden, to descend to the beach by a small door
which opened to a little pathway down to the sea. When the superstitions
whose terrors have affrighted childhood are either conquered by reason
or uprooted by worldly influence, they still leave behind them a
strange passion for the marvellous, which in imaginative temperaments is
frequently greatly developed, and becomes a great source of enjoyment or
suffering to its possessor. Helen Darcy's nature was of this kind,
and she would gladly have accepted all the tremors and terrors of
her nursery days to feel once again that intense awe, that anxious
heart-beating expectancy, a ghost story used to create within her.
The night was calm and starlit, the sea was tranquil and unruffled,
except where the bar broke the flow of the tide, and marked by a long
line of foam the struggling breakers, whose hoarse plash was heard above
the rippling on the strand. Even in the rocky caves all was still,
not an echo resounded within those dreary caverns where at times the
thunder's self was not louder. Helen reached the little churchyard;
she knew every path and foot-track through it, and at last, strolling
leisurely onward, entered the ruin and sat down within the deep window
that looked over the sea.
For some time her attention was directed seaward, watching the waves as
they reflected back the spangled heaven, or sank again in dark shadow,
when suddenly she perceived the figure of a man, who appeared slowly
pacing the beach immediately beneath where she sat.
What could have brought any one there at such an hour she could not
imagine; and however few her terrors of the world of spirits, she would
gladly at this moment have been safe within the abbey. While she debated
with herself how to act--whether to remain in her present concealment,
or venture on a sudden flight--the figure halted exactly under the
window. Her doubts and fears were now speedily resolved, for she
perceived it was Forester, who, induced by the beauty of the night, had
thus strolled out upon the shore. "What if I should put his courageous
incredulity to the test?" thought Helen; "the moment is propitious now.
I could easily imitate the cry of the Banshee!" The temptation was too
strong to be resisted, and without further thought she uttered a low,
thrilling wail, in an accent of most touching sorrow. Forester started
and looked up, but the dark walls were in deep shadow; whatever his real
feelings at the moment, he lost no time in clambering up the bank
on which the ruin stood, and from which he rightly judged the sound
proceeded. Helen was yet uncertain whether to attribute this step to
terror or the opposite, when she heard his foot as he traversed the
thickly-studded graveyard,--a moment more, and he would be in the church
itself, where he could not fail to discover her by her white dress. But
one chance offered of escape, which was to leap from the window down
upon the strand: it was deeper than she fancied, nearly twice her own
height; but then detection, for more than one good reason, was not to be
thought of.
Helen was not one of those who long hesitate when their minds are to be
made up; she slipped noiselessly between the stone mullion and the side
of the window, and sprang out; unfortunately one foot turned on a
small stone, and she fell on the sand, while a slight accent of pain
unconsciously broke from her. Before she could rise, Forester was beside
her; with one arm round her waist, he half pressed, as he assisted her
to recover her feet.
"So, fair spirit," said he, jocularly, "I have tracked you, it would
seem;" then, for the first time discovering it was Helen, he muttered in
a different tone, "I ask pardon, Miss Darcy; I really did not know--"
"I am sure of that, Captain Forester," said she, disengaging herself
from his aid. "I certainly deserve a lesson for my silly attempt to
frighten you, and I believe I have sprained my ankle. Will you kindly
send Florence to me?"
"I cannot leave you here alone, Miss Darcy; pray take my arm, and let me
assist you back to the abbey."
The tone of deference he now spoke in, and the increasing pain,
concurred to persuade her, and she accepted the proffered assistance.
"The absurdity of this adventure is not repaid by the pleasure of having
frightened you," said she, laughing; "if I could only say how terrified
you were--"
"You might indeed have said so," interrupted Forester, "had I guessed
the figure I saw leap out was yours."
"It was even higher than I thought," said she, avoiding to remark the
fervent accents in which these words were spoken.
Forester was silent; his heart was full to bursting; the passion so
lately dashed by doubts and suspicions returned with tenfold force now
that he felt her arm within his own as step by step they moved along.
"You are in great pain, I fear," said he, tremulously.
"No, not now. I am so much more ashamed of my folly than a sufferer
from it that I could forgive the sprain if I could the silly notion that
caused it. 'Twas an unlucky fancy, to say the least of it."
Again there was a pause, and although they walked but slowly, they were
fast approaching the little gate that opened into the flower-garden.
Forester was silent. "Was it from this cause, or by some secret
freemasonry of the female heart that she suspected what was passing in
his mind, and exerted herself to move on more rapidly?
"Take time, Miss Darcy; not so fast; if not for your sake, for mine at
least."
The last few words were scarcely above a whisper, but every one of them
reached her to whom they were addressed; whether affecting not to hear
them, or preferring to mistake their meaning, Helen made no answer.
"I said for my sake," resumed he, with a courage that demanded all
his energy, "because on these few moments the whole fortune of my future
life is placed. I love you."
"Nay, Captain Forester," said she, smiling, "this is not quite fair; I
failed in my attempt to terrify you, and have paid the penalty: let
there not be a further one of my listening to what I should not hear."
"And why not hear it, Helen? Is the devotion of one even humble as I am,
a thing to offend? Is it the less sincere that I feel how much you are
above me in every way? Will not my very presumption prove how fervent is
the passion that has made me forget all save itself,--all save you?"
Truth has its own accents, however weak the words it syllables. Helen
laughed not now, but walked on with quicker steps; while the youth, the
barrier once passed, poured forth with heartfelt eloquence his tale
of love, recalling to her mind by many a slight, unnoticed trait, his
long-pledged devotion; how he had watched and worshipped her, seeking to
win favor in her eyes, and seem not all unworthy of her heart.
"It is true," said he, "I cannot, dare not, ask in return for an
affection which should repay my own; but let me hope that what I now
speak, the devotion I pledge, is no rejected offering; that although you
care not for me, you will not crush forever one who lives but in your
smile, that you will give me time to show myself more worthy of the
prize I strive for. There is no trial I would not dare--"
"I must interrupt you, Captain Forester," said Helen, with a voice
that all her efforts had not rendered quite steady; "it would be an
ungenerous requital for the sentiments you say you feel--"
"Say!--nay, Helen, I swear it, by every hope that now thrills within
me--"
"It would be," resumed she, tremulously, "an ungenerous requital for
this, were I to practise any deception on you. I am sincerely, deeply
sorry to hear you speak as you have done. I had long since learned to
regard you as the friend of Lionel, almost like a brother. The pleasure
your society afforded one I am most attached to increased the feeling;
and as intimacy increased between us, I thought how happy were it if the
ambitions of life did not withdraw from home the sons whose kindness can
be as thoughtful and as tender as that of the daughters of the house.
Shall I confess it? I almost wished my brother like you; but yet all
this was not love,--nay, for I will be frank, at whatever cost,--I had
never felt this towards you, if I suspected your sentiments towards
me--"
"But, dearest Helen--"
"Hear me out. There is but one way in which the impropriety of such a
meeting as this can be obviated, chance though it be, and that is,
by perfect candor. I have told you the simple truth, not with any
undervaluing sense of the affection you proffer, still less with any
coquetry of reserve. I should be unworthy of the heart you offer me,
since I could not give my own in exchange."
"Do you deny me all hope?" said he, in an accent almost bursting with
grief.
"I am not arrogant enough to say I shall never change; but I am honest
enough to tell you that I do not expect it."
"Farewell, then, Helen! I do not love you less that you have taught me
to think more humbly of myself. Good-by--forever!"
"It is better it should come to this," said Helen, faintly; and she held
out her hand towards him. "Good-by, Forester!"
He pressed one long and burning kiss upon her hand, and turned away,
while she, pushing open the door, entered the little garden. Scarcely,
however, was the door closed behind her, when the calm courage in which
she spoke forsook her, and she burst into tears.
So is it, the heart can be moved, even its most tender chords, when the
touch that stirs it is less of love than sorrow.
CHAPTER XXIII. SOME SAD REVELATIONS
It was on the fourth day after the memorable debate we have briefly
alluded to, that the Knight of Gwynne was sitting alone in one of the
large rooms of his Dublin mansion. Although his servants had strict
orders to say he had left town, he had not quitted the capital, but
passed each day, from sunrise till late at night, in examining his
various accounts, and endeavoring with what slight business knowledge
he possessed, to ascertain the situation in which he stood, and how far
Gleeson's flight had compromised him. There is no such chaotic confusion
to the unaccustomed mind as the entangled web of long-standing moneyed
embarrassments, and so Darcy found it. Bills for large sums had been
passed, to provide for which, renewals had been granted, and this for
a succession of years, until the debt accumulating had been met by a
mortgage or a bond: many of these bills were missing--where were they?
was the question, and what liability might yet attach to them?
Again, loans had been raised more than once to pay off these
encumbrances, the interest on which was duly charged in his account, and
yet there was no evidence of these payments having been made; nor among
the very last sent papers from Gleeson was there any trace of that bond,
to release which the enormous sum of seventy thousand pounds had
been raised. That the money was handed to Hickman, Bagenal Daly was
convinced; the memorandum given him by Freney was a corroboration of the
probability at least, but still there was no evidence of the transaction
here. Even this was not the worst, for the Knight now discovered that
the rental charged in his accounts was more than double the reality,
Gleeson having for many years back practised the fraud of granting
leases at a low, sometimes a merely nominal, rent, while he accepted
renewal fines from the tenants, which he applied to his own purposes. In
fact, it at length became manifest to Darcy's reluctant belief that his
trusted agent had for years long pursued a systematic course of perfidy,
merely providing money sufficient for the exigencies of the time, while
he was, in reality, selling every acre of his estate.
The Knight's last hope was in the entail. "I am ruined--I am a beggar,
it is true!" muttered he, as each new discovery broke upon him, "but
my boy, my dear Lionel, at my death will have his own again." This
cherished dream was not of long duration, for to his horror he
discovered a sale of a considerable part of the estate in which Lionel's
name was signed as a concurring party. This was the crowning point
of his affliction; the ruin was now utter, without one gleam of hope
remaining.
The property thus sold was that in the possession of the O'Reillys, and
the sale was dated the very day Lionel came of age. Darcy remembered
well having signed his name to several papers on that morning. Gleeson
had followed him from place to place, through the crowds of happy and
rejoicing people assembled by the event, and at last, half vexed at the
importunity, he actually put his name to several papers as he sat on
horseback on the lawn: this very identical deed was thus signed; the
writing was straggling and irregular as the motion of the horse shook
his hand. So much for his own inconsiderate rashness, but how, or by
what artifice was Lionel's signature obtained?
Never had Lionel Darcy practised the slightest deception on his father;
never concealed from him any difficulty or any embarrassment, but
frankly confided to him his cares, as he would to one of his own age.
How, then, had he been drawn into a step of this magnitude without
apprising him? There was one explanation, and this was, that Glee-son
persuaded the young man, that by thus sacrificing his own future rights
he would be assisting his father, who, from motives of delicacy, could
not admit of any negotiation in the matter, and that by ceding so
much of his own property, he should relieve his father from present
embarrassment.
Through all the revelation of the agent's guilt now opening before him,
not one word of anger, one expression of passion, escaped the Knight
till his eyes fell upon this paper; but then, grasping it in both hands,
he shook in every limb with indignant rage, and in accents of bitterest
hate invoked a curse upon his betrayer. The very sound of his own voice
in that sileut chamber startled him, while a sick tremor crept through
his frame at the unhallowed wish he uttered. "No, no," said he, with
clasped hands, "it is not for one like me, whose sensual carelessness
has brought my own to ruin, to speak thus of another; may Heaven assist
me, and pardon him that injured me!"
The stunning effects of heavy calamity are destined in all likelihood
to give time to rally against the blow--to permit exhausted Nature to
fortify herself by even a brief repose against the harassing influences
of deep sorrow. One who saw far into the human heart tells us that it
is not the strongest natures are the first to recover from the shock of
great misfortunes, but that "light and frivolous spirits regain their
elasticity sooner than those of loftier character."
The whole extent of his ruin unfolded itself gradually before Darcy's
eyes, until at length the accumulated load became too great to bear, and
he sat in almost total unconsciousness gazing at the mass of law
papers and accounts before him, only remembering at intervals, and then
faintly, the nature of the investigation he was engaged in, and by
an effort recalling himself again to the task: in this way passed the
entire day we speak of. Brief struggles to exert himself in examining
the various papers and letters on the table were succeeded by long
pauses of apparent apathy, until, as evening drew near, these intervals
of indifference grew longer, and he sat for hours in this scarce-waking
condition.
It was long past midnight as a loud knocking was heard at the street
door, and ere Darcy could sufficiently recall his wandering faculties
from their revery, he felt a hand grasp his own--he looked up, and saw
Bagenal Daly.
"Well, Darcy," said he, in a low whisper, "how stand matters here?"
"Ruined!" said he, in an accent hardly audible, but with a look that
thrilled through the stern heart of Daly.
"Come, come, there must be a long space between your fortune and ruin
yet. Have you seen any legal adviser?"
"What of Gleeson, Bagenal, has he been heard of?" said the Knight, not
attending to Daly's question.
"He has had the fitting end of a scoundrel. He leaped overboard in the
Channel--"
"Poor fellow!" said Darcy, while he passed his hand across his eyes;
"his spirit was not all corrupted, Bagenal; he dared not to face the
world."
"Face the world! the villain, it was the gallows he had not courage to
face. Don't speak one word of compassion about a wretch like him, or you
'll drive me mad. There's no iniquity in the greatest crimes to compare
with the slow, dastardly scoundrelism of your fair-faced swindler. It
seems so, at least. The sailors told us that he went below immediately
on their leaving the river, and, having locked the cabin door, spent his
time in writing till they were in sight of the Holyhead light, when a
sudden splash was heard, and a cry of 'A man overboard!' called every
one to the deck; then it was discovered that the fellow had opened one
of the stern-windows and thrown himself into the sea. They brought
me this open letter, the last, it is said, he ever wrote, and, though
unaddressed, evidently meant for you. You need not read it; it contains
nothing but the whining excuses of a scoundrel who bases his virtue on
the fact that he was more coward than cheat. Strangest thing of all,
he had no property with him beyond some few clothes, a watch, and about
three hundred guineas in a purse. This was deposited by the skipper with
the authorities in Liverpool; not a paper, not a document of any kind.
Don't read that puling scrawl, Darcy; I have no patience with your
pity!"
"I wish he had escaped with life, Bagenal," said Darcy, feelingly; "it
is a sad aggravation of all my sorrow to think of this man's suicide."
"And so he might, had he had the courage to take his chance. The
'Congress' passed us as we went up the river; she had her studding-sails
set, and, with the strong tide in her favor, was cutting through
the water as fast as ever a runaway scoundrel could wish or ask for.
Gleeson's servant contrived to reach her in time, and got away safe, not
improbably with a heavy booty, if the truth were known."
Daly continued to dwell on the theme, repeating circumstantially the
whole of the examination before the Liverpool Justices, where the
depositions of the case were taken, and the investigation conducted with
strict accuracy; but Darcy paid little attention. The sad end of one
for whom through years long he had entertained feelings of respect and
friendship, seemed to obliterate all memory of his crime, and he had no
other feelings in his heart than those of sincere grief for the suicide.
"There is but one circumstance in the whole I cannot understand," said
Daly, "and that is why Gleeson paid off Hickman's bond last week, when
he had evidently made up his mind to fly,--seventy thousand was such a
sum to carry away with him, all safe and sound as he had it."
"But where's the evidence of such a payment?" said Darcy, sorrowfully;
"the bond is not to be found, nor is it among the papers discovered at
Gleeson's house."
"It may be found yet," said Daly, confidently. "That the money was paid
I have not a particle of doubt on my mind; Freney's information, and
the memorandum I showed you, are strong in corroborating the fact; old
Hickman dared not deny it, if the bond never were to turn up."
"Heaven grant it!" said Darcy, fervently; "that will at least save the
abbey, and rescue our old house from the pollution I dreaded."
"All that, however, does not explain the difficulty," said Daly,
thoughtfully; "I wish some shrewder head than mine had the matter before
him. But now that I have told you so much, let me have some supper,
Darcy, for we forgot to victual our sloop, and had no sea-store but
whiskey on either voyage."
Though this was perfectly true, Daly's proposition was made rather to
induce the Knight to take some refreshment, which it was so evident he
needed, than from any personal motive.
"They carried the second reading by a large majority; I read it in
Liverpool," said Daly, as the servant laid the table for supper.
The Knight nodded an assent, and Daly resumed: "I saw also that
an address was voted by the patriotic members of Daly's to Hickman
O'Reilly, Esquire, M.P., for his manly and independent conduct in the
debate, when he taunted the Government with their ineffectual attempts
at corruption, and spurned indignantly every offer of their patronage."
"Is that the case?" said the Knight, smiling faintly.
"'All fact; while the mob drew his carriage home, and nearly smoked the
entire of Merrion Square into blackness with burning tar-barrels."
"He has improved on Johnson's definition, Bagenal, and made patriotism
the first as well as the last refuge of a scoundrel."
"I looked out in the House that evening, but could not see him, for I
wanted him to second a motion for me."
"Indeed! of what nature?"
"A most patriotic one, to this effect: that all bribes to members of
either House should be in money, that we might have at least the benefit
of introducing so much capital into Ireland."
"You forget, Bagenal, how it would spoil old Hickman's market: loans
would then be had for less than ten per cent."
"So it would, by Jove! That shows the difficulty of legislating for
conflicting interests."
This conversation was destined only to occupy the time the servant was
engaged about the table, but when he had withdrawn, the Knight and his
friend at once returned to the eventful theme that engaged all their
anxieties, and where the altered tones of their voices and eager looks
betokened the deepest interest.
It would have been difficult to find two men more generally well
informed, and less capable of comprehending or unravelling the
complicated tissue of a business matter. At the same time, by dint of
much mutual inquiry and discussion, they attained to that first and
greatest of discoveries, namely, their own insufficiency to conduct the
investigation, and the urgent necessity of employing some able man
of law to go through all Gleeson's accounts, and ascertain the real
condition of Darcy's fortune. With this prudent resolve, they parted:
Darcy to his room, where he sat with unclosed eyes till morning; while
Daly, who had disciplined his temperament more rigidly, soon fell fast
asleep, and never awoke till roused by the voice of his servant Sandy.
"You must find out the fellow that brought the note from Freney," said
Daly, the moment he opened his eyes.
"I was thinking so," said Sandy, sententiously.
"You'd know him again?"
"I 'd ken his twa eyes amang a thousand."
"Very well, then, set off after breakfast and search for him; you used
to know where devils of this kind were to be found."
"Maybe I havna quite forgot it yet," replied he, dryly; "but it winna do
to gae there before nightfall."
"Lose no more time than you can help about it," said Daly; "bring him
here if you can find him."
We have not the necessity, and more certainly it is far from our
inclination, to dwell upon the accumulated calamities of the Knight, nor
recount more particularly the sad disclosures which the few succeeding
days made regarding his fortunes. His own words were correct; he was
utterly ruined. Every species of iniquity which perfidy could practise
upon unbounded confidence had been effected. His property subdivided
and leased at nominal rents, debts long supposed to have been paid yet
outstanding; mortgages alleged to have been redeemed still impending;
while of the large sums raised to meet these encumbrances not one
shilling had been paid by Gleeson, save perhaps the bond for seventy
thousand; but even of this there was no evidence, except the vague
assertion of one whose testimony the law would reject.
Such, in brief, were the sad results of that investigation to which the
Knight's affairs were submitted, nor could all the practised subtlety
of the lawyer suggest one reasonable chance of extrication from the
difficulty.
"Your friend is a ruined man, sir," said he to Daly, as they both arose
after a seven hours' examination of the various documents; "there is a
strong presumption that many of these signatures are forged, and that
the Knight of Gwynne never even saw the papers; but he appears to have
written his name so carelessly, and in so many ways, as to have no clear
recollection of what he did sign, and what he did not. It would be very
difficult to submit a good case for a jury."
That the payment of the seventy thousand had been made he regarded as
more than doubtful, coupling the fact of Gleeson's immediate flight with
the temptation of so large a sum, while nothing could be less accurate
than the robber's testimony. "We must watch the enemy closely on this
point," said he; "we must exhibit not the slightest apparent doubt upon
it. They must not be led to suspect that we have not the bond in our
possession. This question will admit of a long contest, and does not
press like the others. As to young Darcy's concurrence in the sale--"
"Ay, that is the great matter in my friend's eyes."
"He must be written to at once,--let him come over here without loss of
time, and if it can be shown that this signature is a forgery, we might
make it the ground of a compromise with the O'Reillys, who, to obtain a
good title, would be glad to admit us to liberal terms."
"Darcy will never listen to that, depend upon it," said Daly; "his
greatest affliction is for his son's ruin."
"We 'll see, we 'll see--the game shall open its own combinations as
we go on; for the present, all the task of your friend the Knight is to
carry a bold face to the world, let no rumor get abroad that matters are
in their real condition. Our chance of extrication lies in the front we
can show to the enemy."
"You are making a heavier demand than you are aware of,--Darcy detests
anything like concealment. I don't believe he would practise the
slightest mystery that would involve insincerity for twelve hours to
free the whole estate."
"Very honorable indeed; but at this moment we must waive a punctilio."
"Don't give it that name to him,--that's all," said Daly, sternly. "I
am as little for subterfuge as any man, and yet I did my best to prevent
him resigning his seat in the House; this morning he would send a
request to Lord Castlereagh, begging he might be permitted to accept an
escheatorship; I need not say how willingly the proposal was accepted,
and his name will appear in the 'Gazette' to-morrow morning."
"This conduct, if persisted in, will ruin our case," said the lawyer,
despondingly. "I cannot comprehend his reasons for it."
"They are simple enough: his own words were, 'I can never continue to be
a member of the legislature when the only privilege it would confer is
freedom from arrest.'"
"A very valuable one at this crisis, if he knew but all," muttered the
other. "You will write to young Darcy at once."
"That he has done already, and to Lady Eleanor also; and as he expects
me at seven, I 'll take my leave of you till to-morrow."
"Well, Daly," said the Knight, as his friend entered the drawing-room
before dinner, "how do you like the lawyer?"
"He's a shrewd fellow, and I suppose, for his calling, an honest one;
but the habit of making the wrong seem right leads to a very great
inclination to reverse the theorem, and make the right seem wrong."
"He thinks badly of our case, is n't that so?"
"He 'd think much better of it, and of us too, I believe, if both were
worse."
"I am just as well pleased that it is not so," said Darcy, smiling; "a
bad case is far more endurable than a bad conscience. But here comes
dinner, and I have got my appetite back again."
CHAPTER XXIV. A GLANCE AT "THE FULL MOON."
To rescue our friend Bagenal Daly from any imputation the circumstance
might suggest, it is as well to observe here, that when he issued the
order to his servant to seek out the boy who brought the intelligence of
Gleeson's flight, he was merely relying on that knowledge of the obscure
recesses of Old Dublin which Sandy possessed, and not by any means upon
a distinct acquaintance with gentlemen of the same rank and station as
Jemmy.
When Daly first took up his residence in the capital, many, many years
before, he was an object of mob worship. He had every quality necessary
for such. He was immensely rich, profusely spendthrift, and eccentric to
an extent that some characterized as insanity. His dress, his equipage,
his liveries, his whole retinue and style of living were strange and
unlike other men's, while his habits of life bid utter defiance to every
ordinance of society.
In the course of several years' foreign travel he had made acquaintances
the most extraordinary and dissimilar, and many of these were led to
visit him in his own country. Dublin being less resorted to by strangers
than most cities, the surprise of its inhabitants was proportionably
great as they beheld, not only Hungarians and Russian nobles, with
gorgeous equipages and splendid retinues, driving through the streets,
but Turks, Armenians, and Greeks, in full costume; and, on one occasion,
Daly's companion on a public promenade was no less remarkable a person
than a North American chief, in all the barbaric magnificence of his
native dress. To obviate the inconvenience of that mob accompaniment
such spectacles would naturally attract, Daly entered into a compact
with the leaders of the varions sets or parties of low Dublin, by which,
on payment of a certain sum, he was guaranteed in the enjoyment of
appearing in public without a following of several hundred ragged
wretches in full cry after him. Nothing could be more honorable and fair
than the conduct of both parties in this singular treaty; the subsidy
was regularly paid through the hands of Sandy M'Grane, while the
subsidized literally observed every article of the contract, and not
only avoided any molestation on their own parts, but were a formidable
protective force in the event of any annoyance from others of a superior
rank in society.
The hawkers of the various newspapers were the deputies with whom
Sandy negotiated this treaty, they being recognized as the legitimate
interpreters of mob opinion through the capital; men who combined an
insight into local grievances with a corresponding knowledge of general
politics; and certain it is, their sway must have been both respected
and well protected, for a single transgression of the compact with Daly
never occurred.
Bagenal Daly troubled his head very little in the matter, it is true;
for his own sake he would never have thought of such a bargain, but he
detested the thought of foreigners carrying away with them from Ireland
any unpleasant memories of mob outrage or insult; and desired that the
only remembrance they should preserve of his native country should be of
its cordial and hospitable reception. A great many years had now elapsed
since these pleasant times, and Daly's name was scarcely more than a
tradition among those who now lounged in rags and idleness through the
capital,--a fact of which he could have had little doubt himself, if he
had reflected on that crowd which followed his own steps but a few days
before. Of this circumstance, however, he took little or no notice, and
gave his orders to Sandy with the same conscious power he had wielded
nearly fifty years back.
A small public-house, called the Moon, in Duck Alley, a narrow lane off
the Cross Poddle, was the resort of this Rump Parliament, and thither
Sandy betook himself on a Saturday evening, the usual night of meeting,
as, there being no issue of newspapers the next morning, nothing
interfered with a prolonged conviviality. Often and often had he taken
the same journey at the same hour; but now, such is the effect of a long
interval of years, the way seemed narrower and more crooked than ever,
while as he went not one familiar face welcomed him as he passed; nor
could he recognize, as of yore, his acquaintances amid the various
disguises of black eyes and smashed noses, which were frequent on every
side. It was the hour when crime and guilt, drunken rage and grief,
mingled together their fearful agencies; and every street and alley was
crowded by half-naked wretches quarrelling and singing: some screaming
in accents of heartbroken anguish; others shouting their blasphemies
with voices hoarse from passion; age and infancy, manhood in its prime,
the mother and the young girl, were all there, reeling from drunkenness,
or faint from famine; some struggling in deadly conflict, others bathing
the lips and temples of ebbing life.
Through this human hell Sandy wended his way, occasionally followed by
the taunting ribaldry of such as remarked him: such testimonies were
very unlike his former welcomes in these regions; but for this honest
Sandy cared little; his real regret was to see so much more evidence of
depravity and misery than before. Drunkenness and its attendant vices
were no new evils, it is true; but he thought all these were fearfully
aggravated by what he now witnessed: loud and violent denunciations
against every rank above their own, imprecations on the Parliament and
the gentry that "sowld Ireland:" as if any political perfidy could
be the origin of their own degraded and revolting condition! Such
is, however, the very essence of that spirit that germinates amid
destitution and crime, and it is a dangerous social crisis when the
masses begin to attribute their own demoralization to the vices of their
betters. It well behooves those in high places to make their actions and
opinions conform to their great destinies.
Sandy's Northern blood revolted at these brutal excesses, and the savage
menaces he heard on every side; but perhaps his susceptibilities were
more outraged by one trail of popular injustice than all the rest, and
that was to hear Hickman O'Reilly extolled by the mob for his patriotic
rejection of bribery, while the Knight of Gwynne was held up to
execration by every epithet of infamy; ribald jests and low ballads
conveying the theme of attack upon his spotless character.
The street lyrics of the day were divided in interest between the late
rebellion and the act of Union; the former being, however, the favorite
theme, from a species of irony peculiar to this class of poetry, in
which certain living characters were held up to derision or execration.
The chief chorist appeared to be a fiend-like old woman, with one
eye, and a voice like a cracked bassoon: she was dressed in a cast-off
soldier's coat and a man's hat, and neither from face nor costume had
few feminine traits. This fair personage, known by the name of Rhoudlum,
was, on her appearing, closely followed by a mob of admiring amateurs,
who seemed to form both her body-guard and her chorus. When Sandy found
himself fast wedged up in this procession, the enthusiasm was at its
height, in honor of an elegant new ballad called "The Two Majors."
The air, should our reader be musically given, was the well-known one,
"There was a Miller had Three Sons:"--
"Says Major Sirr to Major Swan,
You have two rebels, give me one;
They pay the same for one as two,
I 'll get five pounds, and I 'll share with you.
Toi! loi! loi! lay."
"That's the way the blackguards sowld yer blood, boys!" said the hag, in
recitative; "pitch caps, the ridin' house, and the gallows was iligant
tratement for wearin' the green."
"Go on, Rhoudlum, go on wid the song," chimed in her followers, who
cared more for the original text than prose vulgate.
"Arn't I goin' on wid it?" said the hag, as fire flashed in her eye; "is
it the likes of you is to tache me how to modulate a strain?" And she
resumed:--
"Says Major Swan to Major Sirr,
One man's a woman! ye may take her.
'T is little we gets for them at all--
Oh! the curse of Cromwell be an ye all!
Toi! loi! loll lay."
The grand Demosthenic abruptness of the last line was the signal for
an applauding burst of voices, whose sincerity it would be unfair to
question.
[Illustration: 288]
"Where are you pushin' to! bad scran to ye! ye ugly varmint!" said the
lady, as Sandy endeavored to force his passage through the crowd.
"Hurroo! by the mortial, it's Daly's man!" screamed she, in transport,
as the accidental light of a window showed Sandy's features.
Few, if any, of those around had ever seen him; but his name and his
master's were among the favored traditions of the place, and however
unwilling to acknowledge the acquaintance, Sandy had no help for it but
to exchange greetings and ask the way to "the Moon," which he found he
had forgotten.
"There it is fornint ye, Mr. M'Granes," said the lady, in the most
dulcet tones; "and if it's thinking of trating me ye are, 't is a
'crapper' in a pint of porter I 'd take; nothing stronger would sit on
my heart now."
"Ye shall hae it," said Sandy; "but come into the house."
"I darn't do it, sir; the committee is sittin'--don't ye see, besides,
the moon lookin' at you?" And she pointed to a rude representation of a
crescent moon, formed by a kind of transparency in the middle of a large
window, a signal which Sandy well knew portended that the council were
assembled within.
"Wha's the man, noo?" said Sandy, with one foot on the threshold.
"The ould stock still, darlint," said Rhoudlum,--"don't ye know his
voice?"
"That's Paul Donellan,--I ken him noo."
"Be my conscience! there's no mistake. Ye can hear his screech from the
Poddle to the Pigeon House when the wind's fair."
Sandy put a shilling into the hag's hand, and, without waiting for
further parley, entered the little dark hall, and turning a corner he
well remembered, pressed a button and opened the door into the room
where the party were assembled.
"Who the blazes are you? What brings you here?" burst from a score of
rude voices together, while every hand grasped some projectile to hurl
at the devoted intruder.
"Ask Paul Donellan who I am, and he'll tell ye," said Sandy, sternly,
while, with a bold contempt for the hostile demonstrations, he walked
straight up to the head of the room.
The recognition on which he reckoned so confidently was not forthcoming,
for the old decrepit creature who, cowering beneath the wig of some
defunct chancellor, presided, stared at him with eyes bleared with age
and intemperance, but seemed unable to detect him as an acquaintance.
"Holy Paul does n't know him!" said half-a-dozen together, as, in
passionate indignation, they arose to resent the intrusion.
"He may remember this better," said Sandy, as, seizing a full bumper
of whiskey from the board, he threw it into the lamp beneath the
transparency, and in a moment the moon flashed forth, and displayed its
face at the full. The spell was magical, and a burst of savage welcome
broke from every mouth, while Donellan, as if recalled to consciousness,
put his hand trumpet-fashion to his lips, and gave a shout that made the
very glasses ring upon the board. Place was now made for Sandy at the
table, and a wooden vessel called "a noggin" set before him, whose
contents he speedily tested by a long draught.
"I may as weel tell you," said Sandy, "that I am Bagenal Daly's man. I
mind the time it wad na hae been needful to say so much,--my master's
picture used to hang upon that wall."
Had Sandy proclaimed himself the Prince of Wales the announcement could
not have met with more honor, and many a coarse and rugged grasp of the
hand attested the pleasure his presence there afforded.
"We have the picture still," said a young fellow, whose frank,
good-humored face contrasted strongly with many of those around him;
"but that old divil, Paul, always told us it was a likeness of himself
when he was young."
"Confound the scoundrel!" said Sandy, indignantly; "he was no mair like
my maister than a Dutch skipper is like a chief of the Delawares. Has
the creature lost his senses a'togither?"
"By no manner of manes. He wakes up every now and then wid a speech, or
a bit of poethry, or a sentiment."
"Ay," said another, "or if a couple came in to be married, see how the
old chap's eyes would brighten, and how he would turn the other side of
his wig round before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'"
This was literally correct, and was the simple manouvre by which Holy
Paul converted himself into a clerical character, the back of his wig
being cut in horse-shoe fashion, in rude imitation of that worn by
several of the bishops.
"Watch him now--watch him now!" said one in Sandy's ears; and the old
fellow passed his hand across his eyes as if to dispel some painful
thought, while his careworn features were lit up with a momentary flash
of sardonic drollery.
"Your health, sir," said he to Sandy; "or, as Terence has it, 'Hic tibi,
Dave'--here 's to you, Davy."
"A toast, Paul! a toast! Something agin the Union,--something agin old
Darcy."
"Fill up, gentlemen," said Paul, in a clear and distinct voice. "I
beg to propose a sentiment which you will drink with a bumper. Are you
ready?"
"Ready!" screamed all together.
"Here, then,--repeat after me:--
"Whether he's out, or whether he's in,
It does n't signify one pin;
Here's every curse of every sin
On Maurice Darcy, Knight of Gwynne."
"Hold!" shouted Sandy, as he drew a double-barrelled pistol from his
bosom. "By the saul o' my body the man that drinks that toast shall
hae mair in his waim than hot water and whiskey. Maurice Darcy is my
maister's friend, and a better gentleman never stepped in leather: who
dar say no?"
"Are we to drink it, Paul?"
"As I live by drink," cried Paul, stretching out both hands, "this is
my alter ego, my duplicate self, Sanders M'Grane's, 'revisiting the
glimpses of the moon,' post totidem annos!" And a cordial embrace now
followed, which at once dispelled the threatened storm.
"Mr. M'Grane's health in three times three, gentlemen;" and, rising,
Paul gave the signal for each cheer as he alone could give it.
Sandy had now time to throw a glance around the table, where, however,
not one familiar face met his own; that they were of the same calling
and order as his quondam associates in the same place he could have
little doubt, even had that fact not been proclaimed by the names of
various popular journals affixed to their hats, and by whose titles
they were themselves addressed. The conversation, too, had the same
sprinkling of politics, town gossip, and late calamities he well
remembered of yore, interspersed with lively commentaries on public men
which, if printed, would have been suggestive of libel.
[Illustration: 292]
The new guest soon made himself free of the guild by a proposal to treat
the company, on the condition that he might be permitted to have five
minutes' conversation with their president in an adjoining room. He
might have asked much more in requital for his liberality, and without a
moment's delay, or even apprising Paul of what was intended, the "Dublin
Journal" and the "Free Press" took him boldly between them and carried
him into a closet off the room where the carouse was held.
"I know what you are at," said Paul, as soon as the door closed. "Daly
wants a rising of the Liberty boys for the next debate,--don't deny it,
it's no use. Well, now, listen, and don't interrupt me. Tom Conolly came
down from the Castle yesterday and offered me five pounds for a good
mob to rack a house, and two-ten if they'd draw Lord Clare home; but
I refused,--I did, on the virtue of my oath. There's patriotism for
ye!--yer soul, where 's the man wid only one shirt and a supplement to
his back would do the same?"
"You 're wrang,--we dinna want them devils at a'; it 's a sma' matter of
inquiry I cam about. Ye ken Freney?"
"Is it the Captain? Whew!" said Paul, with a long whistle.
"It's no him," resumed Sandy, "but a wee bit of a callant they ca'
Jamie."
"Jemmy the diver,--the divil's own grandson, that he is."
"Where can I find him?" said Sandy, impatiently.
"Wait a bit, and you'll be sure to see him at home in his lodgings in
Newgate."
"I must find him out at once; put me on his track, and I 'll gie a
goold guinea in yer hand, mon. I mean the young rascal no harm; it's a
question I want him to answer me, that's all."
"Well, I'll do my best to find him for you, but I must send down to the
country. I'll have to get a man to go beyond Kilcullen."
"We 'll pay any expense."
"Sure I know that." And here Paul began a calculation to himself of
distances and charges only audible to Sandy's ears at intervals: "Two
and four, and six, with a glass of punch at Naas--half an hour at
Tims'--the coach at Athy--ay, that will do it. Have ye the likes of a
pair of ould boots or shoes? I 've nothing but them, and the soles
is made out of two pamphlets of Roger Connor's, and them's the driest
things I could get."
"I'll gie ye a new pair."
"You 're the son of Fingal of the Hills, divil a less. And now if ye had
a cast-off waistcoat--I don't care for the color--orange or green, blue
or yellow, Tros Tyriusve mihiy as we said in Trinity."
"Ye shall hae a coat to cover your old bones. But let us hae nae mair o'
this--when may I expect to see the boy?"
"The evening after next, at eight o'clock, at the corner of Essex
Bridge, Capel Street--'on the Rialto'--eh? that's the cue. And now let
us join the revellers--per Jove, but I'm dry." And so saying, the
miserable old creature broke from Sandy, and, assisted by the wall,
tottered back to the room to his drunken companions, where his voice was
soon heard high above the discord and din around him.
And yet this man, so debased and degraded, had been once a scholar of
the University, and carried off its prizes from men whose names stood
high among the great and valued of the land.
CHAPTER XXV. BAGENAL DALY'S COUNSELS
Every hour seemed to complicate the Knight of Gwynne's difficulties, and
to increase that intricacy by which he already was so much embarrassed.
The forms of law, never grateful to him, became now perfectly odious,
obscuring instead of explaining the questions on which he desired
information. He hated, besides, the small and narrow expedients so
constantly suggested in cases where his own sense of right convinced him
of the justice of his cause, nor could he listen with common patience to
the detail of all those legal subtleties by which an adverse claim might
be, if not resisted, at least protracted indefinitely.
His presence, far from affording any assistance, was, therefore, only an
embarrassment both to Daly and the lawyer, and they heard with unmixed
satisfaction of his determination to hasten down to the West, and
communicate more freely with his family, for as yet his letter to
Lady Eleanor, far from disclosing the impending ruin, merely mentioned
Gleeson's flight as a disastrous event in the life of a man esteemed
and respected, and adverting but slightly to his own difficulties in
consequence.
"We must leave the abbey, Bagenal, I foresee that," said Darcy, as he
took his friend aside a few minutes before starting.
Daly made no reply, for already his own convictions pointed the same
way.
"I could not live there with crippled means and broken fortune; 'twould
kill me in a month, by Jove, to see the poor fellows wandering about
idle and unemployed, the stables nailed up, the avenue grass-grown, and
not hear the cry of a hound when I crossed the courtyard. But what
is to be done? Humbled as I am, I cannot think of letting it to
some Hickman O'Reilly or other, some vulgar upstart, feasting his low
companions in those old halls, or plotting our utter ruin at our own
hearthstone; could we not make some other arrangement?"
"I have thought of one," said Daly, calmly; "my only fear is how to ask
Lady Eleanor's concurrence to a plan which must necessarily press most
heavily on her."
"What is it?" said Darcy, hastily.
"Of course, your inclination would be, for a time at least, perfect
seclusion."
"That, above all and everything."
"Well, then, what say you to taking up your abode in a little cottage of
mine on the Antrim coast? It is a wild and lonely spot, it's true, but
you may live there without attracting notice or observation. I see you
are surprised at my having such a possession. I believe I never told
you, Darcy, that I bought Sandy's cabin from him the day he entered my
service, and fitted it up, and intended it as an asylum for the poor
fellow if he should grow weary of my fortunes, or happily survive me. By
degrees, I have added a room here and a closet there, till it has grown
into a dwelling that any one, as fond of salmon-fishing as you and I
were, would not despise; come, will you have it?" Darcy grasped his
friend's hand without speaking, and Daly went on: "That's right; I'll
give orders to have everything in readiness at once; I'll go down, too,
and induct you. Ay, Darcy, and if the fellows could take a peep at us
over our lobster and a glass of Isla whiskey, they 'd stare to think
those two jovial old fellows, so merry and contented, started, the day
they came of age, with the two best estates in Ireland."
"If I had not brought ruin on others, Bagenal--"
"No more of that, Darcy; the most scandal-loving gossip of the Club will
never impute, for he dare not, more than carelessness to your conduct,
and I promise you, if you 'll only fall back on a good conscience,
you 'll not be unhappy under the thatched roof of my poor shieling.
My sincerest regards to Lady Eleanor and Helen. I see there is a crowd
collecting at the sight of the four posters, so don't delay."
Darcy could do no more than squeeze the cordial hand that held his own,
and, passing hastily out, he stepped into the travelling-carriage at the
door, not unobserved, indeed, for about a hundred ragged creatures had
now assembled, who saluted his appearance with groans and hisses,
accompanied with ruffianly taunts about bribery and corruption; while
one, more daring than the rest, mounted on the step, and with his face
to the window, cried out: "My Lord, my Lord, won't you give us a trifle
to drown your new coronet?"
The words were scarcely out, when, seizing him by the neck with one
hand, and taking a leg in the other, Daly hurled the fellow into the
middle of the mob, who, such is their consistency, laughed loud and
heartily at the fellow's misfortunes; meanwhile, the postilions plied
whip and spur, and ere the laughter had subsided, the carriage was out
of sight.
"There is a gentleman in the drawing-room wishes to speak to you, sir,"
said a servant to Daly, who had just sat down to a conference with the
lawyer.
"Present my respectful compliments, and say that I am engaged on most
important and pressing business."
"Had you not better ask his name?" said the lawyer.
"No, no, there is nothing but interruptions here; at one moment it is
Heffernan, with a polite message from Lord Castlereagh; then some one
from the Club, to know if I have any objection to waive a standing
order, and have that young O'Reilly balloted for once more; and here
was George Falkner himself a while ago, asking if the Knight had really
taken office, with a seat in the Cabinet. I said it was perfectly
correct, and that he was at liberty to state it in his paper."
"You did!"
"Yes; and that he might add that I myself had refused the see of
Llandaff, preferring the command of the West India Squadron. But, what's
this? What do you want now, Richard?"
"The gentleman upstairs, sir, insists on my presenting his card."
"Oh, indeed!--Captain Forester!--I 'll see him at once." And, so saying,
Daly hastened upstairs to the drawing-room, where the young officer
awaited him.
Daly was not in a mood to scrutinize very closely the appearance of his
visitor, but he could not fail to feel struck at the alteration in his
looks since last they met; his features were paler and marked by sorrow,
so much so that Daly's first question was, "Have you been ill?" and as
Forester answered in the negative, the old man fixed his eyes steadily
on him, and said, "You have heard of our misfortune, then?"
"Misfortune! no. What do you mean?"
Daly hesitated, uncertain how to reply, whether to leave to time and
some other channel to announce the Knight's ruin, or at once communicate
it with his own lips.
"Yes, it is the better way," said he, half aloud, while, taking
Forester's hand, he led him over to a sofa, and pressed him down
beside him. "I seldom have made an error in guessing a man's character,
throughout a long and somewhat remarkable life. I think I am safe in
saying that you feel a warm interest in my friend Darcy's family?"
"You do me but justice; gratitude alone, if I had no stronger motive,
secures them every good wish of mine."
"But you have stronger motives, young man," said Daly, looking at him
with a piercing glance; "if you had not, I 'd think but meanly of you,
nor did I want that blush to tell me so."
Forester looked down in confusion. The abruptness of the address so
completely unmanned him that he could make no answer. While Daly went
on: "I force no confidences, young man, nor have I any right to ask
them; enough for my present purpose that I know you care deeply for this
family; now, sir, but a week back the ambition to be allied with them
had satisfied the proudest wish of the proudest house--to-day they are
ruined."
Overwhelmed with surprise and sorrow, Forester sat silently, while
Daly rapidly, but circumstantially, narrated the story of the Knight's
calamity, and the total wreck of his once princely fortune.
"Yes," said Daly, as with flashing eyes he arose and uttered
aloud,--"yes, the broad acres won by many a valiant deed, the lands
which his ancestors watered with their blood, lost forever; not by great
crimes, not forfeited by any bold but luckless venture, for there is
something glorious in that,--but stolen, filched away by theft. By
Heaven! our laws and liberties do but hedge round crime with so many
defences that honesty has nothing left but to stand shivering outside.
Better were the days when the strong hand avenged the deep wrong, or,
if the courage were weak, there was the Throne to appeal to against
oppression. Forester, I see how this news afflicts you; I judged you too
well to think that your own dashed hopes entered into your sorrow. No,
no, I know you better. But come, we have other duties than to mourn over
the past. Has Lord Castlereagh received Darcy's note, resigning his seat
in Parliament?"
"He has; a new writ is preparing for Mayo." "Sharp practice; I think I
can detect the fair round hand of Mr. Heffernan there,--no matter, a
few days more and the world will know all; ay, the world, so full of
honorable sentiments and noble aspirations, will smile and jest
on Darcy's ruin, that they may with better grace taunt the vulgar
assumption of Hickman O'Reilly. I know it well,--some would say I bought
the knowledge dearly. When I set out in life, my fortune was nearly
equal to the Knight's, my ideas of living and expenditure based on the
same views as his own,--that same barbaric taste for profusion which has
been transmitted to us from father to son. Ay, we retained everything
of feudalism save its chivalry! Well, I never knew a day nor an hour of
independence till the last acre of that great estate was sold, and
gone from me forever. Fawning flattery, intrigue, and trickery beset
me wherever I went; ruined gamblers, match-making mothers, bankrupt
speculators, plotting political adventurers, dogged me at every step;
nor could I break through the trammels by which they fettered me, except
at the price of my ruin; when there was no longer a stake to play for,
they left the table. Poor Darcy, however, is not a lonely stem, like me,
riven and lightning-struck; he has a wife and children; but for that,
I would not fear to grasp his stout hand and say, 'Come on to fortune.'
Poor Maurice, whose heart could never stand the slightest wrong done the
humblest cottier on his land, how will he bear up now? Forester, you can
do me a great service. Could you obtain leave for a day or two?"
"Command me how and in what way you please," said the youth, eagerly.
"I understand that proffer, and accept it as freely as it is given."
"Nay, you are mistaken," said Forester, faltering. "I will be candid
with you; you have a right to all my confidence, for you have trusted
in me. Your suspicions are only correct in part; my affection is indeed
engaged, but I have received none in return: Miss Darcy has rejected
me."
"But not without hope?"
"Without the slightest hope."
"By Heaven, it is the only gleam of light in all the gloomy business,"
said Daly, energetically; "had Helen's love been yours, this calamity
had been ten thousand times worse. Nay, nay, this is not the sentiment
of cold and selfish old age; you wrong me, Forester, but the hour is
come when every feeling within that noble girl's heart is due to those
who have loved and cherished her from childhood. Now is the time to
repay the watchful care of infancy, and recompense the anxious fears
that spring from parental affection; not a sentiment, not a thought,
should be turned from that channel now. It would be treason to win one
smile, one passing look of kind meaning from those eyes, every beam of
which is claimed by 'Home.' Helen is equal to her destiny,--that I know
well; and you, if you would strive to be worthy of her, do not endeavor
to make her falter in her duty. Trust me, there is but one road to a
heart like hers,--the path of high and honorable ambition."
"You are right," said Forester, in a sad and humble voice,--"you are
right; I offered her a heart before it was worthy of her acceptance."
"That avowal is the first step towards rendering it such one day," said
Daly, grasping his hand in both his own. "Now to my request: you can
obtain this leave, can you?"
"Yes, yes; how can I make it of any service to you?"
"Simply thus: I have offered, and Darcy has accepted, a humble cottage
on the northern coast, as a present asylum for the family. The remote
and secluded nature of the place will at least withdraw them from
the impertinence of curiosity, or the greater impertinence of vulgar
sympathy. A maiden sister of mine is the present occupant, and I wish to
communicate the intelligence to her, that she may make any preparations
which may be necessary for their coming, and also provide herself with
some other shelter. Maria is as great a Bedouin as myself, and with as
strong a taste for vagabondage; she 'll have no difficulty in housing
herself, that's certain. The only puzzle is how to apprise her of the
intended change: there is not a post-office within eight or ten miles of
the place, nor, if there were, would she think of sending to look for
a letter; there 's nothing for it but a special envoy: will you be the
man?"
"Most willingly; only give me the route, and my instructions."
"You shall have both. Come and dine with me here at five--order horses
to your carriage for eight o'clock, and I'll take care of the rest."
"Agreed," said Forester; "I'll lose no time in getting ready for the
road--the first thing is my leave."
"Is there a difficulty there?"
"There shall be none," said Forester, hurriedly, as he seized his hat,
and, bidding Daly good-bye, hastened downstairs and into the street.
"They 'll refuse me, I know that," muttered he, as he went along; "and
if they do, I'll pitch up the appointment on the spot; this slight
service over, I'm ready to join my regiment." And so saying, he turned
his steps towards the Castle, resolved on the course to follow.
Meanwhile Daly, after a brief consultation with the lawyer, sat down to
write to his sister. Simple and easy as the act is to many--far too much
so, as most men's correspondence would testify--letter-writing, to some
people, is an affair of no common difficulty. Perhaps every one in this
world has some stumbling-block of this kind ever before him: some men
cannot learn chess, some never can be taught to ride, others, if they
were to get the world for it, could not carve a hare. It would be unfair
to quote newly introduced difficulties, such as how to bray in the House
of Commons, the back step in the polka, and so on; the original evils
are enough for our illustration.
Bagenal Daly's literary difficulties were manifold; he was a discursive
thinker, passionate and vehement whenever the occasion prompted, and as
unable to control such influences when writing as speaking; and, with
very liberal ideas on the score of spelling, he wrote a hand which, if
only examined upside down, might have passed for Hebrew, with an undue
proportion of points; besides these defects, he entertained a thorough
contempt for all writing as an exponent of men's sentiments. His opinion
was, that speech was the great prerogative of living men, all other
modes of expression being feeble and miserable expedients; and, to do
him justice, he conformed, as far as in him lay, to his own theory, and
made his writing as like his speaking as could be. Brevity was the
great quality he studied, and for this reason we venture to present the
epistle to our readers:--
Dear Molly,--
The bill is carried--or, what comes to the same, the third reading comes
on next Tuesday, and they 'll have a majority--d----n their majority, I
forget the number. I was told that bribes were plenty as blackberries.
I wish they 'd leave as many stains after them. They offered me
nothing--they were right there. There is a kind of bottle-nosed whale
the Indians never harpoon; they call him "Hik-na-critchka,"--more bone
than blubber. Darcy might have been an Earl, or a Marquis, or a Duke,
perhaps; they wanted one gentleman so much, they 'd have bid high for
him. Poor fellow, he is ruined now! that scoundrel Gleeson has run away
with everything, forged, falsified, and thieved to any extent. Your
unlucky four thousand, of course, is gone to the devil with the rest.
I 'm sick of cant. People talk of badgers and such like, and yet no one
says a word about exterminating attorneys! The rascal jumped over in
the Channel, and was drowned--the shark got a bitter pill that swallowed
him. I have told Darcy he might have "the Corvy;" you can easily find a
wigwam down the coast. Forester, who brings this, knows all. We must
all economize, I suppose. I 've given up Maccabaw already, and taken
to Blackguard, in compliment to the Secretary. I must sell or shoot old
Drummer at last, he can't draw his breath, and won't draw the gig.
I only remain here till the House is up, when I must be up too and
stirring--there is a confounded bond--no matter, more at another time.
Yours ever,
Bagenal Daly.
St. George is to be the Chief Baron--an improvement of the allegory,
"Justice will be deaf as well as blind." Devil take them all!
The chorus of a Greek play, so seemingly abstruse and incoherent to our
present thinking, was, we are told, made easily comprehensible by the
aid of gesture and pantomime; and in the same way, by supplying the
fancied accompaniment of her brother's voice and action, Miss Daly
was enabled to read and understand this strange epistle. Bagenal gave
himself little trouble in examining how far it conveyed his meaning;
but, like a careless traveller who huddles his clothes into his
portmanteau, and is only anxious to make the lock meet, his greatest
care was to fold up the document and inclose it within an envelope;
that done, he hoped it was all right,--in any case, his functions
were concluded regarding it, for, as he muttered to himself, he only
contracted to write, not to read, his own letter.
Forester was punctual to the hour appointed; and if not really less
depressed than before, the stimulating sense of having a service to
perform made him seem less so. His self-esteem was flattered, too, by
his own bold line of acting, for he had just resigned his appointment on
the Staff, his application for leave having been unsuccessful. The fact
that his rash conduct might involve him in trouble or difficulty was not
without its own sense of pleasure, for, so is it in all rebellion, the
great prompter is personal pride. He would gladly have told Daly what
had happened; but a delicate fear of increasing the apparent load of
obligation prevented him, and he consequently confined his remarks on
the matter to bis being free, and at liberty to go wherever his friend
pleased.
"Here, then," said Daly, leading him across the room to a table, on
which a large map of Ireland lay open, "I have marked your route the
entire way. Follow that dark line with your eye northwards to
Coleraine,--so far you can travel with your carriage and post-horses;
how to cross this bit of desert here I must leave to yourself: there may
be a road for a wheeled carriage or not, in my day there was none; that
is, however, a good many years back; the point to strive for should be
somewhere hereabouts. This is Dunluce Castle--well, if I remember
aright, the spot is here: you must ask for 'the Corvy,'--the fishermen
all know the cabin by that name; it was originally built out of the
wreck of a French vessel that was lost there, and the word Corvy is a
Northern version of Corvette. Once there,--and I know you 'll not find
any difficulty in reaching it,--my sister will be glad to receive you; I
need not say the accommodation does not rival Gwynne Abbey, no more than
poor Molly does Helen Darcy; you will be right welcome, however,--so
much I can pledge myself, not the less so that your journey was
undertaken from a motive of true kindness. I don't well know how much or
how little I have said in that letter; you can explain all I may have
omitted,--the chief thing is to get the cabin ready for the Darcys as
soon as may be. Give her this pocket-book,--I was too much hurried
to-day to transact business at the bank; but the north road is a safe one,
and you 'll not incur any risk. And now one glass to the success of the
enterprise, and I 'll not detain you longer; I 'll give you old Martin's
toast:--
"May better days soon be our lot,
Or better courage, if we have them not."
Forester pledged the sentiment in a bumper, and they parted.
"Good stuff in that young fellow," muttered Daly, as he looked after
him; "I wish he had some Irish blood, though; these Saxons require a
deal of the hammer to warm them, and never come to a white heat after
all."
CHAPTER XXVI. "THE corvy."
If the painter's license enables him to arrange the elements of scenery
into new combinations, disposing and grouping anew, as taste or fancy
may dictate, the novelist enjoys the lesser privilege of conveying his
reader at will from place to place, and thus, by varying the point
of view, procuring new aspects to his picture; less in virtue of this
privilege than from sheer necessity, we will now ask our readers to
accompany us on our journey northward.
Whether it be the necessary condition of that profusion of nature's
gifts, so evident in certain places, or a mere accident, certain it is
there is scarcely any one spot remarkable for great picturesque beauty
to arrive at which some bleak and uninteresting tract must not be
traversed. To this rule, if it be such, the northern coast of Ireland
offers no exception.
The country, as you approach "the Causeway," has an aspect of dreary
desolation that only needs the leaden sky and the drifting storm of
winter to make it the most melancholy of all landscapes. A slightly
undulating surface extends for miles on every side, scarcely a house
to be seen, and save where the dip of the ground affords shelter, not a
tree of any kind. A small isolated spot of oats, green even in the late
autumn, is here and there to be descried, or a flock of black sheep
wandering half wild o'er these savage wastes; vast masses of cloud, dark
and lowering as rain and thunder can make them, hang gloomily overhead,
for the tableland is still a lofty one, and the horizon is formed by the
edge of those giant cliffs that stand the barriers of the western ocean,
and against whose rocky sides the waves beat with the booming of distant
artillery.
It was in one of those natural hollows of the soil, whose frequency
seems to acknowledge a diluvian origin, that the little cottage which
Sandy once owned stood. Sheltered on the south and east by rising
banks, it was open on the other sides, and afforded a view seaward which
extended from the rocky promontory of Port Rush to the great bluff of
Fairhead, whose summit is nigh one thousand seven hundred feet above the
sea.
Perhaps in all the sea-board of the empire, nothing of the same extent
can vie in awful sublimity with this iron-bound coast. Gigantic cliffs
of four and five hundred feet, straight as a wall, are seen perforated
beneath by lofty tunnels, through which the wild waters plunge madly.
Fragments of basalt, large enough to be called islands, are studded
along the shore, the outlines fanciful and strange as beating waves and
winds can make them, while, here and there, in some deep-creviced bay,
the water flows in with long and measured sweep, and, at each moment
retiring, leaves a trace upon the strand, fleeting as the blush upon the
cheek of beauty; and here a little group of fisher children may be seen
at play, while the nets are drying on the beach, the only sight or sound
of human life, save that dark moving speck, alternately seen as the
great waves roll on, be such, and, while tossing to and fro, seems by
some charmed influence fettered to the spot. Yes, it is a
fishing-boat that has ventured out at the half ebb, with the wind off
shore,--hazardous exploit, that only poverty suggests the courage to
encounter!
In front of one of these little natural bays stood "the Corvy;" and
the situation might have been chosen by a painter, for, while combining
every grand feature of the nearer landscape, the Scottish coast and
even Staffa might be seen of a clear evening; while westward, the rich
sunsets were descried in all their golden glory, tipping the rolling
waves with freckled lustre, and throwing a haze of violet-colored light
over the white rocks. And who is to say that, while the great gifts of
the artist are not his who dwells in some rude cot like this, yet
the heart is not sensitively alive to all the influences of such
a scene,--its lonely grandeur, its tranquil beauty, or its fearful
sublimity,--and that the peasant, whose associations from infancy to
age are linked with every barren rock and fissured crag around, has not
created for himself his own store of fancied images, whose power is not
less deeply felt that it has asked for no voice to tell its workings.
"The Corvy" was a strange specimen of architecture, and scarcely capable
of being classified in any of the existing orders. Originally, the hut
was formed of the stern of the corvette, which, built of timbers of
great size and strength, alone of all the vessel resisted the waves.
This, being placed keel uppermost, as most consisting with terrestrial
notions of building, and accommodated with a door and two windows, the
latter being filled with two ship-lenses, comprised the entire edifice.
Rude and uncouth as it unquestionably was, it was regarded with mingled
feelings of envy and admiration by all the fishermen for miles round,
for while they had contributed their tackle and their personal aid to
place the mass where it stood, they never contemplated its becoming the
comfortable dwelling they soon beheld, nor were these jealous murmurings
allayed by the assumption of a lofty flagstaff, which, in the pride of
conquest, old M'Grane displayed above his castle, little wotting that
the banner that floated overhead waved with the lilies of France, and
not the Union Jack of England.
Sandy's father, however, possessed those traits of character which
confer ascendency, whether a man's lot be cast among the great or the
humble; and he soon not only subdued those ungenerous sentiments,
but even induced his neighbors to assist him in placing a small brass
carronade on the keel, or, as he now termed it, the ridge of his
dwelling, where, however little serviceable for warlike purposes, it
made a very specious and imposing ornament.
Such was the inheritance to which Sandy succeeded, and such the
possession he ceded for a consideration to Bagenal Daly, on that
eventful morning their acquaintance began. In course of time, however,
it fell to ruin, and lay untenanted and uncared for, when Miss Daly, in
one of her rambling excursions, chanced to hear of it, and, being
struck by the beauty of the situation, resolved to refit it as a summer
residence. Her first intentions on this head were humble enough; two
small chambers at either side of the original edifice--now converted
into a species of hall and a kitchen--comprised the whole, and thither
she betook herself, with that strange secret pleasure a life of perfect
solitude possesses for certain minds. For a year she endured the
inconveniences of her narrow dwelling tolerably well; but as she grew
more attached to the spot, she determined on making it more comfortable;
and, communicating the resolve to her brother, he not only concurred in
the notion, but half anticipated his assent by despatching an architect
to the spot, under whose direction a cottage containing several
comfortable rooms was added, and with such attention to the
circumstances of the ground, and such regard for the ancient character
of the building, that the traces of its origin could still be
discovered, and its old name of "the Corvy," be, even yet, not
altogether inapplicable. The rude hulk was now, however, the centre of
a long cottage, the timbers, partly covered by the small-leaved ivy,
partly concealed by a rustic porch, displaying overhead the great keel
and the flagstaff,--an ornament which no remonstrance of the unhappy
architect could succeed in removing. As a sort of compromise, indeed,
the carronade was dismounted, and placed beside the hall-door. This was
the extreme stretch of compliance to which Daly assented.
The hall, which was spacious and lofty in proportion with other parts of
the building, was fitted with weapons of war and the chase, brought from
many a far-off land, and assembled with an incongruity that was no mean
type of the owner. Turkish scimitars and lances, yataghans, and Malay
creeses were grouped with Indian bows, tomahawks, and whale harpoons,
while richly embroidered pelisses hung beside coats of Esquimaux seal,
of boots made from the dried skin of the sun-fish. A long Swiss rifle
was suspended by a blue silk scarf from one wall, and, over it, a damp,
discolored parchment bore testimony, to its being won as a prize in the
great shooting match of the Oberland, nearly forty years before. Beneath
these, and stretching away into a nook contrived for the purpose, was
the bark canoe in which Daly and Sandy made their escape from the tribe
of the Sioux, by whom they were held in captivity for six years. Two
very unprepossessing figures, costumed as savages, sat in this frail
bark, paddle in hand, and to all seeming resolutely intent on their
purpose of evasion. It would have been pardonable, however, for the
observer not to have identified in these tattooed and wild-looking
personages a member of Parliament and his valet, even though assisted
to the discovery by their Indian names, which, with a laudable care for
public convenience, had been written on a card, and suspended round the
neck of each. Opposite to them, and in the corner of the hall, stood a
large black bear, with fiery eyeballs and snow-white teeth, so admirably
counterfeiting life as almost to startle the beholder; while over his
head was a fearful, misshapen figure, whose malignant look and distorted
proportions at once proclaimed it an Indian idol. But why enumerate
the strange and curious objects which, notwithstanding their seeming
incongruity, were yet all connected with Daly's history, and formed, in
fact, a kind of pictorial narrative of his life? Here stood the cup,--a
splendid specimen of Benvenuto's chisel, given him by the Doge of
Venice,--and there was the embossed dagger presented by a King of Spain,
with a patent of Grandee of the first class; while in a small glass
case, covered with dust, and scarce noticeable, was a small and
beautifully shaped satin slipper, with a rosette of now faded silver.
But of this only one knew the story, and he never revealed it.
If we have taken an unwarrantable liberty with our reader by this too
prolix description, our excuse is, that we might have been far more
tiresome had we been so disposed, leaving, as we have, the greater part
of this singular chamber unnoticed; while our amende is ready, and
we will spare any further detail of the rest of the cottage, merely
observing that it was both commodious and well arranged, and furnished
not only with taste, but even elegance. And now to resume our
long-neglected story.
It was about eight o'clock of a cold, raw February night, with
occasional showers of sleet and sudden gusts of fitful wind,--that happy
combination which makes up the climate of the north of Ireland, and,
with a trifling abatement of severity, constitutes its summer as well
as its winter,--that Miss Daly sat reading in that strange apartment we
have just mentioned, and which, from motives of economy, she occupied
frequently during the rainy season, as the necessity of keeping it aired
required constant fires, not so necessary in the other chambers.
A large hearth displayed the cheerful blaze of burning bog-deal, and an
old Roman lamp, an ancient patern, threw its lustre on the many curious
and uncouth objects on every side. If the flashing jets of light that
broke from the dry wood gave at times a false air of vitality to the
stuffed figures around, in compensation it made the only living thing
there seem as unreal as the rest.
Wrapped up in the great folds of a wide Greek capote she had taken from
the wall, and the hood of which she had drawn over her head, Miss Daly
bent over the yellow pages of an old quarto volume. Of her figure no
trace could be marked, nor any guess concerning it, save that she was
extremely tall. Her features were bold and commanding, and in youth must
have been eminently handsome. The eyebrows were large and arched, the
eyes dark and piercing, and the whole contour of the face had that
character of thoughtful beauty so often seen in the Jewish race. Age and
solitude, perhaps, had deepened the lines around the angles of the mouth
and brought down the brows, so as to give a look of severity to features
which, from this cause, became strikingly resembling her brother's.
If time had made its sad inroad on those lineaments once so lovely,
it seemed to spare even the slightest touch to that small white hand,
which, escaping from the folds of her mantle, was laid upon the volume
before her. The taper fingers were covered with rings, and more than
one bracelet of great price glittered upon her wrist; nor did this taste
seem limited to these displays, for in the gold combs that fastened, on
either temple, her masses of gray hair, rich gems were set profusely,
forming the strangest contrast to the coarse folds of that red-brown
cloak in which she was enveloped.
However disposed to profit by her studies, Miss Daly was occasionally
broken in upon by the sound of voices from the kitchen, which, by an
unlucky arrangement of the architect, was merely separated from the hall
by a narrow corridor. Sometimes the sound was of laughter and merriment;
far oftener, however, the noises betokened strife; for so it is, in
the very smallest household--there were but two in the present
case--unanimity will not always prevail. The contention was no less a
one than that great national dispute which has separated the island into
two wide and opposing parties; Miss Daly's butler, or man of all work,
being a stout representative of southern Ireland; her cook an equally
rigid upholder of the northern province. If little Dan Nelligan had the
broader cause, he was the smaller advocate, being scarcely four feet in
height; while Mrs. M'Kerrigan was fifteen stone of honest weight, and
with a torso to rival the Farnese Hercules. Their altercations were
daily, almost hourly; for, living in a remote, unvisited spot, they
seemed to console themselves for want of collision with the world by
mutual disputes and disagreements.
To these family jars, habit had so reconciled Miss Daly that she seldom
noticed them; indeed, the probability is that, like the miller who wakes
up when the mill ceases its clamors, she might have felt a kind of shock
had matters taken a quieter course. People who employ precisely the same
weapons cannot long continue a warfare without the superiority of one or
the other being sure to evince itself. The diversity of the forces, on
the contrary, suggests new combinations, and with dissimilar armor the
combat may be prolonged to any extent. Thus was it here; Dan's forte
was aggravation,--that peculiarly Irish talent which makes much out
of little, and, when cultivated with the advantages of natural gifts,
enables a man to assume the proud political position of an Agitator, and
in time a Liberator.
Mrs. M'Kerrigan, slow of thought, and slower of speech, was ill-suited
to repel the assaults of so wily and constant a foe; she consequently
fell back on the prerogatives of her office in the household, and repaid
all Dan's declamation by changes in his diet,--a species of retribution
the heaviest she could have hit upon.
Such was the present cause of disturbance, and such the reason for Dan's
loud denunciations on the "black north," uttered with a volubility and
vehemence that pertain to a very different portion of the empire. Twice
had Miss Daly rung the little hand-bell that stood beside her to enforce
order, but it was unnoticed in the clamor of the fray, while louder and
louder grew the angry voice of Dan Nelligan, which at length was plainly
audible in the hall.
"Look now, see then, may the divil howld a looking-glass to your sins,
but I 'll show it to the mistress! I may, may I? That 's what you 're
grumbling, ye ould black-mouthed Prasbytarien! 'T is the fine supper to
put before a crayture wet to the skin!"
"Dinna ye hear the bell, Nelly?" This was an epithet of insult the
little man could not endure. "Ye 'd ken the tinkle o' that, av ye heard
it at the mass."
"Oh, listen to the ould heretic! Oh, holy Joseph! there 's the way to
talk of the blessed ould ancient religion! Give me the dish; I 'll bring
it into the parlor this minit, I will. I 'll lave the place,--my time's
up in March. I would n't live in the house wid you for a mine of goold!"
"Are ye no goin' to show the fish to the leddy?" growled out the cook,
in her quiet barytone.
At this moment Miss Daly's bell announced that endurance had reached
its limit, and Dan, without waiting to return the fire, hastened to the
hall, muttering as he went, loud enough to be heard, "There, now, that's
the mistress ringing, I 'm sure; but sorra bit one can hear wid your
noise and ballyragging!"
"What is the meaning of this uproar?" said Miss Daly, as the little man
entered, with a very different aspect from what he wore in the kitchen.
"'Tis Mrs. M'Kerrigan, my Lady; she was abusin' the ould families in the
county Mayo, and I could n't bear it; and because I would n't hear the
master trated that way, she gives me nothing but fish the day after a
black fast, though she does be ating beef under my nose when I darn't
touch meat, and it's what, she put an ould baste of a cod before me
this evening for my supper, and here 's Lent will be on us in a few days
more."
"How often have I told you," said Miss Daly, sternly, "that I 'll not
suffer these petty, miserable squabbles to reach me? Go back to the
kitchen; and, mark me, if I hear a whisper, or muttering ever so low in
your voice, I 'll put you to spend the night upon the rocks."
Dan skulked from the room like a culprit remanded to jail; but no sooner
had he reached the kitchen than, assuming a martial air and bearing, he
strutted up to the fire and turned his back to it.
"Ay," said he, in a stage soliloquy, "it was what it must come to sooner
or later; and now she may go on her knees, and divil a foot I 'll stay!
It's not like the last time, sorra bit! I know what she 's at--' 'T is
my way, Danny, you must have a pound at Avster '--bother! I 'm used to
that now."
"There's the bell again, ye auld blethering deevil."
But Mrs. M'Kerrigan ran no risk of a reply now, for at the first tinkle
Dan was back in the hall.
"There is some one knocking at the wicket without; see who it may be at
this late hour of the night," said Miss Daly, without raising her head
from the book, for, strange as were such sounds in that solitary place,
her attention was too deeply fixed on the page before her to admit of
even a momentary distraction of thought. Dan left the room with becoming
alacrity, but in reality bent on anything rather than the performance of
his errand. Of all the traits of his southern origin, none had the
same predominance in his nature as a superstitious fear of spirits
and goblins,--a circumstance not likely to be mitigated by his present
lonely abode, independently of the fact that more than one popular
belief attributed certain unearthly sights and sounds to the old
timbers of "the Corvy," whose wreck was associated with tales of horror
sufficient to shake stouter nerves than "Danny's."
When he received this order from his mistress, he heard it pretty much
as a command to lead a forlorn hope, and sat himself down at the
outside of the door to consider what course to take. While he was thus
meditating, the sounds became plainly audible, a loud and distinct
knocking was heard high above the whistling wind and drifting rain,
accompanied from time to time by a kind of shout, or, as it seemed to
Dan's ears, a scream like the cry of a drowning man.
"Dinna ye hear that, ye auld daft body?" said Nancy, as, pale with fear,
and trembling in every limb, Dan entered the kitchen.
"I do indeed, Mrs. Mac,"--this was the peace appellation he always
conferred on Nancy,--"I hear it, and my heart 's beatin' for every
stroke I listen to; 't is n't afeard I am, but a kind of a notion I
have, like a dhrame, you know "--(here he gave a sort of hysterical
giggle)--"as if the ould French Captain was coming to look after his
hand, that was chopped off with the hatchet when he grasped hold of the
rock."
"He canna hae muckle use for it noo," responded Nancy, dryly, as she
smoked away as unconcerned as possible.
"Or the mate!" said Dan, giving full vent to his store of horrors; "they
say, when he got hold of the rope, that they gave it out so fast as he
hauled on it, till he grew faint, and sank under the waves."
"He's no likely to want a piece of spunyarn at this time o' day,"
rejoined Nancy again. "He's knocking brawly, whoever he be; had ye no
better do the leddy's bidding, and see who 's there?"
"Would it be plazing to you, Mrs. Mac," said Dan, in his most melting
accents, "to come as far as the little grass-plot, just out of
curiosity, ye know, to say ye seen it?"
"Na, na, my bra' wee mon, ye maun ee'n gae by your-sel'; I dinna ken
mickle about sperits and ghaists, but I hae a gude knowledge of the
rheumatiz without seekin' it on a night like this. There's the leddy's
bell again, she 's no pleased wi' yer delay."
"Say I was puttin' on my shoes, Nancy," said Dan, as his teeth chattered
with fear, while he took down an old blunderbuss from its place above
the fire, and which had never been stirred for years past.
"Lay her back agen where ye found her," said Nancy, dryly; "is na every
fule kens the like o' them! Take your mass-book, and the gimcracks ye
hae ower your bed, but dinna try mortal weapons with them creatures."
Ironical as the tone of this counsel unquestionably was, Dan was in no
mood to reject it altogether, and he slipped from its place within his
breast to a more ostensible position a small blessed token, or "gospel,"
as it is called, which he always wore round his neck. By this time the
clank of the bell kept pace with the knocking sounds without, and
poor Dan was fairly at his wits' end which enemy to face. Some vague
philosophy about the "devil you know, and the devil you don't," seemed
to decide his course, for he rushed from the kitchen in a state of
frenzied desperation, and, with the blunderbuss at full cock, took the
way towards the gate.
The wicket, as it was termed, was in reality a strong oak gate,
garnished at top with a row of very formidable iron spikes, and as it
was hung between two jagged and abrupt masses of rock, formed a very
sufficient outwork, though a very needless one, since the slightest turn
to either side would have led to the cottage without any intervening
barrier to pass. This fact it was which now increased Dan Nelligan's
terrors, as he reasoned that nobody but a ghost or evil spirit would be
bothering himself at the wicket, when there was a neat footpath close
by.
"Who's there?" cried Dan, with a voice that all his efforts could not
render steady.
"Come out and open the gate," shouted a deep voice in return.
"Not till you tell me where you come from, and who you are, if you are
'lucky.'"
"That I 'm not," cried the other, with something very like a deep groan;
"if I were, I 'd scarce be here now."
"That's honest? anyhow," muttered Dan, who interpreted the phrase in its
popular acceptation among the southern peasantry. "And what are you come
back for, alanah?" continued he, in a most conciliating tone.
"Open the gate, and don't keep me here answering your stupid questions."
Though these words were uttered with a round, strong intonation that
sounded very like the present world, Dan made no other reply than an
endeavor to repeat a Latin prayer against evil spirits, when suddenly,
and with a loud malediction on his obstinacy, Dan saw "the thing," as he
afterwards described it, take a flying leap over the gate, at least
ten feet high, and come with a bang on the grass, not far from where he
stood. To fire off his blunderbuss straight at the drifting clouds over
his head, and to take to flight was Dan's only impulse, screaming out,
"the Captain 's come! he's come!" at the very top of his lungs. The
little strength he possessed only carried him to the kitchen door,
where, completely overcome with terror, he dropped senseless on the
ground.
While this was occurring, Miss Daly, alarmed by the report of fire-arms,
but without any personal fears of danger, threw open the hall door and
called out, "Who is there?" and as the dark shadow of a figure came
nearer, "Who are you, sir?"
"My name is Forester, madam,--a friend of your brother's; for I perceive
I have the honor to address Miss Daly."
By this time the stranger had advanced into the full light of the
lamp within, where his appearance, tired and travel-stained as he was,
corroborated his words.
"You have had a very uncourteous welcome, sir," said Miss Daly,
extending her hand and leading him within the cottage.
"The reception was near being a warm one, I fear," said Forester,
smiling; "for as I unfortunately, growing rather impatient, threw my
carpet bag over the gate, intending to climb it afterwards, some one
fired at me,--not with a good aim, however; for I heard the slugs
rattling on a high cliff behind me."
"Old Dan, I am certain, mistook you for a ghost or a goblin," said Miss
Daly, laughing, as if the affair were an excellent joke devoid of all
hazard; "we have few visitors down here from either world."
"Really, madam, I will confess it, if the roads are only as impassable
for ghosts as for men of mortal mould, I 'm not surprised at it. I left
Coleraine at three o'clock to-day, where I was obliged to exchange my
travelling carriage for a car, and I have been travelling ever since,
sometimes on what seemed a highway, far oftener, however, across fields
with now and then an intervening wall to throw down,--which we did, I
own, unceremoniously; while lifting the horse twice out of deep holes,
mending a shaft, and splicing the traces, lost some time. The driver,
too, was once missing,--a fact I only discovered after leaving him half
a mile behind. In fact, the whole journey was full of small adventures
up to the moment when we came to a dead stand at the foot of a high
cliff, where the driver told me the road stopped, and that the rest of
my way must be accomplished on foot; and on my asking what direction
to take, he brought me some distance off to the top of a rock, whence I
could perceive the twinkling of a light, and said, 'That's the Corvy.' I
did my best to secure his services as a guide, but no offer of money nor
persuasions could induce him to leave his horse and come any further;
and now, perhaps, I can guess the reason,--there is some superstition
about the place at nightfall."
"No, no, you 're mistaken there, sir; few of these people, however they
may credit such tales, are terrified by them. It was the northern spirit
dictated the refusal: his contract was to go so far, it would have 'put
him out of his way' to go further, and his calculation was that all
the profit he could fairly derive--and he never speculated on anything
unfair--would not repay him. Such are the people of this province."
"The trait is honest, I 've no doubt, but it can scarcely be the
source of many amiable ones," said Forester, smarting under the recent
inconvenience.
"We 'll talk of that after supper," said Miss Daly, rising, "and I leave
you to make a good fire while I go to give some orders."
"May I not have the honor to present my credentials first?" said
Forester, handing Bagenal Daly's letter to her.
"My brother is quite well, is he not?"
"In excellent health; I left him but two days since."
"The despatch will keep, then," said she, thrusting it into a
letter-rack over the chimney-piece, while she left the room to make the
arrangement she spoke of.
Miss Daly's absence was not of long duration, but, brief as it was, it
afforded Forester time enough to look around at the many strange
and incongruous decorations of the apartment, nor had he ceased his
wonderment when Dan, pale and trembling in every limb, entered, tray in
hand, to lay the supper-table.
With many a sidelong, stealthy look, Dan performed his duties, as it was
easy to see that however disposed to regard the individual before him as
of this world's company, "the thing that jumped out of the sky," as he
called it, was yet an unexplained phenomenon.
"I see you are surprised by the motley companionship that surrounds
me," said Miss Daly; "but, as a friend of Bagenal's, and acquainted,
doubtless, with his eccentric habits, they will astonish you less. Come,
let me hear about him,--is he going to pay me a visit down here?"
"I fear not, at this moment," said Forester, with an accent of
melancholy; "his friendship is heavily taxed at the present juncture.
You have heard, perhaps, of the unhappy event which has spread such
dismay in Dublin?"
"No! what is it? I hear of nothing, and see nobody here."
"A certain Mr. Gleeson, the trusted agent of many country gentlemen, has
suddenly fled--"
Before Forester could continue, Miss Daly arose, and tore open her
brother's letter. For a few seconds Forester was struck with the
wonderful resemblance to her brother, as, with indrawn breath and
compressed lips, she read; but gradually her color faded away, her hands
trembled, and the paper fell from them, while, with a voice scarcely
audible, she whispered: "And it has come to this!" Covering her face
with the folds of her cloak, she sat for some minutes buried in deep
sorrow; and when she again looked up, years seemed to have passed over,
and left their trace upon her countenance: it was pale and haggard, and
a braid of gray hair, escaping beneath her cap, had fallen across her
cheek, and increased the sad expression.
"So is it," said she, aloud, but speaking as though to herself,--"so
is it: the heavy hand is laid on all in turn; happier they who meet
misfortune early in life, when the courage is high and the heart
unshrinking: if the struggle be life-long, the victory is certain;
but after years of all the world can give of enjoyment--You know
Maurice?--you know the Knight, sir?"
"Yes, madam, slightly; but with Lady Eleanor and her daughter I have the
honor of intimate acquaintance."
"I will not ask how he bears up against a blow like this. If his own
fate only hung in the balance, I could tell that myself; but for his
wife, to whom they say he is so devotedly attached--you know it was a
love-match, so they called it in England, because the daughter of an
Earl married the first Commoner in Ireland. And Bagenal advises their
coming here! Well, perhaps he is right; they will at least escape the
insolence of pity in this lonely spot. Oh! sir, believe me, there is a
weighty load of responsibility on those who rule us; these things are
less the faults of individuals than of a system. You began here by
confiscation, you would finish by corruption. Stimulating to excesses
of every kind a people ten times more excitable than your own,--now
flattering, now goading,--teaching them to vie with you in display
while you mocked the recklessness of their living, you chafed them into
excesses of alternate loyalty or rebellion."
However satisfied of its injustice, Forester made no reply to this burst
of passion, but sat without speaking as she resumed:--
"You will say there are knaves in every country, and that this Gleeson
was of our rearing; but I deny it, sir. I tell you he was a base
counterfeit we have borrowed from yourselves. That meek, submissive
manner, that patient drudgery of office, that painstaking, petty
rectitude, make up 'your respectable men;' and in this garb of character
the business of life goes on with you. And why? Because you take it
at its worth. But here, in Ireland, we go faster; trust means full
confidence,--confidence without limit or bound; and then, too often,
ruin without redemption. Forgive me, sir; age and sorrow both have
privileges, and I perhaps have more cause than most others to speak
warmly on this theme. Now, let me escape my egotism by asking you to
eat, for I see we have forgotten our supper all this time."
From that moment Miss Daly never adverted further to the burden of her
brother's letter, but led Forester to converse about his journey and the
people whom, even in his brief experience, he perceived to be so unlike
the peasantry of the West.
"Yes," said she, in reply to an observation of his, "these diversities
of character observable in different places are doubtless intended,
like the interminable varieties of natural productions, to increase our
interest in life, and, while extending the sphere of speculation, to
contribute to our own advancement. Few people, perhaps not any, are to
be found without some traits of amiability; here there is much to
be respected, and, when habit has dulled the susceptibility of first
impressions, much also to be liked. But shall I not have the pleasure of
showing you my neighbors and my neighborhood?"
"My visit must be of the shortest; I rather took than obtained my leave
of absence."
"Well, even a brief visit will do something; for my neighbors all dwell
in cottages, and my neighborhood comprises the narrow strip of coast
between this hut and the sea, whose plash you hear this minute.
To-morrow you will be rested from your journey, and if the day permits
we 'll try the Causeway."
Forester accepted the invitation so frankly proffered, and went to his
room not sorry to lay his head upon a pillow after two weary nights upon
the road.
Forester was almost shocked as he entered the breakfast-room on the
following morning to see the alteration in Miss Daly's appearance. She
had evidently passed a night of great sorrow, and seemed with difficulty
to bear up against the calamitous tidings of which he was the bearer.
She endeavored, it is true, to converse on matters of indifference,--the
road he had travelled, the objects he had seen, and so on; but the
effort was ever interrupted by broken snatches of reflection that would
vent themselves in words, and all of which bore on the Knight and his
fortunes.
To Forester's account of her brother Bagenal's devotion to his friend
she listened with eager interest, asking again and again what part he
had taken, whether his counsels were deemed wise ones, and if he still
enjoyed to the fullest extent the confidence of his old friend.
"It is no friendship of yesterday, sir," said she, with a heightened
color and a flashing eye; "they knew each other as boys, they walked
the mountains together as young men, speculated on the future paths
fate might open before them, and the various ambitions which, even then,
stirred within them. Bagenal was ever rash, headstrong, and impetuous,
rarely firm in purpose till some obstacle seemed to defy its
accomplishment. Maurice--the Knight, I mean--was not less resolute when
roused, but more often so much disposed to concede to others that he
would postpone his wishes to their own; and once believing himself in
any way pledged to a course, would forget all, save the fulfilment of
the implied promise. Such were the two dispositions, which, acting and
reacting on each other, effected the ruin of both: the one wasted in
eccentricity what the other squandered in listless indifference; and
with abilities enough to have won distinction for humble men, they have
earned no other reputation than that of singularity or convivialism.
"As for Bagenal," she said, after a pause, "wealth was never but an
incumbrance to him; he was one of those persons who never saw any use
for money, save in the indulgence of mere caprice; he treated his great
fortune as a spoiled child will do a toy, and never rested till he
had pulled it to pieces, and perhaps derived the same moral lesson
too,--astonishment at the mere trifle which once amused him. But Maurice
Darcy,--whose tastes were ever costly and cultivated, who regarded
splendor not as the means of vulgar display, but as the fitting
accompaniment of a house illustrious by descent and deeds, and deemed
that all about and around him should bear the impress of himself,
generous and liberal as he was,--how is he to bear this reverse? Tell
me of Lady Eleanor; and Miss Darcy, is she like the Knight, or has her
English blood given the character to her beauty?"
"She is very like her father," said Forester, "but more so even in
disposition than in features."
"How happy I am to hear it," said Miss Daly, hastily; "and she is, then,
high-spirited and buoyant? What gifts in an hour like this!"
"You say truly, madam, she will not sink beneath the stroke, believe
me."
"Well, this news has reconciled me to much of your gloomier tidings,"
said Miss Daly; "and now let us wander out upon the hills; I feel as if
we could talk more freely as we stroll along the beach."
Miss Daly arose as she spoke, and led the way through the little garden
wicket, which opened on a steep pathway down to the shore.
"This will be a favorite walk with Helen, I'm certain," said she. "The
caves are all accessible at low water, and the view of Fairhead finer
than from any other point. I must instruct you to be a good and a safe
guide. I must teach you all the art and mystery of the science, make
you learned in the chronicles of Dunluce, and rake up for you legends of
ghostcraft and shipwreck enough to make the fortunes of a romancer."
"I thank you heartily," said Forester; "but I cannot remain here to meet
my friends."
"Oh, I understand you," said Miss Daly, who in reality put a wrong
interpretation on his words; "but you shall be my guest. There is a
little village about four miles from this, where I intend to take up my
abode. I hope you will not decline hospitality which, if humble, is at
least freely proffered."
"I regret deeply," said Forester, and he spoke in a tone of sorrow,
"that I cannot accept your kindness. I stand in a position of no common
difficulty at this moment." He hesitated, as if doubting whether to
proceed or not, and then, in a more hurried voice, resumed: "There is no
reason why I should obtrude my own petty cares and trials where greater
misfortunes are impending; but I cannot help telling you that I have
been rash enough, in a moment of impatience, to throw up an appointment
I held on the Viceroy's Staff, and I know not how far the step may yet
involve me with my relatives."
"Tell me how came you first acquainted with the Darcys?" said Miss Daly,
as if following out in her own mind a train of thought.
"I will be frank with you," said Forester, "for I cannot help being so;
there are cases where confidence is not a virtue, but a necessity. Every
word you speak, every tone of your voice, is so much your brother's that
I feel as if I were confiding to him in another form. I learned to know
the Knight of Gwynne in a manner which you may deem, perhaps, little
creditable to myself, though I trust you will see that I neither abused
the knowledge nor perverted the honor of the acquaintanceship. It was in
this wise."
Briefly, but without reserve, Forester narrated the origin of his first
journey to the West, and, without implicating the honor of his relative,
Lord Castlereagh, explained the nature of his mission, to ascertain the
sentiments of the Knight, and the possibility of winning him to the side
of the Government. His own personal adventures could not, of course, be
omitted, in such a narrative; but he touched on the theme as slightly as
he could, and only dwelt on the kindness he had experienced in his long
and dangerous illness, and the long debt of gratitude which bound him to
the family.
Of the intimacy that succeeded he could not help speaking, and, whether
from his studied avoidance of her name, or that, when replying to any
question of Miss Daly's concerning Helen Darcy, his manner betrayed
agitation, certain it is that when he concluded, Miss Daly's eyes were
turned towards him with an expression of deep significance that called
the color to his cheek.
"And so, sir," said she, in a slow and measured voice, "you went down
to play the tempter, and were captured yourself. Come, come, I know
your secret; you have told it by signs less treacherous than words; and
Helen,--for I tell you freely my interest is stronger for her,--how is
she disposed towards you?"
Forester never spoke, but hung his head abashed and dejected.
"Yes, yes, I see it all," said Miss Daly, hurriedly; "you would win
the affection of a generous and high-souled girl by the arts which
find favor in your more polished world, and you have found that the
fascinations of manner and the glittering clat of an aide-de-camp
have failed. Now, take my counsel. But first let me ask, is this
affection the mere prompting of an idle or capricious moment, or do you
love her with a passion round which the other objects of your life are
to revolve and depend? I understand that pressure of the hand; it is
enough. My advice is simple. You belong to a profession second to none
in its high and great rewards: do not waste its glorious opportunities
by the life of a courtier; be a soldier in feeling as well as in garb;
let her whose heart you would win, feel that in loving you she is paying
the tribute to qualities that make men esteem and respect you; that she
is not bestowing her hand upon the mere favorite of a Court, but on
one whose ambitions are high, and whose darings are generous. Oh! leave
nothing, or as little as you may, to mere influence; let your boast be,
and it will be a proud one, that with high blood and a noble name you
have started fairly in the race, and distanced your competitors. This is
my counsel. What think you of it?"
"I will follow it," said Forester, firmly; "I will follow it, though, I
own it to you, it suggests no hope, where hope would be happiness."
"Well, then," said Miss Daly, "you shall spend this day with me, and
I will not keep you another; you have made me your friend by this
confidence, and I will use the trust with delicacy and with fidelity."
"May I write to you?" said Forester, "and will you let me hear from you
again?"
"With pleasure; I should have asked it myself had you not done so. Now,
let us talk of the first steps to be taken in this affair; and here is a
bench where we can rest ourselves while we chat."
Forester sat down beside her, and, in the freedom of one to whom fortune
had so unexpectedly presented a confidante, opened all the secret store
of his cares and hopes and fears. It was late when they turned again
towards "the Corvy," but the youth's step was lighter, and his brow more
open, while his heart was higher than many a previous day had found him.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE KNIGHT'S RETURN
We must now for a brief space, return to the Knight, as with a heavy
heart he journeyed homeward. Never did the long miles seem so wearisome
before, often and often as he had travelled them. The little accidental
delays, which once he had met with a ready jest, and in a spirit of
kindly indulgence, he now resented as so many intentional insults upon
his changed and ruined fortune. The gossiping landlords, to whom he
had ever extended so much of freedom, he either acknowledged coldly, or
repelled with distance; their liberties were now construed into want of
deference and respect; the very jestings of the postboys to each other
seemed so many covert impertinences, and equivocal allusions to himself;
for even so much will the stroke of sudden misfortune change the nature,
and convert the contented and happy spirit into a temperament of gloomy
sorrow and suspicion.
Unconscious of his own altered feelings, and looking at every object
through the dim light of his own calamity, he hurried along, not, as
of old, recognizing each well-known face, saluting this one, inquiring
after that; he sat back in his carriage, and, with his hat drawn almost
over his eyes, neither noticed the way nor the wayfarers.
In this mood it was he entered Castlebar. The sight of his
well-remembered carriage drew crowds of beggars to the door of the inn,
every one of whom had some special prayer for aid, or some narrative
of sickness for his hearing. By the time the horses drew up, the
crowd numbered some hundreds of every variety, not only in age, but
in raggedness, all eagerly calling on him by name, and imploring his
protection on grounds the most strange and dissimilar.
"I knew the sound of the wheels; ax Biddy if I did n't say it was his
honor was coming!" cried one, in a sort of aside intended for the Knight
himself.
"Ye 're welcome home, sir; long may you reign over us," said an old
fellow with a beard like a pilgrim. "I dreamed I seen you last night
standing at the door there, wid a half-crown in your fingers. 'Ouid
Luke,' says you, 'come here!----'"
A burst of rude laughter drowned this sage parable, while a good-looking
young woman, with an expression of softness in features degraded by
poverty and its consequences, courtesied low, and tried to attract
his notice, as she held up a miserable-looking infant to the carriage
window. "Clap them, acushla! 't is proud he is to see you back again,
sir; he never forgets the goold guinea ye gave him on New Year's Day!
Don't be pushin' that way, you rude cray-tures; you want to hurt the
child, and it's the image of his honor."
"Many returns of the blessed sason to you," growled out a creature in a
bonnet, but in face and figure far more like a man than a woman; "throw
us out a fippenny to buy two ounces of tay. Asy, asy; don't be drivin'
me under the wheels--ugh! it's no place for a faymale, among such
rapscallions."
"What did they give you, Maurice? how much did you get, honey?" cried
a tall and almost naked fellow, that leaned over the heads of several
others, and put his face close to the glass of the carriage, which, for
safety's sake, the Knight now let down, while he called aloud to the
postboys to make haste and bring out the horses.
"Tell us all about it, Maurice, my boy,--are you a lord, or a bishop?"
cried the tall fellow, with an eagerness of face that told his own sad
bereavement, for he was deranged in intellect from a fall from one of
the cliffs on the coast. "By my conscience, I think I must change my
politics myself soon; my best pantaloons is like Nat Fitzgibbon,--it has
resigned its sate! Out with a bit of silver here!--quick, I didn't kiss
the King's face this ten days."
To all these entreaties Darcy seemed perfectly deaf; if his eyes
wandered over the crowd, they noticed nothing there, nor did he appear
to listen to a word around him, while he again asked why the horses were
not coming.
"We're doing our best, your honor," cried a postboy, "but it's mighty
hard to get through these divils; they won't stir till the beasts is
trampling them down."
"Drive on, then, and let them take care of themselves," said the Knight,
sternly.
"O blessed Father! there's a way to talk of the poor! O heavenly Vargin!
but you are come back cruel to us, after all!"
"Drive on!" shouted out Darcy, in a voice of angry impatience.
The postboys sprang into their saddles, cracked their whips, and dashed
forward, while the mob, rent in a hundred channels, fled on every side,
with cries of terror and shouts of laughter, according as the distance
suggested danger or security. All escaped safely, except the poor idiot,
Flury, who, having one foot on the step when the carriage started, was
thrown backward, when, to save himself, he grasped the spring, and was
thus half dragged, half carried along to the end of the street, and
there, failing strength and fear combining, he relinquished his hold and
fell senseless to the ground, where the wheel grazed but did not injure
him as he lay.
With a cry of terror, the Knight called out "Stop!" and, flinging wide
the door, sprang out. To lift the poor fellow up to a sitting posture
was the work of a second, while he asked, in accents the very kindest,
if he were hurt.
"Sorra bit, Maurice," said the fellow, whose faculties sooner rallied
than if they were habitually under better control. "I was on the wrong
side of the coach, that's all; 't is safer to be within. The clothes is
not the better of it," said he, looking at his sleeve, now hanging in
stripes.
"Never mind that, Flury; we'll soon repair that misfortune; it does not
signify much."
"Does n't it, faith?" said the other, shaking his head dubiously; "'tis
asy talking, but I can't turn my coat without showing the hole in it. 'T
is only the rich can do that."
The Knight bit his lip; for even from the fool's sarcasm he could
gather the imputations already rife upon his conduct. Another and a very
different thought succeeded to this, and he blushed with shame to think
how far his sense of his own misfortune had rendered him indifferent,
not only to the kindly feelings, but the actual misery, of others. The
right impulses of high-minded men are generally rapid in their action,
like the spring of the bent bow when the cord is cut asunder. It did
not cost Darcy many minutes to be again the warm-hearted, generous soul
nature had made him.
"Come, Flury," said he to the poor fellow, as he stood ruefully
surveying his damaged drapery, "give that among the people there in the
town, and keep this for yourself."
"This is goold, Maurice,--yellow goold!"
"So it is; but you're not the less welcome to it; tell them, too, that
I have had troubles of my own lately; and that's the reason I hurried on
without exchanging a word with them."
"How do you know, Maurice, but I'll keep it all to myself?".
"I'd trust you with a heavier sum," said the Knight, smiling.
"I know why,--I know why, well enough,--because I'm a fool. Never mind,
there's greater fools nor me going. What did they give you up there for
your vote, Maurice,--tell me, how much was it?"
The Knight shook his head, and Flury resumed: "Didn't I say it? Wasn't
I right? By my ould hat! there's two fools in the country now;--Maurice
Darcy and Red Flury; and Maurice the biggest of the two! Whoop, the more
the merrier; there 's room for us all!" And with this wise reflection,
Flury gave a very wild caper and a wilder shout, and set off at the
speed of a hare towards Castlebar.
The Knight resumed his journey, and in a more contented mood. The little
incident had called on him for an exertion, and his faculties only
needed the demand to respond to the call. He summoned to his aid,
besides, every comforting reflection in his power; he persuaded himself
that there were some hopes remaining still, and tried to believe the
evil not beyond remedy. "After all," thought he, "we are together; it is
not death has been dealing with us, nor is there any stain upon our fair
fame; and, save these, all ills are light, and can be borne."
From thoughts like these he was aroused by the heavy clank of the iron
gate, as it fell back to admit the carriage within the park, while a
thousand welcomes saluted him.
"Thank you, Darby!--thank you, Mary! All well up at the abbey?"
But the carriage dashed past at full speed, and the answer was drowned
in the tumult. The postboys, true to the etiquette of their calling, had
reserved their best pace for the finish, and it was at the stride of a
hunting gallop they now tore along.
It was a calm night, with a young faint moon and a starry sky, which,
without displaying in bright light the details of the scenery, yet
exhibited them in strong, bold masses, making all seem even more
imposing and grander than in reality; the lofty mountain appeared
higher, the dark woods vaster, and the wide-spreading lawn seemed to
stretch away into immense plains. Darcy's heart swelled with pride as
he looked, while a pang shot through him as he thought, if even at that
hour he could call them his own.
They had now reached a little glen, where the postboys were obliged to
walk their blown cattle; emerging from this, they passed a thick grove
of beech, and at once came in sight of the abbey. Darcy leaned anxiously
from the window to catch the first sight of home, when what was his
amazement to perceive that the whole was lighted up from end to end. The
great suite of state rooms were a blaze of lustres, which even at that
distance glittered in their starry brilliancy, and showed the shadows of
figures moving within. He well knew that Lady Eleanor never saw company
in his absence,--what could this mean? Tortured with doubts that in his
then state of mind took every painful form, he ordered the postilions to
get on faster, and at the very top of their speed they tore along, over
the wide lawn, across the terrace drive, up the steep ascent to the gate
tower into the courtyard.
This was also brilliantly lighted by lamps from the walls, and also by
the lights of numerous carriage lamps which crowded the ample space.
"What is this? Can no one tell me?" muttered the Knight, as he leaped
from the carriage, and, seizing a livery servant who was passing, said,
"What is going on here? What company has the abbey?"
"Full of company," said the man, in an English accent; "there 's my
Lord--"
"Who do you mean?"
"The Earl of Netherby, sir, and Sir Harry Beauclerk, and Colonel
Crofton, and--"
"When did they arrive?" said the Knight, interrupting a catalogue, every
name of which, although unknown, sent a feeling like a stab through his
heart.
"They came the evening before last, sir; Mr. Lionel Darcy, who arrived
the same morning--"
"Is he here?" cried the Knight; and, without waiting for more, hastened
forward.
The servants, of whom there seemed a great number about, were in strange
liveries, and unknown to the Knight; nor was it without undergoing a
very cool scrutiny from them that Darcy succeeded in gaining admittance
to his own house. At last he reached the foot of the great stair, whence
the sounds of music and the din of voices filled the air; servants
hurried along with refreshments, or carried orders to others in waiting;
all was bustle and excitement, in the midst of which Darcy stood only
half conscious of the reality of what he saw, and endeavoring to reason
himself into a conviction of what he heard. It was at this moment that
several officers of a newly quartered regiment passed up, admiring, as
they went, the splendor of the house, and the magnificent preparations
they witnessed on every side.
[Illustration: 330]
"I say, Dallas," cried one, "you're always talking of your uncle
Beverley: does he do the thing in this style, eh?"
"By Jove!" interposed a short, thick-set major, with a bushy beard and
eyebrows, "this is what I call going the pace: do they give dinners
here?"
"Yes, that they do," said a white-faced, ghostly looking ensign; "I
heard all about this place from Giles of the 40th; he was quartered
six months in this county, and used to grub here half the week. The old
fellow is n't at home now, but they say he's a trump."
"Let's drink his health, Watkins," cried the first speaker, "here's
champagne going up;" and so saying, the party gathered around two
servants, one of whom carried an ice-pail with some bottles, and the
other a tray of glasses.
"Does any one know his name, though?" said the major, as he held his
glass to be filled.
"Yes, it's something like--Oh, you know that fellow that joined us at
Coventry?"
"Brereton, is it?"
"No, hang it! I mean the fellow that had the crop-eared cob with the
white legs. Never mind, here he goes, anyhow."
"Oh, I know who you mean,--it was Jack Quin."
"That's the name; and your friend here is called 'Gwynne,' I think.
Here, gentlemen, I give you Gwynne's health, and all the honors; may he
live a few centuries more--"
"With a warm heart and a cool cellar," added one.
"Pink champagne, and red-coats to drink it," chimed in the ensign.
"May I join you in that pleasant sentiment, gentlemen?" said the Knight,
bowing courteously, as he took a glass from the tray and held it towards
the servant.
"Make no apology, sir," said the major, eying him rather superciliously,
for the travelling dress concealed the Knight's appearance, and
distinguished him but slightly from many of those lounging around the
doors.
"Capital ginger-beer that! eh?" said the ensign, as, winking at his
companions, he proceeded to quiz the stranger.
"I have certainly drunk worse," said the Knight, gravely,--"at an
infantry mess."
There was a pause before he uttered the last three words, which gave
them a more direct application; a stare, half stupid, half impertinent,
was, however, all they elicited, and the group moved on, while the
Knight, disencumbering himself of his travelling gear, slowly followed
them.
"Grim old gentlemen these, ain't they?" said the major, gazing at the
long line of family portraits that covered the walls; "that fellow with
the truncheon does not seem to like the look of us."
"Here's a bishop, I take it, with the great wig."
"That's a chancellor, man; don't you see the mace? But he's not a whit
more civil-looking than the other; commend me to the shepherdess yonder,
in blue satin. But come on, we 're losing time; I hear the flourish of
a new dance. I say," said he, in a whisper, "do you see who we've got
behind us?" And they turned and saw the Knight as he mounted the stairs
behind them.
"A friend of the family, sir?" asked the major, in a voice that might
bear the equivocal meaning of either impertinence or mere inquiry.
The Knight seemed to prefer taking it in the latter acceptation, as he
answered mildly, "I have that honor."
"Ah! indeed; well, we 've the misfortune to be strangers in these
parts; only arrived in the neighborhood last week, and were invited here
through our colonel. Would you have any objection to present us?--Major
Hopecot of the 5th, Captain Mills, Mr. Dallas, Mr. Fothergill, Mr.
Watkins."
"How the major is going it!" lisped the ensign, while his goggle eyes
rolled fearfully, and the others seemed struggling to control their
enjoyment of such drollery.
"It will afford me much pleasure, sir, to do your bidding," said the
Knight, calmly.
"Take the head of the column, then," resumed the major, making way for
him to pass; and the Knight entered, with the others after him.
"My father--my dearest father!" cried a voice at the moment, and,
escaping from her partner, Helen was in a moment in bis arms. The next
instant Lionel was also at his side.
"My dear children!--my sweet Helen!--and Lionel, how well you 're
looking, boy! Ah! Eleanor, what a pleasant surprise you have managed for
me."
"Then perhaps you never got our letter," said Lady Eleanor, as she took
his arm and walked forward. "I wrote the moment I heard from Lionel."
"And I, too, wrote you a long letter from London," said Lionel.
"Neither reached me; but the last few days I have been so busy, and so
much occupied.--How are you, Conolly? Delighted to see you, Martin.--And
Lady Julia, is she here? I must take a tour and see all my friends.
First of all, I have a duty to perform; let me introduce these
gentlemen. But where are they? Oh, I see them yonder." And, as he spoke,
he led Lady Eleanor across the room to the group of officers, who,
overwhelmed with shame at their discovery, stood uncertain whether they
should remain or retire.
"Let me introduce Major Hopecot and the officers of the 5th," said he,
bowing courteously. "These gentlemen are strangers, Lady Eleanor; will
you take care that they find partners."
While the abashed subalterns left their major to make his speeches to
Lady Eleanor, the Knight moved round the room with Helen still leaning
on his arm. By this time Darcy's arrival was generally known, and all
his old friends came pressing forward to see and speak to him.
"Lord Netherby," whispered Helen in the Knight's ear, as a tall and very
thin old man, with an excessive affectation of youthfulness, tripped
forward to meet him.
"My dear Lord," exclaimed Darcy, "what a pleasure, and what an honor to
see you here!"
"You would not come to me, Knight, so there was nothing else for it,"
replied the other, laughing, as he shook hands with a great display of
cordiality. "And you were quite right," continued he; "I could not have
received you like this. There 's not so splendid a place in England,
nor has it ever been my fortune to witness so much beauty." A half bow
accompanied the last words, as he turned towards Helen.
"Take care, my Lord," said the Knight, smiling; "the flatteries of a
courtier are very dangerous things when heard out of the atmosphere that
makes them commonplace. We may take you literally, and have our heads
turned by them."
At this moment Lionel joined them, to introduce several of his friends
and brother officers who accompanied him from England, all of whom were
received by the Knight with that winning courtesy of manner of which he
was a perfect master; for, not affecting either the vices or frivolities
of youth as a claim to the consideration of younger men, the Knight
possessed the happy temper that can concede indulgence without asking
to partake of it, and, while losing nothing of the relish for wit and
humor, chasten both by the fruits of a life's experience.
"Now, Helen, you must go back to your partner; that young guardsman
looks very sulkily at me for having taken you off--yes, I insist on
it. Lionel, look to your friends, and I 'll join Lord Netherby's
whist-table, and talk whenever permitted. Where 's poor Tate?" whispered
he in Lady Eleanor's ear, as she just came up.
"Poor fellow! he has been ill for some days back; you know what
a superstitious creature he is; and about a week since he got a
fright,--some warning of a Banshee, I think; but it shook his nerves
greatly, and he has kept his bed almost ever since. Lionel brought over
some of these servants with him; but Lord Netherby's people are Legion,
and the servants' hall now numbers something like seventy, I hear."
The Knight heaved a sigh; but, catching himself, tried to conceal it by
a cough. Lady Eleanor had heard it, however, and stole a quick glance
towards him, to evade which he turned abruptly round and spoke to some
one near.
"Seventy, my dear Eleanor!" said he, after a pause, and as if he had
been reflecting over his last observation; "and what a Babel, too, it
must be! I heard French, German, and Italian in the hall; I think we can
promise Irish ourselves."
"Yes," said Lionel, "it is the most amusing scene in the world. They had
a ball last night in the lower gallery, where boleros and jigs succeeded
each other, while the refreshments ranged from iced lemonade to burnt
whiskey."
"And what did our worthy folk think of their visitors?" said Darcy,
smiling.
"Not over much. Paddy Lennan looked with great contempt at the men
sipping orgeat, and when he saw the waltzing, merely remarked, 'We've
a betther way of getting round the girls in Ireland;' while old Pierre
Dulange, Netherby's valet, persists in addressing the native company as
'Messieurs les Sauvages.'"
"I hope, for the sake of the public peace, they 've not got an
interpreter among them."
"No, no, all's safe on that score, and freedom of speech has suggested
the most perfect code of good manners; for it would seem, as they can
indulge themselves in the most liberal reflections on each other, they
have no necessity of proceeding to overt acts."
"Now," said the Knight, "let me not interrupt the revelry longer. To
your place, Lionel, and leave me to pay my devoirs to my friends and
kind neighbors."
The Knight's presence seemed alone wanting to fill up the measure of
enjoyment. Most of those present were his old familiar friends, glad
to see once more amongst them the great promoter of kind feeling and
hospitality, while from such as were strangers he easily won golden
opinions, the charm of courtesy being with him like a well-fitting
garment, which graced, but did not impede, the wearer's motions.
He had a hundred questions to ask and to answer. The news of the capital
travelled in those days by slow and easy stages, and the moment was
sufficiently eventful to warrant curiosity; and so, as he passed from
group to group, he gave the current gossip of the time as each in turn
asked after this circumstance or that.
At length he took his place beside Lord Netherby, as he sat engaged at
a whist-table, where the gathering crowd that gradually collected soon
converted the game into a social circle of eager talkers.
Who could have suspected that easy, unconstrained manner, that winning
smile, that ready laugh, the ever-present jest, to cover the working of
a heart so nigh to breaking? And yet he talked pleasantly and freely,
narrating with all his accustomed humor the chit-chat of the time; and
while of course, the great question of the hour occupied every tongue
and ear, all Lord Netherby's practised shrewdness could not enable him
to detect the exact part the Knight himself had taken.
"And so they have carried the bill," said Conolly, with a sigh, as he
listened to Darcy's account of the second reading. "Well, though I never
was a Parliament man, nor expected to be one, I'm sorry for it. You
think that strange, my Lord?"
"By no means, sir. A man may love monarchy without being the heir
apparent."
"Quite true," chimed in the Knight. "I would even go further, and say
that, without any warm devotion to a king, a man may hate a regicide."
Lord Netherby's eyes met Darcy's, and the wily peer smiled with a
significance that seemed to say, "I know you now."
CHAPTER XXVIIII. THE HUNT-BREAKFAST
The ball lasted till nigh daybreak; and while the greater number of the
guests departed, some few remained, by special invitation, at the abbey,
to join a hunting party on the following day. For this Lionel had made
every possible preparation, desiring to let his English friends witness
a favorable specimen of Irish sport and horsemanship. The stud and
kennel were both in high condition, the weather favorable, and, as the
old huntsman said, "'It would be hard if a fox would n't be agreeable
enough to give the strange gentlemen a run."
In high anticipation of the coming morning, and with many a prayer
against a frost, they separated for the night. All within the abbey were
soon sound asleep,--all save the Knight himself, who, the restraint of
an assumed part withdrawn, threw himself on a sofa in his dressing-room,
worn out and exhausted by his struggle. Ruin was inevitable,--that he
well knew; but as yet the world knew it not, and for Lionel's sake he
resolved to keep his own secret a few days longer. The visit was to last
but eight days; two were already over; for the remaining six, then, he
determined--whatever it might cost him--to preserve all the appearances
of his former estate, to wear the garb and seeming of prosperity, and do
the princely honors of a house that was never again to be his home.
"Poor Lionel!" thought he; "'twould break the boy's heart if such a
disclosure should be made now; the high and daring promptings of his
bold spirit would not quail before misfortune, although his courage
might not sustain him in the very moment of the reverse. I will not risk
the whole fortune of his future happiness in such a trial; he shall know
nothing till they are gone; one week of triumphant pleasure he shall
have, and then let him brace himself to the struggle, and breast the
current manfully."
While endeavoring to persuade himself that Lionel's lot was uppermost in
his mind, his heart would force the truth upon him that Lady Eleanor and
Helen's fate was, in reality, a heavier stroke of fortune. Lionel was
a soldier, ardent and daring, fond of his profession, and far more
ambitious of distinction than attached to the life of pleasure a court
and a great capital suggested; but they who had never known the want
of every luxury that can embellish life, whose whole existence had been
like some fairy dream of pleasure, how were they to bear up against
the dreadful shock? Lady Eleanor's health was frail and delicate in the
extreme; Helen's attachment to her mother such that any impression on
her would invariably recoil upon herself. What might be the consequences
of the disclosure to them Darcy could not, dared not, contemplate.
As he revolved all these things in his mind, and thought upon the
difficulties that beset him, he was at a loss whether to deplore the
necessity of wearing a false face of pleasure a few days longer, or
rejoice at the occasion of even this brief reprieve from ruin. Thus
passed the weary hours that preceded daybreak, and while others slept
soundly, or reviewed in their dreams the pleasures of the past night,
Darcy's gloomy thoughts were fixed upon the inevitable calamity of his
fate, and the years, few but sad, that in all likelihood were now before
him.
The stir and bustle of the servants preparing breakfast for the hunting
party broke in upon his dreary revery, and he suddenly bethought him of
the part he had assigned himself to play. He dreaded the possibility of
an interview with Lady Eleanor, in which she would inevitably advert to
Gleeson, and the circumstances of his flight; this could not be avoided,
however, were he to pass the day at home, and so he resolved to join the
hunting-field, where perhaps some lingering trace of his old enthusiasm
for the sport might lead him to hope for a momentary relief of mind.
"Lionel, too, will be glad to see me in the saddle--it's some years
since I crossed the sward at a gallop--and I am curious to know if a
man's nerve is stouter when the world looks fair before him, or when the
night of calamity is lowering above his head." Muttering these words to
himself, he passed out into the hall, and crossing which, entered the
courtyard, and took his way towards the stables. It was still dark, but
many lights were moving to and fro, and the groom population were all
about and stirring. Darcy opened the door and looked down the long
range of stalls, where above twenty saddle-horses were now standing, the
greater number of them highly bred and valuable animals, and all in the
highest possible condition. Great was the astonishment of the stablemen
as the Knight moved along, throwing a glance as he went at each stall,
while a muttered "Welcome home to yer honor" ran from mouth to mouth.
"The bastes is looking finely, sir," said Bob Carney, who, as stud-groom
and huntsman, had long presided over his department.
"So they are, Bob, but I don't know half of them; where did this strong
brown horse come from?"
"That's Clipper, yer honor; I knew you wouldn't know him. He took up
finely after his run last winter."
"And the fore leg, is it strong again?"
"As stout as a bar of iron; one of the boys had him out two days ago,
and he took the yellow ditch flying: we measured nineteen feet between
the mark of his hoofs."
"He ought to be strong enough to carry me, Bob."
"Don't ride him, sir, he's an uncertain divil; and though he 'll go
straight over everything for maybe twenty minutes or half an hour, he
'll stop short at a drain not wider than a potato furrow, and the power
of man would n't get him over it."
"That's a smart gray yonder,--what is she?"
"She's the one we tried as a leader one day; yer honor remembers you bid
me shoot her, or get rid of her, for she kicked the traces, and nearly
the wheel-horse, all to smash; and now she's the sweetest tiling to
ride, for eleven stone, in the whole country. There's an English colonel
to try her to-day; my only advice to him is, let her have her own way of
it, for, if he begins pulling at her, 't is maybe in Donegal he 'll be
before evening."
"And what have you for me?" said the Knight; "for I scarcely know any of
my old friends here."
"There's the mouse-colored cob----"
"No, no," said the Knight, laughing; "I want to keep my place, Bob. You
must give me something better than that."
"Faith, an' your honor might have worse; but if it's for riding you
are, take Black Peter, and you 'll never find the fence too big, or the
ground too heavy for him. I was going to give him to the English lord; I
suppose, after all, he 'll be better pleased with the cob."
"Well, then, Peter for me. And now let's see what Mr. Lionel has to
ride."
"There she is, and a beauty!" said Bob, as, with a dexterous jerk, he
chucked a sheet off her haunches, and displayed the shining flanks and
splendid proportions of a thoroughbred mare. "That's Cushleen," said he,
as he fixed his eyes on the Knight's face to enjoy the reflection of his
own delight. "That's the darlin' can do it!--a child can hould her,
but it takes a man to sit on her back--racing speed over a flat, and a
jump!--'t is more like the bound of a football than anything else."
"She has the eye of a hot one, Bob."
"And why would n't she? But she knows when to be so. Let her take her
place at the head of the whole field, with a light finger to guide and a
stout heart to direct her, and she's a kitten; but the divil a tiger was
ever as fierce if another passes her, or a cowardly hand would try to
hold her back. And there 's a nate tool, that black horse,--that 's for
another of the English gentlemen. Master Lionel calls him Sir Harry.
They tell me he 's a fine rider, and has a pack of hounds himself in his
own place, and I am mistaken if he has the baste in his stable will
give him a betther day's sport. The chestnut here is for Miss Helen, for
she's coming to see them throw off, and it'll be a fine sight; we 'll
be thirty-six out of your honor's stables, Mr. Conolly is bringing nine
more, and all the Martins, and the Lynches, and Dalys, and Mr. Hickman
O'Reilly and his son,--though, to be sure, they won't do much for the
honor of ould Ireland."
The Knight turned away laughing, and re-entered the house.
Early as it yet was, the inmates of the abbey were stirring, and a great
breakfast, laid for above thirty, was prepared in the library, for
the supper-tables occupied the dining-rooms, and the dbris of the
magnificent entertainment of the night before still lingered there. Two
cheerful fires blazed on the ample hearths, and threw a mellow lustre
over that spacious room, where old Tate now busied himself in those
little harmless duties he fancied indispensable to the Knight's comfort,
for the poor fellow, on hearing of his master's return, had once more
resumed his office.
The Knight's meeting with him was one of true friendship; difference
of station interposed no barrier to affection, and Darcy shook the old
man's hand as cordially as though they were brothers. Yet each was sad
with a secret sorrow, which all their efforts could scarce conceal
from the other. In vain the Knight endeavored to turn away old Tate's
attention by inquiries after his health, questions about home, or little
flatteries about his preparations, Tate's filmy eyes were fixed upon his
master with a keenness that age could not dim.
"'T is maybe tired your honor is," said he, in a voice half meant as
inquiry, half insinuation; "the Parliament, they tell me, destroys the
health entirely."
"Very true, Tate; late hours, heated rooms, and some fatigue will not
serve a man of my age; but I am tolerably well for all that."
"God be praised for it!" said Tate, piously, but in a voice that showed
it was rather a wish he expressed than a conviction, when, suspecting
that he had suffered some portion of his fears to escape, he added more
cheerfully, "And is n't Master Lionel grown an iligant, fine young man!
When I seen him comin' up the stairs, it was just as if the forty-eight
years that's gone over was only a dhrame, and I was looking at your
honor the day you came home from college; he has the same way with bis
arms, and carries his head like you, and the same light step. Musha!"
muttered he, below his breath, "the ould families never die out, but
keep their looks to the last."
"He's a fine fellow, Tate!" said the Knight, turning towards the window,
for, while flattered by the old man's praises of his son, a deep pang
shot through his heart at the wide disparity of fortune with which life
opened for both of them. At the instant an arm was drawn round him, and
Helen stood at his side: she was in her riding-habit, and looking in
perfect beauty. Darcy gazed at her for a few seconds, and with such
evident admiration that she, as if accepting the compliment, drew
herself up, and, smiling, said, "Yes, nothing short of conquest. Lionel
told his friends to expect a very unformed country girl; they shall see
at least she can ride."
"No harebrained risks, Helen, dearest. I'm to take the field to-day,
and you must n't shake my nerve; for I want to bring no disgrace on my
county."
"I was but jesting, my own dear papa," said she, drawing closer to
him; "but I really felt so curious to see these English horsemen's
performance that I asked Lionel to train Alice for me."
"And Lionel, of course, but too happy to show his pretty sister--"
"Nay, nay, if you will quiz, I must only confess that my head is quite
turned already; our noble cousin overwhelms me with flatteries which,
upon the principle the Indian accepts glass beads and spangles as gems,
and gold, I take as real value. But here he comes."
And Lord Netherby, attired for the field in all the accuracy of
costume, slipped towards them. After came Colonel Crofton, a well-known
fashionable of the clubs and a hanger-on of the peer; then Sir Harry
Beauclerk, a young baronet of vast fortune, gay, good-tempered, and
extravagant; while several others of lesser note, brother officers of
Lionel's and men about town, brought up the rear, one only deserving
remark, a certain Captain, or, as he was better known, Tom Nolan,--a
strange, ambiguous kind of fellow, always seen in the world, constantly
met at the best houses, and yet nobody being able to explain why he was
asked, nor--as it very often happened--who asked him.
Lady Eleanor never appeared early in the day, but there was a sprinkling
of lady-visitors through the room, guests at the abbey: a very pretty,
but not over-afflicted widow, a Mrs. Somerville, with several Mrs.
and Miss Lynches, Brownes, and Martins, comprising the beauties of
the neighborhood. Lionel was the last to make his appearance, so many
directions had he to give about earth-stoppers and cover-hacks, drags,
phaetons, fresh horses, and all the contingent requirements of a day's
sport. Besides, he had pledged himself most faithfully to give Mrs.
Somerville's horse, a very magnificent barb, a training canter himself,
with a horse-sheet round his legs, for she was a timid rider,--on some
occasions,--though certain calumnious people averred that, when alone,
she would take any fence in the whole barony.
At length they were seated, and such a merry, happy party! There was but
one sad heart in the company, and that none could guess at. And what a
running fire of pleasant raillery rattled round the table! How brimful
of wit and good-humor were they all! How ready each to take the jest
against himself, and even heighten its flavor by some new touch of
drollery. Harmless wagers respecting the places they would occupy at the
finish, gentle quiz-zings about safe riding through the gaps, and joking
counsels as to the peculiar difficulties of an Irish country, were heard
on all sides; while the Knight recounted the Galway anecdote of Dick
Perse taking an immense leap and disappearing afterwards. "'Call the
ground, Dick!' cried Lord Clanricarde, who was charging up at top
speed--'call the ground! What's at the other side?'
"'I am, thank God!' was the short reply, and the words came from the
depth of a gravel-pit."
At last, venison pasties and steaks, rolls and coffee, with their due
accompaniment of liqueurs, came to an end, and a very sufficient uproar
without, of men, dogs, and horses commingled, bespoke the activity of
preparation there, while old Bob Carney's voice topped every other, as
he swore at or commended men and beasts indiscriminately.
"What a glorious morning for our sport!" said the Knight, as he threw
open the sash, and let into the room the heavy perfume of the earth,
borne on a southerly wind. The sea was calm as an inland lake, and the
dark clouds over it were equally motionless. "We shall be unlucky, my
Lord, if we do not show you some sport on such a day. Ah, there go the
dogs!" And, as he spoke, the hounds issued from beneath the deep arch of
the gateway, and with Bob and the whipper-in at their head, took their
way across the lawn.
"To horse! to horse!" shouted Lionel, gayly, from the courtyard, for
the riding party were not to proceed to the cover by the short path the
hounds were gone, but to follow by a more picturesque and circuitous
route.
"I hope sincerely that beast is not intended for me," said Lord
Netherby, as a powerful black horse crossed the courtyard, in a series
of bounds, and finished by landing the groom over his head.
"Never fear, my Lord," said Lionel, laughing; "Billy Pitt is meant for
Beauclerk."
"You surely never named that animal after the minister, Knight?" said
his Lordship.
"Yes, my Lord," said Darcy, with a smile; "it's just as unsafe to
back one as the other. But here comes the heavy brigade. Which is your
choice,--Black Peter, or Mouse?"
"If I may choose, I will confess this is more to my liking than anything
I have seen yet. You know that I don't mean to take any part in the
debate, so I may as well secure a quiet seat under the gallery. But, my
dear Miss Darcy, what a mettlesome thing you 've got there!"
"She's only fidgety; if I can hold her when they throw off, I 'll have
no trouble afterwards." And the graceful girl sat back easily in her
saddle as the animal bounded and swerved with every stroke of her long
riding-habit.
"There goes Beauclerk!" cried Lionel, as the young baronet shot like an
arrow through the archway on the back of Billy Pitt; for no sooner had
he touched the saddle than the unmanageable animal broke away from the
groom's hands, and set off at full speed down the lawn.
"I say, Darcy," cried Colonel Crofton, "is n't Beauclerk a step over
you in the 'Army List'?"
But Lionel never heard the question, for he was most busily occupied
about Mrs. Somerville and her horse.
"Who drives the phaeton?--where's a safe whip to be found for Mrs.
Martin?" said the Knight; and, seizing on a young Guardsman, he promoted
him to the box, with a very pretty girl beside him. A drag, with four
grays, was filling at the same instant, with a mixed population of
horsemen and spectators, among whom Captain Nolan seemed the presiding
spirit, as, seated beside a brother officer of Lionel's on the box, he
introduced the several parties to each other, and did "the honors" of
the conveyance.
Troops of horses, sheeted and hooded, now passed out with a number of
grooms and stable-boys, on their way to cover; and at last the great
cavalcade moved forward, the Knight, his daughter, and Lord Netherby
gayly cantering on the grass, to permit the carriages to take the road.
The drag came last; and although but newly met, the company were already
in the full enjoyment of that intimacy which high spirits and pleasure
beget, while Tom Nolan contributed his utmost to the merriment by jests
which lost nothing of their poignancy from any scruples of their maker.
"There they go at last," said he, as Lionel and Mrs. Somerville cantered
forth, followed by two grooms. "I never heard of a stirrup so hard to
arrange as that, in all my life!"
CHAPTER XXIX. THE HUNT
The cover lay in a small valley, almost deep enough to be called a
glen, watered by a stream which in winter and summer took the alternate
character of torrent or rivulet; gently sloping hills rose on either
side, their banks clad with low furze and fern, and behind them a wide
plain extended to the foot of the great mountains of Connemara.
Both sides of the little glen were now occupied by groups on foot or
horseback, as each calculated on the likelihood of the fox taking this
direction or that. On the narrow road which led along the crest of the
lower hill were many equipages to be seen, some of which were filled
with ladies, whose waving feathers and gay colors served to heighten
the effect of the landscape. The horsemen were dotted about, some on the
ridge of the rising ground, some lower down on the sloping sides, and
others walked their horses through the dense cover, watching as the dogs
sprang and bounded from copse to copse, and made the air vibrate with
their deep voices.
The arrival of the Knight's party created no slight sensation as
carriages and horsemen came dashing up the hill, and took their station
on an eminence, from whence all who were not mounted might have a view
of the field. No sooner was he recognized, than such as had the honor
of personal acquaintance moved forward to pay their respects and welcome
him home again; among whom Beecham O'Reilly appeared, but with such
evident diffidence of manner and reserve that Darcy, from motives of
delicacy, was forced to take a more than ordinary notice of him.
"We were sorry not to have your company at the abbey last night; you 've
had a cold, I hear," said the Knight.
"Yes, sir; this is the first day I've ventured out."
"Let me introduce you to Lord Netherby. One of our foremost riders, my
Lord, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly. You may see that the merit is not altogether
his own,--splendid horse you have there."
"He's very powerful," said the young man, accepting the praise with an
air of easy indifference.
"In my country," interposed Lord Netherby, "we should value him at three
hundred guineas, if his performance equal his appearance."
"I say, Lionel, come here a moment," cried the Knight. "What do you
think of that horse?--but don't you know your old playfellow, Beecham?
Have you both forgotten each other?"
"How are you, Beecham? I'd never have guessed you. To be sure, it is
six years since we met. You were in Dublin, I think, when I was over on
leave last?"
"No, at Oxford," said Beecham, with a slight flush as he spoke; for
although he accepted the warm shake-hands Lionel proffered, his manner
was one of constraint all through. Young Darcy was, however, too much
occupied in admiring the horse to bestow much attention on the rider.
"He 'd carry you well," said Beecham, as if interpreting what was
passing in his mind, "and as I have no fancy for him,--a worse horse
will carry my weight as well,--I 'd sell him."
"At what price?"
"Lord Netherby has valued him at three hundred," said the young man. "I
gave nearly as much myself."
The Knight, who heard this conversation, without being able to interrupt
it, was in perfect misery. The full measure of his ruin rushed suddenly
on his mind, and the thought that, at the very moment his son was
meditating this piece of extravagance, he was himself actually a beggar,
sickened him to the heart. Meanwhile, Lionel walked his horse slowly
round, the better to observe the animal he coveted, and then cantered
back to his place at Mrs. Somerville's side.
Beecham seemed to hesitate for a second or two, then, riding forward,
he approached Lionel: "Perhaps you would try him to-day, Captain Darcy?"
The words came hesitatingly and with difficulty.
"Oh, no! he 's beyond my reach," said Lionel, laughing.
"I'd really take it as a favor if you would ride him; I 'm not strong
enough to hold him, consequently cannot do him justice."
"Take the offer, Darcy," said Lord Netherby, in a whisper, as he rode up
to his side; "I have a great liking for that horse myself, and will buy
him if you report favorably."
"In that case, my Lord, I'll do it with pleasure. I accept your kind
proposal, and will change nags if you agree."
Beecham at once dismounted, and, beckoning to his servant, ordered him
to change the saddles.
While this little scene was enacting, old Conolly rode up to the Knight,
with a warning to keep the ladies in the road. "The fox will take the
country towards Burnadarig," said he; "the start's with the wind; and as
the fences are large and the ground heavy, they had better not attempt
to follow the run."
"We will take your advice, Tom," said the Knight. "Come here,
Helen--Colonel Crofton, will you kindly bring Mrs. Somerville up here,
and tell Lord Netherby to join us--the day will be for the fast ones
only. There they go,--are they off?"
"Not yet, not yet," said Conolly, as, standing in his stirrups, he
looked down into the glen; "they're hunting him through the furze cover
this half hour. I know that fox well; he never breaks till the dogs are
actually on him."
By this time the scene in the valley was becoming highly exciting; the
hounds, yelping and barking, bounded hither and thither; some, with
uplifted throats, bayed deeply a long, protracted note; others, with
noses to the earth, ran swiftly along, and then, stopping, burst into a
sharp cry, as if of pain, while old Bob Carney's voice, encouraging this
one, and cursing that, was high above the tumult.
"Tiresome work, this is," said Sir Harry Beauclerk; for his horse, mad
with impatience, was white with sweat, and trembled in every limb.
"You'll have it very soon, sir," said old Conolly; "the dogs are
together now. I wish that young gentleman there would move a little up
the hill." This was said of a young officer who took his station at the
exit of the cover. "There they go, now! Tally-ho!" cried he, in ecstasy,
and the shout re-echoed from a hundred voices, as the hounds, in full
cry, burst from the cover, and were seen, in one compact mass, rising
the opposite hill.
In a second every horse was away, save that little group around the
Knight, and which, notwithstanding all the efforts of the servants,
bounded and plunged in mad impatience. Beauclerk was the first down the
hill, and over the brook, which he cleared gallantly. Conolly followed
close; and then came Crofton in a group of others, among whom rode
O'Reilly, all riding well and safely; and last of all was Lionel,
mounted on the brown thoroughbred, and holding him together, in spite of
all his eagerness to get on.
The Knight forgot everything that lay heavily on his heart as he watched
his son nearing the brook, which he took flying. "He knows his horse;
now! see!" cried Darcy, as his whole face beamed with enthusiastic
delight; "look a little this way, my dear Mrs. Somerville, Lionel's
gaining on them!"
Mrs. Somerville scarcely needed the direction, for, notwithstanding her
horse's plunging, she had never taken her glass from her eye.
"Is that a wall on the side of the hill? I really believe it is!" said
Lord Netherby, with an accent of amazement and horror.
"A stone wall, and a stout one. I know it well," said Darcy. "There goes
Sir Harry Beauclerk at it. Too fast, sir! too fast!" screamed out the
Knight, as if his advice could be heard and followed at that distance.
"He's down! he's down!" cried several voices together, as horse and
rider balanced for a second on the top, and rolled headlong on the
opposite side, while Helen grasped her father's arm, but never uttered a
word.
"His horse is away--there he goes!--but the young man is on his
legs again!" called out the Knight; "see how the rest are scattering
now--they 've no fancy for it;" for so it was, Beauclerk's catastrophe,
mounted, as they knew him to be, on one of the most perfect of hunters,
had terrified the field, and they broke up into different groups,
searching an exit where they could.
"There he goes,--that's the way to take it!" cried Darcy, as Lionel,
emerging from the little valley, was seen ascending the hill in a sharp
canter; "see, my Lord! Do you mark how he holds his horse together? The
hind legs are well forward--beautifully done!"
"Oh, beautifully done!" re-echoed Mrs. Somerville, as the young man,
with one cut of his whip, rose the horse to the wall, topped, poised for
an instant on its summit, and bounded down with the seeming lightness of
a bird.
"They're all together again," said Helen. "Mr. Conolly has found a gap,
and there they go."
For a few moments the whole field were in sight, as they rode in a
waving line, only a few stragglers in their rear; but the gradual dip
of the ground soon hid them from view, and nothing remained save the
occasional glance of a red coat as some rider, "thrown out" for a
moment, sought to recover his place by an adroit "cast."
"I suppose we are not destined to see much more of the day's sport?"
said Mrs. Somerville, with a pouting look; for she would infinitely
rather have braved all the hazards of the field than have remained
behind with the spectators.
"I trust we shall have another peep at them," said the Knight. "By
following this by-road to Burris Hill, the chances are that we see them
winding along at our feet; the fox generally runs from this cover to
the scrub beneath Nephin. We may go slowly, for if I be right in my
calculation, they have a wide circuit to make yet."
The Knight, after a few words to the parties in the carriage, took the
lead with Lord Netherby, while Mrs. Somerville and Helen followed, an
indiscriminate crowd of carriages and horsemen bringing up the rear.
This was an arrangement artfully accomplished by the Earl, who had been
most impatiently awaiting some opportunity of conferring with the Knight
on the question of politics, and ascertaining how far he himself might
adventure on claiming the merit of converting him, when he returned to
England. He had already remarked that Darcy's name did not appear in the
division on the second reading of the Bill of Union, and the fact seemed
so far indicative of a disposition not to oppose the Government. The
subject was one to be approached with skill, and it was at last by an
adroit congratulation on the pleasant contrast of a country life with
the fatigues of Parliament, that he opened the discussion.
"I believe, my Lord," said the Knight, laughing, "that Irish gentlemen
are very likely to enjoy in future a fair proportion of that agreeable
retirement you have so justly lauded. The wisdom of our rulers
has thought fit to relieve us of the burden of self-government in
Parliament, and left us, if we can succeed in effecting it, to govern
ourselves at home."
"That will be unquestionably the lot of many, Knight. I am quite aware
that men of second-rate importance will no longer possess any at all;
but estated gentlemen, of high position and liberal fortunes, like
yourself, for instance, will not lose their influence by the greater
extent of the field in which it is exercised."
Darcy sighed, but made no reply; the thought of his utter ruin came too
painfully across him to permit of an answer. Lord Netherby interpreted
his silence as doubt, and continued: "You are unjust, not only to
yourself, but to us, by any discredit of this point. Men of real
knowledge about Ireland and her interests will have a greater position
than ever they enjoyed before; no longer buried and lost among the
impracticable horde of theorists and false patriots of a Dublin
Parliament, they will be known and appreciated by a deliberative
assembly where the greatest men of the empire hold council."
"I am forced to differ with you on every point, my Lord," said the
Knight, calmly; "we are united to England, not that we may make an
integral portion of your empire, but simply that we may be more easily
governed. Up to this hour, you have ruled this country through the
instrumentality of certain deputed individuals here amongst us; your
system has had but indifferent success. You are now about to try another
method, and govern us through the means of Party. Into the subdivisions
of these parties Irishmen will fall,--with such success, personally, as
their abilities and weight may obtain for them; but Party, I assert,
will now rule Ireland, not with any regard to Irish interests or
objects, but simply to put this man into power, and to put that man out.
Now I, my Lord, humble as my station is, have no fancy for such contests
as these,--contests in which the advantages of my country will always be
subordinate to some Cabinet intrigue or Ministerial stratagem. To-day,
the Government may find it suit their views to administer the affairs of
Ireland ably, justly, and fearlessly; to-morrow, a powerful faction may
spring up here, who, by intimidation without, and by votes within the
House, shall be able to thwart the administration in their Home
measures. What will happen then? This faction will be bought off. By
concessions to them in Ireland, they will obtain all their demands,
for the sake of pliancy about interests of which they care little, and
know nothing. This will succeed for a time; the 'King's Government' will
go well and flippantly on; you may tax the people, promote your
followers, and bully your opponents to your heart's content: but,
meanwhile, Ireland will be gaining on you; your allies, grown exacting
by triumph, will ask more than you dare, or even have, to give; and the
question will then arise, that the party who aspires to power must bid
for it by further concession; and who is to vouch for the moderation of
such demands, or what limit will there be to them? I see a train of such
evils in the vista; and although I neither pretend to think our domestic
legislature safe nor faultless, I think the dangers we have before us
are even greater than such as would spring from an Irish Parliament."
Lord Netherby listened with great impatience--as perhaps the reader may
have done also--to this declaration of the Knight's views, and was about
to reply, when suddenly a cheer from some country people, stationed on
a rocky height at a short distance, drew all eyes towards the valley,
where now the hounds were seen in full cry, three horsemen alone
following. One of these was the huntsman; Lionel another; the third was
in plain clothes, and not known to any of the party. He was mounted on a
powerful horse, and even at that distance could be seen to manage him
with the address of a perfect rider. The rest of the field were far
behind, some still standing on the verge of a mountain torrent, which
appeared to have formed the obstacle to the run, and into which more
than one seemed to have fallen.
Groups were gathered here and there along the bank, and dismounted
horses galloped wildly to and fro, showing that the catastrophes had
been numerous. While Lord Netherby looked with some alarm at the fearful
chasm which had arrested all but three out of the entire field, the
Knight followed Lionel with anxious eyes, as he led over the most
desperate line of country in the West.
"I never knew a fox take that line but once," said Darcy, pointing to a
wide expanse of bleak country, which stretched away to the base of the
great mountain of Nephin. "I was a child at the time, but I remember
the occurrence well; horse, men, and hounds tailed off one by one, some
sorely injured, others dead beat, for the fellow was a most powerful
dog-fox, and ran straight ahead for thirty-four miles of a desperate
country. The following morning, at a little after daybreak, the fox was
seen in a half trot near Ballycroy, still followed by two of the dogs,
and he lived many years afterwards as a pensioner at the abbey; the dogs
were never worth anything from that day."
While the Knight related this anecdote, the hounds and the hunters were
gradually receding from view; and although at intervals some thought
they could catch glimpses of them, at last they disappeared altogether.
"I am sorry, Helen," said the Knight, "that our visitors should have
been so unfortunate in their sport."
"I am more grieved to think that Lionel should follow over such a
country," said Lord Netherby.
"He's well mounted, my Lord; and though many would call him a reckless
rider, he has as much judgment as he has daring. I am tolerably easy
about him."
Helen did not seem so confident as her father; and as for Mrs.
Somerville, she was considerably paler than usual, and managed her
mettlesome horse with far less than her customary address.
As well to meet their friends who were thrown out, as to show some of
the scenery of the coast, the Knight proposed they should retrace their
steps for a short distance, and take a view of the bay on their way back
to the abbey. Leaving them, therefore, to follow their route, and
not delaying our reader by an account of the various excuses of the
discomfited, or the banterings of Tom Nolan, we will turn to the wide
plain, where, still in full cry, the dogs pursued their game.
The Knight had not exaggerated when calling it a dreadful country to
ride over; yawning trenches, deep enough to engulf horse and rider, were
cut in the bog, and frequently so close together that, in clearing one,
a few strides more presented another; the ground itself, only in part
reclaimed, was deep and heavy, demanding great strength both of horse
and horseman. Through this dangerous and intricate track the fox
serpentined and wound his way with practised cunning, while at every
turning some unlucky hound would miss his spring, or lose his footing in
the slippery soil, and their cries could be heard far over the plain, as
they struggled in vain to escape from a deep trench. It was in such an
endeavor that a hound was catching at the bank with his fore-legs, as
the huntsman dashed forward to take the leap; the horse, suddenly taking
fright, swerved, and, before he could recover, the frail ground gave
way, and the animal plunged headlong down, fortunately flinging bis
rider over the head on the opposite bank.
"All safe, Bob?" cried Lionel, as he turned in his saddle. But he had
no time for more, for the strange rider was fast nearing on him, and the
chase had now become a trial of speed and skill. By degrees they emerged
from this unsafe tract and gained the grass country, where high ditches
and stone walls presented a more fair, but scarcely less dangerous, kind
of fencing. Here the stranger made an effort to pass Lionel and take the
lead, and more than once they took their leaps exactly side by side.
As they rode along close to each other, Lionel from time to time
caught glimpses of his companion, who was a strong-built man of
five-and-thirty, frank and fresh-looking, but clearly not of the rank of
gentleman. His horse was a powerful thoroughbred, with more bone than is
usually found in Irish breeding, and trained to perfection.
"Now, sir," said the stranger, "we're coming near the Crumpawn river;
that line of mist yonder is over the torrent. I warn you, the leap is a
big one."
Lionel turned a haughty glance towards the man, for there was a tone
of assumed superiority in the words he could ill brook. That instant,
however, his eyes were directed to the front, where the roaring of
a mountain stream mingled with the sharp cry of the hounds as they
struggled in the torrent, or fell back in their efforts to climb the
steep bank.
"Ride him fairly at it,--no flinching; and d----me if I care what your
father was, I'll say you're a gentleman."
Lionel bit his lip almost through with passion; and, had the occasion
permitted, the heavy stroke of his whip had fallen on a very different
quarter from his horse's flank; but he never uttered a word.
"Badly done! Never punish your horse at the stride!" said the fellow,
who seemed bent on provoking him.
Lionel bounded in his saddle at this taunt on his riding; but there was
no time for bandying words of anger; the roar of rushing water, and the
misty foam, proclaimed the torrent near.
"The best man is first over!" shouted the stranger, as he rushed at the
terrific chasm. Lionel dashed forward; so close were they, they could
have touched; when, with a wild cheer, the stranger gave his horse a
tremendous cut, and the animal bounded from the earth like a stag, and,
soaring over the mad torrent, descended lightly on the sward beyond.
Lionel had lifted his horse at the very same instant; but the
treacherous bank gave way beneath the animal's forelegs: he struggled
dreadfully to regain his footing, and, half rearing and half backing,
tried to retire; but the effort was in vain, the slippery earth carried
him with it, and down both horse and rider came into the stream.
"Keep his head to the current, and sit steady!" shouted the stranger,
who now watched the struggle with breathless eagerness. "Well done! well
done!--don't press him, he 'll do it himself."
The counsel was wise, for the noble animal needed neither spur nor whip,
but breasted the white torrent with vigorous effort, sometimes plunging
madly above, and again sinking, all save the head, beneath the flood. At
last they reached the side, and the strong beast, with one bold spring,
placed his fore-legs on the high bank. This was the most dangerous
moment, for, unable to follow with his hind-legs, he stood opposed to
the whole force of the current, that threatened every instant to engulf
him. Lionel's efforts were tremendous; he lifted, he spurred, he
strained, he shouted, but all in vain: the animal, worn out by exertion,
faltered, and would have fallen back, when the stranger, springing from
his saddle, leaned over the bank, and, seizing Lionel by the collar,
jerked him from his horse. The beast, relieved of the weight, at once
rallied and bounded up the bank, where Lionel now found himself,
stunned, but not senseless.
"Let them say what they like," muttered the stranger, as he stood over
him, "you 're a devilish fine young fellow! D----me if I'll ever think
so much about good blood again!"
Lionel was too weak and too much exhausted to reply, and even his
fingers could scarcely close upon the whip he tried to grasp; yet, for
all that, the stranger's insolence sickened him to the very heart. Pride
of race was the strongest feeling of his nature, and this fellow seemed
determined to outrage it at every turn.
"Here, take a pull at this; you 'll be all right presently," said the
man, as he presented a little leather flask to the youth's lips. But
Lionel repulsed the offer rudely, and turned his head away. "The
more fool you!" said he, coarsely; "your grandfather mixed many a
worse-flavored one, and charged more for it;" and, so saying, he emptied
the measure at a draught.
Lionel pondered on the words for some seconds, and suddenly the thought
occurred to him that the stranger had mistaken him for another. "Ah! I
see it all now!" thought he, and he turned his head to undeceive him;
when, what was his surprise, as he looked up, to see that the fellow was
gone. Mounted on his own horse, he was leading Lionel's by the bridle,
and, at a smart trot, moving down the glen.
The young man sprang to his feet and shouted aloud; he even tried to
follow him; but both efforts were fruitless. At the turn of the road the
man halted, and, looking round, waved his hat as in sign of adieu; then,
moving forward, disappeared, while Lionel, his passion giving way to
his sense of the absurdity of the whole adventure, burst into a fit of
hearty laughter.
"I 'll be laughed at to the day of my death about this," thought he, as
he turned his steps to seek the path homeward on foot.
It was late in the evening when Lionel reached the abbey. The guests had
for the most part left the dinner-room, and were dropping by twos and
threes into the drawing-room, when he made his appearance in the midst
of them, splashed and travel-stained from head to foot.
A burst of merry laughter rang out as they beheld his torn habiliments
and mud-colored dress, in which none joined more heartily than the
Knight himself, as he called aloud, "Well, Lionel, did you kill him,
boy, or run him to earth below Nephin?"
"By Jove, sir! if old Carney is safe, I think nobody has been killed
to-day."
"Well, Bob is all right; he came back three hours ago. He has lamed
Scaltheen; but she 'll get over it."
"But your own adventures," interposed Lord Netherby; "for so they ought
to be, judging from the state of your toilet. Let us hear them."
"Yes, by all means," added Beauclerk; "the huntsman says that the last
he saw of you was riding by the side of some one in green, with three of
the pack in front, the rest tailed off, and himself in a bog-hole."
"But there was no one in green in the field," said Crofton; "at least I
did not see any one riding, except the red coats."
"Let us not be too critical about the color of the dress," said Lord
Netherby; "I am sure it would puzzle any of us to pronounce on the exact
hue of Lionel's at this moment."
"Well, Lionel, will you decide it?" said the Knight; "is the green man
apocryphal, or not?"
"I 'll decide nothing," said Lionel, "till I get something to eat. Any
one that wishes to hear my exploits must come into the dinner-room;"
and, so saying, he arose, and walked into the parlor, where, under
Tate's superintendence, a little table was already spread for him beside
the fire. To the tempting fare before him the young man devoted all the
energy of a hunter's appetite, regardless of the crowd who had followed
him from the drawing-room, and stood in a circle around him.
Many were the jests, and sharp the raillery, on his singular appearance,
and certainly it presented a most ludicrous contrast with the massive
decorations of the table at which he sat, and the full dress of the
party around him.
"I remember," said Lord Netherby, "seeing the King of France--when
such a functionary existed--eat his dinner in public on the terrace of
Versailles; but I confess, great as was my admiration of the monarch's
powers, I think Lionel exceeds them."
"Another leg?" said Beauclerk, who, with knife and fork in hand,
performed the duty of carver.
"Why don't you say another turkey?" said Nolan; then, turning to Mrs.
Somerville, he added, "I am sure that negus is perfect."
The pretty widow, who had been contributing, as she thought unobserved,
to Lionel's comfort, blushed deeply; and Lionel, at last roused from
his apathy, said, "I am ready now, ladies and gentlemen all, to satisfy
every reasonable demand upon your curiosity. But first, where is Mr.
Beecham O'Reilly?"
"He went home," said the Knight; "he resisted all my efforts to detain
him to dinner."
"Perhaps he only came over to sell that horse," said Nolan, in a half
whisper.
"I wish I had bought him, with all my heart," said Lionel.
"Do you like him so much," said the Knight, with a meaning smile.
"I sincerely hope you do," said Lord Netherby, "for he is yours
already,--at least, if you will do me the honor to accept him; I often
hoped to have mounted you one day--"
"I accept him, my Lord," interposed Lionel, "most willingly and most
gratefully. You have, literally speaking, mounted me 'one day,' and I
very much doubt if I ever mount the same animal another."
"What! is he lame?--or staked?--did he break down?--is he a devil to
ride?" broke from several of the party.
"Not one of all these; but if you'll bestow five minutes' patience on me
I 'll perhaps inform you of a mode of being unhorsed, novel at least to
most fox-hunters." With this, Lionel narrated the conclusion of the
run, the leap of the Crumpawn river, and the singular departure of his
companion at the end.
"Is this a practical joke, Knight?" said Lord Netherby.
"I think so, my Lord; one of those admirable jests which the statutes
record among their own Joe Millers."
"Then you suspect he was a robber?"
"I confess it looks very like it."
"I read the riddle otherwise," said Lionel; "the fellow, whoever he was,
mistook me for somebody else, and there was evidently something more
like a reprisal than a theft in the whole transaction."
"But you have really lost him?" said Beanclerk.
"When I assure you that I came home on foot, I hope that question is
answered."
"By Jove! you have most singular ways of doing matters in this country,"
cried the colonel; "but I suppose when a man is used to Ireland, he gets
pretty much accustomed to hear of his horse being stolen away as well as
the fox."
"Oh! we'll chance upon him one of these days yet," said the Knight; "I
am half of Lionel's mind myself now,--the thing does not look like a
robbery."
"There's no end of the eccentricity of these people," muttered Lord
Netherby to himself; "they can get into a towering passion and become
half mad about trifles, but they take a serious loss as coolly as
possible." And with this reflection on national character he moved into
the drawing-room, where soon afterwards the party repaired to talk over
Lionel's adventure, with every turn that fancy or raillery could give
it.
CHAPTER XXX. BAGENAL DALY'S VISITORS
It was at a late hour of a night, some days after this event occurred,
that Bagenal Daly sat closeted with Darcy's lawyer, endeavoring, by deep
and long thought, to rescue him from some at least of the perils that
threatened him. Each day, since the Knight's departure, had added to the
evil tidings of his fortune. While Gleeson had employed his powers of
attorney to withdraw large sums from the banker's hands, no information
could be had concerning the great loan he had raised from the London
company, nor was there to be found among the papers left behind him the
bond passed to Hickman, and which he should have received had the money
been paid. That such was the case, Bagenal Daly firmly believed; the
memorandum given him by Freney was corroborated by the testimony of the
clerks in two separate banking-houses, who both declared that Gleeson
drew these sums on the morning before he started for Kildare, and to one
of Daly's rapid habits of judgment such evidence was quite conclusive.
This view of the subject was, unhappily, not destined to continue
undisturbed, for, on the very morning after the Knight's departure from
Dublin, came a formal letter from Hickman's solicitor, demanding payment
of the interest on the sum of seventy-four thousand eight hundred and
twenty pounds, odd shillings, at five per cent, owing by seven weeks,
and accompanying which was a notice of foreclosure of the mortgage on
the ensuing 17th of March, in case the full sum aforesaid were not duly
paid.
To meet these demands Daly well knew Darcy had no disposable property;
the large sums raised by Gleeson, at a lower rate of interest, were
intended for that purpose; and although he persisted in believing that
this debt, at least, was satisfied, the lawyer's opinion was strongly
opposed to that notion.
Mr. Bicknell was a shrewd man, deep not only in the lore of his
professional knowledge, but a keen scrutinizer of motives, and a
far-seeing observer of the world. He argued thus: Gleeson would never
have parted with such a sum on the eve of his own flight; a day was of
no consequence, he could easily have put off the payment to Hickman to
the time of the American ship's sailing--why, then, hand over so large
an amount, all in his possession? It was strange, of course, what had
become of the money; but then they heard that his servant had made his
escape. Why might not he have possessed himself of it after his master's
suicide? Who was to interfere or prevent it? Besides, if he had paid
Hickman, the bond would, in all likelihood, be forthcoming; to retain
possession of it could have been no object with Gleeson; he had met with
nothing but kind and friendly treatment from Darcy, and was not likely
to repay him by an act of useless, gratuitous cruelty.
As to the testimony of the bank clerks, it was as applicable to one view
of the case as the other. Gleeson would, of course, draw out everything
at his disposal; and although the sums tallied with those in the
memorandum, that signified little, as they were the full amount in each
banker's hands to the Knight's credit. Lastly, as to the memorandum, it
was the only real difficulty in the case; but that paper might have been
in Gleeson's possession, and in the course of business discussion either
might have been dropped inadvertently, or have been given to Hickman as
explaining the moneys already prepared for his acceptance.
Mr. Bicknell's reasonings were confirmed by the application of Hickman's
solicitors, who were men of considerable skill and great reputed
caution. "Harris and Long make no such mistakes as this, depend upon
that, sir; they see their case very clearly, or would never adventure on
such an application."
"D----n their caution! The question is not of their shrewdness."
"Yes, but it is, though; we are weighing probabilities: let us see to
which side the balance inclines. Would they serve notice of foreclosure,
not knowing whether or not we had the receipt in our possession? That is
the whole matter."
"I don't pretend to say what they would do, but I know well what I
should."
"And pray what may that be?"
"Hold possession of the abbey, stand fast by the old walls, call in the
tenantry,--and they are ready to answer such a call at a moment, if need
be,--and while I proclaimed to the wide world by what right I resisted,
I 'd keep the place against any force they dared to bring. These
are ticklish times, Bicknell; the Government have just cheated this
country,--they 'd scarcely risk the hazard of a civil war for an old
usurer,--old Hickman would be left to his remedies in Banco or Equity;
and who knows what might turn up one day or other to strengthen the
honest cause?"
"I scarcely concur in your suggestion, sir."
"How the devil should you? There are neither declarations to draw,
nor affidavits to swear, no motions, nor rules, nor replies, no
declarations, no special juries! No, Bicknell, I never suspected your
approval of my plan. It would not cost a single skin of parchment."
Though Daly spoke this sarcasm bitterly, it produced no semblance of
irritation in the man of law, who was composedly occupied in perusing a
document before him.
"I have made memoranda," said Bicknell, "of certain points for counsel's
opinion, and as soon as we can obtain some information as to the
authenticity of young Darcy's signature, we shall see our way more
clearly. The case is not only a complicated but a gloomy one; our
antagonists are acute and wealthy, and I own to you the prospect is far
from good."
"The better counsel mine," said Daly, sternly; "I have little faith in
the justice that hangs upon the intelligence of what you facetiously
call twelve honest men; methinks the world is scarcely so well supplied
with the commodity that they are sure to answer the call of
the sheriff. It is probable, however,--nay, it is more than
probable,--Darcy will be of your mind, and reject my advice; if so,
there is nothing for it but the judge and jury, and he will be despoiled
of his property by the law of the land."
Bicknell knew too well the eccentric nature of Daly's character, in
which no feature was more prominent than his hatred of everything like
the recognized administration of the law, to offer him any opposition,
and merely repeating his previous determination to seek the advice of
able counsel, he took his leave.
"There is some deep mystery in this business," said Daly to himself, as
he paced the room alone; "Bicknell is right in saying that Gleeson would
not have committed an act of unnecessary cruelty, nor, if he had paid
the money, would he have failed to leave the bond among his papers.
Every circumstance of this fellow's flight is enveloped in doubt, and
Freney, the only man who appears to have suspected his intention,
by some mischance is not now to be found; Sandy has not succeeded in
meeting with the boy, notwithstanding all his efforts. What can this be
owing to? What machinery is at work here? Have the Hick-mans their
share in this?" Such were the broken sentences he muttered, as, in turn,
suspicions tracked each other in his mind.
Daly was far too rash, and too impetuous in temper, to be well
qualified for an investigation of so much difficulty. Unable to weigh
probabilities with calmness, he was always the victim of his own
prejudices in favor of certain things and people; and to escape from the
chaotic trouble of his own harassed thoughts, he was ever ready to adopt
some headlong and desperate expedient, in preference to the quieter
policy of more patient minds.
"Yes, faith," said he, "my plan is the best after all; and who knows but
by showing the bold front we may reduce old Hickman's pretensions, or
at least make a compromise with him. There are plenty of arms and
ammunition,--eight stout fellows would hold the inner gate tower against
a battalion,--we could raise the country from Mur-risk to Killery
Harbor; and one gun fired from the Boat Quay would bring the fishermen
from Clare Island and Achill to the rescue,--we 'd soon make a signal
they 'd recognize; old Hickman's house, with all its porticos and
verandas, would burn like tinder. If they are for law, let them begin,
then."
The door opened as he spoke these words, and Sandy entered cautiously.
"There is a countryman without wha says he's come a long way to see your
honor, and maun see you this night."
"Where from?"
"Fra' the West, I think, for he said the roads were heavy down in them
parts."
"Let him come in," said Daly; and, with his hands crossed behind his
back, he continued to walk the room. "Some poor fellow for a renewal of
his lease, or an abatement, or something of that kind,--they 'll never
learn that I 'm no longer the owner of that estate that still bears my
name, and they cling to me as though I had the power to assist them,
when I'm defenceless for myself. Well, what is it? Speak out, man,--what
do you want with me?"
The individual to whom this question was addressed stood with his
back to the door, which he had cautiously shut close on entering, but,
instead of returning an answer to the question, he cast a long and
searching glance around the room, as if to ascertain whether any other
person was in it. The apartment was large, and, being dimly lighted, it
took some time to assure him that they were alone; but when he had
so satisfied himself-, he walked slowly forward into the light, and,
throwing open his loose coat of gray frieze, exhibited the well-known
figure of Freney the robber.
"What, Freney!--the man of all Ireland I wish to see."
"I thought so, sir," said the other, wiping his forehead with his
hand, for he was flushed and heated, and seemed to have come off a
long journey. "I know you sent for me, but I was unable to meet your
messenger, and I can seldom venture to send that young villain Jemmy
into the capital,--the police are beginning to know him, and he 'll be
caught one of these days."
"You were n't in Kildare, then?" said Daly.
"No, sir, I was in the far West,--down in Mayo. I had a little business
in Ballina a short time back, and some fellow who knew me, and thought
the game a safe one, stole my brown horse out of the inn-stable, in the
broad noon-day, and sold him at the fair green at Ballinasloe. When I
tell you that he was the best animal I ever crossed, I need n't say
what the loss was to me; the nags you saw were broken-down hackneys in
comparison. He was strong in bone and untiring, and I kept him for the
heavy country around Boyle and down by Longford. It is not once, nor
twice, but a dozen times, Matchlock has saved me from a loop and a
leap in the air; but the rascal that took him well knew the theft was
safe,--Freney, the highwayman, could scarcely lodge informations with a
magistrate."
"And you never could hear traces of him?" "Yes, that I did, but it cost
me time and trouble too. I found that he was twice sold within one week.
Dean Harris bought him, and sold him the day after." Here Freney gave a
low cunning laugh, while his eyes twinkled with malignant drollery.
"He did n't think as highly of him as you did, Freney?" "Perhaps he had
n't as good reason," said the robber, laughing. "He was riding home from
an early dinner with the bishop, and as he was cantering along the side
of the road, a chaise with four horses came tearing past. Matchlock,
true to his old instinct, but not knowing who was on his back, broke
into a gallop, and in half a dozen strides brought the dean close up to
the chaise window, when the traveller inside sent a bullet past his ear
that very nearly made a vacancy in the best living of the diocese. As I
said, sir, the dean had had enough of him; he sold him the next morning,
and that day week he was bought by a young fellow in the West whom I
found out to be a grandson of old Hickman."
"Was he able to ride a horse like this?" said Daly, doubtfully.
"Ride him?--ay; and never a man in the province brought a beast to a
leap with a lighter hand and a closer seat in the saddle. We were side
by side for three miles of a stiff country, and I don't believe I 'm
much of a coward,--at any rate, I set very little value on my neck; but,
I 'll tell you what, sir, he pushed me hard."
"How was this, then? Had you a race together?" "It was something very
like it, sir," said Freney, laughing; "for when I reached Westport, I
heard that young O'Reilly was to ride a new brown horse that day
with the hounds, and a great hunt was expected, to show some English
gentlemen who were staying at Gwynne Abbey. So I went off early to
Hooley's forge, near the cross-roads, to see the meet, and look out for
my man. I did n't want any one to tell me which he was, for I 'd know
Matchlock at half a mile distance. There he was, in splendid condition
too, and looking as I never saw him look before; by my conscience,
Mr. Daly, there's a wide difference between the life of a beast in the
stables of a county member, and one that has to stretch his bones in the
shealing of such as myself. My plan was to go down to the cover, and the
moment the fox broke away, to drive a bullet through my horse's head,
and be off as hard as I could; for, to tell you the truth, it was spite
more than the value of him was grieving me; so I took my own horse
by the bridle, and walked down to where they were all gathered. I was
scarcely there when the dogs gave tongue, and away they went,--a grand
sight it was, more than a hundred red-coats, and riding close every man
of them. Just then, up comes Matchlock, and takes the fence into the
field where I was standing, a stone wall and a ditch, his rider handling
him elegantly, and with an easy smile, sitting down in his saddle as if
it was child's play. Faith, I could n't bring myself to fire the shot,
partly for the sake of the horse, more too, maybe, for the sake of the
rider. 'I 'll go a bit beside him,' said I to myself; for it was a real
pleasure to me to watch the way how both knew their business well. I
'm making a long story of it, but the end of it was this: I took the
Crumpawn river just to dare him, and divil a bit but he fell in,--no
fault of his, but the bank was rotten, and down they went; the young
fellow had a narrow escape of it, but he got through it at last, and, as
he lay on the grass more dead than alive, I saw Matchlock grazing just
close to me. Temptations are bad things, Mr. Daly, particularly when a
man has never trained himself off them; so I slipped the bridle over his
head, and rode away with him beside me."
[Illustration: 368]
"Carried him off?"
"Clean and clever; he's at the hall-door this minute: and, by the same
token, sixty-four miles he has covered this day."
"There's only one part of the whole story surprises me; it is that this
fellow should have ridden so boldly and so well. I know such courage is
often no more than habit: yet even that lower quality of daring I never
should have given him credit for. Was he hurt by his fall?"
"Stunned, perhaps, but nothing the worse."
"Well, well, enough of him. I wanted to see you, Freney, to learn
anything you may know of this fellow Gleeson's flight. It's a sad affair
for my friend the Knight of Gwynne."
"So I've heard, sir. It's bad enough for myself, too."
"For you! He was not your man of business, was he?" said Daly, with a
sly laugh.
"No, sir, I generally manage my money matters myself; but he happened to
have a butler, one Garrett by name, who betted smartly on the turf, and
played a little with the bones besides. He was a steady-going chap that
knew a thing or two, but honest enough in booking up when he lost; he
borrowed two hundred from me on the very day they started; he owed me
nearly three besides, and I never saw him since. They say that when his
master jumped overboard, Jack Garrett laid hands on all his property,
and sailed for America; but I don't believe it, sir."
"Well, but, Freney, you may believe it, for I was the means of an
investigation at Liverpool in which the fact transpired, and the name
of John Garrett was entered in the ship-agent's books; I read it there
myself."
"No matter for that, he dared not venture into the States. I know
something of Jack's doings among the Yankees, and depend upon it, Mr.
Daly, he's not gone; it's only a blind to stop pursuit."
Daly shook his head dubiously, for, having satisfied himself of
Garrett's escape when at Liverpool, he felt annoyed at any discredit
attaching to what he deemed his own discovery.
"Take my word for it, Mr. Daly, I 'm right this time; you cannot think
what an advantage a man like me possesses in guessing at the way another
rogue would play his game. Why, sir, I know every turn and double such
a fellow as Garrett would make. Now, I 'd wager Matchlock against a
car-horse that he has not left England, and I 'd take an even bet he 'll
be at the Spring Meeting at Doncaster."
"This may be all as you say, Freney," said Daly, after a pause, "and yet
I see no reason to suppose it can interest me, or my friend either. He
might know something of Gleeson's affairs; he might, perhaps, be able to
tell something of the payment of that sum at Kildare; if so--"
"If so," interrupted Freney, "money would buy the secret; at all events,
I'm determined he shall not escape me so easily. I 'll follow the fellow
to the very threshold of Newgate but I 'll have my own,--it is for
that purpose I 'm on my way now. A fishing-boat will sail from Howth by
to-morrow's tide, and land me somewhere on the Welsh coast, and, if I
can serve you, why, it's only doing two jobs at the same time. What are
the points you are anxious to discover?"
Daly reflected for a few moments, and then with distinctness detailed
the several matters on which he desired information, not only regarding
the reasons of Gleeson's embarrassments, but the nature of his intimacy
with old Hickman, of which he entertained deep suspicions.
"I see it all," said Freney. "You think that Gleeson was in league with
the doctor?"
Daly nodded.
"That was my own notion, too. Ah, sir, if I 'd only the King's pardon in
my pocket this night, and the power of an honest man for one month, I
'd stake my head on it, but I would have the whole mystery as clear as
water."
"You 'll want some money, Freney," said Daly, as he turned to the table,
and, taking up a key, unlocked the writing-case. "I 'm not as rich just
now as a Member of Parliament might be after such a Bill as the Union,
but I hope this may be of some service;" and he took a fifty-pound note
from the desk to hand it to him, but Freney was gone. He had slipped
noiselessly from the room; the bang of the hall-door was heard at the
instant, and immediately after the tramp of a horse as he trotted down
the street.
"The world all over!" said Daly to himself. "If the man of honor and
integrity has his flaws and defects, even fellows like that have their
notions of principle and delicacy too. Confound it! mankind will never
let me love or hate them."
CHAPTER XXXI. "A LEAVE-TAKING."
At Gwynne Abbey, time sped fast and pleasantly; each day brought its own
enjoyments, and of the Knight's guests there was not one who did not in
his heart believe that Maurice Darcy was the very happiest man in the
kingdom.
Lord Netherby, the frigid courtier, felt, for the first time, perhaps,
in his life, how much cordiality can heighten the pleasures of social
intercourse, and how the courtesy of kind feeling can add to the
enjoyments of refined and cultivated tastes. Lady Eleanor had lost
nothing of the powers of fascination for which her youth had been
celebrated, and there was, in the very seclusion of her life, that
which gave the charm of novelty to her remarks on people and events. The
Knight himself, abounding in resources of every kind, was a companion
the most fastidious or exacting could not weary of; and as for Helen,
her captivations were acknowledged by those who, but a week before,
would not have admitted the possibility of any excellence that had not
received the stamp of London approval.
Crofton could never expatiate sufficiently on the delights of an
establishment which, with the best cook, the best cellar, and the best
stable, called not upon him for the exercise of the small talents and
petty attentions by which his invitations to great houses were usually
purchased; while the younger men of the party agreed in regarding their
friend Lionel as the most to be envied of all their acquaintance.
Happiness, perhaps, shines more brightly by reflected light; certainly
Lionel Darcy never felt more disposed to be content with the world,
and, although not devoid of a natural pride at exhibiting to his English
friends the style of his father's house and habits, yet was he far more
delighted at the praises he heard on every side of the Knight himself.
Maurice Darcy possessed that rarest of all gifts, the power of being
a delightful companion to younger men, without ever detracting in
the slightest degree from the most rigid tone of good taste and
good principle. The observation may seem an illiberal one, but it is
unhappily too true, that even among those who from right feeling would
be incapable of anything mean or sordid, there often prevails a laxity
in expression and a libertinism of sentiment very far remote from their
real opinions, and, consequently, such as flatter this tendency are
frequently the greatest favorites among them. The Knight, not less from
high principle than pride, rejected every such claim; his manly, joyous
temperament needed no aids to its powers of interesting and amusing;
his sympathies went with young men in all their enthusiasm for sport; he
gloried in the exuberance of their high spirits, and felt his own youth
come back in the eager pleasure with which he listened to their plans of
amusement.
It may well be believed with what sorrow to each the morning dawned that
was to be the last of their visit. These last times are sad things!
They are the deaths of our affections and attachments; for assuredly the
memory we retain of past pleasures is only the unreal spirit of a world
we are to know of no more,--not alone the records of friends lost or
dead, but of ourselves, such as we once were, and can never again be;
of a time when hope was fed by credulity, and could not be exhausted by
disappointment. They must have had but a brief experience of life who do
not see in every separation from friends the many chances against their
meeting again, least of all, of meeting unchanged, with all around them
as they parted.
These thoughts, and others like them, weighed heavily on the hearts of
those who now assembled for the last time beneath the roof of Gwynne
Abbey.
It was in vain that Lionel suggested various schemes of pleasure for the
day; the remembrance that it was the last was ever present, and while
every moment seemed precious, there was a fidgety impatience to be about
and stirring, mingled with a desire to loiter and linger over the spot
so associated with pleasant memories.
A boating party to Clare Island, long planned and talked over, could
find now no advocates. All Lionel's descriptions of the shooting along
the rocky shores of the bay were heard unheeded; every one clung to the
abbey, as if to enjoy to the very last the sense of home happiness
they had known there. Even those less likely to indulge feelings of
attachment were not free from the depressing influence of a last day.
Nor were these sentiments confined to the visitors only. Lady Eleanor
experienced a return of her former spirits in her intercourse with those
whose habits and opinions all reminded her of the past, and would gladly
have prolonged a visit so full of pleasant recollections. The request
was, however, in vain; the Earl was to be in waiting early in the
following week, Lionel's leave was only regimental, and equally limited,
and each of the others had engagements and projects no less fixed and
immutable.
In little knots of two and three they spent the day wandering about from
place to place, to take a last look of the great cliff, to visit for the
last time the little wood path, whose every turning presented some new
aspect of the bay and the shore. Lord Netherby attached himself to the
Knight, devoting himself with a most laudable martyrdom to a morning in
the farm-yard and the stable, where, notwithstanding all his efforts,
his blunders betrayed how ill-suited were his habits to country life and
its interests. He bore all, however, well and heroically, for he had an
object in view, and that, with him, was always sufficient to induce
any degree of endurance. Up to this moment he had scarcely enjoyed an
opportunity of conversing with the Knight on the subject of politics.
The few words they had exchanged at the cover side were all that passed
between them, and although they conveyed sentiments very remote from his
own, he did not entirely despair of gaining over one who evidently was
less actuated by party motives than impressed by the force of strong
personal convictions.
"Such a man will, of course," thought the Earl, "be in the Imperial
Parliament, and carry with him great influence on every question
connected with Ireland; his support of the Ministry will be all the more
valuable that his reputation is intact from every stain of corruption.
To withdraw him from his own country by the seductions of London life
would not be easy, but he may be attached to England by ties still more
binding." Such were some of the reasonings which the wily peer revolved
in his mind, and to whose aid a fortunate accident had in some measure
contributed.
"I believe I have never shown you our garden, my Lord," said the Knight,
who, at last taking compassion on the suffering complaisance of the
Earl, proposed this change. "The season is scarcely the most flattering,
but we are early in this part of Ireland. What say you if we walk
thither?"
The plan was at once approved of, and after a short circuit through a
shrubbery, they crossed a large orchard, and, ascending a gentle slope,
they entered the garden, which rose in successive terraces behind the
abbey, and commanded a wide prospect over the bay and the sea beyond it.
Lord Netherby's admiration was not feigned, as he turned his eyes around
and beheld the extent and beauty of that cultivated scene, which, in the
brightness of a spring morning, glittered like a gem on the mountain's
side. The taste alone was not the engrossing thought of his mind, but
he reflected on the immense expenditure such a caprice must have cost,
terraced as the ground was into the very granite rock, and the earth all
supplied artificially. The very keeping these parterres in order was a
thing of no mean cost. Not all the terrors of his own approaching fate
could deprive Darcy of a sense of pride as he watched the expression of
the Earl's features, surprise and wonder depicted in every lineament.
"How extensive the park is," said the courtier, at length, half ashamed,
as it seemed, of giving way to his amazement; "are those trees yonder
within your grounds?"
"Yes, my Lord: the wood at that point where you see the foam splashing
up is our limit in that direction; on this side we stretch away somewhat
further."
"Whose property, then, have we yonder, where I see the village?"
"It is all the Gwynne estate," said the Knight, with difficulty
repressing the sigh that rose as he spoke.
"And the town?"
"The town also. The worthy monks took a wide circuit, and, by all
accounts, did not misuse their wealth. I sadly fear, my Lord, their
successors were not as blameless."
"A noble possession, indeed!" said the Earl, half aloud, and not
attending to Darcy's remark. "Are you certain, my dear Knight, that you
have made your political influence at all commensurate with the amount
of either your property or your talents? An English gentleman with an
estate like this, and ability such as yours, might command any position
he pleased."
"In other words, my Lord, he might barter his independence for the
exercise of a precarious power, and, in ceasing to dispense the duties
of a landed proprietor, he might become a very considerable ingredient
in a party."
"I hope you do not deem the devoir of a country gentleman incompatible
with the duties of a statesman?"
"By no means; but I greatly regret the gradual desertion of social
influence in the search after political ascendency. I am not for the
working of a system that spoils the gentry, and yet does not make them
statesmen."
"And yet the very essence of our Constitution is to connect the power of
Government with the possession of landed property."
"And justly so, too; none other offers so little in return as a mere
speculation. None is so little exposed to the casualties which affect
every other kind of wealth. The legitimate influence of the landed
gentry is the safeguard of the State; but if, by the attractions of
power, the flatteries of a Court, or the seductions of Party, you
withdraw them from the rightful sphere of its exercise, you reduce them
to the level of the Borough members, without, perhaps, their technical
knowledge or professional acquirements. I am for giving them a
higher position,--the heritage of the bold barons, from whom they are
descended: but to maintain this, they must live on their own estates,
dispense the influences of their wealth and their morals in their own
native districts, be the friend of the poor man, the counsellor of the
misguided, the encourager of the weak; know and be known to all around,
not as the corrupt dispensers of Government patronage, but the guardians
of those whose rights are in their keeping for defence and protection.
I would have them with their rightful influence in the Senate; an
influence which should preponderate in both Houses. Their rank and
education would be the best guarantee for the safety and wisdom of
their counsels, their property the best surety for the permanence of
the institutions of the State. Suddenly acquired wealth can scarcely be
intrusted with political power; it lacks the element of prudent caution,
by which property is maintained as well as accumulated; it wants also
the prestige of antiquity as a claim to respect; and, legislate as you
will, men will look back as well as forward."
Lord Netherby made no reply; he thought the Knight, perhaps, was venting
his own regrets at the downfall of a political ascendency he wished to
see vested in men of his own station,--a position they had long enjoyed,
and which, in some respects, had placed them above the law.
"You lay more store by such ties, Knight," said the Earl, in a low,
insinuating voice, "than we are accustomed to do. Blood and birth have
suffered less admixture with mere wealth here than with us."
"Perhaps we do, my Lord," said Darcy, smiling; "it is the compensation
for our poverty. Unmixed descent is the boast of many who have retained
nothing of their ancestors save the name."
"But you yourself can scarcely be an advocate for the maintenance of
these opinions: this spirit of clan and chieftainship is opposed, not
only to progress, but to liberty."
"I have given the best proof of the contrary," said Darcy, laughing,
"by marrying an Englishwoman,--a dereliction, I assure you, that cost me
many a warm supporter in this very country."
"Indeed! By the way, I am reminded of a subject I wished to speak of
to you, and which I have been hesitating whether I should open with my
cousin Eleanor or yourself; the moment seems, however, propitious,--may
I broach it?"
Darcy bowed courteously, and the other resumed:--
"I will be brief, then. Young Beauclerk, a friend of your son Lionel,
has been, as every one younger and older than himself must be, greatly
taken by the charms of Miss Darcy. Brief as the acquaintance here has
been, the poor fellow is desperately in love, and, while feeling how
such an acknowledgment might prejudice his chance of success on so short
an intimacy, he cannot leave this without the effort to secure for his
pretensions a favorable hearing hereafter. In fact, my dear Knight, he
has asked of me to be his intercessor with you,--not to receive him as a
son-in-law, but to permit him to pay such attentions as, in the event of
your daughter's acceptance, may enable him to make the offer of his hand
and fortune. I need not tell you that in point of position and means he
is unexceptionable; a very old Baronetcy,--not one of these yesterday
creations made up of State Physicians and Surgeons in Ordinary,--an
estate of above twelve thousand a year. Such are claims to look high
with; but I confess I think he could not lay them at the feet of one
more captivating than my fair Helen."
Darcy made no reply for several minutes; he pressed his hand across his
eyes, and turned his head away, as if to escape observation; then, with
an effort that seemed to demand all his strength, he said,--
"This is impossible, my Lord. There are reasons--there are circumstances
why I cannot entertain this proposition. I am not able to explain them;
a few days more, and I need not trouble myself on that subject."
The evident agitation of manner the Knight displayed astonished his
companion, who, while he forebore to ask more directly for its reason,
yet gently hinted that the obstacles alluded to might be less stringent
than Darcy deemed them.
Darcy shook his head mournfully, and Lord Netherby, though most anxious
to divine the secret of his thoughts, had too much breeding to continue
the subject.
Without any abruptness, which might have left an unpleasant impression
after it, the polished courtier once more adverted to Beauclerk, but
rather in a tone of regret for the youth's own sake than with any
reference to the Knight's refusal.
"There was a kind of selfishness in my advocacy, Knight," said he,
smiling. "I was--I am--very much depressed at quitting a spot where I
have tasted more true happiness than it has been my fortune for many
years to know, and I wish to carry away with me the reflection that
I had left the germ of even greater happiness behind me; if Helen,
however--"
"Hush!" said Darcy; "here she comes, with her mother."
"My dear Lady Eleanor," said Lord Netherby, "you have come to see me
forget all the worldliness it has cost me a life to learn, and actually
confess that I cannot tear myself away from the abbey."
"Well, my Lord," interposed Tom Nolan, who had just come up with a
large walking party, "I suppose it's only ordering away the posters, and
staying another day."
"No, no, by Jove!" cried Crofton; "my Lord is in waiting, and I'm on
duty."
While the groups now gathered together from the different parts of the
garden, Lord Netherby joined Beauclerk, who awaited him in a distant
alley, and soon after the youth was seen returning alone to the abbey.
The time of bustle and leave-taking--that moment when many a false smile
and merry speech ill conceals the secret sorrow--was come, and each
after each spoke his farewell; and Lord Netherby, kindly pledging
himself to make Lionel's peace at the Horse Guards for an extended
absence of some days, thus conferred upon Lady Eleanor the very greatest
of favors.
"Our next meeting is to be in London, remember," said the peer, in his
blandest accents. "I stand pledged to show my countrymen that I have
nothing extenuated in speaking of Irish beauty;--nay, Helen, it is my
last time, forgive it."
"There they go," said Darcy, as he looked after the retiring equipages.
"Now, Eleanor, and my dear children, come along with me into the
library. I have long been struggling against a secret sorrow; another
moment would be more than I could bear."
They turned silently towards the abbey, none daring, even by a look, to
interrogate him whose sad accents foreboded so much evil; yet as they
walked they drew closer around him, and seemed even by that gesture to
show that, come what might, they would meet their fortune boldly.
Darcy moved on for some minutes sunk in thought; but as he ascended the
wide steps of the terrace, appearing to read the motives of those who
clung so closely to his side, he smiled sadly, and said, "Ay! I knew it
well,--in weal or woe--together!"
CHAPTER XXXII. "SAD DISCLOSURES."
The vicissitudes of life are never more palpably displayed before us
than when the space of a few brief hours has converted the scene of
festivity and pleasure into one of gloom and sorrow, when the same
silent witnesses of our joy should be present at our affliction. Thus
was it now in the richly adorned chambers of Gwynne Abbey, so lately
filled with happy faces and resounding with pleasant voices,--all
was silent. Iu the courtyard, but a day before crowded with brilliant
equipages and gay horsemen, the long shadows lay dark and unbroken, and
the plash of the fountain was the only sound in the stillness. Over that
wide lawn no groups on foot or horseback were to be seen; the landscape
was fair and soft to look upon; the mild radiance of a spring morning
beamed on the water and the shore, the fresh budding trees, and the tall
towers; and the passing traveller who might have stopped to gaze upon
that princely dwelling and its swelling woods, might have thought it an
earthly paradise, and that they who owned it must needs be above worldly
cares and afflictions.
The scene within the walls was very unlike this impression. In a
darkened room, where the close-drawn curtains excluded every ray of
sunshine, sat Helen Darcy by the bedside of her mother. Lady Eleanor had
fallen asleep after a night of intense suffering, both of mind and
body, and her repose even yet exhibited, in short and fitful starts, the
terrible traces of an agony not yet subdued. Helen was pale as death;
two dark circles of almost purple hue surrounded her eyes, and her
cheeks seemed wasted: yet she had not wept. The overwhelming amount of
misfortune had stunned her for a moment or two, but, recalled to active
exertion by her mother's illness, she addressed herself to her task, and
seemed to have no thought or care save to watch and tend her. It was
only at last when, wearied out by suffering, Lady Eleanor fell into a
slumber that Helen's feelings found their vent, and the tears rolled
heavily along her cheek, and dropped one by one upon her neck.
Her sorrow was indeed great, for it was unalloyed by one selfish
feeling; her grief was for those a thousand times more dear to her than
herself, nor through all her affliction did a single thought intrude of
how this ruin was also her own.
The Knight was in the library, where he had passed the night, lying down
at short intervals to catch some moments' rest, and again rising to
walk the room and reflect upon the coming stroke of fortune. Lionel had
parted from him at a late hour, promising to go to bed; but, unable to
endure the gloom of his own thoughts in his chamber, he wandered out
into the woods, and strolled on without knowing or caring whither, till
day broke. The bodily exertion at length induced sleep, and after a few
hours' deep repose he joined his father, with few traces of weariness or
even sorrow.
It was not without a struggle on either side that they met on that
morning, and as Darcy grasped his son's hand in both his own, his lip
trembled, and his strong frame shook with agitation. Lionel's ruddy
cheek and clear blue eye seemed to reassure the old man's courage; and
after gazing on him steadfastly with a look where fatherly love and
pride were blended, he said, "I see, my boy, the old blood of a Darcy
has not degenerated--you are well to-day?"
"Never was better in my life," said Lionel, boldly; "and if I could
only think that you, my mother, and Helen had no cause for sorrow, I 'd
almost say I never felt my spirits higher."
"My own brave-hearted boy," said Darcy, throwing his arms around the
youth's neck, while the tears gushed from his eyes and a choking stopped
his utterance.
"I see your letters have come," said Lionel, gently disengaging himself,
and affecting a degree of calmness his heart was very far from feeling.
"Do they bring us any news?"
"Nothing to hope from," said Darcy, sorrowfully. "Daly has seen
Hickman's solicitors, and the matter is as I expected: Gleeson did not
pay the bond debt; his journey to Kildare was, probably, undertaken to
gain time until the moment of the American ship's sailing. He must have
meditated this step for a considerable time, for it now appears that his
losses in South America occurred several years back, though carefully
screened from public knowledge. The man was a cold, calculating
scoundrel, who practised peculation systematically and slowly; his
resolve to escape was not a sudden notion,--these are Bagenal Daly's
impressions at least, and I begin to feel their force myself."
"Does Daly offer any suggestion for our guidance, or say how we should
act?" said Lionel, far more eager to meet the present than speculate on
either the past or the future.
"Yes; he gives us a choice of counsels, honestly confessing that his own
advice meets little support or sympathy with the lawyers. It is to hold
forcible possession of the abbey, to leave Hickman to his remedy by
law, and to defy him when he has even got a verdict; he enumerates very
circumstantially all our means of defence, and exhibits a very hopeful
array of lawless probabilities in our favor. But this is a counsel
I would never follow; it would not become one who has in a long
life endeavored to set the example among the people of obedience and
observance to law, to obliterate by one act of rashness and folly the
whole force of his teaching. No, Lionel, we are cleanhanded on this
score, and if the lesson, be a heavy one for ourselves, let it not be
profitless for our poor neighbors. This is your own feeling too, my boy,
I'm certain."
Lionel bit his lip, and his cheek grew scarlet; when, after a pause, he
said, "And the other plan, what is that?"
"The renewed offer of his cottage on the northern coast, a lonely
and secluded spot, where we can remain at least until we determine on
something better."
"Perhaps that may be a wiser course," muttered the youth, half aloud;
"my mother and Helen are to be thought of first. And yet, father, I.
cannot help thinking Daly's first counsel has something in it."
"Something in it! ay, Lionel, that it has,--the whole story of our
country's misery and degradation. The owner of the soil has diffused
little else among the people than the licentious terror of his own
unbridled passion; he has taught lawless outrage, when he should have
inculcated obedience and submission. The corruption of our people has
come from above downwards; the heavy retribution will come one day; and
when the vices of the peasant shall ascend to the master, the social
ruin will be complete. To this dreadful consummation let us lend no aid.
No, no, Lionel, sorrow may be lessened by time; but remorse is undying
and eternal."
"I must leave the Guards at once," said the young man, pacing the room
slowly, and endeavoring to speak with an air of calm composure, while
every feature of his face betrayed the agitation he suffered; "an
exchange will not be difficult to manage."
"You have some debts, too, in London: they must be cared for
immediately."
"Nothing of any large amount; my horses and carriages when sold will
more than meet all I owe. Have you formed any guess as to what income
will be left you to live on?" said he, in a voice which anxiety made
weak and tremulous.
"Without Daly's assistance, I cannot answer that point; the extent of
this fellow Gleeson's iniquity seems but half explored. The likelihood
is, that your mother's jointure will be the utmost we can save from the
wreck. Even that, however, will be enough for all we need, although,
from motives of delicacy on her part, it was originally set down at a
very small sum,--not more than a thousand per annum."
A long silence now ensued. The Knight, buried in thought, sat with his
arms crossed, and his eyes bent upon the ground. Lionel leaned on the
window-frame and looked out upon the lawn; nothing stirred, no sound was
heard save the sharp ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, which
marked with distinctness every second, as if reminding them of the
fleeting moments that were to be their last beneath that roof.
"This is the 24th, if I remember aright," said Darcy, looking up at the
dial; "at noon, to-day, we are no longer masters here."
"The Hickmans will scarcely venture to push matters to such extremities;
an assurance that we are willing to surrender peaceable possession will,
I trust, be sufficient to prevent the indecency of a rapid flight from
our own house and home."
"There are legal forms of possession to be gone through, I believe,"
said the Knight, sorrowfully; "certain observances the law exacts, which
would be no less painful for us to witness than the actual presence of
our successors."
"Who can this be? I saw a carriage disappear behind the copse yonder.
There it is again, coming along by the lake."
"Daly--Bagenal Daly, I hope and trust!" exclaimed Darcy, as he stood
straining his eyes to catch the moving object.
"I think not; the horses do not look like posters. Heaven grant we have
no visitors at such a time as this!"
The carriage, although clearly visible the moment before, was now
concealed from view by an angle of the wood, nor would it again be in
sight before reaching the abbey.
"Your mother's indisposition is reason sufficient not to receive them,"
said Darcy, almost sternly. "I would not continue the part I have played
during the last week, no, not for an hour longer, to be assured of
rescue from every difficulty. The duplicity went nigh to break my heart;
ay, and it would have done so, or driven me mad, had the effort been
sustained any further."
"You did not expect any one, did you?" asked Lionel, eagerly.
"Not one; there's a mass of letters, with invitations and civil
messages, there on the table, but no proffered visits among them."
Lionel walked to the table and turned over the various notes which lay
along with newspapers and pamphlets scattered about.
"Ay," muttered the Knight, in a low tone, "they read strangely now,
these plans of pleasure and festivity, when ruin is so near us; the kind
pressings to spend a week here, and a fortnight there. It reminds me,
Lionel,"--and here a smile of sad but sweet melancholy passed across his
features,--"it reminds me of the old story they tell of my grand-uncle
Robert. He commanded the 'Dreadnought,' under Drake, at Cape St.
Vincent, and at the close of a very sharp action was signalled to come
on board the admiral's vessel to dinner. The poor 'Dreadnought' was like
a sieve, the sea running in and out through her shot-holes, and her
sails hanging like rags around her, her deck covered with wounded, and
slippery with gore. Captain Darcy, however, hastened to obey the command
of his superior, changed his dress and ordered his boat to be manned;
but this was no easy matter, there was scarcely a boat's crew to be had
without taking away the men necessary to work the ship. The difficulty
soon became more pressing, for a plank had suddenly sprung from a
double-headed shot, and all the efforts of the pumps could not keep the
vessel afloat, with a heavy sea rolling at the same time.
"'The admiral's signal is repeated, sir,' said the lieutenant on duty.
"'Very well, Mr. Hay; keep her before the wind,' was the answer.
"'The ship is settling fast, sir,' said the master; 'no boat could live
in that sea; they 're all damaged by shot.'
"'Signal the flag-ship,' cried out Darcy; 'signal the admiral that I am
ready to obey him, but we 're sinking.'
"The bunting floated at the mast-head for a moment or two, but the waves
were soon many fathoms over it, and the 'Dreadnought' was never seen
more."
"So it would seem," said Lionel, with a half-bitter laugh, "we are not
the first of the family who went down head foremost. But I hear a voice
without. Surely old Tate is not fool enough to admit any one."
"Is it possible--" But before the Knight could finish, the old butler
entered to announce Mr. Hickman O'Reilly. Advancing towards the Knight
with a most cordial air, he seemed bent on anticipating any possible
expression of displeasure at his unexpected appearance.
"I am aware, Knight," said he, in an accent the most soft and
conciliating, "how indelicate a visit from me at such a moment may
seem; but if you accord me a few moments of private interview, I hope to
dispel the unpleasant impression." He looked towards Lionel as he spoke,
and though he smiled his blandest of all smiles, evidently hinted at the
possibility of his leaving them alone together.
"I have no confidences apart from my son, sir," said Darcy, coldly.
"Oh, of course not--perfectly natural at Captain Darcy's age--such a
thought would be absurd; still, there are circumstances which might
possibly excuse my request--I mean--"
Lionel did not suffer him to finish the sentence, but, turning abruptly
round, left the room, saying as he went, "I have some orders to give in
the stable, but I'll not go further away if you want me."
"Now, sir," said the Knight, haughtily, "we are alone, and not likely to
be interrupted; may I ask, as a great favor, that in any communication
you may have to make, you will be as brief as consists with your object;
for, to say truth, I have many things on my mind, and many important
calls to attend to."
"In the first place, then," said Hickman, assuming a manner intended to
convey the impression of perfect frankness and candor, "let me make
a confession, which, however humiliating to avow, would be still
more injurious to hold in reserve. I have neither act nor part in the
proceedings my father has lately taken respecting your mutual dealings.
Not only that he has not consulted me, but every attempt on my part to
ascertain the course of events, or mitigate their rigor, has been met
by a direct, not unfrequently a rude, repulse." He waited at this
pause for the Knight to speak, but a cold and dignified bow was all the
acknowledgment returned. "This may appear strange and inexplicable in
your eyes," said O'Reilly, who mistook the Knight's indifference for
incredulity, "but perhaps I can explain."
"There is not the slightest necessity to do so, Mr. O'Reilly; I have no
reason to doubt one word you have stated; for not only am I ignorant of
what the nature and extent of the proceedings you allude to may be, but
I am equally indifferent as to the spirit that dictates or the number of
advisers that suggest them; pardon me if I seem rude or uncourteous, but
there are circumstances in life in which not to be selfish would be
to become insensible; my present condition is, perhaps, one of them. A
breach of trust on the part of one who possessed my fullest confidence
has involved all, or nearly all, I had in the world. The steps by which
I am to be deprived of what was once my own are, as regards myself,
matters of comparative indifference; with respect to others"--here he
almost faltered--"I hope they may be dictated by proper feeling and
consideration."
"Be assured they shall, sir," said Mr. O'Reilly; and then, as if
correcting a too hasty avowal, added, "but I have the strongest hopes
that the matters are not yet in such an extremity as you speak of. It is
true, sir, I will not conceal from you, my father is not free from the
faults of age; his passion for money-getting has absorbed his whole
heart, to the exclusion of many amiable and estimable traits; to enforce
a legal right with him seems a duty, and not an option; and I may
mention here that your friend, Mr. Daly, has not taken any particular
pains towards conciliating him; indeed, he has scarcely acted a prudent
part as regards you, by the unceasing rancor he has exhibited towards
our family."
"I must interrupt you, sir," said the Knight, "and assure you that,
while there are unfortunately but too many topics which could pain me
at this moment, there is not one more certain to offend me than any
reflection, even the slightest, on the oldest friend I have in the
world."
Mr. O'Reilly denied the most remote intention of giving pain, and
proceeded. "I was speaking of my father," said he, "and however
unpleasant the confession from a son's lips, I must say that the
legality of his acts is the extent to which they claim his observance.
When his solicitors informed him that the interest was unpaid on your
bond, he directed the steps to enforce the payment, and subsequently to
foreclose the deed. These are, after all, mere preliminary proceedings,
and in no way preclude an arrangement for a renewal."
"Such a proposition--let me interrupt you--such a proposition is wholly
out of the question; the ruin that has cost us our house and home has
spared nothing. I have no means by which I could anticipate the payment
of so large a sum, nor is it either my intention or my wish to reside
longer beneath this roof."
"I hope, sir, your determination is not unalterable; it would be the
greatest affliction of my life to think that the loss to this county of
its oldest family was even in the remotest degree ascribed to us. The
Darcys have been the boast and pride of western Ireland for centuries;
our county would be robbed of its fairest ornament by the departure of
those who hold a princely state and derive a more than princely devotion
among us."
"If our claims had no other foundation, Mr. O'Reilly, our altered
circumstances would now obliterate them. To live here with diminished
fortune--But I ask pardon for being led away in this manner; may I beg
that you will now inform me to what peculiar circumstances I owe the
honor of your visit?"
"I thought," said O'Reilly, insinuatingly, "that I had mentioned the
difference of feeling entertained by my father and myself respecting
certain proceedings at law."
"You are quite correct, you did so; but I may observe, without
incivility, that however complimentary to your own sense of delicacy
such a difference is, for me the matter has no immediate interest."
"Perhaps, with your kind permission, I can give it some," replied
O'Reilly, drawing his chair close, and speaking in a low and
confidential voice; "but in order to let my communication have the value
I would wish it, may I bespeak for myself a favorable hearing and a kind
construction on what I shall say? If by an error of judgment--"
"Ah!" said Darcy, sighing, while a sad smile dimpled his mouth--"ah! no
man should be more lenient to such than myself."
As if reassured by the kindly tone of these few words, O'Reilly
resumed:--
"Some weeks ago my father waited upon Lady Eleanor Darcy with a
proposition which, whether on its own merits, or from want of proper
tact in his advocacy of it, met with a most unfavorable reception. It is
not because circumstances have greatly altered in that brief
interval--which I deeply regret to say is the case--that I dare to augur
a more propitious hearing, but simply because I hope to show that in
making it we were actuated by a spirit of honorable, if not of laudable,
ambition. The rank and position my son will enjoy in this county, his
fortune and estate, are such as to make any alliance, save with your
family, a question of no possible pretension. I am well aware, sir, of
the great disparity between a new house and one ennobled by centuries of
descent. I have thought long and deeply on the interval that separates
the rank of the mere country gentleman from the position of him who
claims even higher station than nobility itself; but we live in
changeful times: the Peerage has its daily accessions of rank as humble
as my own; its new creations are the conscripts drawn from wealth as
well as distinction in arms or learning, and in every case the new
generation obliterates the memory of its immediate origin. I see you
agree with me; I rejoice to find it."
"Your observations are quite just," said Darcy, calmly, and O'Reilly
went on:--
"Now, sir, I would not only reiterate my father's proposal, but I would
add to it what I hope and trust will be deemed no ungenerous offer,
which is, that the young lady's fortune should be this estate of Gwynne
Abbey, not to be endowed by her future husband, but settled on her by
her father as her marriage portion. I see your meaning,--it is no longer
his to give: but we are ready to make it so; the bond we hold shall be
thrown into the fire the moment your consent is uttered. We prefer a
thousand times it should be thus, than that the ancient acres of this
noble heritage should even for a moment cease to be the property of your
house. Let me recapitulate a little--"
"I think that is unnecessary," said Darcy, calmly; "I have bestowed
the most patient attention to your remarks, and have no difficulty in
comprehending them. Have you anything to add?"
"Nothing of much consequence," said O'Reilly, not a little pleased by
the favorable tone of the Knight's manner; "what I should suggest in
addition is that my son should assume the name and arms of Darcy--"
The noise of footsteps and voices without at this moment interrupted
the speaker, the door suddenly opened, and Bagenal Daly entered. He
was splashed from head to foot, his high riding-boots stained with
the saddle and the road, and his appearance vouching for a long and
wearisome journey.
"Good morrow, Darcy," said he, grasping the Knight's hand with the grip
of his iron fingers.--"Your servant, sir; I scarcely expected to see you
here so soon."
The emphasis with which he spoke the last words brought the color to
O'Reilly's cheek, who seemed very miserable at the interruption.
"You came to take possession," continued Daly, fixing his eyes on him
with a steadfast stare.
"You mistake, Bagenal," said the Knight, gently; "Mr. O'Reilly is come
with a very different object,--one which I trust he will deem it no
breach of confidence or propriety in me if I mention it to you."
"I regret to say, sir," said O'Reilly, hastily, "that I cannot give my
permission in this instance. Whatever the fate of the proposal I
have made to you, I beg it to be understood as made under the seal of
honorable secrecy."
Darcy bowed deeply, but made no reply.
"Confound me," cried Daly, "if I understand any compact between two such
men as you to require all this privacy, unless you were hardy enough to
renew your old father's proposal for my friend's daughter, and now had
modesty enough to feel ashamed of your own impudence."
"I am no stranger, sir, to the indecent liberties you permit your tongue
to take," said Hickman, moving towards the door; "but this is neither
the time nor place to notice them."
"So then I was right," cried Daly; "I guessed well the game you would
play--"
"Bagenal," interposed the Knight, "I must atop this. Mr. Hickman is now
beneath my roof--"
"Is he, faith?--not in his own estimation then. Why, his fellows are
taking an inventory of the furniture at this very moment."
"Is this true, sir?" said Darcy, turning a fierce look towards O'Reilly,
whose face became suddenly of an ashy paleness.
"If so," muttered he, "I can only assure you that it is without any
orders of mine."
"How good!" said Daly, bursting into an insolent laugh; "why, Darcy,
when you meet with a fellow in your plantations with a gun in his hand
and a lurcher at his heels, are you disposed to regard him as one in
search of the picturesque, or a poacher? So, when a gentleman travels
about the country with a sub-sheriff in his carriage and two bailiffs in
the rumble, does it seem exactly the guise of one paying morning calls
to his neighbors?"
"Mr. O'Reilly, I ask you to explain this proceeding."
"I confess, sir," stammered out the other, "I came accompanied by
certain persons in authority, but who have acted in this matter entirely
without my permission. The proposal I have made this day was the cause
of my visit."
"It is a subject on which I can no longer hold any secrecy," said the
Knight, haughtily. "Bagenal, you were quite correct in your surmise. Mr.
O'Reilly not only intended us the honor of an alliance, but offered to
merge the ancient glories of his house by assuming the more humble name
and shield of Darcy."
"What! eh! did I hear aright?" said Daly, with a broken voice; while,
walking to the window, he looked down into the lawn beneath, as if
calculating the height from the ground. "By Heaven, Darcy, you 're the
best-tempered fellow in Europe--that 's all," he muttered, as he walked
away.
The door opened at this moment, and the shock bullet head of a bailiff
appeared.
"That's Mr. Daly! there he is!" cried out O'Reilly, who, pale with
passion and trembling all over, supported himself against the back of
a chair with one hand, while with the other he pointed to where Daly
stood.
"In that case," said the fellow, entering, while he drew a slip of paper
from his breast, "I 'll take the opportunity of sarvin' him where he
stands."
"One step nearer! one step!" said Daly, as he took a pistol from the
pocket of his coat.
The man hesitated and looked at O'Reilly, as if for advice or
encouragement; but terror and rage had now deprived him of all
self-possession, and he neither spoke nor signed to him.
"Leave the room, sir," said the Knight, with a motion of his hand to the
bailiff; and the ruffian, whose office had familiarized him long with
scenes of outrage and violence, shrank back ashamed and abashed, and
slipped from the room without a word.
"I believe, Mr. O'Reilly," continued Darcy, with an accent calm and
unmoved,--"I believe our conference is now concluded. I will not insult
your own acuteness by saying how unnecessary I feel any reply to your
demand."
"In that case," said O'Reilly, "may I presume that there is no objection
to proceed with those legal formalities which, although begun without my
knowledge, may be effected now as well as at any other period?"
"Darcy, there is but one way of dealing with that gentleman--"
"Bagenal, I must insist upon your leaving this matter solely with me."
"Depend upon it, sir, your interests will not gain by your friend's
counsels," said O'Reilly, with an insolent sneer.
"Such another remark from your lips," said Darcy, sternly, "would make
me follow them, if they went so far as--"
"Throwing him neck and heels out of that window," broke in Daly; "for I
own to you it's the course I 'd have taken half an hour ago."
"I wish you good morning, Mr. Darcy," said O'Reilly, addressing him
for the first time by the name of his family instead of his usual
designation; and without vouchsafing a word to Daly, he retired from the
room.
It was not until O'Reilly's carriage drove past the window that either
Darcy or his friend uttered a syllable; they stood apparently lost in
thought up to that moment, when the noise of wheels and the tramp of
horses aroused them.
"We must lose no time, Bagenal," said the Knight, hastily; "I cannot
count very far on that gentleman's delicacy or forbearance. Lady Eleanor
must not be exposed to the indignities the law will permit him to
practise towards us; we must, if possible, leave this to-night;" and
so saying, he left the room to make arrangements in accordance with his
resolve.
Bagenal Daly looked after him for a moment. "Poor fellow!" muttered he,
"how manfully he bears it!" When a sudden flush that covered his cheek
bespoke a rapid change of sentiment, and at the same instant he left the
room, and, crossing the hall and the courtyard, walked hastily towards
the stables.
"Saddle a horse for me, Carney, and as fast as may be."
"Here's a mare ready this minute, sir; she was going out to take her
gallop."
"I'll give it, then," said Daly, as he buttoned up his coat; and then,
breaking off a branch of the old willow that hung over the fountain,
sprang in the saddle with an alertness that would not have disgraced a
youth of twenty.
"There he goes," muttered the old huntsman, as he looked after him, "and
there is n't the man between this and Killy-begs can take as much out
of a baste as himself. 'T is quiet enough the mare will be when he turns
her head into this yard again."
Whatever Daly's purpose, it seemed one which brooked little delay, for
no sooner was he on the sward than he pushed the mare to a fast gallop,
and was seen sweeping along the lawn at a tremendous pace. In less than
ten minutes he saw O'Reilly's carriage, as, in a rapid trot, the horses
advanced along the level avenue, and almost the moment after, he
had stationed himself in the road, so as to prevent their proceeding
further. The coachman, who knew him well, came to a stop at his signal,
and before his master could ask the reason, Daly was beside the window
of the chariot.
"I would wish a word with you, Mr. O'Reilly," said he, in a low, subdued
voice, so as to be inaudible to the sub-sheriff, who was seated beside
him. "You made use of an expression a few moments ago, which, if I
understood aright, convinces me I have unwittingly done you great
injustice."
O'Reilly, whose ashy cheek and affrighted air bespoke a heart but ill at
ease, made no reply, and Daly went on,--
"You said, sir, that neither the time nor the place suited the notice
you felt called upon to take of my remarks on your conduct. May I ask,
as a very great favor, what time and what place will be more convenient
to you? And I cannot better express my own sense of regret for a hasty
expression than by assuring you that I shall hold myself bound to be at
your service in both respects."
"A hostile meeting, sir, is that your proposition?" said O'Reilly,
aloud.
"How admirably you read a riddle!" said Daly, laughing.
"There, Mr. Jones!" cried O'Reilly, turning to his companion, "I call
on you to witness the words,--a provocation to a duel offered by this
gentleman."
"Not at all," rejoined Daly; "the provocation came from yourself,--at
least, you used a phrase which men with blood in their veins understand
but one way. My error--and I 'll not forgive myself in haste for it--was
the belief that an upstart need not of necessity be a poltroon.--Drive
on," cried he to the coachman, with a sneering laugh; "your master is
looking pale." And, with these words, he turned his horse's head, and
cantered slowly back towards the abbey.
CHAPTER XXXIII. TATE SULLIVAN'S FAREWELL
The sorrows and sufferings of noble minds are melancholy themes to dwell
upon; they may "point a moral," but they scarcely "adorn a tale," least
of all such a tale as ours is intended to be. While, therefore, we would
spare our readers and ourselves the pain of this narration, we cannot
leave that old abbey, which we remember so full of happiness, without
one parting look at it, in company with those about to quit it forever.
From the time of Mr. O'Reilly's leave-taking, the day, notwithstanding
its gloomy presage, went over rapidly. The Knight busied himself
with internal arrangements, while Lionel took into his charge all the
preparations for their departure on the morrow, Bagenal Daly
assisting each in turn, and displaying an amount of calm foresight and
circumspection in details which few would have given him credit for.
Meanwhile, Lady Eleanor slept long and heavily, and awoke, not
only refreshed in body, but with an appearance of quiet energy and
determination she had not shown for years past. Great indeed was the
Knight's astonishment on hearing that she intended joining them at
dinner; in her usual habit she dined early, and with Helen alone for her
companion, so that her present resolve created the more surprise.
Dinner was ordered in the library, and poor old Tate, by some strange
motive of sympathy, took a more than common pains in all the decorations
of the table. The flowers which Lady Eleanor was fondest of decked the
centre--alas, there was no need to husband them now! on the morrow who
was to care for them?--a little bouquet of fresh violets marked her
place at the table, and more than a dozen times did the old man hesitate
how the light should fall through the large window, and whether it
would be more soothing to his mistress to look abroad upon that fair
and swelling landscape so dear to her, or more painful to gaze upon the
scenes she should never see more.
"If it was myself," muttered old Tate, "I'd like to be looking at it
as long as I could, and make it follow me in my dhrames after; but sure
there 's no knowing how great people feels! they say they never has the
same kind of thought as us!"
Poor fellow, he little knew how levelling is misfortune, and that the
calamities of life evoke the same sufferings in the breast of the king
and the peasant. With a delicacy one more highly born might have been
proud of, the old butler alone waited at dinner, well judging that his
familiar face would be less irksome to them than the prying looks of the
other servants.
If there are people who can expend much eloquent indignation on those
social usages which exact a certain amount of decorous observance in
all the trials and crosses of life, there is a great deal to be said
in favor of that system of conventional good-breeding whose aim is to
repress selfish indulgence, and make the individual feel that, whatever
his own griefs, the claims of the world demand a fortitude and a bearing
that shall not obtrude his sorrows on his neighbors. That the code
may be abused, and become occasionally hypocritical in practice, is no
argument against it; we would merely speak in praise of that well-bred
forbearance which always merges private afflictions in the desire to
make others happy. To instance our meaning, we would speak of those who
now met at dinner in the old library of Gwynne Abbey.
It would be greatly to mistake us to suppose that we uphold any show
or counterfeit of kindliness where there is no substance of the feeling
behind it; we merely maintain that the very highest and most acute
sympathy is not inconsistent with a bearing of easy, nay, almost
cheerful character. So truly was it the case here that old Tate Sullivan
more than once stood still in amazement at the tranquil faces and
familiar quietude of those who, in his own condition of life, could have
found no accents loud or piercing enough to bewail their sorrow, and
whom, even with his long knowledge of them, he could scarcely acquit of
insensibility.
There is a contagion in an effort of this kind most remarkable. The
light and gentle attempts made by Lady Eleanor to sustain the spirits of
the party were met by sallies of manly good-humor by the Knight himself,
in which Lionel and Helen were not slow to join, while Bagenal Daly
could scarcely repress his enthusiastic delight at the noble and
high-souled courage that sustained them one and all.
While by a tacit understanding they avoided any allusion to the painful
circumstances of their late misfortune, the Knight adroitly turned the
conversation to their approaching journey northwards, and drew from Daly
a description of "the Corvy" that actually evoked a burst of downright
laughter. From this he passed on to speak of the peasantry, so unlike in
every trait those of the South and West; the calm, reflective character
of their minds, uninfluenced by passion and unmarked by enthusiasm, were
a strong contrast to the headlong impulse and ardent temperament of the
"real Irish."
"You 'll scarcely like them at first, my dear Helen--"
"Still less on a longer acquaintance," broke in Helen. "I 'll not
quarrel with the caution and reserve of the Scotchman,--the very mists
of his native mountains may teach him doubt and uncertainty of purpose;
but here at home, what have such frames of mind and thought in common
with our less calculating natures?"
"It were far better had they met oftener," said the Knight,
thoughtfully; "impulse is only noble when well directed; the passionate
pilots are more frequently the cause of shipwreck than of safety."
"Nothing so wearisome as the trade-winds," said Helen, with a saucy toss
of the head; "eh, Lionel, you are of my mind?"
"They do push one's temper very hard now and then," said Daly, with a
stern frown; "that impassive habit they have of taking everything as in
the common order of events is, I own, somewhat difficult to bear with.
I remember being run away with on a blood mare from a little village
called Ballintray. The beast was in high condition, and I turned her,
without knowing the country, at the first hill I could see; she breasted
it boldly, and, though full a quarter of a mile in length, never
shortened stride to the very summit. What was my surprise, when I gained
the top, to see that we were exactly over the sea. It was a cliff which,
projecting for some distance out, was fissured by an immense chasm,
through which the waves passed; not very wide, but deep enough to make
it a very awful leap. Over it she went, and then, when I expected her to
dash onwards, and was already preparing to fling myself from the saddle,
she stood stock still, trembling all over, and snorting with fear at
the danger around her. At the same instant, a hard-featured old fellow
popped his head up from amid the tall fern which he had been cutting
for thatch for his cabin, and looked at me, not the slightest sign of
astonishment in his cold, rigid countenance.
"'Ye 'll no get back so easy, my bonnie mon,' said he, with the
slightest possible approach to a smile.
"'Get back! no, faith, I 'll not try it,' said I, looking at the yawning
gulf, through which the wild waves boiled, and the opposite bank several
feet higher than the ground I stood upon.
"'I thought sae,' was the rejoinder; when, rising slowly, he leisurely
walked round the mare, as she stood riveted by fear to the one spot.
'I 'll gie ye sax shilling for the hide o' her forbye the shoes,' added
he, with a voice as imperturbable as though he were pricing the
commonest commodity of a market.
"I confess it was fortunate that the ludicrous was stronger in me at the
moment than indignation, for if I had not laughed at him I might have
done worse."
"I could not endure such a peasantry," said Helen, as soon as the mirth
the anecdote called forth had subsided.
"It's quite true," said Daly, "they have burlesqued Scotch prudence
in the same way that the Anglo-Hibernian has travestied the Irish
temperament. It is the danger of all imitators, they always transgress
the limits of their model."
"It is fortunate," broke in the Knight, "that traits which conciliate so
little the stranger should win their way on nearer intimacy; and such I
believe to be the case with the Ulster peasant."
"You are right," said Daly; "no man can detest more cordially than I
do the rudeness that is assumed to heighten a contrast with any good
quality behind it. In most instances the kernel is not worth the trouble
of breaking off the husk; but with the Northerner this is not the case:
in his independence he neither apes the equality of the Frenchman nor
the license of the Yankee. That he suffices for himself, and seeks
neither patron nor protector, is the source of honest pride, and if
this sometimes takes the guise of stubbornness, let us remember that the
virtue was reared in poverty, without encouragement or example."
"And the gentry," said Lady Eleanor, "have they any trace of these
peculiarities observable among the people?"
"Gentry!" said Daly, impetuously, "I know of none. There are some
thrifty families, who, by some generations of hard saving, have risen
to affluence and wealth. They are keen fellows, given to
money-getting,--millers some of them, bleachers most, with a tenantry
of weavers, and estates like the grass-plot of a laundry. They are as
crafty and as calculating as the peasant, shrewd as stockbrokers at a
bargain, and as pretentious as a Prince Palatine with a territory
the size of Merrion Square. Gentry! they have neither ancestry nor
tradition; they hold their estates from certain Guilds, whose
very titles are a parody upon gentle breeding,--fishmongers and
clothworkers!"
"I will not be their champion against you, Bagenal, but I cannot help
feeling how heavily they might retort upon us. These same prudent and
prosaic landlords have not spent their fortunes in wasteful extravagance
and absurd display; they have not rackrented their tenantry that they
might rival a neighbor."
"I am sincerely rejoiced," interposed Lady Eleanor, smiling, "that my
English relative, Lord Netherby, was not a witness to this discussion,
lest he should fancy that, between the wastefulness of the South and
the thrift of the North, this poor island was but ill provided with a
gentry. Pray, Mr. Daly, how does your sister like the North? She is our
neighbor, is she not?"
"Yes,--that is to say, a few miles distant," said Daly, confusedly;
for he had never acknowledged that "the Corvy" had been Miss Daly's
residence. "Of the neighborhood she knows nothing; she is not free from
my own prejudices, and lives a very secluded life."
The conversation now became broken and unconnected, and the party soon
after retired to the drawing-room, where, while Lady Eleanor and Helen
sat together, the Knight, Daly, and Lionel gathered in a little knot,
and discussed, in a low tone, the various steps for the coming journey,
and the probable events of the morrow.
It was agreed upon that Daly should accompany the Darcys to the North,
whither Sandy was already despatched, but that Lionel should remain at
the abbey for some days longer, to complete the arrangements necessary
for the removal of certain family papers and the due surrender of the
property to its new owner; after which he should repair to London, and
procure his exchange into some regiment of the line, and, if
possible, one on some foreign station,--the meeting with friends and
acquaintances, under his now altered fortunes, being judged as a trial
too painful and too difficult to undergo.
Again they all met around the tea-table, and once more they talked in
the same vein of mutual confidence; each conscious of the effort by
which he sustained his part, and wondering how the others summoned
courage to do what cost himself so much. They chatted away till near
midnight, and when they shook hands at separating, it was with feelings
of affection to which sorrow had only added fresh and stronger ties.
Daly stood for some time alone in the library, wondering within himself
at the noble fortitude with which they severally sustained their
dreadful reverse. It is only the man of stout heart can truly estimate
the higher attributes of courage; but even to him these efforts seemed
surprising. "Ay," muttered he, "each nobly upholds the other; it is
opposing a hollow square to fortune: so long as they stand firm and
together, well! let but one quail and falter, let the line be broken,
and they would be swept away at once and forever." Taking a caudle from
the table, he left the room, and ascended the wide staircase towards his
chamber. All was still and noiseless, and to prevent his footsteps being
heard, he entered the little corridor which opened on the gallery of the
refectory, the same from which Forester first caught sight of the party
at the dinner-table.
He had scarcely, with careful hand, closed the door behind him, when,
looking over the balustrades of the gallery, he beheld a figure moving
slowly along in the great apartment beneath, guided by a small lamp,
which threw its uncertain light rather on the wall than on the form of
him who carried it. Suddenly stopping before one of the large portraits
which in a long succession graced the chamber, the light was turned
fully round, so as to display the broad and massive features of old Tate
Sullivan. Curious to ascertain what the old man might be about in such
a place at such an hour, Daly extinguished the candle to watch him
unobserved. Tate was dressed in his most accurate costume: his long
cravat, edged with deep lace, descended in front of his capacious white
waistcoat; silver buckles, of a size that showed there was no parsimony
of the precious metal, shone in his shoes; and his newly powdered wig
displayed an almost snowy lustre. His gestures were in accordance with
the careful observances of his toilet; he moved along the floor with a
slow, sliding step, bowing deeply and reverentially as he went, and with
all the courtesy he would have displayed if ushering a goodly company
into the state drawing-room.
Bagenal Daly was not left long to speculate on honest Tate's intentions;
and although to a stranger's eyes the motives might have seemed strange
and dubious, the mystery was easily solved to him, who knew the old man
well and thoroughly. He was there to take a last look, and bid farewell
to those venerable portraits, who for more than half a century were
enshrined in his memory like saints. Around them were associated all the
little incidents of his peaceful life; they were the chroniclers of his
impressions in boyhood, in manhood, and in age; he could call to mind
the first moments he gazed on them in awe-struck veneration; he could
remember the proud period when the duty first devolved upon him of
describing them to the strangers who came to see the abbey; in the
history of all and each of them he was well read, versed in their noble
achievements, their triumphs in camp or cabinet. To his eyes they formed
a long line of heroic characters, of which the world had produced no
equal; they realized in his conception the proud eulogy of the Bayards,
"where all the men were brave, and all the women virtuous;" and it is
not improbable that his devotion to his master was in a great measure
ascribable to that awe-struck admiration with which he regarded his
glorious ancestors.
The old man stood, and, holding the lamp above his head, gazed in
respectful admiration at the grim figure of a Knight in armor. There
might have been little to charm the lover of painting in the execution
of the picture, and the mere castle-builder could scarcely have indulged
his fancy in weaving a story from the countenance of the portrait, for
the vizor was down, and he stood in all the unmoved sternness of his
iron prison, with his glaived hands elapsed upon the cross of a long
straight sword. Tate gazed on him for some moments. Heaven knows with
what qualities of mind or person the old man had endowed him, for while
to others he was only Sir Gavin Darcy, first Knight of Gwynne, Tate in
all likelihood had invested him with traits of character and appearance,
of which that external shell was the mere envelope.
"We're going, Sir Gavin," muttered the old man, as if addressing the
portrait; "'tis the ould stock is laving the place, never to see it
more; 't is your own proud heart will be sorry to-day to look down upon
us. Ah, ah!" muttered he, "the world is changed; there was times when a
Darcy would n't quit the house of his fathers without a blow for it--aud
they say we are better now!" With a heavy sigh he passed on, and stood
before the next picture. "Yes, my Lady," said he, "ye may well cry that
lost the two beautiful boys the same morning, fighting side by side; but
there's heavier grief here now: the brave youths sleep in peace and in
honor; but we have no home to shelter us!"
With a slow step and bent-down head, he tottered on, and, placing the
lamp upon the floor, crossed his arms upon his breast. "'Tis you that
can help us now," said he as he cast a timid and imploring glance at the
goodly countenance and rotund figure of Bernhard Emmeric, fourth Abbot
of Gwynne; "'tis your reverence can offer a prayer for your own blood
that's in sore trouble and distress. Do it, my Lord; do it in the name
of the Vargin. Smiling and happy you look, but it 's sorrowful your
heart is in you to see what's going on here. Them, them was the happy
days, when it was n't the cry of grief was heard beneath this roof, but
the heavenly chants of holy men, and the prayers of the blessed mass."
He knelt down as he said this, and with trembling lips and tearful eyes
recited some verses from his breviary.
This done, he arose, and, as if with renovated courage, proceeded on his
way.
"Reginald Herbert de Guyon! ah! second Baron of Gwynne, Lord Protector
of Munster, Knight of Malta, Chevalier of St. John of Jerusalem,
Standard-Bearer to the Queen! and well you desarve it all! 'T is
yourself sits your horse like a proud nobleman!" He stood with eyes
riveted upon the picture, while his face glowed with intense enthusiasm,
and at last, as a bitter sneer passed across his lips, he added, "Ay,
faith! and them that comes after us won't like the look of you. 'T is
you that 'll never disguise from them your real mind, and every day they
'll dine in the hall, that same frown will darken, and that same hand
will threaten them."
He moved on now, and passed several portraits without stopping,
muttering as he went, "'T is more English than Irish blood is in your
veins, and you won't feel as much for us as the rest;" then, halting
suddenly, he stood before a tall figure, dressed in black velvet, with a
deep collar of point lace. A connoisseur of higher pretensions than poor
Tate might have gazed with even greater rapture at that splendid canvas,
for it was from the hand of Vandyke, and in his very best manner. The
picture represented the person of Sir Everard Darcy, Lord Privy Seal to
Charles I. It was a specimen of manly beauty and high blood such as the
great Fleming loved to paint; and even yet the proud and lofty forehead,
the deep-set brown eyes, the thin compressed lip, the long and somewhat
projecting chin, seemed to address themselves to the beholder with
traits of character more than mere painting is able to convey. Tate
approached the spot with an almost trembling veneration, and bowed
deeply before the haughty figure. "There was a time, Sir Everard, when
your word could make a duke or a marquis,--when your whisper in the
king's ear could bring grief or joy to any heart in the empire. Could
you do nothing for us now? They say you never were at a loss, no matter
what came to pass--that you were always ready-witted to save your master
from trouble--and oh! if the power hasn't left you, stand by us now. It
is not because your eyes are so bright, and that quiet smile is on your
lips, that your heart does not feel, for I know well that the day you
were beheaded you had the same look on you as you have now. I think I
see you this minute, as you lifted your head off the block to settle the
lace collar that the villain, the executioner, rumpled with his bloody
fingers,--I think I hear the words you spoke: 'Honest Martin, for all
your practice, you are but a clumsy valet.' Weil, well! 't is a
happier and a prouder day that same than to-morrow's dawn will bring to
ourselves. Yes, yes, my darlings," said Tate, with a benevolent smile,
as he waved his hand towards a picture where two beautiful children were
represented, sitting on the grass, and playing with flowers, "be happy
and amuse yourselves, in God's name; 'tis the only time for happiness
your lives ever gave you. Ah! and here 's your father, with a smile on
his face and a cheerful brow, for he had both till the day misfortune
robbed him of his children;" and he stood in front of a portrait of an
officer in an admiral's uniform. He was a distinguished member of
the Darcy family; but from the nature of his services, which were all
maritime, and the great number of years he had spent away from Ireland,
possessed less of Tate's sympathy than most of the others.
"They say you didn't like Ireland; but I don't believe them. There never
was a Darcy did n't love the ould island; but I know well whose fault
it was if you did n't,--it was that dark villain that's standing at your
side, ould Harry Inchiquin, the renegade, that turned many a man against
his country. Ye may frown and scowl at me; but if you were alive this
minute, I 'd say it to your face. It was you that first brought gambling
and dicing under this blessed roof; it was you that sent the ould acres
to the hammer; 'twas you that loved rioting, and duelling, and every
wickedness, just like old Bagenal Daly himself, that never could sleep
in his bed if he had n't a fight on hand."
[Illustration: 408]
"What ho! you old reprobate!" called out Daly, in a voice which, echoing
under the arched roof, seemed rather to float through the atmosphere
than issue from any particular quarter.
"Oh! marciful Father!" cried Tate, as, falling on his knees, the lamp
dropped from his fingers, and became extinguished,--"oh! marciful
Father! sure I did n't mane it; 't is what the lying books said of
you,--bad luck to the villains that wrote them! O God! pardon me; I
never thought you 'd hear me; and if it 's in trouble you are, I 'll say
a mass for you every day till Aaster, and one every Friday as long as I
live."
A hoarse burst of laughter broke from Daly, while, pacing the gallery
with heavy tread, he went forth, banging the door behind him. The terror
was too great for poor Tate's endurance, and, with a faint cry for
mercy, he rolled down upon the floor almost insensible.
When morning broke, he was found seated in the refectory, pale and
careworn; but no entreaty, nor no pressing, could elicit from him one
word of a secret in which he believed were equally involved the honor of
the dead and the safety of himself.
CHAPTER XXXIV. A GLANCE AT PUBLIC OPINION IN THE YEAR 1800.
Among the arrangements for the departure of the family from the abbey,
all of which were confided to Bagenal Daly, was one which he pressed
with a more than ordinary zeal and anxiety; this was, that they should
set out at a very early hour of the morning,--at dawn of day, if
possible. Lady Eleanor's habits made such a plan objectionable, and
it was only by representing the great sacrifice of feeling a later
departure would exact, when crowds of country people would assemble to
take their farewells of them forever, that she consented. While Daly
depicted the unnecessary sorrow to which they would expose themselves by
the sight of their old and attached tenantry, he strenuously preserved
silence on the real reason which actuated him, and to explain which a
brief glance at the state of public feeling at the period is necessary.
To such a pitch of acrimony and animosity were parties borne by the
agitation which preceded the carrying of the "Union," that all previous
character and conduct of those who voted on the question were deemed as
nothing in comparison with the line they adopted on the one absorbing
subject. If none who advocated the Ministerial plan escaped the foulest
animadversions, all who espoused the opposite side were exalted to the
dignity of patriots; argument and reason went for little, principle for
still less: a vote was deemed the touchstone of honesty. Such rash and
hasty judgments suited the temper of the times, and, it may be said in
extenuation, were not altogether without some show of reason. Each day
revealed some desertion from the popular party of men who, up to that
moment, had rejected all the seductions of the Crown; country gentlemen,
hitherto supposed inaccessible to all the temptations of bribery, were
found suddenly addressing speculative letters to their constituencies,
wherein they ingeniously discussed all the contingencies of a measure
they had once opposed without qualification. Noblemen of high rank and
fortune were seen to pay long visits at the Castle, and, by a strange
fatality, were found to have modified their opinions exactly at the
period selected by the Crown to bestow on them designations of honor or
situations of trust and dignity. Lawyers in high practice at the bar,
men esteemed by their profession, and held in honor by the public,
were seen to abandon their position of proud independence, and accept
Government appointments, in many cases inferior both in profit and rank
to what they had surrendered.
There seemed a kind of panic abroad. Men feared to walk without the
protective mantle of the Crown being extended over them; the barriers of
shame were broken down by the extent to which corruption had spread.
The examples of infamy were many, and several were reconciled to the
ignominy of their degradation by their associates in disgrace. That in
such general corruption the judgments of the public should have been
equally wholesale, is little to be wondered at; the regret is rather
that they were so rarely unjust and ill-bestowed.
Public confidence was utterly uprooted; there was a national bankruptcy
of honor, and none were trusted; all the guarantees for high principle
and rectitude a lifetime had given, all the hostages to good faith years
of unimpeached honor bestowed, were forgotten in a moment, and such as
opposed the Government measure with less of acrimony or activity than
their neighbors, were set down "as waiting for or soliciting the bribery
of the Crown."
To this indiscriminating censure the Knight of Gwynne was a victim. It
may be remarked that in times of popular excitement, when passions are
rife and the rude enthusiasm of the mass has beaten down the more calmly
weighed opinion of the few, that there is a strange pleasure felt in the
detection of any real or supposed lapse of one once esteemed. It were
well if this malignant delight were limited to the mere mob, but it is
not so; men of education and position are not exempt from its taint.
It would seem as if society were so thoroughly disorganized that every
feeling was perverted, and all the esteem for what is good and great had
degenerated into a general cry of exultation over each new instance of
tarnished honor.
Accustomed as we now are to the most free and unfettered criticisms
of all public men and their acts, it would yet astonish any one not
conversant with that period, to look back to the newspapers of the time,
and see the amount of violence and personality with which every man
obnoxious to a party was visited; coarse invective stood in the place
of argument, a species of low humor had replaced the light brilliancy
of wit. The public mind, fed on grosser materials, had lost all appetite
for the piquancy of more highly flavored food, and the purveyors were
not sorry to find a market for a commodity which cost them so little
to procure. In this spirit was it that one of the most popular of the
Opposition journals announced for the amusement of its readers a series
of sketches under the title of "The Gallery of Traitors,"--a supposed
collection of portraits to be painted for the Viceroy, and destined to
decorate one of the chambers of the Castle.
Not satisfied with aspersing the reputation, and mistaking the views of
any who sided with the Minister, the attack went further, and actually
ascribed the casualties which occurred to such persons or their families
as instances of divine vengeance. In this diabolical temper the Knight
of Gwynne was held up to reprobation; it was a bold thought to venture
on calumniating a man every action of whose life had placed him above
even slander, but its boldness was the warranty of success. The whole
story of his arrival in Dublin, his dinner with the Secretary, his
intimacy with Heffernan, was related circumstantially. The night on
which Heffernan entrapped him by the trick already mentioned, was quoted
as the eventful moment of his change. Then came the history of his
appearance in the House on the evening of the second reading: his
hesitation to enter, his doubts and waverings were all described, ending
with a minute detail of his compact with Lord Castlereagh, by which
his voting was dispensed with, and his absence from the division deemed
enough.
Gleeson's flight and its consequences were soon known. The ruin of
Darcy's large fortune was a circumstance not likely to lose by public
discussion, particularly when the daily columns of a newspaper devoted
a considerable space to the most minute details of that catastrophe. It
was asserted that the Knight had sold himself for a Marqui-sate and a
seat in the English peerage; that his vote was deemed so great a prize
by the Minister that he might have made even higher terms, but in the
confidence of possessing a large fortune he had only bargained for rank,
and rejected every offer of mere emolument; and now came the dreadful
retribution on his treachery, the downfall of his fortune by the villany
of his agent. To assume a title when the very expense of the patent
could not be borne, was an absurdity, and this explained why Maurice
Darcy remained ungazetted. Such was the plausible calumny generally
circulated, and, alas for the sake of charity! scarcely less generally
believed.
There are epidemics of credulity as of infidelity, and such a plague
raged at this period. Anything was believed, were it only bad enough.
While men, therefore, went about deploring, with all the sanctity of
self-esteem, the fall of Maurice Darcy, public favor, by one of those
caprices all its own, adopted the cause of his colleague, Hickman
O'Reilly. His noble refusal of every offer (and what a catalogue of
seductions did they not enumerate!) was given in the largest type.
They recounted, with all the eloquence of their calling, the glittering
coronets rejected, the places of honor and profit declined, the
dignities proffered in vain, preferring as he did the untitled rank of
a country gentleman, and the unpurchasable station of a true friend to
Ireland.
He was eulogized in capital letters, and canonized among the martyrs
of patriotism; public orators belabored him with praises, and
ballad-singers chanted his virtues through the streets. Nor was this
turn of feeling a thing to be neglected by one so shrewd in worldly
matters. His sudden accession to increased fortune and the position
attendant on it, would, he well knew, draw down upon him many a sneer
upon his origin, and some unpleasant allusions to the means by which the
wealth was amassed. To anticipate such an ungrateful inquiry, he seized
the lucky accident of his popularity, and turned it to the best account.
Whole "leaders" were devoted to the laudation of his character: the
provincial journals, less scrupulous than the metropolitan, boldly
asserted their knowledge of the various bribes tendered to him, and
threw out dark hints of certain disclosures which, although at
present refrained from out of motives of delicacy, should Mr. O'Reilly
ultimately be persuaded to make, the public would be horrified at the
extent to which corruption had been carried.
The O'Reilly liveries, hitherto a modest snuff color, were now changed
to an emerald green; an Irish motto ornamented the garter of the family
crest; while the very first act of his return to the West was a splendid
donation to the chapel of Ballyraggan, or, as it was subsequently and
more politely named, the Church of St. Barnabas of Treves: all measures
dictated by a high-spirited independence, and a mind above the vulgar
bigotry of party.
Had O'Reilly stopped here; had he contented himself with the preliminary
arrangements for being a patriot, it is probable that Bagenal Daly had
never noticed them, or done so merely with some passing sarcasm; but
the fact was otherwise. Daly discovered, in the course of his journey
westward, that the rumors of the Knight's betrayal of his party were
generally disseminated in exact proportion with the new-born popularity
of O'Reilly; that the very town of Westport, where Darcy's name was once
adored, was actually placarded with insulting notices of the Knight's
conduct, and scandalous aspersions on his character: jeering allusions
to his altered fortunes were sung in the villages as he passed along,
and it was plain that the whole current of popular opinion had set
strong against him.
To spare his friend Darcy a mortification which Daly well knew would be
one of the greatest to his feelings, the early departure was planned and
decided on. It must not be inferred that because the Knight would have
felt deeply the unjust censure of the masses, he was a man to care or
bend beneath the angry menace of a mob; far from it. The ingratitude
towards himself would have called forth the least of his regrets; it was
rather a heartfelt sorrow at the hopeless ignorance and degradation
of those who could be so easily deceived,--at that populace whose
fickleness preferred the tinsel and trappings of patriotism to the acts
and opinions of one they had known and respected for years.
Long before day broke, Daly was stirring and busied with all the
preparations of the journey; the travelling carriage, covered with its
various boxes and imperials, stood before the door in the courtyard;
the horses were harnessed and bridled in the stables; everything was
in readiness for a start; and yet, save himself and the stablemen, all
within the abbey seemed buried in slumber.
Although it was scarcely more than five o'clock, Daly's impatience at
the continued quietude around him began to manifest itself; he walked
hastily to and fro, endeavoring to occupy his thoughts by a hundred
little details, till at last he found himself returning to the same
places and with the self-same objects again and again, while he muttered
broken sentences of angry comments on people who could sleep so soundly
at such a time.
It was in one of those fretful moods he had approached the little
flower-garden of the sub-prior's house, when the twinkling of a light
attracted him: it came from the window of Lady Eleanor's favorite
drawing-room, and glittered like a star in the gloom of the morning.
Curious to see who was stirring in that part of the house, he drew near,
and, opening the wicket, noiselessly approached the window. He there
beheld Lady Eleanor, who, supported by Helen's arm, moved slowly along
the room, stopping at intervals, and again proceeding; she seemed to be
taking a last farewell of the various well-known objects endeared to her
by years of companionship; her handkerchief was often raised to her eyes
as she went, but neither uttered a syllable. Ashamed to have obtruded
even thus upon a scene of private sorrow, Daly turned back again to the
courtyard, where now the loud voice of the Knight was heard giving his
orders to the servants.
The first greetings over, the Knight took Daly's arm and walked beside
him.
"I have been thinking over the matter in the night, Bagenal," said he,
"and am convinced it were far better that you should remain with
Lionel; we can easily make our journey alone,--the road is open, and
no difficulty in following it; but that poor boy will need advice and
counsel. You will probably receive letters from Dublin by the post, with
some instructions how to act; in any case my heart fails me at leaving
Lionel to himself."
"I 'll remain, then," replied Daly; "I'll see you the first stage out of
Westport, and then return here. It is, perhaps, better as you say."
"There is another point," said Darcy, after a pause, and with evident
hesitation in his manner; "it is perfectly impossible for me to walk
through this labyrinth without your guidance, Bagenal,--I have neither
head nor heart for it,--you must be the pilot, and if you quit the helm
for a moment--"
"Trust me, Maurice, I'll not do it," said Daly, grasping his hand with a
firm grip.
"I know that well," said the Knight, as his voice trembled with
agitation; "I never doubted the will, Bagenal, it was the power only I
suspected. I see you will not understand me. Confound it! why should old
friends, such as we are, keep beating about the bush, or fencing like a
pair of diplomatists? I wanted to speak to you about that bond of yours:
there is something like seven thousand pounds lying to my credit
at Henshaw's; take what is necessary, and get rid of that scoundrel
Hickman's claim. If they should arrest you--"
"I wish he had done so yesterday,--my infernal temper, that never will
let matters take due course, stopped the fellow; you can't see why, but
I'll tell you. I paid the money to Hickman's law-agent, in Dublin, the
morning I started from town, and they had not time to stop the execution
of the writ down here. Yes, Darcy, there was one drop more in the stoup,
and I drained it! The last few acres I possessed in the world, the old
estate of Hardress Daly, is now in the ownership of one Samuel Kerney,
grocer of Bride Street. I paid off Hickman, however, and found something
like one hundred and twenty-eight pounds afterwards in my pocket--but
let us talk of something else: you must not yield to these people
without a struggle; Bicknell says there are abundant grounds for a trial
at bar in the affair. If collusion between Hickman and Gleeson should
be proved, that many of the leases were granted with false signatures
annexed--"
"I 'll do whatever men of credit and character counsel me," said the
Knight; "if there be any question of right, I 'll neither compromise nor
surrender it: I can promise no more. But here comes Lionel,--to announce
breakfast, perhaps."
And so it was; the young man came towards them with an easy smile,
presenting a hand to each. If sorrow had sunk deeply into his heart, few
traces of grief were apparent in his manly, handsome countenance.
Notwithstanding the efforts of the party, the breakfast did not pass
over as lightly as the dinner of the previous day; the eventful moment
of parting was now too near not to exclude every other subject, and even
when by an exertion some allusion to a different topic would be made, a
chance question, the entrance of a servant for orders, or the tramp of
horses in the courtyard, would suddenly bring back the errant thoughts,
and place the sad reality in all its force before them.
Breakfast was over, and yet no one stirred; a heavy, dreary revery
seemed to have settled on all except Daly,--and he, from delicacy,
restrained the impatience that was working within him. In vain he sought
to catch Darcy's eye, and then Lionel's,--both were bent downward. Lady
Eleanor at last looked up, and at once seemed to read what was passing
in his mind.
"I am ready," said she, in a low, gentle voice, "and I see Mr. Daly is
not sorry at it. Helen, dearest, fetch me my gloves."
She arose, and the others with her. The calmness in which she spoke on
the theme that none dared approach, seemed also to electrify them,
when suddenly a low sob was heard, and the mother fell, in a burst of
anguish, into the arms of her son.
"Eleanor, my dearest Eleanor!" said Darcy, as his pale cheek shook and
his lip trembled. As if recalled to herself by the words, she raised her
head, and, with a smile of deep-meaning sorrow, said,--
"It's the first tear I have yet shed; it shall be the last." Then,
taking Daly's arm, she walked steadily forward.
"I have often wondered," said she, "at the prayer of a condemned felon
for a few hours longer of life; but I can understand it now. I feel as
if I could give life itself for another day within these walls, where
often I have pined with ennui. You will watch over Lionel for me, Mr.
Daly. When the world went fairly with us, calamities came softened,--as
the summer rain falls lighter in sunshine; but now, now that we have
lost so much, we cannot afford more."
Daly's stern features grew sterner and darker; his lips were compressed
more firmly; he tried to say a few words, but a low, indistinct
muttering was all that came.
The next moment the carriage door was closed on the party--they were
gone.
Lionel stood gazing after them till they disappeared, and then, with a
slow step, re-entered the abbey.
CHAPTER XXXV. BAGENAL DALY'S RETURN
Lionel Darcy bore up manfully against his altered fortunes so long as
others were around him, and that the necessity for exertion existed; but
once more alone within that silent and deserted house, all his courage
failed him at once, and he threw himself upon a seat and gave way to
grief. Never were the brighter prospects of opening life more cruelly
dashed, and yet his sorrow was for others. Every object about brought up
thoughts of that dear mother and sister, to whom the refinements of
life were less luxuries than wants. How were they to engage in the
stern conflict with daily poverty,--to see themselves bereft of all
the appliances which filled up the hours of each day? Could his mother,
frail and delicate as she was, much longer sustain the effort by which
she first met the stroke of fortune? Would not the reaction, whenever it
came, be too terrible to be borne? And Helen, too,--his sweet and lovely
sister,--she whom he had loved to think of as the admired of a splendid
Court; on whose appearance in the world he had so often speculated,
castle-building over the sensations her beauty and her gracefulness
would excite,--what was to be her lot? Deep and heartfelt as his sorrow
was for them, it was only when he thought of his father that Lionel's
anguish burst its bounds, and he broke into a torrent of tears. From
very boyhood he had loved and admired him; but never had the high
features of his character so impressed Lionel Darcy as when the reverse
of fortune called up that noble spirit whose courage displayed itself
in manly submission and the generous effort to support the hearts of
others. How cruel did the decrees of fate seem to him, that such a man
should be visited so heavily, while vice and meanness prospered on every
side. He knew not that virtue has no nobler attribute than its power of
sustaining unmerited affliction, and that the destiny of the good man is
never more nobly carried out than when he points the example of patience
in suffering.
Immersed in such gloomy thoughts, he wandered on from room to room,
feeding, as it were, the appetite for sorrow, by the sight of every
object that could remind him of past happiness; nor were they few. There
was the window-seat he loved to sit in as a boy, when all the charm
of some high-wrought story could not keep his eyes from wandering at
intervals over the green hills where the lambs were playing, or adown
by that dark stream where circling eddies marked the leaping trout. Here
was Helen's favorite room, a little octagon boudoir, from every window
of which a different prospect opened; it seemed to breathe of her sweet
presence even yet; the open desk, from which she had taken some letter,
lay there upon the table, the pen she had last touched, the chair she
sat upon, all, even to the little nosegay of scarce-faded flowers,
the last she had plucked, teemed with her memory. He walked on with
bent-down head and tardy step, and entered the little room which,
opening on the lawn, was used by the Knight to receive such of the
tenantry as came to him for assistance or advice; many an hour had
he sat there beside his father, and, while listening with the eager
curiosity of youth to the little stories of the poor man's life, his
trials and his difficulties, imbibed lessons of charity and benevolence
never to be forgotten.
The great square volume in which the Knight used to record his notes of
the neighboring poor, lay on the table; his chair was placed near it;
all was in readiness for his coming who was to come there no more! As
Lionel stood in silent sorrow, surveying these objects, the shadow of a
man darkened the window. He turned suddenly, and saw the tall, scarecrow
figure of Flury the madman. A large placard decorated the front of his
hat, on which the words "Down with the Darcys!" were written in capital
letters, and he carried in his hand a bundle of papers, like handbills,
which he shook with a menacing air at Lionel.
"What is this, Flury?" said the youth, opening the window, and at the
same time snatching one of the papers from his hand.
"It's the full account of the grand auction of Government hacks," said
Flury, with the sing-song intonation of a street-crier, "no longer
needed for the services of the Crown, and to be sowld without resarve."
"And who sent you here with this?" said the young man, moderating his
tone, to avoid startling the other.
"Connor Egan, Hickman's man, gave me a pint and a noggin of spirits to
cry the auction, and tould me to come up here and maybe you'd like to
hear of it ye'selves."
Lionel threw his eyes over the offensive lines, where in coarse ribaldry
names the most venerable were held up to scorn and derision. If it was
some satisfaction to find that his father was linked in the ruffianly
attack with men of honor as unblemished as his own, he was not less
outraged at the vindictive cowardice that had suggested this insult.
"There'll be a fine sight of people there, by all accounts," said Flury,
gravely, "for the auction-bills is far and near over the country, and
the Castlebar coach has one on each door."
"Is popular feeling always as corrupt a thing as this?" muttered Lionel,
with a bitter sneer, while at the same time the door of the room was
opened, and Daly entered. His face was marked by a severe cut on one
cheek, from which the blood had flowed freely; a dark blue stain, as
of a blow, was on his chin, and one hand he carried enveloped in his
handkerchief; his clothes were torn besides in many places, and bore
traces of a severe personal conflict.
"What has happened?" said Lionel, as he looked in alarm at the swollen
and blood-stained features. "Did you fall?"
"Fall! no such thing, boy," replied Daly, sternly; "but some worthy folk
in Castlebar planned a little surprise for me this morning. They heard,
it seems, that we passed through the town by daybreak, but that I was to
return before noon; and so they placed some cars and turf creels in the
main street, opposite the inn, in such a way that, while seeming merely
accident, would effectually stop a horseman from proceeding. When I
arrived at the spot, I halted, and called out to the fellows to move
on, and let me pass. They took no heed of my words, and then I saw in a
moment what was intended. I had no arms; I had purposely left my
pistols behind me, for I feared something might provoke me, though not
anticipating such as this. So I got down and drew this wattle from the
side of a turf creel,--you see it is a strong blackthorn, and good
stuff too. Before I was in the saddle the word was passed, and the
whole street was full of people, and I now perceived that, by the same
manouvre as they employed in front, they had also closed the rear upon
me, and cut off my retreat. 'Now for it! now for it!' they shouted.
'Where's Bully Dodd?--Where's the Bully?' I suppose you know the
fellow?"
"The man that was transported?"
"The same. The greatest ruffian the country was cursed with. He came at
the call, without coat or waistcoat, his shirt-sleeves tucked up to his
shoulders, and a handkerchief round his waist ready for a fight. There
was an old quarrel between us, for it was I captured the fellow the day
after he burnt down Dawson's house. He came towards me, the mob opening
a way for him, with a pewter pot of porter in his hand.
"'We want you to dhrink a toast for us, Mr. Daly,' said he, with a
marked courtesy, and a grin that amused the fellows around him. 'You
were always a patriot, and won't make any objections to it.'
"'What is the liquor?' said I.
"'Good porter,--divil a less,' cried the mob; 'Mol Heavyside's best.'
And so I took the vessel in my hands, and before they could say a
syllable, drained it to the bottom; for I was very thirsty with the
ride, and in want of something to refresh myself.
"'But you did n't dhrink the toast,' said Dodd savagely.
"'Where was the toast? He didn't say the words,' shouted the mob.
"'Off with his hat, and make him drink it,' cried out several others
from a distance. They saved me one part of the trouble, for they knocked
off my hat with a stone.
"'Here's health and long life to Hickman O'Reilly!' cried out
Dodd,--'that's the toast.'
"'And what have I to wish him either?' said I, while at the same time I
tore open the pewter measure, and then with one strong dash of my band
drove it down on the ruffian's head, down to the very brows. I lost no
time afterwards, but, striking right and left, plunged forwards; the mob
fled as I followed, and by good luck the carthorses, getting frightened,
sprang forward also, and so I rode on with a few slight cuts; a stone
or two struck me, nothing more; but they 'll need a plumber to rid my
friend Dodd of his helmet."
[Illustration: 424]
"And we used to call this town our own," said Lionel, bitterly.
"Nothing is a man's own but his honor, sir. That base cowardice yonder
believes itself honest and independent, as if a single right feeling, a
single good or virtuous thought, could consort with habits like
theirs; but they are less base than those who instigate them. The real
scoundrels are the Hickmans of this world, the men who compensate for
low birth and plebeian origin by calumniating the wellborn and the
noble.--What is Flury wanting here?" said he, as, attracted by Daly's
narrative, the poor fellow had drawn near to listen.
"'I 'm glad you put the pewter pot on the Bully's head, he 's a disgrace
to the town," said Flury, with a laugh; and he turned away, as if
enjoying the downfall of an enemy.
"Oh! I see," said Daly, taking up one of the papers that had fallen to
the ground, "this is the first act of the drama. Come along, Lionel, let
us talk of matters nearer to our hearts."
They walked along together to the library, each silently following
his own train of thought, and for some time neither seemed disposed to
speak. Lionel at length broke silence, as he said,--
"I have been thinking over it, and am convinced my father will never be
able to endure this life of inactivity before him."
"That is exactly the fear I entertain myself for him; altered fortunes
will impress themselves more in the diminished sphere to which his
influence and utility will be reduced, than in anything else: but how to
remedy this?"
"I have been considering that also; but you must advise me if the plan
be a likely one. He held the rank of colonel once--"
"To be sure he did, and with good right,--he raised the regiment
himself. Darcy's Light Horse were as handsome a set of fellows as the
service could boast of."
"Well, then, my notion is, that although the Government did not buy his
vote on the Union, there would be no just reason why they should not
appoint him to some one of those hundred situations which the service
includes. His former rank, his connection and position, his unmerited
misfortunes, are, in some sense, claims. I can scarcely suppose his
opposition in Parliament would be remembered against him at such a
moment."
"I hardly think it would," said Daly, musingly; "there is much in what
you propose. Would Lord Netherby support such a request if it were
made?"
"He could not well decline it; almost the last thing he said at parting
was, that whatever favor he enjoyed should be gladly employed in our
behalf. Besides, we really seek nothing to which we may not lay fair and
honest claim. My intention would be to write at once to Lord Netherby.
acquainting him briefly with our altered fortunes."
"The more briefly on that topic the better," said Daly, dryly.
"To mention my father's military rank and services, to state that,
having raised and equipped a company at his own expense, without
accepting the slightest aid from the Government, now, in his present
change of condition, he would be proud of any recognition of those
services which once he was but too happy to render unrewarded by the
Crown. There are many positions, more or less lucrative, which would
well become him, and which no right-minded gentleman could say were
ill-bestowed on such a man."
"All true," said Daly, whose eye brightened as he gazed on the youth,
whose character seemed already about to develop itself under the
pressure of misfortune with traits of more thoughtful meaning than yet
appeared iu him.
"Then I will write to Lord Netherby at once," resumed Lionel; "there
can be no indelicacy in making such a request: he is our relative, the
nearest my mother has."
"He is far better, he 's a Lord in Waiting, and a very subtle courtier,"
said Daly. "Write this day, and, if you like it, I 'll dictate the
letter."
Lionel accepted the offer with all the pleasure possible. He had been
from boyhood a firm believer in the resources and skill of Daly in every
possible contingency of life, and looked on him as one of those persons
who invariably succeed when everybody else fails.
There is a species of promptitude in action, the fruit generally of a
strong will and a quick imagination, which young men mistake for a much
higher gift, and estimate at a price very far above its value. Bagenal
Daly had, however, other qualities than these; but truth compels us to
own that, in Lionel's eyes, his supremacy on such grounds was no small
merit. He had ever found him ready for every emergency, prompt to
decide, no less quick to act, and, without stopping to inquire how far
success followed such rapid resolves, this very energy charmed him. It
was, then, in perfect confidence in the skill and address of his adviser
that Lionel sat down, pen in hand, to write at his dictation.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAW AND ITS CHANCES.
We left Mr. Daly at the conclusion of our last chapter in the exercise
of--what to him was always a critical matter--the functions of a polite
letter-writer. His faults, it is but justice to say, were much less
those of style than of the individual himself; for if he rarely failed
to convey a clear notion of his views and intentions, he still more
rarely omitted to impart considerable insight into his own character.
His abrupt and broken sentences, his sudden outbreaks of intelligence
or passion, were not inaptly conveyed by the character of a handwriting
which was bold, careless, and hurried. Indifferent to everything like
neatness or accuracy, generally blotted, and never very legible, these
defects, if they did not palliate, they might, in a measure, explain
something of his habits of thought and action; but now, when about to
dictate to another, the case was different, and those interruptions
which Daly would have set down by a dash of his pen, were to be conveyed
by the less significant medium of mere blanks.
"I 'm ready," said Lionel, at length, as he sat for some time in silent
expectation of Daly's commencement. But that gentleman was walking up
and down the room with his hands behind his back, occasionally stopping
to look out upon the lawn.
"Very well, begin--'My dear Lord Netherby,' or 'My dear Lord,'--it does
n't signify which, though I suppose he would be of another mind, and
find a whole world of difference between the two. Have you that?--very
well. Then go on to mention, in such terms as you like yourself, the
sudden change of fortune that has befallen your family,--briefly, but
decisively."
"Dictate it, I'll follow you," said Lionel, somewhat put out by this
mode of composition.
"Oh! it doesn't matter exactly what the words are,--say, that a d----d
scoundrel, Gleeson--Honest Tom we always called him--has cut and
run with something like a hundred thousand pounds, after forging and
falsifying every signature to our leases for the last ten or fifteen
years; we are, in consequence, ruined--obliged to leave the abbey, take
to a cottage--a devilish poor one, too."
"Don't go so fast--'we are in consequence--'"
"Utterly smashed--broken up--no home, and devilish little to live
upon,--my mother's jointure being barely sufficient for herself and
Helen. I want, therefore, to remind you--your Lordship, that is--to
remind your Lordship of the kind pledge which you so lately made us, at
a time when we little anticipated the early necessity we should have
to recall it. My father, some forty-five or six years back, raised the
Darcy Light Horse, equipped, armed, and mounted six hundred men, at his
own expense. This regiment, of which he took the head, did good service
in the Low Countries, and although distinguished in many actions, he
received nothing but thanks,--happily not wanting more, if so much.
Times are changed now with him, and it would be a seasonable act of
kindness and a suitable reward to an old officer--highly esteemed as
he is and has been through life--to make up for past neglect by some
appointment--the service has many such--Confound them! the pension-list
shows what fellows there are--'governors and deputy-governors,' 'acting
adjutants' of this, and 'deputy assistant commissaries' of that."
"I 'm not to write that, I suppose?"
"No, you needn't,--it would do no harm, though, to give them a hint
on the subject; but never mind it now. 'As for myself, I 'll leave the
Guards, and take service in the Line. I am only anxious for a regiment
on a foreign station, and if in India, so much the better.' Is that
down? Well--eh! that will do, I think. You may just say, that the
matter ought to be arranged without any communication with your father,
inasmuch as, from motives of delicacy, he might feel bound to decline
what was tendered as an offer, though he would hold himself pledged to
accept what was called by the name of duty. Yes, Lionel, that's the
way to put the case; active service, by all means active service,--no
guard-mounting at Windsor or Carlton House; no Hounslow Heath
engagements."
Lionel followed, as well as he was able, the suggestions, to which
sundry short interjections and broken "hems!" and "ha's!" gave no small
confusion, and at last finished a letter, which, if it conveyed some
part of the intention, was even a stronger exponent of the character, of
him who dictated it.
"Shall I read it over to you?"
"Heaven forbid! If you did, I 'd alter every word of it. I never
reconsidered a note that I did not change my mind about it, and I don't
believe I ever counted a sum of money over more than once without making
the tot vary each time. Send it off as it is--' Yours truly, Lionel
Darcy.'"
It was about ten days after the events we have just related that Bagenal
Daly sat in consultation with Darcy's lawyer in the back parlor of the
Knight's Dublin residence. Lionel, who had been in conclave with them
for several hours, had just left the room, and they now remained in
thoughtful silence, pondering over their late discussion.
"That young man," said Bicknell, at length, "is very far from being
deficient in ability, but he is wayward and reckless as the rest of the
family; he seems to have signed his name everywhere they told him,
and to anything. Here are leases forever at nominal rents--no fines
in renewal--rights of fishery disposed of--oak timber--marble
quarries--property of every kind--made away with. Never was there such
wasteful, ruinous expenditure coupled with peculation and actual robbery
at the same time."
"What's to be done?" said Daly, interrupting a catalogue of disasters he
could scarcely listen to with patience; "have you anything to propose?"
"We must move in Equity for an inquiry into the validity of these
documents; many of the signatures are probably false; we can lay a case
for a jury--"
"Well, I don't want to hear the details,--you mean to go to law; now,
has Darcy wherewithal to sustain a suit? These Hickmans are rich."
"Very wealthy people indeed," said Bicknell, dryly. "The Knight cannot
engage in a legal contest with them without adequate means. I am not
sufficiently in possession of Mr. Darcy's resources to pronounce on the
safety of such a step."
"I can tell you, then: they have nothing left to live upon save his
wife's jointure. Lady Eleanor has something like a thousand a year in
settlement,--certainly not more."
"If they can contrive to live on half this sum," said the lawyer,
cautiously, "we may, perhaps, find the remainder enough for our
purposes. The first expenses will be, of course, very heavy: drafts to
prepare, searches to make, witnesses to examine, with opinion of high
counsel, will all demand considerable outlay."
"This is a point I can give no opinion upon," said Daly; "they have been
accustomed to live surrounded with luxuries of every kind: whether they
can at once descend to actual poverty, or would rather cling to the
remnant of their former comforts, is not in my power to tell."
"The very bond under which they have foreclosed," said Bicknell, "admits
of great question. Unfortunately, that fellow Gleeson destroyed all
the papers before his suicide, or we could ascertain if a clause of
redemption were not inserted; there was no registry of the judgment, and
we are consequently in the hands of the enemy."
"I cannot help saying," said Daly, sternly, "that if it were not for
the confounded subtleties of your craft, roguery would have a less
profitable sphere of employment: so many hitches, so many small
crotchety conjunctures influence the mere question of right and wrong
that a man is led at last to think less of justice itself than of the
petty artifices to secure a superiority."
"I must assure you that you are in a great error," said Bicknell,
calmly; "the complication of a suit is the necessary security the law
has recourse to against the wiles and stratagems of designing men. What
you call its hitches and subtleties are the provisions against craft by
which mere honesty is protected: that they are sometimes employed to
defeat justice, is saying no more than that they are only human
contrivances; for what good institution cannot be so perverted?"
"So much the better, if you can think so. Now, what are Darcy's chances
of success?--never mind recapitulating details, which remind me a
great deal too much of my own misfortunes, but say, in one word, is the
prospect good or bad, or has it a tinge of both?"
"It may be any of the three, according to the way in which the claim is
prosecuted; if there be sufficient means--"
"Is that the great question?"
"Undoubtedly; large fees to the leading counsel, retainers, if a record
be kept for trial at the Assizes, and payment to special juries: all are
expensive, and all necessary."
"I 'll write to Darcy to-night, then,--or, better still, I 'll write to
Lady Eleanor, repeating what you have told me, and asking her advice and
opinion; meanwhile, lose no time in consulting Mr. Boyle,--you prefer
him?"
"Certainly, in a case like this he cannot be surpassed; besides, he is
already well acquainted with all the leading facts, and has taken a deep
interest in the affair. There are classes and gradations of ability at
the bar, irrespective of degrees of actual capacity; we have the heavy
artillery of the Equity Court, the light field-pieces of the King's
Bench, and the Congreve rockets of Assize display: to misplace or
confound them would be a grave error."
"I know where I 'd put them all, if my pleasure were to be consulted,"
muttered Daly, in an undergrowl.
"Now, if we have a case for a jury, we must secure Mr. O'Halloran--"
"He who made a speech to the mob in Smithfield the other day?"
"The same. I perceive you scarcely approve of my suggestion; but his
success at the bar is very considerable: he knows a good deal of law,
and a great deal more about mankind. A rising man, sir, I assure you."
"It must be in a falling state of society, then," said Daly, bitterly.
"Time was when the first requisite of a barrister was to be a gentleman.
An habitual respect for the decorous observances of polite life was
deemed an essential in one whose opinions were as often to be listened
to in questions of right feeling as of right doing. His birth, his
social position, and his acquirements were the guarantees he gave the
world that, while discussing subtleties, he would not be seduced into
anything low or unworthy. I am sorry that notion has become antiquated."
"You would not surely exclude men of high talents from a career because
their origin was humble?" said Bicknell.
"And why not, sir? Upon what principle was the bodyguard of noble
persons selected to surround the person of the sovereign, save that
blood was deemed the best security for allegiance? And why should not
the law, only second in sacred respect to the person of the monarch,
be as rigidly protected? The Church excludes from her ministry all who,
even by physical defect, may suggest matter of ridicule or sarcasm to
the laity; for the same reason I would reject from all concern with the
administration of justice those coarser minds whose habits familiarize
them with vulgar tastes and low standards of opinion."
"I confess this seems to me very questionable doctrine, not to speak of
the instances which the law exhibits of her brightest ornaments derived
from the very humblest walks in life."
"Such cases are probably esteemed the more because of that very reason,"
said Daly, haughtily; "they are like the pearl in the oyster-shell, not
very remarkable in itself, but one must go so low down to seek for it.
I have an excuse for warmth; I have lost the greater part of a large
fortune in contesting a right pronounced by high authority to be
incontrovertible. Besides," added he, with a courteous smile, "if Mr.
Bicknell may oppose my opinion, he has the undoubted superiority that
attaches to liberality, his own family claiming alliance with the best
in the land."
This happy turn seemed to divert the course of a conversation which half
threatened angrily. Again the business topic was resumed, and after a
short discussion, Bicknell took his leave, while Daly prepared to write
his letter to Lady Eleanor.
He had not proceeded far in his task when Lionel entered with a
newspaper in his hand.
"Have you heard the news of the notorious robber being taken?" said he.
"Who do you mean? Barrington, is it?"
"No; Freney."
"Freney! taken?--when--how--where?"
"It's curious enough," said Lionel, coolly, seating himself to read the
paragraph, without noticing the eagerness of Daly's manner; "the fellow
seems to have had a taste for sporting matters which no personal fear
could eradicate. His capture took place this wise. He went over to
Doncaster, to be present at the Spring Meeting, where he betted freely,
and won largely. There happened, however, to come a reverse to his
fortune, and on the last day of the running he lost everything, and was
obliged to apply for assistance to a former companion, who, it would
seem, was some hundred pounds in his debt; this worthy, having no desire
to refund, threatened the police; Freney became exasperated, knocked him
down on the spot, and then, turning smartly round, chucked one of the
jockeys from his saddle, sprang on the horse's back, and made off like
lightning. The other, only stunned for a moment, was soon on his legs
again, and the cry of 'Freney! it was Freney the robber!' resounded
throughout the race-course. The scene must then have been a most
exciting one, for the whole mounted population, with one accord,
gave chase. Noblemen and country gentlemen, fox-hunters, farmers, and
blacklegs, away they went, Freney about a quarter of a mile in front,
and riding splendidly."
"That I 'm sure of," said Daly, earnestly. "Go on!"
"Mellington took the lead of every one, mounted on that great
steeplechase horse he is so proud of,--no fences too large for him, they
say; but the robber--and what a good judge of country the fellow must
be--left the heavy ground and preferred even breasting a long hill of
grass-land, with several high rails, to the open country below,
where the clay soil distressed his horse. By this manoeuvre, says the
newspaper, he was obliged to make a circuit which again brought the
great body of his pursuers close up with him; and now his dexterity as
a horseman became apparent, for while riding at top speed, and handling
his horse with the most perfect judgment, he actually contrived to
divest himself of his heavy greatcoat. He had but just accomplished this
very difficult task, when Lord Mellington once more came up. There was
a heavy dike in front, with a double post and rail, and at this they
rushed desperately, each, apparently, calculating on the other being
thrown, or at least checked.
"Freney, now only a dozen strides in advance, turned in his saddle, and
drawing a pistol from his breast, took an aim,--as steadily, too, as
if firing at a mark. Lord Mellington saw the dreadful purpose of the
robber; he shouted aloud, and, pulling up with all his might, he bent
down to the very mane of his horse. Freney pulled the trigger, and with
one mad plunge Lord Mellington's horse came headforemost to the ground,
with his rider under him. Freney was not long the victor; the racer he
bestrode breasted the high rail, and, unable to clear it, fell heavily
forward, smashing the frail timbers before him, and pitching the rider
on his head. He was up in a second and away; for about twenty yards
his speed was immense, then, reeling, he staggered forwards and fell
senseless; before he rallied he was taken, and in handcuffs. There is a
description of the fellow," said Lionel, "and, by Jove! one would think
they were describing some wild denizen of the woods, or some strange
animal of savage life, so eloquent is the paragraph about his appearance
and personal strength."
"A well-knit fellow, no doubt, and more than a match for most in single
combat," said Daly, musing.
"You have seen him, then?"
"Ay, that I have, and must see him again. Where is he confined?"
"In Newgate."
"That is so far fortunate, because the jailer is an old acquaintance of
mine."
"I have a great curiosity to see this Freney."
"Come along with me, then," said Daly, as he arose and rang the bell to
order a carriage; "you shall gratify your curiosity; but I must ask you
to leave us alone together afterwards, for, strange as it may seem, we
have a little affair of confidence between us."
It did, indeed, appear not a little strange that any secret negotiation
or understanding should exist between two such men; but Lionel did not
venture to ask any explanation of the difficulty, but silently prepared
to accompany him. As they went along towards Newgate, Daly related
several anecdotes of Freney, all of which tended to show that the fellow
had all his life felt that strange passion for danger so attractive to
certain minds, and that his lawless career was more probably adopted
from this tendency than any mere desire of money-getting. Many of his
robberies resembled feats of daring rather than cautious schemes to
obtain property. "Society," added Daly, "is truly not much benefited
because the highwayman is capricious; but still, one cannot divest
oneself of a certain interest for a rascal who has always shown himself
ready to risk his neck, and who has never been charged with any distinct
act of cruelty. When I say this much, I must caution you against
indulging a sympathy for a law-breaker because he is not a perfect
monster of iniquity; such fellows are very rare, and we are always too
well inclined to admire the few good qualities of a bad man, just as we
are astonished at a few words spoken plain by a parrot.
"'The things themselves are neither strange nor rare;
We wonder how the devil they came there.'"
While Daly wisely cautioned his young companion against the indulgence
of a false and mawkish sympathy for the criminal, he in his own heart
could not help feeling the strongest interest for any misfortune of a
spirit so wild and so reckless.
Daly's card, passed through the iron grating of the strong door, soon
procured them admission, and they were conducted into a small and
neatly furnished room, where a mild-looking middle-aged man was seated,
reading. He rose as they entered, and saluted them respectfully.
"Good evening, Dunn; I hope I see you well. My friend Captain Darcy--Mr.
Dunn. We have just heard that the noted Freney has taken up his lodgings
here, and are curious to see him."
"I 'm afraid I must refuse your request, Mr. Daly; my orders are most
positive about the admission of any one to the prisoner: there have been
I can't say how many people here on the same errand since four o'clock,
when he arrived."
"I think I ought to be free of the house," said Daly, laughing; "I
matriculated here at least, if I didn't take out a high degree."
"So you did, sir," said Dunn, joining in the laugh. "Freney is in the
very same cell you occupied for four months."
"Come, come, then, you can't refuse me paying a visit to my old
quarters."
"There is another objection, and a stronger one,--. Freney himself
declines seeing any one, and asked a special leave of the sheriff to
refuse all comers admission to him."
"This surprises me," said Daly. "Why, the fellow has a prodigious deal
of personal vanity, and I cannot conceive his having adopted such a
resolution."
"Perhaps I can guess his meaning," said the jailer, shrewdly; "the
greater number of those who came here, and also who tried to see him in
Liverpool, were artists of one kind or other, wanting to take busts
or profiles of him. Now, my surmise is, Freney would not dislike the
notoriety, if it were not that it might be inconvenient one of these
days. To be plain, sir, though he is doubly ironed, and in the strongest
part of the strongest jail in Ireland, he is at this moment meditating
on an escape, in the event of which he calculates all the trouble and
annoyance it would give him to have his picture or his cast stuck up in
every town and village of the kingdom. This, at least, is my reading of
the mystery; but I think it is not without some show of probability."
"Well, the objection could scarcely apply to me," said Daly; "if his
portrait be not taken by a more skilful artist than I am, he may be very
easy on the score of recognition. Pray let me send in my name to him,
and if he refuses to see me, I 'll not press the matter further."
Partly from an old feeling of kindness towards Daly, Dunn gave no
further opposition, but in reality he was certain that Freney's refusal
would set the matter at rest. His surprise was consequently great when
the turnkey returned with a civil message from Freney that he would be
very glad to see Mr. Daly.
"Your friend can remain here," said Dunn, in a voice that plainly showed
he was not quite easy in his mind as to the propriety of the
interview; and Daly, to alleviate suspicions natural enough in one so
circumstanced, assented, and walked on after the turnkey, alone.
"That's the way he spends his time; listen to him now," whispered the
turnkey, as they stopped at the door of the cell, from within which the
deep tones of a man's voice were heard singing to himself, as he slowly
paced the narrow chamber, his heavy fetters keeping a melancholy time to
the melody:--
"'T was afther two when he quitted Naas,
But he gave the spar, and he went the pace,
'As many an like may now give chase,'
Says he, 'I give you warning.
You may raise the country far and near,
From Malin Head down to Cape Clear,
But the divil a man of ye all I fear,
I 'll be far away before morning.'
"By break of day he reach'd Kildare,
The black horse never turn'd a hair;
Says Freney, 'We 've some time to spare,
This stage we 've rather hasten'd.'
So he eat four eggs and a penny rowl,
And he mix'd of whiskey such a bowl!
The drink he shared with the beast, by my sowl,
For Jack was always dacent.
"'You might tighten the girths,' Jack Freney cried,
'For I 've soon a heavy road to ride.'
'Twas the truth he tould, for he never lied;
The way was dark and rainy.
'Good-by,' says he, 'I 'll soon be far,
And many a mile from Mullingar.'
So he kiss'd the girl behind the bar,
'T is the divil you wor, Jack Freney!"
"Sorra lie in that, any way," said the robber, as he repeated the last
line over once more, with evident self-satisfaction.
"Who comes there?" cried he, sternly, as the heavy bolts were shot back,
and the massive door opened.
"Why don't you say, 'Stand and deliver'?" said the turnkey, with a laugh
as harsh and grating as the creak of the rusty hinges.
"And many a time I did to a better man," said Freney.
"You may leave us now," said Daly, to the turnkey.
"Mr. Daly, your sarvant," said the robber, saluting him; "you 're the
only man in Ireland I wanted to see."
"I wish our meeting had been anywhere else," said Daly, sorrowfully, as
he took his seat on a stool opposite the bed where Freney sat.
"Well, well, so it is, sir; it's just what every one prophesied this
many a day,--as if there was much cunning in saying that I 'd be hanged
some time or other; why, if they wanted to surprise me, they 'd have
tould me I 'd never be taken. You heard how it was, I suppose?"
Daly nodded, and Freney went on:--
"The English horse wouldn't rise to the rail; if I was on the chestnut
mare or Black Billy, I would n't be where I am now."
"I have several things to ask you about, Freney; but first, how I can
serve you? You must have counsel in this business."
"No, sir, I thank you; it's only throwing good money after bad. I'll
plead guilty,--it will save time with us all."
"But you give yourself no chance, man."
"Faix, I spoiled my chance long ago, Mr. Daly. Do you know, sir,"--here
he spoke in a low, determined tone,--"there's not a mail in Ireland I
did n't stop at one time or other. There's few country gentlemen I have
n't lightened of their guineas; the court wouldn't hold the witnesses
against me if I were to stand my trial."
"With all that, you must still employ a lawyer; these fellows are as
crafty in their walk as ever you were in yours. Who will you have?
Name the man, and leave the rest to me."
Freney seemed to deliberate for a few moments, and he threw his
eyes down at the heavy irons on his legs, and he gazed at the strong
stanchions of the windows, and then said, in a low voice,--
"There's a chap called Hosey M'Garry, in a cellar in Charles Street:
he's an ould man with one eye, and not a tooth in his head; but he's the
only man that could sarve me now."
"Hosey M'Garry," repeated Daly, "Charles Street," as he wrote down the
address with his pencil: "a strange name and residence for a lawyer."
"I did n't say he was, sir," said Freney, laughing.
"And who and what is he, then?"
"The only man, now alive, that can make a cowld chisel to cut iron
without noise."
[Illustration: 440]
"Ah! that's what you're thinking of; you'd rather trust to the flaws of
the iron than of the indictment. Perhaps you are not far wrong, after
all."
"If I was in the court below without the fetters," said Freney, eagerly,
"I could climb the wall with a holdfast and a chisel, and get down the
same way on the other side; once there, Mr. Daly, I 'd sing the ould
ballad,--
"For the divil a man of ye all I fear,
I 'll be far away before morning."
"And how are these tools to reach you here? If they admit any of your
friends, won't they search them first?"
"So they will, barrin' it was a gentleman," replied Freney, while his
eyes twinkled with a peculiarly cunning lustre.
"So, then, you rely on me for this piece of service?" said Daly, after
a pause.
"Troth, you're the only gentleman of my acquaintance," said Freney,
quaintly.
"Well, I suppose I must not give you a bad impression of the order; I
'll do it."
"I knew you would," rejoined Freney, calmly. "You might bring two files
at the same time, and a phial of sweet oil to keep down the noise. Hush!
here's Gavin coming to turn you out,--he said ten minutes."
"Well, then, you shall see me to-morrow, Freney, and I 'll endeavor to
see your friend in the mean time." This was said as the turnkey stood at
the open door.
"This gentleman wants to have a look at you, Freney," said the
jailer,--"as if he could n't see you for nothing, some Saturday morning
soon."
"Maybe he 'd not know me in a nightcap," replied Freney, laughing, while
he turned the lamplight full on Lionel Darcy's features.
"The very fellow that rode off with the horse!" exclaimed Lionel as he
saw him.
"Young O'Reilly!" said Freney. "What signifies that charge now? Won't it
satisfy you if they hang me for something else?"
"That's Captain Darcy, man," broke in Daly. "Is all your knowledge of
mankind of so little use to you that you cannot distinguish between a
born gentleman and an upstart?"
"By my oath," said the robber, aloud, "I 'm as glad as a ten-pound note
to know that it wasn't a half-bred one that showed the spirit you did!
Hurrah! there's hopes for ould Ireland yet, when the blood and bone is
still left in her! And wasn't it real luck that I saw you this night? If
I did n't, I 'd have done you a bad turn. One word, Mr. Daly, one word
in your ear."
The robber drew Daly towards him, and whispered eagerly for some
seconds.
A violent exclamation burst from Daly as he listened, and then he cried
out, "What! are you sure of this? Don't deceive me, man!"
"May I never, but it's true."
"Why, then, not have told it before?"
"Because"--here he faltered--"because--faix, I 'll tell the truth--I
thought that young gentleman was Hickman's grandson, and I could n't
bring myself to do him a spite after what I had seen."
"The time is up, gentlemen," said the turnkey, who, out of the delicacy
of his official feeling, was slowly pacing the corridor up and down
while they talked together.
"If this be but true," muttered Daly to himself, "there's another cast
of the dice for it yet."
"I am sorry for that fellow," said Lionel, aloud; "he did me a good turn
once: I might have gone down the torrent, were it not for his aid."
"So you might, man," said Daly, speaking in a half-soliloquy; "he gives
the only chance of victory I've seen yet."
These words, so evidently inapplicable to Lionel's observations, were
a perfect enigma; but he did not dare to ask for any explanation, and
walked on in silence beside him.
CHAPTER XXXVII. A SCENE OF HOME.
If the climate of northern Ireland be habitually one of storm and
severity, it must be confessed that, in the rare but happy intervals of
better weather, the beauty of the coast scenery is unsurpassed. Indented
with little bays, whose sides are formed of immense cliffs of chalk,
or the more stately grandeur of that columnar basalt which extends for
miles on either side of the Causeway, the most vivid coloring unites
with forms the wildest and most fantastic; crag and precipice, sandy
beach and rocky shore, alternate in endless variety; while islands are
there, some, green and sheep-clad, others, dark and frowning, form the
home of nothing but the sea-gull.
It was on such an evening of calm as displayed the scene to its greatest
advantage, when a long column of burnished golden light floated over the
sea, tipping each crested wave, and darkened into deeper beauty between
them, that the Knight, Lady Eleanor, and Helen sat under the little
porch of their cottage and gazed upon the fair and gorgeous picture.
If the leafy grove or the dark wood seem sweeter to our senses when the
thrilling notes of the blackbird or the thrush sing in their solitude,
so the deepest silence, the most unbroken stillness, has a wonderful
effect of soothing to the mind beside the seashore we have so often seen
terrible in the fury of the storm. A gentle calm steals over us as
we listen to the long sweeping of the waves, heaving and breaking in
measured melody; and our thoughts, enticed by some dreaming ecstasy,
wander away over the boundless ocean, not to the far-off lands of other
climes alone, but into worlds of brighter and more beauteous mould.
They sat in silence, at first only occupied by the lovely scene that
stretched away before them, but at last each deeply immersed in his own
thoughts,--thoughts which, unconnected with the objects around, yet
by some strange mystery were tinctured by all their calm and tranquil
beauty. A fisherman was mending his net upon the little beach below,
and his children were playing around him, now running merrily along the
strand, now dabbling in the white foam left by the retreating waves;
the father looked up from time to time to watch them, but without
interrupting the low monotonous chant by which he lightened his labor.
Towards the little group at length their eyes were turned. "Yes," said
the Knight, as if interpreting what was passing in the minds of those at
his side, "that is about as near to human happiness as life affords. I
believe there would be very few abortive ambitions if men were content
to see their children occupy the same station as themselves; and yet,
when the time of one's own reverses arrives, how very little of true
happiness is lost by the change of fortune."
"My dearest father!" said Helen, as in a transport of delight she threw
her arms around him, "how happy your words make me! You are, then,
contented?"
"Do I not look so, my sweet Helen? And your mother, too, when have you
seen her so well?--when do you remember her walking, as she did to-day,
to the top of the great cliff of Dunluce?"
"With no other ill consequence," said Lady Eleanor, smiling, "than a
most acute attack of vanity; for I begin to fancy myself quite young
again."
"Well, Mamma, don't forget we have a visit to pay, some of these days,
to Ballintray,--that's the name of the place, I think, Miss Daly resides
at."
"Yes, we really must not neglect it. There was a delicacy in her note of
welcome to us here, judging that we might not be prepared for a personal
visit, which prepossesses me in her favor. You promised to make our
acknowledgments, but I believe you forgot all about it."
"No, not that," said the Knight, hesitatingly; "but in the midst of so
many things to do and think about, I deferred it from day to day."
"Shall we go to-morrow, then?" cried Helen, eagerly.
"I think it were better if your father went first, lest the way should
prove too long for us. I am so proud of my pedestrianism, Helen, I'll
not risk any failure."
"Be it so," said the Knight, quietly. "And now of this other matter
Bagenal presses so strongly upon us. I feel the greatest repugnance
to assume any name but that I have always borne, and, I hope, not
disgraced; he says we shall be objects of impertinent curiosity here to
the neighborhood."
"Ruins to dispute the honors of lionship with Dunluce," said Lady
Eleanor, smiling faintly.
"Just so; that might, however, be borne patiently; they will soon
leave off talking of us when we give them little matter for speculative
gossip. Besides, we are so far away from anything that could be called
neighborhood."
"But he suggests some other reasons, if I mistake not," said Lady
Eleanor.
"He does, but so darkly and mysteriously that I cannot even guess his
drift. Here is his letter." And the Knight took several papers from
his pocket, from among which he selected one, whose large and blotted
writing unmistakably pronounced it Bagenal Daly's. "Yes, here it is:
'Bicknell says that Hickman's people are fully persuaded that you have
left Ireland with the intention of never returning; that this impression
should be maintained, because it will induce them to be less guarded
than if they believed you were still here, directing any legal
proceeding. The only case, therefore, he will prepare for trial will be
one respecting the leases falsely signed. The bond and its details must
be unravelled by time; here also your incognito is all-essential,--it
need only be for a short time, and on scruples of delicacy so easily got
over: your grandfather called himself Gwynne, and wrote it also.'
That is quite true, Eleanor, so he did; his letters are signed Matthew
Gwynne, Knight of--------. I remember the signature well."
"I think, with Mr. Daly," said Lady Eleanor, "it will save us a world of
observant impertinence; this place is tranquil and solitary enough just
now, but in summer the coast and the Causeway have many visitors, and
although 'the Corvy' is out of the common track, if our names be bruited
about, we shall not escape that least graceful of all attentions, the
tender commiseration of mere acquaintances."
"Mamma is right," said Helen; "we should be hunted out by every tourist
to report on how we bore our reverses, and tormented with anonymous
condolences in prose, and short stanzas on the beauty of resignation."
"Well, and, my dear Helen, perhaps the lessons might not be so very
inapplicable," said the Knight, smiling affectionately.
"But very inefficient, sir," replied Helen, with a toss of her head;
"I'm not a bit resigned."
"Helen, dearest," interposed Lady Eleanor, rebukingly.
"Not a bit, Mamma; I am happy,--happier than I ever knew myself before,
if you like that phrase better,--because we are together, because this
life realizes to me all I ever dreamed of,--that quiet and tranquil
pleasure people might, but somehow never please to, taste of; but if you
ask me am I resigned to see you and my dear father in a station so much
beneath your expectations and your habits, I cannot say that I am."
"Then, my dear girl, you accuse us of bearing our misfortunes badly,
if we cannot partake of your enjoyments on account of our own vain
regrets?"
"No, no, Papa, don't mistake me; if I grieve over the altered fortunes
that limit your sphere of usefulness as well as of pleasure, it is
because I know how well you understood the privileges and demands of
your high station, and how little a life so humble as this is can exact
of qualities that were not given to be wasted in obscurity."
"My sweet child," said the Knight, fondly, "it is a very dangerous
practice to blend up affection with principle; depend upon it, the
former will always coerce the latter, and bend it to its will; and as
for those good gifts you speak of, had I really as many of them as your
fond heart would endow me with, believe me there is no station so humble
as not to admit of their exercise. There never yet was a walk in life
without its sphere of duties; now I intend that not only are we to be
happy here, but that we should contribute to the well-being of those
about us."
There was a pause after the Knight had done speaking, during which he
busied himself in turning over some letters, the seals of which were
still unbroken; he knew the handwriting on most of them, and yet
hesitated about inflicting on himself the pain of reading allusions to
that condition he had once occupied. "Yes," muttered he to himself, "we
are always flattering ourselves of how essential we are to our friends,
our party, and so forth; and yet, when any events occur which despoil us
of our brief importance, we see the whole business of the world go on as
currently as ever. What a foretaste this gives one of death! So it is,
the stream of life flows on, whether the bubble on its surface float or
burst."
"That's Lord Netherby's hand, is it not?" said Lady Eleanor, as she
lifted a letter which had fallen to the ground.
"Yes," said Darcy, carelessly; "written probably soon after his return
to England. I have no doubt it contains a most courtly acknowledgment of
our poor hospitality, and an assurance of undying regard."
"If it be of that tenor, I have no curiosity to read it," said Lady
Eleanor, handing the letter to the Knight.
"Helen would like to study so great a master of epistolary flatteries,"
said the Knight, smiling; "and provided she will keep the whole for her
private reading, I am willing to indulge her."
"I accept the favor with thanks," said Helen, receiving the letter;
"you know I plead guilty to liking our noble relative. I 'm not skilled
enough to distinguish between an article trebly gilded and one of pure
gold, and his Lordship, to my eyes, looked as like the true metal as
possible: he said so many pretty things to Mamma, and so many fine
things of you and Lionel--"
"And paid so many compliments to the fair Helen herself," interposed the
Knight.
"With so much of good tact--"
"And good taste, Helen," added Lady Eleanor, smiling; "why not say
that?"
"Well, I see I shall have to defend myself as well as my champion, so I
'll even go and read my letter."
And so saying, she arose, and sauntered down to the shore; under the
shelter of a tall rock, from whence the view extended for miles along,
she sat down. "What a contrast!" said she, as she broke the seal, "a
courtier's letter in such a scene as this!"
Lord Netherby's letter was, as the Knight suspected, written soon after
his return to England, expressing, in his own most courtly phrase,
the delightful memory he retained of his visit to Ireland. Gracefully
contrasting the brilliant excitement of that brief period with the more
staid quietude of the life to which he returned, he lightly suggested
that none other than one native to the soil could support an existence
so overflowing with pleasurable emotions. With all the artifice of
a courtier, he recalled certain little incidents, too small, as mere
matters of memory, to find a resting-place in the mind, but all of them
indicative of the deep impression made, upon him who remarked them.
He spoke also of the delight with which his Royal Highness the Prince
listened to his narrative of life in Ireland. "In truth," wrote his
Lordship, "I do not believe that the exigencies of his station ever cost
him more than when he reflected on the impossibility of his witnessing
such perfection in the life of a country house as I feebly endeavored to
convey to him. Again and again has he asked me to repeat the tale of the
hunt--the brilliant ball the night of your arrival--and I have earned a
character for story-telling of which Kelly and Sheridan are beginning to
feel jealous, by the mere retail of your anecdotes. Lionel's return
is anxiously looked for by all here, and the Prince has more than once
expressed himself impatient to see him back again. My sweet favorite
Helen, too,--when is she to be presented? There will be a court in the
early part of next month, of which I shall not fail to apprise you, most
earnestly entreating that my cousin Eleanor will not think the journey
too far which shall bring her once again among those scenes she so
gracefully adorned, and where her triumphs will be renewed in the
admiration of her lovely daughter. I need not tell you that my house
in town is entirely at her disposal, either as my guests, or, if you
prefer it, I shall be theirs, whenever I am not in waiting."
Here the writer detailed, with an eloquence all his own, the advantage
to Helen of making her entre into life under circumstances so
favorable, remarking, with that conventional philosophy just then the
popular cant of the day, that the enthusiasm of the world was never
long-lived, and that even his beautiful cousin Helen should not be above
profiting by the favorable reception the kindly disposition of the court
was sure to procure for her. This was said in a tone of half-serious
banter, but at the same time the invitation was reiterated with an
evident desire for its acceptance.
As the letter drew near its conclusion, the lines became more closely
written, as though some circumstances hitherto forgotten had suddenly
occurred to the writer; and so it proved.
"I was about, my dear Knight, to write myself, with what truth I will
not say, your 'most affectionate friend, Netherby,' when I received a
letter which requires some mention at my hands. It is, indeed, one
of the most extraordinary documents I have ever perused; nothing
very wonderful in that, when I tell you from whom it comes,--your old
sweetheart, Julia Wallincourt, or, as you will better remember her,
Julia d'Esterre; she is still very beautiful, and just as capricious,
just as maligne, as when she endeavored, by every artifice of her
coquetry, to make you jilt my cousin Eleanor. There 's no doubt of
it, Darcy, this woman loved you! at least, as much as she could love
anything, except the pleasure of torturing her fellow-creatures. Well,
it would seem that a younger son of hers, popularly known as Dick
Forester, paid you a visit in Ireland, and, no very unnatural
occurrence, fell desperately in love with your daughter,--not so Helen
with him. She probably regarded him as one of that class upon which
London has so stamped its impress of habit and manner that all
individualism is lost in the quiet observance of certain proprieties.
He must have been a rare contrast to the high-souled enthusiasm and
waywardness of her own brother! Certain it is she refused him; and he,
taking the thing much more to heart than a young Guardsman usually does
a similar catastrophe, hastened home, and endeavored to interest his
mother in his suit. Lady Julia had an old vengeance to exact, and, like
a true woman, could not forego it; she not only positively refused all
intercession on her part, but went what you and I will probably feel
to be a very unnecessary length, and actually declared she never would
consent to such an alliance. We used to remember (some years ago), at
Eton, of a certain Dido who never forgave, and we are told how, for many
years after, the lethalis arundo lateri adhosit; but assuredly the
poet was speaking less of the woes of an individual than of the sorrows
of fine ladies in all ages. Unfortunately, the similitude between her
ladyship and Dido ends here; the classic fair one exhibited, as we are
told, the most delicate fondness for the son of her lover. But, to grow
serious, Lady Wallincourt's conduct must have been peremptory and harsh;
she actually went the length of writing to the Duke of York to request
an exchange for her son into a regiment serving in India: whether
Forester obtained some clew to this manouvre or not, he anticipated the
stroke by selling out and leaving the army altogether; whither he is
gone, or what has become of him since, no one can tell. Such, my dear
Knight, is the emergency in which Lady Wallincourt addresses her letter
to me,--a letter so peculiarly her own, so full of reproaches against
you, and vindication of herself, that I actually scruple to transmit to
you this palpable evidence of still enduring affection.
"Were you both thirty years younger, I should claim great credit to my
morality for the forbearance. Let that pass, however, and let me rather
ask you if you know, or have heard anything, of this wayward boy?
Personally, I am unacquainted with him; but his friends agree in saying
that he is high-spirited, honorable, and brave; and it would be a great
pity that his affection for a young lady, and his anger with an old one,
should mar all the prospects of his life. Could you, by any means, find
a clew to him? I do not, of course, ask you to interfere in person, lest
it might seem that you encouraged an attachment which you have far more
reason to discountenance for your daughter than has Lady Wallincourt for
her son; however, your doing so would go far to reconcile the young man
to his mother by showing that, if there was a difficulty on one side, a
still greater obstacle existed on the other."
Requesting a speedy answer, and begging that the whole might be in
strict confidence between them, the letter concluded.
"I do not doubt, my dear Knight," said the postscript, "that you
will see in all this a reason the more for coming up to town. Helen's
appearance at the Drawing-Room would be the best, if not the only,
rebuke Lady Wallin-court's insolence could receive. By all means, come.
"Another complication! Lady W., on first hearing of her son's duel, and
the kind treatment he met with after being wounded, wrote a letter of
grateful acknowledgments, which she enclosed to her son, neither knowing
nor caring for the address of his benefactor. When she did hear it at
length, she was excessively angry that she had been, as she terms it,
'the first to make advances.' Ainsi, telles sont les femmes du monde!"
Such was Lord Netherby's letter. With what a succession of emotions
Helen read it we confess ourselves unable to depict. If she sometimes
hesitated to read on, an influence, too powerful to control, impelled
her to continue, while a secret interest in Forester's fortunes--a
feeling she had never known till now--induced her to learn his fate.
More than once, in the alteration of her condition, had she recalled the
proffer of affection she had with such determination rejected, and with
what gratitude did she remember the firmness of her decision!
"Poor fellow!" thought she, "I deemed it the mere caprice of one whose
gratitude for kindness had outrun his calmer convictions. And so he
really loved me!"
We must avow the fact: Helen's indifference to Forester had, in the
main, proceeded from a false estimate of his character; she saw in him
nothing but a well-bred, good-looking youth, who, with high connections
and moderate abilities, had formed certain ambitious views, to be
realized rather by the adventitious aid of fortune than his own merits.
He was, in her eyes, a young politician, cautions and watchful, trained
up to regard Lord Castlereagh as the model of statesmen, and political
intrigue as the very climax of intellectual display. To know that she
had wronged him was to make a great revolution in her feelings towards
him, to see that this reserved and calmly minded youth should have
sacrificed everything--position, prospects, all--rather than resign his
hope, faint as it was, of one day winning her affection!
If these were her first thoughts on reading that letter, those that
followed were far less pleasurable. How should she ever be able to show
it to her father? The circumstances alluded to were of a nature he never
could be cognizant of without causing the greatest pain both to him and
herself. To ask Lady Eleanor's counsel would be even more difficult.
Helen witnessed the emotion the sight of Lady Wallincourt's name had
occasioned her mother the day Forester first visited them; the old
rivalry had, then, left its trace on her mind as well as on that of Lady
Julia! What embarrassment on every hand! Where could she seek counsel,
and in whom? Bagenal Daly, the only one she could have opened her
heart to, was away; and was it quite certain she would have ventured
to disclose, even to him, the story of that affection which already
appeared so different from at first? Forester was not now in her eyes
the fashionable guardsman, indulging a passing predilection, or whiling
away the tedious hours of a country-house by a flirtation, in which he
felt interested because repulsed; he was elevated in her esteem by his
misfortunes, and the very uncertainty of his fate augmented her concern.
And yet she must forego the hope of saving him, or else, by showing
the letter to her father, acknowledge her acquaintance with events she
should never have known, or, knowing, should never reveal.
There was no help for it, the letter could not be shown. In all
likelihood neither the Knight nor Lady Eleanor would ever think more
about it; and if they did, there was still enough to speak of in the
courteous sentiments of the writer, and the polite attention of his
invitation,--a civility which even Helen's knowledge of life informed
her was rather proffered in discharge of a debt than as emanating from
any real desire to play their host in London.
Thus satisfying herself that no better course offered for the present,
she turned homewards, but with a heavier heart and more troubled mind
than had ever been her fortune in life to have suffered.
CHAPTER I. SOME CHARACTERS NEW TO THE KNIGHT AND THE READER
Soon after breakfast the following morning the Knight set out to pay
his promised visit to Miss Daly, who had taken up her abode at a little
village on the coast, about three miles distant. Had Darcy known that
her removal thither had been in consequence of his own arrival at
"The Corvy," the fact would have greatly added to an embarrassment
sufficiently great on other grounds. Of this, however, he was not aware;
her brother Bagenal accounting for her not inhabiting "The Corvy" as
being lonely and desolate, whereas the village of Ballintray was, after
its fashion, a little watering-place much frequented in the season by
visitors from Coleraine, and other towns still more inland.
Thither now the Knight bent his steps by a little footpath across the
fields which, from time to time, approached the seaside, and wound again
through the gently undulating surface of that ever-changing tract.
Not a human habitation was in sight; not a living thing was seen to
move over that wide expanse; it was solitude the very deepest, and well
suited the habit of his mind who now wandered there alone. Deeply lost
in thought, he moved onward, his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes
downcast; he neither bestowed a glance upon the gloomy desolation of
the land prospect, nor one look of admiring wonder at the giant cliffs,
which, straight as a wall, formed the barriers against the ocean.
"What a strange turn of fortune!" said he, at length, as relieving his
overburdened brain by speech. "I remember well the last day I ever saw
her; it was just before my departure for England for my marriage. I
remember well driving over to Castle Daly to say good-bye! Perhaps,
too, I had some lurking vanity in exhibiting that splendid team of four
grays, with two outriders. How perfect it all was! and a proud fellow
I was that day! Maria was looking very handsome; she was dressed for
riding, but ordered the horses back as I drove up. What spirits she
had!--with what zest she seized upon the enjoyments her youth, her
beauty, and her fortune gave her!--how ardently she indulged every
costly caprice and every whim, as if revelling in the pleasure of
extravagance even for its own sake! Fearless in everything, she did
indeed seem like a native princess, surrounded by all that barbaric
splendor of her father's house, the troops of servants, the equipages
without number, the guests that came and went unceasingly, all rendering
homage to her beauty. 'T was a gorgeous dream of life, and well she
understood how to realize all its enchantment. We scarcely parted good
friends on that same last day," said he, after a pause; "her manner
was almost mordant. I can recall the cutting sarcasms she dealt around
her,--strange exuberance of high spirits carried away to the wildest
flights of fancy; and after all, when, having dropped my glove, I
returned to the luncheon-room to seek it, I saw her in a window, bathed
in tears; she did not perceive me, and we never met after. Poor girl!
were those outpourings of sorrow the compensation nature exacted for
the exercise of such brilliant powers of wit and imagination? or had she
really, as some believed, a secret attachment somewhere? Who knows? And
now we are to meet again, after years of absence,--so fallen too! If it
were not for these gray hairs and this wrinkled brow, I could believe it
all a dream;--and what is it but a dream, if we are not fashioned to act
differently because of our calamities? Events are but shadows if they
move us not."
From thoughts like these he passed on to others,--as to how he should be
received, and what changes time might have wrought in her.
"She was so lovely, and might have been so much more so, had she but
curbed that ever-rising spirit of mockery that made the sparkling lustre
of her eyes seem like the scathing flash of lightning rather than the
soft beam of tranquil beauty. How we quarrelled and made up again! what
everlasting treaties ratified and broken! and now to look back on this
with a heart and a spirit weary, how sad it seems! Poor Maria! her
destiny has been less happy than mine. She is alone in the world; I have
affectionate hearts around me to make a home beneath the humble roof of
a cabin."
The Knight was aroused from his musings by suddenly finding himself
on the brow of a hill, from which the gorge descended abruptly into a
little cove, around which the village of Ballintray was built. A row
of whitewashed cottages, in winter inhabited by the fishermen and their
families, became in the summer season the residence of the visitors,
many of whom deserted spacious and well-furnished mansions to pass
their days in the squalid discomfort of a cabin. If beauty of situation
and picturesque charms of scenery could ever atone for so many
inconveniences incurred, this little village might certainly have done
so. Landlocked by two jutting promontories, the bay was sheltered both
east and westward, while the rising ground behind defended it from the
sweeping storms which the south brings in its seasons of rain; in front
the distant island of Isla could be seen, and the Scottish coast was
always discernible in the clear atmosphere of the evening.
While Darcy stood admiring the well-chosen spot, his eye rested upon a
semicircular panel of wood, which, covering over a short and gravelled
avenue, displayed in very striking capitals the words "Fumbally's
Boarding-House." The edifice itself, more pretentious in extent and
character than the cabins around, was ornamented with green jalousies
to the windows, and a dazzling brass knocker surmounting a plate of the
same metal, whereupon the name "Mrs. Jones Fumbally" was legible, even
from the road. Some efforts at planting had been made in the two
square plots of yellowish grass in front, but they had been lamentable
failures; and, as if to show that the demerit was of the soil and not of
the proprietors, the dead shrubs were suffered to stand where they had
been stuck down, while, in default of leaves or buds, they put forth a
plentiful covering of stockings, nightcaps, and other wearables, which
flaunted as gayly in the breeze as the owners were doing on the beach.
Across the high-road and on the beach, which was scarcely more than
fifty yards distant, stood a large wooden edifice on wheels, whose make
suggested some secret of its original destination, had not that fact
been otherwise revealed, since, from beneath the significant name
of "Fumbally," an acute decipherer might read the still unerased
inscription of "A Panther with only two spots from the head to the
tail," an unhappy collocation which fixed upon the estimable lady the
epithet of the animal in question.
Various garden-seats and rustic benches were scattered about, some
of which were occupied by lounging figures of gentlemen, in costumes
ingeniously a cross between the sporting world and the naval service;
while the ladies displayed a no less elegant neglige, half sea-nymph,
half shepherdess.
So much for the prospect landward, while towards the waves themselves
there was a party of bathers, whose flowing hair and lengthened drapery
indicated their sex. These maintained through all their sprightly
gambols an animated conversation with a party of gentlemen on the rocks,
who seemed, by the telescopes and spy-glasses which lay around them, to
be equally prepared for the inspection of near and distant objects,
and alternately turned from the criticism of a fair naiad beneath to a
Scotch collier working "north about" in the distance.
Darcy could not help feeling that if the cockneyism of a boarding-house
and the blinds and the brass knocker were sadly repugnant to the
sense of admiration the scene itself would excite, there was an ample
compensation in the primitive simplicity of the worthy inhabitants, who
seemed to revel in all the unsuspecting freedom of our first parents
themselves; for while some stood on little promontories of the rocks
in most Canova-like drapery, little frescos of naked children flitted
around and about, without concern to themselves or astonishment to the
beholders.
Never was the good Knight more convinced of his own prudence in paying
his first visit alone, and he stood for some time in patient admiration
of the scene, until his eye rested on a figure who, seated at some
distance off on a little eminence of the rocky coast, was as coolly
surveying Darcy through his telescope. The mutual inspection continued
for several minutes, when the stranger, deliberately shutting up his
glass, advanced towards the Knight.
The gentleman was short, but stoutly knit, with a walk and a carriage
of his head that, to Darcy's observant eye, bespoke an innate sense
of self-importance; his dress was a greatcoat, cut jockey fashion, and
ornamented with very large buttons, displaying heads of stags, foxes,
and badgers, and other emblems of the chase, short Russia duck trousers,
a wide-leaved straw hat, and a very loose cravat, knotted sailor-fashion
on his breast. As he approached the Knight, he came to a full stop about
half a dozen paces in front, and putting his hand to his hat, held
it straight above his head, pretty much in the way stage imitators of
Napoleon were wont to perform the salutation.
"A stranger, sir, I presume?" said he, with an insinuating smile and an
air of dignity at the same moment. Darcy bowed a courteous assent, and
the other went on: "Sweet scene, sir,--lovely nature,--animated and
grand."
"Most impressive, I confess," said Darcy, with difficulty repressing a
smile.
"Never here before, I take it?"
"Never, sir."
"Came from Coleraine, possibly? Walked all the way, eh?"
"I came on foot, as you have divined," said Darcy, dryly.
"Not going to make any stay, probably; a mere glance, and go on again.
Is n't that so?"
"I believe you are quite correct; but may I, in return for your
considerate inquiries, ask one question on my own part? You are,
perhaps, sufficiently acquainted with the locality to inform me if a
Miss Daly resides in this village, and where."
"Miss Daly, sir, did inhabit that cottage yonder, where you see the oars
on the thatch, but it has been let to the Moors of Ballymena; they pay
two-ten a week for the three rooms and the use of the kitchen; smart
that, ain't it?"
"And Miss Daly resides at present--"
"She 's one of us," said the little man, with a significant jerk of his
thumb to the blue board with the gilt letters; "not much of that, after
all; but she lives under the sway of 'Mother Fum,' though, from one
caprice or another, she don't mix with the other boarders. Do you know
her yourself?"
"I had that honor some years ago."
"Much altered, I take it, since that; down in the world too! She was an
heiress in those days, I 've heard, and a beauty. Has some of the good
looks still, but lost all the shiners."
"Am I likely to find her at home at this hour?" said Darcy, moving away,
and anxious for an opportunity to escape his communicative friend.
"No, not now; never shows in the morning. Just comes down to dinner, and
disappears again. Never takes a hand at whist--penny points tell up, you
know--seem a trifle at first, but hang me if they don't make a figure
in the budget afterwards. There, do you see that fat lady with the black
bathing-cap?--no, I mean the one with the blue baize patched on the
shoulder, the Widow Mackie,--she makes a nice thing of it,--won twelve
and fourpence since the first of the month. Pretty creature that yonder,
with one stocking on,--Miss Boyle, of Carrick-maclash."
"I must own," said Darcy, dryly, "that, not having the privilege of
knowing these ladies, I do not conceive myself at liberty to regard them
with due attention."
"Oh! they never mind that here; no secrets among us."
"Very primitive, and doubtless very delightful; but I have trespassed
too long on your politeness. Permit me to wish you a very good morning."
"Not at all; having nothing in the world to do. Paul Dempsey--that's
my name--was always an idle man; Paul Dempsey, sir, nephew of old Paul
Dempsey, of Dempsey Grove, in the county of Kilkenny; a snug place, that
I wish the proprietor felt he had enjoyed sufficiently long. And your
name, if I might make bold, is--"
"I call myself Gwynne," said Darcy, after a slight hesitation.
"Gwynne--Gwynne--there was a Gwynne, a tailor, in Ballyragget; a
connection, probably?"
"I 'm not aware of any relationship," said Darcy, smiling.
"I 'm glad of it; I owe your brother or your cousin there--that is,
if he was either--a sum of seven-and-nine for these ducks. There are
Gwynnes in Ross besides, and Quins; are you sure it is not Quin? Very
common name Quin."
[Illustration: 024]
"I believe we spell our name as I have pronounced it." "Well, if you
come to spend a little time here, I 'll give you a hint or two. Don't
join Leonard--that blue-nosed fellow, yonder, in whiskey. He 'll be
asking you, but don't--at it all day." Here Mr. Dempsey pantomimed the
action of tossing off a dram. "No whist with the widow; if you were
younger, I 'd say no small plays with Bess Boyle,--has a brother in the
Antrim militia, a very quarrelsome fellow."
"I thank you sincerely for your kind counsel, although not destined to
profit by it. I have one favor to ask: could you procure me the means to
enclose my card for Miss Daly, as I must relinquish the hope of seeing
her on this occasion?"
"No, no,--stop and dine. Capital cod and oysters,--always good. The
mutton rayther scraggy, but with a good will and good teeth manageable
enough; and excellent malt-"
"I thank you for your hospitable proposal, but cannot accept it."
"Well, I 'll take care of your card; you 'll probably come over again
soon. You 're at M'Grotty's, ain't you?"
"Not at present; and as to the card, with your permission I'll enclose
it." This Darcy was obliged to insist upon; as, if he left his name as
Gwynne, Miss Daly might have failed to recognize him, while he desired
to avoid being known as Mr. Darcy.
"Well, come in here; I 'll find you the requisites. But I wish you 'd
stop and see the 'Panther.'"
Had the Knight overheard this latter portion of Mr.
Dempsey's invitation, he might have been somewhat surprised; but it
chanced that the words were lost, and, preceded by honest Paul, he
entered the little garden in front of the house.
When Darcy had enclosed his card and committed it to the hands of Mr.
Dempsey, that gentleman was far too deeply impressed with the importance
of his mission to delay a moment in executing it, and then the Knight
was at last left at liberty to retrace his steps unmolested towards
home. If he had smiled at the persevering curiosity and eccentric
communicativeness of Mr. Dempsey, Darcy sorrowed deeply over the fallen
fortunes which condemned one he had known so courted and so flattered
once, to companionship like this. The words of the classic satirist
came full upon his memory, and never did a sentiment meet more ready
acceptance than the bitter, heart-wrung confession, "Unhappy poverty!
you have no heavier misery in your train than that you make men seem
ridiculous." A hundred times he wished he had never made the excursion;
he would have given anything to be able to think of her as she had been,
without the detracting influence of these vulgar associations. "And
yet," said he, half aloud, "a year or so more, if I am still living,
I shall probably have forgotten my former position, and shall have
conformed myself to the new and narrow limits of my lot, doubtless as
she does."
The quick tramp of feet on the heather behind him roused him, and, in
turning, he saw a person coming towards and evidently endeavouring
to overtake him. As he came nearer, the Knight perceived it was the
gentleman already alluded to by Dempsey as one disposed to certain
little traits of conviviality,--a fact which a nose of a deep copper
color, and two bloodshot, bleary eyes, corroborated. His dress was a
blue frock with a standing collar, military fashion, and dark trousers;
and, although bearing palpable marks of long wear, were still neat and
clean-looking. His age, as well as appearances might be trusted, was
probably between fifty and sixty.
"Mr. Gwynne, I believe, sir," said the stranger, touching his cap as he
spoke. "Miss Daly begged of me to say that she has just received your
card, and will be happy to see you."
Darcy stared at the speaker fixedly, and appeared, while unmindful of
his words, to be occupied with some deep emotion within him. The other,
who had delivered his message in a tone of easy unconcern, now fixed his
eyes on the Knight, and they continued for some seconds to regard each
other. Gradually, however, the stranger's face changed; a sickly pallor
crept over the features stained by long intemperance, his lip trembled,
and two heavy tears gushed out and rolled down his seared cheeks.
"My G--d! can it be? It surely is not!" said Darcy, with almost
tremulous earnestness.
"Yes, Colonel, it is the man you once remembered in your regiment as
Jack Leonard; the same who led a forlorn hope at Quebec,--the man
broke with disgrace and dismissed the service for cowardice at Trois
Rivires."
"Poor fellow!" said Darcy, taking his hand; "I heard you were dead."
"No, sir, it's very hard to kill a man by mere shame: though if
suffering could do it, I might have died."
"I have often doubted about that sentence, Leonard," said Darcy,
eagerly. "I wrote to the commander-in-chief to have inquiry made,
suspecting that nothing short of some affection of the mind or some
serious derangement of health could make a brave man behave badly."
"You were right, sir; I was a drunkard, not a coward. I was unworthy of
the service; I merited my disgrace, but not on the grounds for which I
met it."
"Good Heaven! then I was right," said Darcy, in a burst of passionate
grief; "my letter to the War Office was unanswered. I wrote again,
and received for reply that an example was necessary, and Lieutenant
Leonard's conduct pointed him out as the most suitable case for heavy
punishment."
"It was but just, Colonel; I was a poltroon when I took more than half a
bottle of wine. If I were not sober now, I could not have the courage to
face you here where I stand."
"Poor Jack!" said Darcy, wringing his hand cordially; "and what have you
done since?"
Leonard threw his eyes down upon his threadbare garments, his patched
boots, and the white-worn seams of his old frock, but not a word escaped
his lips. They walked on for some time side by side without speaking,
when Leonard said,--
"They know nothing of me here, Colonel. I need not ask you to
be--cautious." There was a hesitation before he uttered the last word.
"I do not desire to be recognized, either," said Darcy, "and prefer
being called Mr. Gwynne to the name of my family; and here, if I mistake
not, comes a gentleman most eager to learn anything of anybody."
Mr. Dempsey came up at this moment with a lady leaning on each of his
arms.
"Glad to see you again, sir; hope you 've thought better of your plans,
and are going to try Mother Fum's fare. Mrs. M'Quirk, Mr. Gwynne--Mr.
Gwynne, Miss Drew. Leonard will do the honors till we come back." So
saying, and with a princely wave of his straw hat, Mr. Dempsey resumed
his walk with the step of a conqueror.
"That fellow must be a confounded annoyance to you," said Darcy, as he
looked after him.
"Not now, sir," said the other, submissively; "I 'm used to him;
besides, since Miss Daly's arrival he is far quieter than he used to be,
he seems afraid of her. But I 'll leave you now, Colonel." He touched
his cap respectfully, and was about to move away, when Darcy, pitying
the confusion which overwhelmed him, caught his hand cordially, and
said,--
"Well, Jack, for the moment, good-bye; but come over and see me. I live
at the little cottage called 'The Corvy.'"
"Good Heaven, sir! and it is true what I read in the newspaper about
your misfortunes?"
"I conclude it is, Jack, though I have not read it; they could scarcely
have exaggerated."
"And you bear it like this!" said the other, with a stare of amazement;
then added, in a broken voice, "Though, to be sure, there 's a wide
difference between loss of fortune and ruined character."
"Come, Jack, I see you are not so good a philosopher as I thought you.
Come and dine with me to-morrow at five."
"Dine with you, Colonel!" said Leonard, blushing deeply.
"And why not, man? I see you have not forgotten the injustice I once did
you, and I am happier this day to know it was I was in the wrong than
that a British officer was a coward."
"Oh, Colonel Darcy, I did not think this poor broken heart could ever
throb again with gratitude, but you have made it do so; you have kindled
the flame of pride where the ashes were almost cold." And with a burning
blush upon his face he turned away. Darcy looked after him for a second,
and then entered the house.
Darcy had barely time to throw one glance around the scanty furniture of
the modest parlor into which he was ushered, when Miss Daly entered. She
stopped suddenly short, and for a few seconds each regarded the
other without speaking. Time had, indeed, worked many changes in the
appearance of each for which they were unprepared; but no less were they
unprepared for the emotions this sudden meeting was to call up.
Miss Daly was plainly but handsomely dressed, and wore her silvery hair
beneath a cap in two long bands on either cheek, with something of an
imitation of a mode she followed in youth; the tones of her voice,
too, were wonderfully little changed, and fell upon Darcy's ears with a
strange, melancholy meaning.
"We little thought, Knight," said she, "when we parted last, that our
next meeting would have been as this, so many years and many sorrows
have passed over us since that day!"
"And a large measure of happiness, too, Maria," said Darcy, as, taking
her hand, he led her to a seat; "let us never forget, amid all our
troubles, how many blessings we have enjoyed."
Whether it was the words themselves that agitated her, or something in
his manner of uttering them, Miss Daly blushed deeply and was silent.
Darcy was not slow to see her confusion, and suddenly remembering how
inapplicable his remark was to her fortunes, though not to his own,
added hastily, "I, at least, would be very ungrateful if I could not
look back with thankfulness to a long life of prosperity and happiness;
and if I bear my present reverses with less repining, it is, I hope and
trust, from the sincerity of this feeling."
"You have enjoyed the sunny path in life," said Miss Daly, in a low,
faint voice, "and it is, perhaps, as you say, reason for enduring
altered fortunes better." She paused, and then, with a more hurried
voice, added: "One does not bear calamity better from habit; that is all
a mistake. When the temper is soured by disappointment, the spirit of
endurance loses its firmest ally. Your misfortunes will, however, be
short-lived, I hope; my brother writes me he has great confidence
in some legal opinions, and certain steps he has already taken in
chancery."
"The warm-hearted and the generous are always sanguine," said Darcy,
with a sad smile; "Bagenal would not be your brother if he could see a
friend in difficulty without venturing on everything to rescue him. What
an old friendship ours has been! class fellows at school, companions in
youth, we have run our race together, to end with fortune how similar!
I was thinking, Maria, as I came along, of Castle Daly, and remembering
how I passed my holidays with you there. Is your memory as good as
mine?"
"I scarcely like to think of Castle Daly," said she, almost pettishly,
"it reminds me so much of that wasteful, reckless life which laid the
foundation of our ruin. Tell me how Lady Eleanor Darcy bears up, and
your daughter, of whom I have heard so much, and desire so ardently to
see; is she more English or Irish?"
"A thorough Darcy," said the Knight, smiling, "but yet with traits of
soft submission and patient trust our family has been but rarely gifted
with; her virtues are all the mother's, every blemish of her character
has come from the other side."
"Is she rash and headstrong? for those are Darcy failings."
"Not more daring or courageous than I love her to be," said Darcy,
proudly, "not a whit more impetuous in sustaining the right or
denouncing the wrong than I glory to see her; but too ardent, perhaps,
too easily carried away by first impressions, than is either fashionable
or frequent in the colder world."
"It is a dangerous temper," said Miss Daly, thoughtfully.
"You are right, Maria; such people are for the most part like the
gamester who has but one throw for his fortune, if he loses which, all
is lost with it."
"Too true, too true!" said she, in an accent whose melancholy sadness
seemed to come from the heart. "You must guard her carefully from any
rash attachment; a character like hers is strong to endure, but not less
certain to sink under calamity."
"I know it, I feel it," said Darcy; "but my dear child is still too
young to have mixed in that world which is already closed against her;
her affections could never have strayed beyond the limits of our little
home circle; she has kept all her love for those who need it most."
"And Lady Eleanor?" said Miss Daly, as if suddenly desirous to change
the theme: "Bagenal tells me her health has been but indifferent; how
does she bear our less genial climate here?"
"She 's better than for many years past; I could even say she 's
happier. Strange it is, Maria, but the course of prosperity, like the
calms in the ocean, too frequently steep the faculties in an apathy that
becomes weariness; but when the clouds are drifted along faster, and the
waves rustle at the prow, the energies of life are again excited, and
the very occasion of danger begets the courage to confront it. We cannot
be happy when devoid of self-esteem, and there is but little opportunity
to indulge this honest pride when the world goes fairly with us, without
any effort of our own; reverses of fortune--"
"Oh, reverses of fortune!" interrupted Miss Daly, rapidly, "people think
much more about them than they merit; it is the world itself makes them
so difficult to bear; one can think and act as freely beneath the thatch
of a cabin as the gilded roof of a palace. It is the mock sympathy,
the affected condolence for your fallen estate, that tortures you; the
never-ending recurrence to what you once were, contrasted with what
you are; the cruelty of that friendship that is never content save when
reminding you of a station lost forever, and seeking to unfit you for
your humble path in the valley because your step was once proudly on the
mountain-top."
"I will not concede all this," said the Knight, mildly; "my fall has
been too recent not to remind me of many kindnesses."
"I hate pity," said Miss Daly; "it is like a recommendation to mercy
after the sentence of an unjust judge. Now tell me of Lionel."
"A fine, high-spirited soldier, as little affected by his loss as though
it touched him not; and yet, poor boy! to all appearance a bright career
was about to open before him,--well received by the world, honored by
the personal notice of his Prince."
"Ha! now I think of it, why did you not vote against the Minister?"
"It was on that evening," said Darcy, sorrowfully,--"on that very
evening--I heard of Gleeson's flight."
"Well,"--then suddenly correcting herself, and restraining the question
that almost trembled on her lip, she added, "And you were, doubtless,
too much shocked to appear in the House?"
"I was ill," said Darcy, faintly; "indeed, I believe I can say with
truth, my own ruin preyed less upon my mind than the perfidy of one so
long confided in."
"And they made this accidental illness the ground of a great attack
against your character, and sought to discover in your absence the
secret of your corruption. How basely minded men must be, when they will
invent not only actions, but motives to calumniate!" She paused, and
then muttered to herself, "I wish you had voted against that Bill."
"It would have done little good," said the Knight, answering her
soliloquy; "my vote could neither retard nor prevent the measure, and
as for myself, personally, I am proud enough to think I have given
sufficient guarantees by a long life of independent action, not to need
this crowning test of honesty. Now to matters nearer to us both: when
will you come and visit my wife and daughter? or shall I bring them here
to you?"
"No, no, not here. I am not ashamed of this place for myself, though I
should be so if they were once to see it."
"But you feel less lonely," said Darcy, in a gentle tone, as if
anticipating the reason of her choice of residence.
"Less lonely!" replied she, with a haughty laugh; "what companionship or
society have I with people like these? It is not that,--it is my poverty
compels me to live here. Of them and of their habits I know nothing;
from me and from mine they take good care to keep aloof. No, with your
leave I will visit Lady Eleanor at your cottage,--that is, if she has no
objection to receive me."
"She will be but too happy," said Darcy, "to know and value one of her
husband's oldest and warmest friends."
"You must not expect me soon, however," said she, hastily; "I have grown
capricious in everything, and never can answer for performing a pledge
at any stated time, and therefore never make one."
Abrupt and sudden as had been the changes of her voice and manner
through this interview, there was a tone of unusual harshness in the way
this speech was uttered; and as Darcy rose to take his leave, a feeling
of sadness came over him to think that this frame of mind must have been
the slow result of years of heart-consuming sorrow.
"Whenever you come, Maria," said he, as he took her hand in his, "you
will be most welcome to us."
"Have you heard any tidings of Forester?" said Miss Daly, as if suddenly
recalling a subject she wished to speak on.
"Forester of the Guards? Lionel's friend, do you mean?"
"Yes; you know that he has left the army, thrown up his commission, and
gone no one knows where?"
"I did not know of that before. I am sincerely sorry for it. Is the
cause surmised?"
Miss Daly made no answer, but stood with her eyes bent on the ground,
and apparently in deep thought; then looking up suddenly, she said, with
more composure than ordinary, "Make my compliments to Lady Eleanor, and
say that at the first favorable moment I will pay my personal respects
to her--kiss Helen for me--good-bye." And, without waiting for Darcy to
take his leave, she walked hastily by, and closed the door after her.
"This wayward manner," said Darcy, sorrowfully, to himself, "has a
deeper root than mere capriciousness; the heart has suffered so long
that the mind begins to partake of the decay." And with this sad
reflection he left the village, and turned his solitary steps towards
home.
If Darcy was grieved to find Miss Daly surrounded by such unsuitable
companionship, he was more thau recompensed at finding that her taste
rejected nearer intimacy with Mrs. Fumbally's household. More than once
the fear crossed his mind that, with diminished circumstances, she might
have lapsed into habits so different from her former life, and he could
better look upon her struggling as she did against her adverse fortune
than assimilating herself to those as much below her in sentiment as in
station. He was happy to have seen his old friend once more, he was glad
to refresh his memory of long-forgotten scenes by the sight of her who
had been his playfellow and his companion, but he was not free of a
certain dread that Miss Daly would scarcely be acceptable to his wife,
while her wayward, uncertain temper would form no safe companionship
for his daughter. As he pondered on these things, he began to feel how
altered circumstances beget suspicion, and how he, who had never known
the feeling of distrust, now found himself hesitating and doubting,
where formerly he had acted without fear or reserve.
"Yes," said he, aloud, "when wealth and station were mine, the
consciousness of power gave energy to my thoughts, but now I am to learn
how narrow means can fetter a man's courage."
"Some truth in that," said a voice behind him; "would cut a very
different figure myself if old Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey Grove, were to
betake himself to a better world."
Darcy's cheek reddened between shame and anger to find himself overheard
by his obtrusive companion, and, with a cold salute, he passed on. Mr.
Dempsey, however, was not a man to be so easily got rid of; he possessed
that happy temper that renders its owner insensible to shame and
unconscious of rebuke; besides that, he was always "going your way,"
quite content to submit to any amount of rebuff rather than be alone.
If you talked, it was well; if you listened, it was better; but if you
affected open indifference to him, and neither exchanged a word nor
vouchsafed the slightest attention, even that was supportable, for he
could give the conversation a character of monologue or anecdote, which
occupied himself at least.
CHAPTER II. A TALE OF MR. DEMPSEY'S GRANDFATHER
The Knight of Gwynne was far too much occupied in his own reflections
to attend to his companion, and exhibited a total unconcern to several
piquant little narratives of Mrs. Mackie's dexterity in dealing the
cards, of Mrs. Fumbally's parsimony in domestic arrangements, of Miss
Boyle's effrontery, of Leonard's intemperance, and even of Miss Daly's
assumed superiority.
"You 're taking the wrong path," said Mr. Dempsey, suddenly interrupting
one of his own narratives, at a spot where the two roads diverged,--one
proceeding inland, while the other followed the line of the coast.
"With your leave, sir," said Darcy, coldly, "I will take this way, and
if you 'll kindly permit it, I will do so alone."
"Oh, certainly!" said Dempsey, without the slightest sign of umbrage;
"would never have thought of joining you had it not been from
overhearing an expression so exactly pat to my own condition, that I
thought we were brothers in misfortune; you scarcely bear up as well as
I do, though."
Darcy turned abruptly round, as the fear flashed across him, and he
muttered to himself, "This fellow knows me; if so, the whole county will
soon be as wise as himself, and the place become intolerable." Oppressed
with this unpleasant reflection, the Knight moved on, nor was it till
after a considerable interval that he was conscious of his companion's
presence; for Mr. Dempsey still accompanied him, though at the distance
of several paces, and as if following a path of his own choosing.
Darcy laughed good-humoredly at the pertinacity of his tormentor; and
half amused by the man, and half ashamed of his own rudeness to him, he
made some casual observation on the scenery to open a reconciliation.
"The coast is much finer," said Dempsey, "close to your cottage."
This was a home-thrust for the Knight, to show him that concealment was
of no use against so subtle an adversary.
"'The Corvy' is, as you observe, very happily situated," replied Darcy,
calmly; "I scarcely know which to prefer,--the coast-line towards
Dunluce, or the bold cliffs that stretch away to Bengore."
"When the wind comes north-by-west," said Dempsey, with a shrewd glance
of his greenish gray eyes, "there 's always a wreck or two between the
Skerries and Portrush."
"Indeed! Is the shore so unsafe as that?"
"Oh, yes. You may expect a very busy winter here when the homeward-bound
Americans are coming northward."
"D----n the fellow! does he take me for a wrecker?" said Darcy to
himself, not knowing whether to laugh or be angry.
"Such a curiosity that old 'Corvy' is, they tell me," said Dempsey,
emboldened by his success; "every species of weapon and arm in the
world, they say, gathered together there."
"A few swords and muskets," said the Knight, carelessly; "a stray dirk
or two, and some harpoons, furnish the greater part of the armory."
"Oh, perhaps so! The story goes, however, that old Daly--brother, I
believe, of our friend at Mother Fum's--could arm twenty fellows at a
moment's warning, and did so on more than one occasion too."
"With what object, in Heaven's name?"
"Buccaneering, piracy, wrecking, and so on," said Dempsey, with all the
unconcern with which he would have enumerated so many pursuits of the
chase.
A hearty roar of laughter broke from the Knight; and when it ceased he
said, "I would be sincerely sorry to stand in your shoes, Mr. Dempsey,
so near to yonder cliff, if you made that same remark in Mr. Daly's
hearing."
"He 'd gain very little by me," said Mr. Dempsey; "one and eightpence,
an old watch, an oyster-knife, and my spectacles, are all the property
in my possession--except, when, indeed," added he, after a pause, "Bob
remits the quarter's allowance."
"It is only just," said Darcy, gravely, "to a gentleman who takes such
pains to inform himself on the affairs of his neighbors, that I should
tell you that Mr. Bagenal Daly is not a pirate, nor am I a wrecker. I
am sure you will be generous enough for this unasked information not to
require of me a more lengthened account either of my friend or myself."
"You 're in the Revenue, perhaps?" interrupted the undaunted Dempsey; "I
thought so when I saw you first."
Darcy shook his head in dissent.
"Wrong again. Ah! I see it all; the old story. Saw better days--you have
just come down here to lie snug and quiet, out of the way of writs and
latitats--went too fast--by Jove, that touches myself too! If I hadn't
happened to have a grandfather, I 'd have been a rich man this day. Did
you ever chance to hear of Dodd and Dempsey, the great wine-merchants?
My father was son of Dodd and Dempsey,--that is Dempsey, you know; and
it was his father-Sam Dempsey--ruined him."
"No very uncommon circumstance," said the Knight, sorrowfully, "for an
Irish father."
"You 've heard the story, I suppose?--of course you have; every one
knows it."
"I rather think not," said the Knight, who was by no means sorry to turn
Mr. Dempsey from cross-examination into mere narrative.
"I 'll tell it to you; I am sure I ought to know it well, I 've heard my
father relate it something like a hundred times."
"I fear I must decline so pleasant a proposal," said Darcy, smiling. "At
this moment I have an engagement."
"Never mind. To-morrow will do just as well," interrupted the inexorable
Dempsey. "Come over and take your mutton-chop with me at five, and you
shall have the story into the bargain."
"I regret that I cannot accept so very tempting an invitation,"
said Darcy, struggling between his sense of pride and a feeling of
astonishment at his companion's coolness.
"Not come to dinner!" exclaimed Dempsey, as if the thing was scarcely
credible. "Oh, very well, only remember"--and here he put an unusual
gravity into his words--"only remember the onus is now on you."
The Knight burst into a hearty laugh at this subtle retort, and, willing
as he ever was to go with the humor of the moment, replied,--
"I am ready to accept it, sir, and beg that you will dine with me."
"When and where?" said Dempsey.
"To-morrow, at that cottage yonder: five is your hour, I believe--we
shall say five."
"Booked!" exclaimed Dempsey, with an air of triumph; while he muttered,
with a scarcely subdued voice, "Knew I'd do it!--never failed in my
life!"
"Till then, Mr. Dempsey," said Darcy, removing his hat courteously, as
he bowed to him,--"till then--"
"Your most obedient," replied Dempsey, returning the salute; and so they
parted.
"The Corvy," on the day after the Knight's visit to Port Ballintray, was
a scene of rather amusing bustle; the Knight's dinner-party, as Helen
quizzingly called it, affording occupation for every member of
the household. In former times, the only difficult details of an
entertainment were in the selection of the guests,--bringing together
a company likely to be suitable to each other, and endowed with those
various qualities which make up the success of society; now, however,
the question was the more material one,--the dinner itself.
It is always a fortunate thing when whatever absurdity our calamities in
life excite should be apparent only to ourselves. The laugh which is
so difficult to bear from the world is then an actual relief from our
troubles. The Darcys felt this truth, as each little embarrassment that
arose was food for mirth; and Lady Eleanor, who least of all could adapt
herself to such contingencies, became as eager as the rest about the
little preparations of the day.
While the Knight hurried hither and thither, giving directions here and
instructions there, he explained to Lady Eleanor some few circumstances
respecting the character of his guests. It was, indeed, a new kind of
company he was about to present to his wife and daughter; but while
conscious of the disparity in every respect, he was not the less eager
to do the hospitalities of his humble house with all becoming honor. It
is true his invitation to Mr. Dempsey was rather forced from him than
willingly accorded; he was about the very last kind of person Darcy
would have asked to his table, if perfectly free to choose; but, of all
men living, the Knight knew least how to escape from a difficulty the
outlet to which should cost him any sacrifice of feeling.
"Well, well, it is but once and away; and, after all, the talkativeness
of our little friend Dempsey will be so far a relief to poor Leonard,
that he will be brought less prominently forward himself, and be
suffered to escape unremarked,--a circumstance which, from all that I
can see, will afford him sincere pleasure."
At length all the preparations were happily accomplished: the emissary
despatched to Kilrush at daybreak had returned with a much-coveted
turkey; the fisherman had succeeded in capturing a lordly salmon;
oysters and lobsters poured in abundantly; and Mrs. M'Kerrigan, who had
been left as a fixture at "The Corvy," found her only embarrassment in
selection from that profusion of "God's gifts," as she phrased it, that
now surrounded her. The hour of five drew near, and the ladies were
seated in the hall, the doors of which lay open, as the two guests were
seen making their way towards the cottage.
"Here they come, papa," said Helen; "and now for a guess. Is not the
short man with the straw hat Mr. Dempsey, and his tall companion Mr.
Leonard?"
"Of course it is," said Lady Eleanor; "who could mistake the garrulous
pertinacity of that little thing that gesticulates at every step, or the
plodding patience of his melancholy associate?"
The next moment the Knight was welcoming them in front of the cottage.
The ceremony of introduction to the ladies being over, Mr. Dempsey, who
probably was aware that the demands upon his descriptive powers would
not be inconsiderable when he returned to "Mother Fum's," put his glass
to his eye, and commenced a very close scrutiny of the apartment and its
contents.
[Illustration: 042]
"Quite a show-box, by Jove!" said he, at last, as he peered through a
glass cabinet, where Chinese slippers, with models in ivory and carvings
in box, were heaped promiscuously together; "upon my word, sir, you
have a very remarkable collection. And who may be our friend in the boat
here?" added he, turning to the grim visage of Bagenal Daly himself,
who stared with a bold effrontery that would not have disgraced the
original.
"The gentleman you see there," said the Knight, "is the collector
himself, and the other is his servant. They are represented in the
costumes in which they made their escape from a captivity among the red
men."
"Begad!" said Dempsey, "that fellow with the tortoise painted on his
forehead has a look of our old friend, Miss Daly; should n't wonder if
he was a member of her family."
"You have well guessed it; he is the lady's brother."
"Ah, ah!" muttered Dempsey to himself, "always thought there was
something odd about her,--never suspected Indian blood, however. How
Mother Fum will stare when I tell her she's a Squaw! Didn't they
show these things at the Rooms in Mary's Street? I think I saw them
advertised in the papers."
"I think you must mistake," said the Knight; "they are the private
collection of my friend."
"And where may Woc-woc--confound his name!--the 'Howling Wind,' as he is
pleased to call himself, be passing his leisure hours just now?"
"He is at present in Dublin, sir; and if you desire, he shall be made
aware of your polite inquiries."
"No, no--hang it, no!--don't like the look of him. Should have no
objection, though, if he 'd pay old Bob Dempsey a visit, and frighten
him out of this world for me."
"Dinner, my lady," said old Tate, as he threw open the doors into the
dining-room, and bowed with all his accustomed solemnity.
"Hum!" muttered Dempsey, "my lady won't go down with me,-too old a
soldier for that!"
"Will you give my daughter your arm?" said the Knight to the little man,
for already Lady Eleanor had passed on with Mr. Leonard.
As Mr. Dempsey arranged his napkin on his knee, he endeavored to catch
Leonard's eye, and telegraph to him his astonishment at the elegance of
the table equipage which graced the board. Poor Leonard, however, seldom
looked up; a deep sense of shame, the agonizing memory of what he once
was, recalled vividly by the sight of those objects, and the appearance
of persons which reminded him of his past condition, almost stunned him.
The whole seemed like a dream; even though intemperance had degraded
him, there were intervals in which his mind, clear to see and reflect,
sorrowed deeply over his fallen state. Had the Knight met him with a
cold and repulsive deportment, or had he refused to acknowledge him
altogether, he could better have borne it than all the kindness of his
present manner. It was evident, too, from Lady Eleanor's tone to him,
that she knew nothing of his unhappy fortune, or that if she did,
the delicacy with which she treated him was only the more benevolent.
Oppressed by such emotions, he sat endeavoring to eat, and trying to
listen and interest himself in the conversation around him; but the
effort was too much for his strength, and a vague, half-whispered
assent, or a dull, unmeaning smile, were about as much as he could
contribute to what was passing.
The Knight, whose tact was rarely at fault, saw every straggle that was
passing in Leonard's mind, and adroitly contrived that the conversation
should be carried on without any demand upon him, either as talker or
listener. If Lady Eleanor and Helen contributed their aid to this end,
Mr. Dempsey was not backward on his part, for he talked unceasingly.
The good things of the table, to which he did ample justice, afforded
an opportunity for catechizing the ladies in their skill in household
matters; and Miss Darcy, who seemed immensely amused by the novelty of
such a character, sustained her part to admiration, entering deeply into
culinary details, and communicating receipts invented for the occasion.
At another time, perhaps, the Knight would have checked the spirit of
persiflage in which his daughter indulged; but he suffered it now to
take its course, well pleased that the mark of her ridicule was not only
worthy of the sarcasm, but insensible to its arrow.
"Quite right,-quite right not to try Mother Fum's when you can get up a
little thing like this,-and such capital sherry; look how Tom takes it
in,-slips like oil over his lip!"
Leonard looked up. An expression of rebuking severity for a moment
crossed his features; but his eyes fell the next instant, and a low,
faint sigh escaped him.
"I ought to know what sherry is,--'Dodd and Dempsey's' was the great
house for sherry."
"By the way," said the Knight, "did not you promise me a little
narrative of Dodd and Dempsey, when we parted yesterday?"
"To be sure, I did. Will you have it now?"
Lady Eleanor and Helen rose to withdraw; but Mr. Dempsey, who took the
movement as significant, immediately interposed, by saying,--
"Don't stir, ma'am,-sit down, ladies, I beg; there's nothing broad in
the story,--it might be told before the maids of honor."
Lady Eleanor and Helen were thunderstruck at the explanation, and the
Knight laughed till the tears came.
"My dear Eleanor," said he, "you really must accept Mr. Dempsey's
assurance, and listen to his story now."
The ladies took their seats once more, and Mr. Dempsey, having filled
his glass, drank off a bumper; but whether it was that the narrative
itself demanded a greater exertion at his hands, or that the cold
quietude of Lady Eleanor's manner abashed him, but he found a second
bumper necessary before he commenced his task.
"I say," whispered he to the Knight, "couldn't you get that decanter out
of Leonard's reach before I begin? He'll not leave a drop in it while I
am talking."
As if he felt that, after his explanation, the tale should be more
particularly addressed to Lady Eleanor, he turned his chair round so as
to face her, and thus began:--
"There was once upon a time, ma'am, a Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland who was
a Duke. Whether he was Duke of Rutland, or Bedford, or Portland, or any
other title it was he had, my memory does n't serve me; it is enough,
however, if I say he was immensely rich, and, like many other people in
the same way, immensely in debt. The story goes that he never travelled
through England, and caught sight of a handsome place, or fine domain,
or a beautiful cottage, that he did n't go straightway to the owner and
buy it down out of the face, as a body might say, whether he would or
no. And so in time it came to pass that there was scarcely a county in
England without some magnificent house belonging to him. In many parts
of Scotland he had them too, and in all probability he would have done
the same in Ireland, if he could. Well, ma'am, there never was such
rejoicings as Dublin saw the night his Grace arrived to be our Viceroy.
To know that we had got a man with one hundred and fifty thousand a
year, and a spirit to spend double the money, was a downright blessing
from Providence, and there was no saying what might not be the
prosperity of Ireland under so auspicious a ruler.
"To do him justice, he did n't balk public expectation. Open house at
the Castle, ditto at the Lodge in the Park, a mansion full of guests in
the county Wicklow, a pack of hounds in Kildare, twelve horses training
at the Curragh, a yacht like a little man-of-war in Dunleary harbor,
large subscriptions to everything like sport, and a pension for life to
every man that could sing a jolly song, or write a witty bit of poetry.
Well, ma'am, they say, who remember those days, that they saw the best
of Ireland; and surely I believe, if his Grace had only lived, and had
his own way, the peerage would have been as pleasant, and the bench of
bishops as droll, and the ladies of honor as--Well, never mind, I 'll
pass on." Here Mr. Dempsey, to console himself for the abruptness of his
pause, poured out and drank another bumper of sherry. "Pleasant times
they were." said he, smacking his lips; "and faith, if Tom Leonard
himself was alive then, the color of his nose might have made him
Commander of the Forces; but, to continue, it was Dodd and Dempsey's
house supplied the sherry,-only the sherry, ma'am; old Stewart, of
Belfast, had the port, and Kinnahan the claret and lighter liquors. I
may mention, by the way, that my grandfather's contract included brandy,
and that he would n't have given it up for either of the other two. It
was just about this time that Dodd died, and my grandfather was left
alone in the firm; but whether it was out of respect for his late
partner, or that he might have felt himself lonely, but he always kept
up the name of Dodd on the brass plate, and signed the name along with
his own; indeed, they say that he once saluted his wife by the name of
Mrs. Dodd and Dempsey. But, as I was saying, it was one of those days
when my grandfather was seated on a high stool in the back office of
his house in Abbey Street, that a fine, tall young fellow, with a blue
frock-coat, all braided with gold, and an elegant cocked-hat, with
a plume of feathers in it, came tramping into the room, his spurs
jingling, and his brass sabre clinking, and his sabretash banging at his
legs.
"'Mr. Dempsey?' said he.
"'D. and D.,' said my grandfather,--'that is, Dodd and Dempsey, your
Grace,' for he half suspected it was the Duke himself.
"'I am Captain M'Claverty, of the Scots Greys,' said he, 'first
aide-de-camp to his Excellency.'
"'I hope you may live to be colonel of the regiment,' said my
grandfather, for he was as polite and well-bred as any man in Ireland.
"'That's too good a sentiment,' said the captain, 'not to be pledged in
a glass of your own sherry.'
"'And we'll do it too,' said old Dempsey. And he opened the desk, and
took out a bottle he had for his own private drinking, and uncorked it
with a little pocket corkscrew he always carried about with him, and he
produced two glasses, and he and the captain hobnobbed and drank to each
other.
"'Begad!' said the captain, 'his Grace sent me to thank you for the
delicious wine you supplied him with, but it's nothing to this,---not to
be compared to it.'
"'I 've better again,' said my grandfather. 'I 've wine that would bring
the tears into your eyes when you saw the decanter getting low.'
"The captain stared at him, and maybe it was that the speech was too
much for his nerves, but he drank off two glasses one after the other as
quick as he could fill them out.
"'Dempsey,' said he, looking round cautiously, 'are we alone?'
"'We are,' said my grandfather.
"'Tell me, then,' said M'Claverty, 'how could his Grace get a taste of
this real sherry--for himself alone, I mean? Of course, I never thought
of his giving it to the Judges, and old Lord Dunboyne, and such like.'
"'Does he ever take a little sup in his own room, of an evening?'
"'I am afraid not, but I 'll tell you how I think it might be managed.
You 're a snug fellow, Dempsey, you 've plenty of money muddling away in
the bank at three-and-a-half per cent; could n't you contrive, some way
or other, to get into his Excellency's confidence, and lend him ten or
fifteen thousand or so?'
"'Ay, or twenty,' said my grandfather,--'or twenty, if he likes it'
"'I doubt if he would accept such a sum,' said the captain, shaking his
head; 'he has bags of money rolling in upon him every week or fortnight;
sometimes we don't know where to put them.'
"'Oh, of course,' said my grandfather; 'I meant no offence, I only said
twenty, because, if his Grace would condescend, it is n't twenty, but a
fifty thousand I could give him, and on the nail too.'
"'You're a fine fellow, Dempsey, a devilish fine fellow; you 're the
very kind of fellow the Duke likes,--open-handed, frank, and generous.'
"'Do you really think he'd like me?' said my grandfather; and he rocked
on the high stool, so that it nearly came down.
"'Like you! I'll tell you what it is,' said he, laying his hand on my
grandfather's knee, 'before one week was over, he could n't do without
you. You 'd be there morning, noon, and night; your knife and fork
always ready for you, just like one of the family.'
"'Blood alive!' said my grandfather, 'do you tell me so?'
"'I 'll bet you a hundred pounds on it, sir.'
"'Done,' said my grandfather, 'and you must hold the stakes;' and with
that he opened his black pocket-book, and put a note for the amount into
the captain's hand.
"'This is the 31st of March,' said the captain, taking out his pencil
and tablets. 'I 'll just book the bet.'
"And, indeed," added Mr. Dempsey, "for that matter, if it was a day
later it would have been only more suitable.
"Well, ma'am, what passed between them afterwards I never heard said;
but the captain took his leave, and left my grandfather so delighted and
overjoyed that he finished all the sherry in the drawer, and when the
head clerk came in to ask for an invoice, or a thing of the kind, he
found old Mr. Dempsey with his wig on the high stool, and he bowing
round it, and calling it your Grace. There 's no denying it, ma'am, he
was blind drunk.
"About ten days or a fortnight after this time, my grandfather received
a note from Teesum and Twist, the solicitors, stating that the draft
or the bond was already drawn up for the loan he was about to make his
Grace, and begging to know to whom it was to be submitted.
"'The captain will win his bet, devil a lie in it,' said my grandfather;
'he's going to bring the Duke and myself together.'
"Well, ma'am, I won't bother you with the law business, though if my
father was telling the story he would not spare you one item of it
all,--who read this, and who signed the other, and the objections that
was made by them thieving attorneys! and how the Solicitor-General
struck out this and put in that clause; but to tell you the truth,
ma'am, I think that all the details spoil, what we may call, the poetry
of the narrative; it is finer to say he paid the money, and the Duke
pocketed it.
"Well, weeks went over and months long, and not a bit of the Duke did
my grandfather see, nor M'Claverty either; he never came near him. To be
sure, his Grace drank as much sherry as ever; indeed, I believe out of
love to my grandfather they drank little else. From the bishops and the
chaplain, down to the battle-axe guards, it was sherry, morning, noon,
and night; and though this was very pleasing to my grandfather, he was
always wishing for the time when he was to be presented to his Grace,
and their friendship was to begin. My grandfather could think of nothing
else, daylight and dark. When he walked, he was always repeating to
himself what his Grace might say to him, and what he would say to his
Grace; and he was perpetually going up at eleven o'clock, when the guard
was relieved in the Castle-yard, suspecting that every now and then
a footman in blue and silver would come out, and, touching his elbow,
whisper in his ear, 'Mr. Dempsey, the Duke 's waiting for you.' But, my
dear ma'am, he might have waited till now, if Providence had spared him,
and the devil a taste of the same message would ever have come near him,
or a sight of the same footman in blue! It was neither more nor less
than a delusion, or an illusion, or a confusion, or whatever the name of
it is. At last, ma'am, in one of his prowlings about the Phoenix Park,
who does he come on but M'Claverty? He was riding past in a great hurry;
but he pulled up when he saw my grandfather, and called out, 'Hang it!
who's this? I ought to know you.'
"'Indeed you ought,' said my grandfather. 'I 'm Dodd and Dempsey, and
by the same token there's a little bet between us, and I 'd like to know
who won and who lost.'
"'I think there's small doubt about that,' said the captain. 'Did n't
his Grace borrow twenty thousand of you?'
"'He did, no doubt of it.'
"'And was n't it my doing?'
"'Upon my conscience, I can't deny it.'
"'Well, then, I won the wager, that's clear.'
"'Oh! I see now,' said my grandfather; 'that was the wager, was it? Oh,
bedad! I think you might have given me odds, if that was our bet.'
"'Why, what did you think it was?'
"'Oh, nothing at all, sir. It's no matter now; it was another thing
was passing in my mind. I was hoping to have the honor of making his
acquaintance, nattered as I was by all you told me about him.'
"'Ah! that's difficult, I confess,' said the captain; 'but still one
might do something. He wants a little money just now. If you could make
interest to be the lender, I would n't say that what you suggest is
impossible.'
"Well, ma'am, it was just as it happened before; the old story,--more
parchment, more comparing of deeds, a heavy check on the bank for the
amount.
"When it was all done, M'Claverty came in one morning and in plain
clothes to my grandfather's back office.
"'Dodd and Dempsey,' said he, 'I 've been thinking over your business,
and I'll tell you what my plan is. Old Vereker, the chamberlain, is
little better than a beast, thinks nothing of anybody that is n't a
lord or a viscount, and, in fact, if he had his will, the Lodge in the
Phoenix would be more like Pekin in Tartary than anything else? but
I 'll tell you, if he won't present you at the levee, which he flatly
refuses at present, I 'll do the thing in a way of my own. His Grace is
going to spend a week up at Ballyriggan House, in the county of Wicklow,
and I 'll contrive it, when he 's taking his morning walk through the
shrubbery, to present you. All you 've to do is to be ready at a turn of
the walk. I 'll show you the place, you 'll hear his foot on the gravel,
and you 'll slip out, just this way. Leave the rest to me.'
"'It's beautiful,' said my grandfather. 'Begad, that's elegant.'
"'There 's one difficulty,' said M'Claverty,--'one infernal difficulty.'
"'What's that?' asked my grandfather.
"'I may be obliged to be out of the way. I lost five fifties at Daly's
the other night, and I may have to cross the water for a few weeks.'
"'Don't let that trouble you,' said my grandfather; 'there's the paper.'
And he put the little bit of music into his hand; and sure enough a
pleasanter sound than the same crisp squeak of a new note no man ever
listened to.
"'It 's agreed upon now?' said my grandfather.
"'All right,' said M'Claverty; and with a jolly slap on the shoulder, he
said, 'Good-morning, D. and D. and away he went.
"He was true to his word. That day three weeks my grandfather received
a note in pencil; it was signed J. M'C, and ran thus: 'Be up at
Ballyriggan at eleven o'clock on Wednesday, and wait at the foot of the
hill, near the birch copse, beside the wooden bridge. Keep the left
of the path, and lie still.' Begad, ma'am, it's well nobody saw it but
himself, or they might have thought that Dodd and Dempsey was turned
highwayman.
"My grandfather was prouder of the same note, and happier that morning,
than if it was an order for fifty butts of sherry. He read it over and
over, and he walked up and down the little back office, picturing
out the whole scene, settling the chairs till he made a little avenue
between them, and practising the way he 'd slip out slyly and surprise
his Grace. No doubt, it would have been as good as a play to have looked
at him.
"One difficulty preyed upon his mind,--what dress ought he to wear?
Should he be in a court suit, or ought he rather to go in his robes as
an alderman? It would never do to appear in a black coat, a light gray
spencer, punch-colored shorts and gaiters, white hat with a strip of
black crape on it,--mere Dodd and Dempsey! That wasn't to be thought of.
If he could only ask his friend M'Hale, the fishmonger, who was knighted
last year, he could tell all about it. M'Hale, however, would blab. He
'd tell it to the whole livery; every alderman of Skinner's Alley would
know it in a week. No, no, the whole must be managed discreetly; it was
a mutual confidence between the Duke and 'D. and D.' 'At all events,'
said my grandfather, 'a court dress is a safe thing;' and out he went
and bespoke one, to be sent home that evening, for he could n't rest
till he tried it on, and felt how he could move his head in the straight
collar, and bow, without the sword tripping him up and pitching him into
the Duke. I 've heard my father say that in the days that elapsed till
the time mentioned for the interview, my grandfather lost two stone in
weight. He walked half over the county Dublin, lying in ambush in every
little wood he could see, and jumping out whenever he could see or
hear any one coming,--little surprises which were sometimes taken as
practical jokes, very unbecoming a man of his age and appearance.
"Well, ma'am, Wednesday morning came, and at six o'clock my grandfather
was on the way to Ballyriggan, and at nine he was in the wood, posted
at the very spot M'Claverty told him, as happy as any man could be whose
expectations were so overwhelming. A long hour passed over, and another;
nobody passed but a baker's boy with a bull-dog after him, and an old
woman that was stealing brushwood in the shrubbery. My grandfather
remarked her well, and determined to tell his Grace of it; but his own
business soon drove that out of his head, for eleven o'clock came, and
now there was no knowing the moment the Duke might appear. With his
watch in his hand, he counted the minutes, ay, even the seconds; if he
was a thief going to be hanged, and looking out over the heads of the
crowd for a fellow to gallop in with a reprieve, he could n't have
suffered more: his heart was in his mouth. At last, it might be about
half-past eleven, he heard a footstep on the gravel, and then a loud,
deep cough,--'a fine kind of cough,' my grandfather afterwards called
it. He peeped out; and there, sure enough, at about sixty paces, coming
down the walk, was a large, grand-looking man,--not that he was dressed
as became him, for, strange as you may think it, the Lord-Lieutenant had
on a shooting-jacket, and a pair of plaid trousers, and cloth boots, and
a big lump of a stick in his hand,--and lucky it was that my grandfather
knew him, for he bought a picture of him. On he came nearer and nearer;
every step on the gravel-walk drove out of my grandfather's head half
a dozen of the fine things he had got off by heart to say during the
interview, until at last he was so overcome by joy, anxiety, and a kind
of terror, that he could n't tell where he was, or what was going to
happen to him, but he had a kind of instinct that reminded him he was to
jump out when the Duke was near him; and 'pon my conscience so he did,
clean and clever, into the middle of the walk, right in front of his
Grace. My grandfather used to say, in telling the story, that he
verily believed his feelings at that moment would have made him burst a
blood-vessel if it wasn't that the Duke put his hands to his sides and
laughed till the woods rang again; but, between shame and fright, my
grandfather did n't join in the laugh.
"'In Heaven's name!' said his Grace, 'who or what are you?--this isn't
May-day.'
"My grandfather took this speech as a rebuke for standing so bold in his
Grace's presence; and being a shrewd man, and never deficient in tact,
what does he do but drops down on his two knees before him? 'My Lord,'
said he, 'I am only Dodd and Dempsey.'
"Whatever there was droll about the same house of Dodd and Dempsey I
never heard, but his Grace laughed now till he had to lean against a
tree. 'Well, Dodd and Dempsey, if that's your name, get up. I don't mean
you any harm. Take courage, man; I am not going to knight you. By the
way, are you not the worthy gentleman who lent me a trifle of twenty
thousand more than once?'
"My grandfather could n't speak, but he moved his lips, and he moved his
bands, this way, as though to say the honor was too great for him, but
it was all true.
"'Well, Dodd and Dempsey, I 've a very high respect for you,' said his
Grace; 'I intend, some of these fine days, when business permits, to go
over and eat an oyster at your villa on the coast.'
"My grandfather remembers no more; indeed, ma'am, I believe that at that
instant his Grace's condescension had so much overwhelmed him that
he had a kind of vision before his eyes of a whole wood full of
Lord-Lieutenants, with about thirty thousand people opening oysters
for them as fast as they could eat, and he himself running about with
a pepper-caster, pressing them to eat another 'black fin.' It was
something of that kind; for when he got on his legs a considerable
time must have elapsed, as he found all silent around him, and a smart
rheumatic pain in his knee-joints from the cold of the ground.
"The first thing my grandfather did when he got back to town was to
remember that he had no villa on the sea-coast, nor any more suitable
place to eat an oyster than his house in Abbey Street, for he could n't
ask his Grace to go to 'Killeen's.' Accordingly he set out the next day
in search of a villa, and before a week was over he had as beautiful
a place about a mile below Howth as ever was looked at; and that he
mightn't be taken short, he took a lease of two oyster-beds, and made
every preparation in life for the Duke's visit. He might have spared
himself the trouble. Whether it was that somebody had said something
of him behind his back, or that politics were weighing on the Duke's
mind,--the Catholics were mighty troublesome then,--or, indeed, that he
forgot it altogether, clean, but so it was, my grandfather never heard
more of the visit, and if the oysters waited for his Grace to come and
eat them, they might have filled up Howth harbor.
"A year passed over, and my grandfather was taking his solitary walk in
the Park, very nearly in the same place as before,--for you see, ma'am,
he could n't bear the sight of the seacoast, and the very smell of
shell-fish made him ill,--when somebody called out his name. He looked
up, and there was M'Claverty in a gig.
"'Well, D. and D., how goes the world with you?'
"'Very badly indeed,' says my grandfather; his heart was full, and he
just told him the whole story.
"'I'll settle it all,' said the captain; 'leave it to me. There 's to
be a review to-morrow in the Park; get on the back of the best horse you
can find,--the Duke is a capital judge of a nag,--ride him briskly about
the field; he 'll notice you, never fear; the whole thing will come up
before his memory, and you 'll have him to breakfast before the week's
over.'
"'Do you think so?--do you really think so?'
"'I 'll take my oath of it. I say, D. and D., could you do a little
thing at a short date just now?'
"'If it was n't too heavy,' said my grandfather, with a faint sigh.
"'Only a hundred.'
"'Well,' said he, 'you may send it down to the office. Good-bye.' And
with that he turned back towards town again; not to go home, however,
for he knew well there was no time to lose, but straight he goes to
Dycer's,--it was old Tom was alive in those days, and a shrewder man
than Tom Dycer there never lived. They tell you, ma'am, there 's chaps
in London that if you send them your height, and your width, and your
girth round the waist, they 'll make you a suit of clothes that will
fit you like your own skin; but, 'pon my conscience, I believe if you
'd give your age and the color of your hair to old Tom Dycer, he could
provide you a horse the very thing to carry you. Whenever a stranger
used to come into the yard, Tom would throw a look at him, out of the
corner of his eye,--for he had only one, there was a feather on the
other,--Tom would throw a look at him, and he'd shout out, 'Bring out
42; take out that brown mare with the white fetlocks.' That's the way he
had of doing business, and the odds were five to one but the gentleman
rode out half an hour after on the beast Tom intended for him. This
suited my grandfather's knuckle well; for when he told him that it was
a horse to ride before the Lord-Lieutenant he wanted, 'Bedad,' says Tom,
'I'll give you one you might ride before the Emperor of Chaney.--Here,
Dennis, trot out 176.' To all appearance, ma'am, 176 was no common
beast, for every man in the yard, big and little, set off, when they
heard the order, down to the stall where he stood, and at last two doors
were flung wide open, and out he came with a man leading him. He was
seventeen hands two if he was an inch, bright gray, with flea-bitten
marks all over him; he held his head up so high at one end, and his tail
at the other, that my grandfather said he 'd have frightened the
stoutest fox-hunter to look at him; besides, my dear, he went with his
knees in his mouth when he trotted, and gave a skelp of his hind legs at
every stride, that it was n't safe to be within four yards of him.
"'There's action!' says Tom,--'there 's bone and figure! Quiet as a
lamb, without stain or blemish, warranted in every harness, and to carry
a lady.'
"'I wish he 'd carry a wine-merchant safe for about one hour and a
half,' said my grandfather to himself. 'What's his price?'
"But Tom would n't mind him, for he was going on reciting the animal's
perfections, and telling him how he was bred out of Kick the Moon,
by Moll Flanders, and that Lord Dunraile himself only parted with him
because he did n't think him showy enough for a charger. 'Though, to be
sure,' said Tom, 'he's greatly improved since that. Will you try him in
the school, Mr. Dempsey?' said he; 'not but I tell you that you 'll find
him a little mettlesome or so there; take him on the grass, and he's
gentleness itself,--he's a kid, that's what he is.'
"'And his price?' said my grandfather.
"Dycer whispered something in his ear.
"'Blood alive!' said my grandfather.
"'Devil a farthing less. Do you think you 're to get beauty and action,
ay, and gentle temper, for nothing?'
"My dear, the last words, 'gentle temper,' wasn't well out of his mouth
when 'the kid' put his two hind-legs into the little pulpit where the
auctioneer was sitting, and sent him flying through the window behind
him into the stall.
"'That comes of tickling him,' said Tom; 'them blackguards never will
let a horse alone.'
"'I hope you don't let any of them go out to the reviews in the Park,
for I declare to Heaven, if I was on his back then, Dodd and Dempsey
would be D. D. sure enough.'
"'With a large snaffle, and the saddle well back,' says Tom, 'he's a
lamb.'
"'God grant it,' says my grandfather; 'send him over to me to-morrow,
about eleven.' He gave a check for the money,--we never heard how much
it was,--and away he went.
"That must have been a melancholy evening for him, for he sent for old
Rogers, the attorney, and after he was measured for breeches and boots,
he made his will and disposed of his effects, 'For there's no knowing,'
said he, 'what 176 may do for me.' Rogers did his best to persuade him
off the excursion,--
"'Dress up one of Dycer's fellows like you; let him go by the
Lord-Lieutenant prancing and rearing, and then you yourself can appear
on the ground, all splashed and spurred, half an hour after.'
"'No,' says my grandfather, 'I 'll go myself.'
"For so it is, there 's no denying, when a man has got ambition in his
heart it puts pluck there. Well, eleven o'clock came, and the whole of
Abbey Street was on foot to see my grandfather; there was n't a window
had n't five or six faces in it, and every blackguard in the town was
there to see him go off, just as if it was a show.
"'Bad luck to them,' says my grandfather; 'I wish they had brought the
horse round to the stable-yard, and let me get up in peace.'
"And he was right there,--for the stirrup, when my grandfather stood
beside the horse, was exactly even with his chin; but somehow, with the
help of the two clerks and the book-keeper and the office stool, he got
up on his back with as merry a cheer as ever rung out to welcome him,
while a dirty blackguard, with two old pocket-handkerchiefs for a pair
of breeches, shouted out, 'Old Dempsey's going to get an appetite for
the oysters!'
"Considering everything, 176 behaved very well; he did n't plunge, and
he did n't kick, and my grandfather said, 'Providence was kind enough
not to let him rear!' but somehow he wouldn't go straight but sideways,
and kept lashing his long tail on my grandfather's legs and sometimes
round his body, in a way that terrified him greatly, till he became used
to it.
"'Well, if riding be a pleasure,' says my grandfather, 'people must be
made different from me.'
"For, saving your favor, ma'am, he was as raw as a griskin, and there
was n't a bit of him the size of a half-crown he could sit on without a
cry-out; and no other pace would the beast go but this little jig-jig,
from side to side, while he was tossing his head and flinging his mane
about, just as if to say, 'Could n't I pitch you sky-high if I liked?
Could n't I make a Congreve-rocket of you, Dodd and Dempsey?'
"When he got on the 'Fifteen Acres,' it was only the position he found
himself in that destroyed the grandeur of the scene; for there were
fifty thousand people assembled at least, and there was a line of
infantry of two miles long, and the artillery was drawn up at one end,
and the cavalry stood beyond them, stretching away towards Knockmaroon.
"My grandfather was now getting accustomed to his sufferings, and he
felt that, if 176 did no more, with God's help he could bear it for one
day; and so he rode on quietly outside the crowd, attracting, of course,
a fair share of observation, for he wasn't always in the saddle, but
sometimes a little behind or before it. Well, at last there came a cloud
of dust, rising at the far end of the field, and it got thicker and
thicker, and then it broke, and there were white plumes dancing, and
gold glittering, and horses all shaking their gorgeous trappings, for it
was the staff was galloping up, and then there burst out a great
cheer, so loud that nothing seemed possible to be louder, until
bang--bang--bang, eighteen large guns went thundering together, and the
whole line of infantry let off a clattering volley, till you 'd think
the earth was crashing open.
"'Devil's luck to ye all! couldn't you be quiet a little longer?' says
D. and D., for he was trying to get an easy posture to sit in; but just
at this moment 176 pricked up his ears, made three bounds in the air,
as if something lifted him up, shook his head like a fish, and away
he went: wasn't it wonderful that my grandfather kept his seat? He
remembers, he says, that at each bound he was a yard over his back; but
as he was a heavy man, and kept his legs open, he had the luck to come
down in the same place, and a sore place it must have been! for he let
a screech out of him each time that would have pierced the heart of
a stone. He knew very little more what happened, except that he was
galloping away somewhere, until at last he found himself in a crowd
of people, half dead with fatigue and fright, and the horse thick with
foam.
"'Where am I?' says my grandfather.
"'You 're in Lucan, sir,' says a man.
"'And where 's the review?' says my grandfather.
"'Five miles behind you, sir.'
"'Blessed Heaven!' says he; 'and where 's the Duke?'
"'God knows,' said the man, giving a wink to the crowd, for they thought
he was mad.
"'Won't you get off and take some refreshment?' says the man, for he was
the owner of a little public.
"'Get off!' says my grandfather; 'it's easy talking! I found it hard
enough to get on. Bring me a pint of porter where I am.' And so he
drained off the liquor, and he wiped his face, and he turned the beast's
head once more towards town.
"When my grandfather reached the Park again, he was, as you may well
believe, a tired and a weary man; and, indeed, for that matter, the
beast did n't seem much fresher than himself, for he lashed his sides
more rarely, and he condescended to go straight, and he didn't carry his
head higher than his rider's. At last they wound their way up through
the fir copse at the end of the field, and caught sight of the review,
and, to be sure, if poor D. and D. left the ground before under a grand
salute of artillery and small arms, another of the same kind welcomed
him back again. It was an honor he 'd have been right glad to have
dispensed with, for when 176 heard it, he looked about him to see which
way he 'd take, gave a loud neigh, and, with a shake that my grandfather
said he 'd never forget, he plunged forward, and went straight at the
thick of the crowd; it must have been a cruel sight to have seen the
people running for their lives. The soldiers that kept the line laughed
heartily at the mob; but they hadn't the joke long to themselves, for my
grandfather went slap at them into the middle of the field; and he did
that day what I hear has been very seldom done by cavalry,--he broke
a square of the Seventy-ninth Highlanders, and scattered them over the
field.
[Illustration: 061]
In truth, the beast must have been the devil himself; for wherever he
saw most people, it was there he always went. There were at this time
three heavy dragoons and four of the horse-police, with drawn swords, in
pursuit of my grandfather; and if he were the enemy of the human race,
the cries of the multitude could not have been louder, as one universal
shout arose of 'Cut him down! Cleave him in two!' And, do you know, he
said, afterwards, he 'd have taken it as a mercy of Providence if they
had. Well, my dear, when he had broke through the Highlanders, scattered
the mob, dispersed the band, and left a hole in the big drum you could
have put your head through, 176 made for the staff, who, I may remark,
were all this time enjoying the confusion immensely. When, however, they
saw my grandfather heading towards them, there was a general cry of
'Here he comes! here he comes! Take care, your Grace!' And there arose
among the group around the Duke a scene of plunging, kicking, and
rearing, in the midst of which in dashed my grandfather. Down went an
aide-de-camp on one side; 176 plunged, and off went the town-major at
the other; while a stroke of a sabre, kindly intended for my
grandfather's skull, came down on the horse's back and made him give
plunge the third, which shot his rider out of the saddle, and sent him
flying through the air like a shell, till he alighted under the leaders
of a carriage where the Duchess and the Ladies of Honor were seated.
"Twenty people jumped from their horses now to finish him; if they were
bunting a rat, they could not have been more venomous.
"'Stop! stop!' said the Duke; 'he's a capital fellow, don't hurt him.
Who are you, my brave little man? You ride like Chifney for the Derby.'
"'God knows who I am!' says my grandfather, creeping out, and wiping his
face. 'I was Dodd and Dempsey when I left home this morning; but I 'm
bewitched, devil a lie in it.'
"'Dempsey, my Lord Duke,' said M'Claverty, coming up at the moment.
'Don't you know him?' And he whispered a few words in his Grace's ear.
"'Oh, yes, to be sure,' said the Viceroy. 'They tell me you have a
capital pack of hounds, Dempsey. What do you hunt?'
"'Horse, foot, and dragoons, my Lord,' said my grandfather; and, to be
sure, there was a jolly roar of laughter after the words, for poor D.
and D. was just telling his mind, without meaning anything more.
"'Well, then,' said the Duke, 'if you 've always as good sport as
to-day, you 've capital fun of it.'
"'Oh, delightful, indeed!' said my grandfather; 'never enjoyed myself
more in my life.'
"'Where 's his horse?' said his Grace.
"'He jumped down into the sand-quarry and broke his neck, my Lord Duke.'
"'The heavens be praised!' said my grandfather; 'if it's true, I am as
glad as if I got fifty pounds.'
"The trumpets now sounded for the cavalry to march past, and the Duke
was about to move away, when M'Claverty again whispered something in his
ear.
"'Very true,' said he; 'well thought of. I say, Dempsey, I 'll go over
some of these mornings and have a run with your hounds.'
"My grandfather rubbed his eyes and looked up, but all he saw was about
twenty staff-officers with their hats off; for every man of them saluted
my father as they passed, and the crowd made way for him with as much
respect as if it was the Duke himself. He soon got a car to bring him
home, and notwithstanding all his sufferings that day, and the great
escape he had of his life, there wasn't as proud a man in Dublin as
himself.
"'He's coming to hunt with my hounds!' said he; ''t is n't to take an
oyster and a glass of wine, and be off again!--no, he's coming down to
spend the whole day with me.'
"The thought was ecstasy; it only had one drawback. Dodd and Dempsey's
house had never kept hounds. Well, ma'am, I needn't detain you long
about what happened; it's enough if I say that in less than six weeks my
grandfather had bought up Lord Tyrawley's pack, and his hunting-box and
horses, and I believe his grooms; and though he never ventured on the
back of a beast himself, he did nothing from morning to night but listen
and talk about hunting, and try to get the names of the dogs by heart,
and practise to cry 'Tally-ho!' and 'Stole away!' and 'Ho-ith! ho-ith!'
with which, indeed, he used to start out of his sleep at night, so full
he was of the sport. From the 1st of September he never had a red coat
off his back. 'Pon my conscience, I believe he went to bed in his spurs,
for he did n't know what moment the Duke might be on him, and that's the
way the time went on till spring; but not a sign of his Grace, not a
word, not a hint that he ever thought more of his promise! Well, one
morning my grandfather was walking very sorrowfully down near the
Curragh, where his hunting-lodge was, when he saw them roping-in the
course for the races, and he heard the men talking of the magnificent
cup the Duke was to give for the winner of the three-year-old stakes,
and the thought flashed on him, 'I'll bring myself to his memory that
way.' And what does he do, but he goes back to the house and tells his
trainer to go over to the racing-stables, and buy, not one, nor two, but
the three best horses that were entered for the race. Well, ma'am, their
engagements were very heavy, and he had to take them all on himself, and
it cost him a sight of money. It happened that this time he was on the
right scent, for down comes M'Claverty the same day with orders from the
Duke to take the odds, right and left, on one of the three, a little
mare called Let-Me-Alone-Before-the-People; she was one of his own
breeding, and he had a conceit out of her. Well, M'Claverty laid on the
money here and there, till he stood what between the Duke's bets and all
the officers of the staff and his own the heaviest winner or loser on
that race.
"'She's Martin's mare, is n't she?' said M'Claverty.
"'No, sir, she was bought this morning by Mr. Dempsey, of Tear Fox
Lodge.'
"'The devil she is,' said M'Claverty; and he jumped on his horse, and he
cantered over to the Lodge.
"'Mr. Dempsey at home?' says he.
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Give him this card, and say, I beg the favor of seeing him for a few
moments.'
"The man went off, and came back in a few minutes, with the answer, 'Mr.
Dempsey is very sorry, but he 's engaged.'
"'Oh, oh! that's it!' says M'Claverty to himself; 'I see how the wind
blows. I say, my man, tell him I 've a message from his Grace the
Lord-Lieutenant.'
"Well, the answer came for the captain to send the message in, for my
grandfather could n't come out.
"'Say, it's impossible,' said M'Claverty; 'it's for his own private
ear.'
"Dodd and Dempsey was strong in my grandfather that day: he would listen
to no terms.
"'No,' says he, 'if the goods are worth anything, they never come
without an invoice. I 'll have nothing to say to him.'
"But the captain wasn't to be balked; for, in spite of everything, he
passed the servant, and came at once into the room where my grandfather
was sitting,--ay, and before he could help it, was shaking him by both
hands as if he was his brother.
"'Why the devil didn't you let me in?' said he; 'I came from the Duke
with a message for you.'
"'Bother!' says my grandfather.
"'I did, though,' says he; 'he's got a heavy book on your little mare,
and he wants you to make your boy ride a waiting race, and not win the
first beat,--you understand?'
"'I do,' says my grandfather, 'perfectly; and he's got a deal of money
on her, has he?'
"'He has,' said the captain; 'and every one at the Castle, too, high and
low, from the chief secretary down to the second coachman,--we are all
backing her.'
"'I am glad of it,--I am sincerely glad of it,' said my grandfather,
rubbing his hands.
"'I knew you would be, old boy!' cried the captain, joyfully.
"'Ah, but you don't know why; you 'd never guess.'
"M'Claverty stared at him, but said nothing.
"'Well, I'll tell you,' resumed my grandfather; 'the reason is this:
I 'll not let her run,--no, divil a step! I 'll bring her up to the
ground, and you may look at her, and see that she 's all sound and safe,
in top condition, and with a skin like a looking-glass, and then I 'll
walk her back again! And do you know why I 'll do this?' said he, while
his eyes flashed fire, and his lip trembled; 'just because I won't
suffer the house of Dodd and Dempsey to be humbugged as if we were
greengrocers! Two years ago, it was to "eat an oyster with me;" last
year it was a "day with my hounds;" maybe now his Grace would join the
race dinner; but that's all past and gone,--I 'll stand it no longer.'
"'Confound it, man,' said the captain, 'the Duke must have forgotten it.
You never reminded him of his engagement. He 'd have been delighted to
have come to you if he only recollected.'
"'I am sorry my memory was better than his,' said my grandfather, 'and I
wish you a very good morning.'
"'Oh, don't go; wait a moment; let us see if we can't put this matter
straight. You want the Duke to dine with you?'
"'No, I don't; I tell you I 've given it up.'
"'Well, well, perhaps so; will it do if you dine with him?'
"My grandfather had his hand on the lock,--he was just going,--he turned
round, and fixed his eyes on the captain.
"'Are you in earnest, or is this only more of the same game?' said he,
sternly.
"'I'll make that very easy to you,' said the captain; 'I 'll bring the
invitation to you this night; the mare doesn't run till to-morrow; if
you don't receive the card, the rest is in your own power.'
"Well, ma'am, my story is now soon told; that night, about nine o'clock,
there comes a footman, all splashed and muddy, in a Castle livery, up to
the door of the Lodge, and he gave a violent pull at the bell, and when
the servant opened the door, he called out in a loud voice, 'From his
Excellency the Lord-Lieutenant,' and into the saddle he jumped, and
away he was like lightning; and, sure enough, it was a large card, all
printed, except a word here and there, and it went something this way:--
"'I am commanded by his Excellency the Lord-Lieutenant to request the
pleasure of Mr. Dempsey's company at dinner on Friday, the 23d instant,
at the Lodge, Phoenix Park, at seven o'clock.
"'Granville Vereker, Chamberlain.
"'Swords and Bags.'
"'At last!' said my grandfather, and he wiped the tears from his eyes;
for to say the truth, ma'am, it was a long chase without ever getting
once a 'good view.' I must hurry on; the remainder is easy told.
Let-Me-Alone-Before-the-People won the cup, my grandfather was chaired
home from the course in the evening, and kept open house at the Lodge
for all comers while the races lasted; and at length the eventful day
drew near on which he was to realize all his long-coveted ambition. It
was on the very morning before, however, that he put on his Court suit
for about the twentieth time, and the tailor was standing trembling
before him while my grandfather complained of a wrinkle here or a pucker
there.
"'You see,' said he, 'you've run yourself so close that you 've no time
now to alter these things before the dinner.'
"'I 'll have time enough, sir,' says the man, 'if the news is true.'
"'What news?' says my grandfather, with a choking in his throat, for a
sudden fear came over him.
"'The news they have in town this morning.'
"'What is it?--speak it out, man!'
"'They say-- But sure you 've heard it, sir?'
"'Go on!' says my grandfather; and he got him by the shoulders and shook
him. 'Go on, or I'll strangle you!'
"'They say, sir, that the Ministry is out, and--'
"'And, well--'
"'And that the Lord-Lieutenant has resigned, and the yacht is coming
round to Dunleary to take him away this evening, for he won't stay
longer than the time to swear in the Lords Justices,--he's so glad to be
out of Ireland.'
"My grandfather sat down on the chair, and began to cry, and well he
might, for not only was the news true, but he was ruined besides. Every
farthing of the great fortune that Dodd and Dempsey made was lost and
gone,--scattered to the winds; and when his affairs were wound up,
he that was thought one of the richest men in Dublin was found to be
something like nine thousand pounds worse than nothing. Happily for
him, his mind was gone too, and though he lived a few years after, near
Finglass, he was always an innocent, didn't remember anybody, nor who
he was, but used to go about asking the people if they knew whether his
Grace the Lord-Lieutenant had put off his dinner-party for the 23d;
and then he 'd pull out the old card to show them, for he kept it in a
little case, and put it under his pillow every night till he died."
While Mr. Dempsey's narrative continued, Tom Leonard indulged freely and
without restraint in the delights of the Knight's sherry, forgetting not
only all his griefs, but the very circumstances and people around him.
Had the party maintained a conversational tone, it is probable that he
would have been able to adhere to the wise resolutions he had planned
for his guidance on leaving home; unhappily, the length of the tale,
the prosy monotony of the speaker's voice, the deepening twilight which
stole on ere the story drew to a close, were influences too strong for
prudence so frail; an instinct told him that the decanter was close
by, and every glass he drained either drowned a care or stifled a
compunction.
The pleasant buzz of voices which succeeded to the anecdote of Dodd and
Dempsey aroused Leonard from his dreary stupor. Wine and laughter and
merry voices were adjuncts he had not met for many a day before; and,
strangely enough, the only emotions they could call up were some vague,
visionary sorrowings over his fallen and degraded condition.
"By Jove!" said Dempsey, in a whisper to Darcy, "the lieutenant has more
sympathy for my grandfather than I have myself,--I 'll be hanged if he
is n't wiping his eyes! So you see, ma'am," added he, aloud, "it was
a taste for grandeur ruined the Dempseys; the same ambition that has
destroyed states and kingdoms has brought your humble servant to a
trifle of thirty-eight pounds four and nine per annum for all worldly
comforts and virtuous enjoyments; but, as the old ballad says,--
'Though classic 't is to show one's grief,
And cry like Carthaginian Marius,
I 'll not do this, nor ask relief,
Like that ould beggar Belisarius.'
No, ma'am, 'Never give in while there's a score behind the
door,'--that's the motto of the Dempseys. If it's not on their
coat-of-arms, it's written in their hearts."
"Your grandfather, however, did not seem to possess the family courage,"
said the Knight, slyly.
"Well, and what would you have? Wasn't he brave enough for a
wine-merchant?"
"The ladies will give us some tea, Leonard," said the Knight, as Lady
Eleanor and her daughter had, some time before, slipped unobserved from
the room.
"Yes, Colonel, always ready."
"That's the way with him," whispered Dempsey; "he'd swear black and blue
this minute that you commanded the regiment he served in. He very often
calls me the quartermaster."
The party rose to join the ladies; and while Leonard maintained his
former silence, Dempsey once more took on himself the burden of the
conversation by various little anecdotes of the Fumbally household, and
sketches of life and manners at Port Ballintray.
So perfectly at ease did he find himself, so inspired by the happy
impression he felt convinced he was making, that he volunteered a song,
"if the young lady would only vouchsafe few chords on the piano" by way
of accompaniment,--a proposition Helen acceded to.
Thus passed the evening,--a period in which Lady
Eleanor more than once doubted if the whole were not a dream, and the
persons before her the mere creations of disordered fancy; an impression
certainly not lessened as Mr. Dempsey's last words at parting conveyed
a pressing invitation to a "little thing he 'd get up for them at Mother
Finn's."
CHAPTER III. SOME VISITORS AT GWYNNE ABBEY
It is a fact not only well worthy of mention, but pregnant with its own
instruction, that persons who have long enjoyed all the advantages of
an elevated social position better support the reverses which condemned
them to humble and narrow fortunes, than do the vulgar-minded, when, by
any sudden caprice of the goddess, they are raised to a conspicuous and
distinguished elevation.
There is in the gentleman, and still more in the gentlewoman,--as the
very word itself announces,--an element of placidity and quietude that
suggests a spirit of accommodation to whatever may arise to ruffle the
temper or disturb the equanimity. Self-respect and consideration for
others are a combination not inconsistent or unfrequent, and there
are few who have not seen, some time or other, a reduced gentleman
dispensing in a lowly station the mild graces and accomplishments of his
order, and, while elevating others, sustaining himself.
The upstart, on the other hand, like a mariner in some unknown sea
without chart or compass, has nothing to guide him; impelled hither or
thither as caprice or passion dictate, he is neither restrained by a
due sense of decorum, nor admonished by a conscientious feeling of good
breeding. With the power that rank and wealth bestow he becomes not
distinguished, but eccentric; unsustained by the companionship of his
equals, he tries to assimilate himself to them rather by their follies
than their virtues, and thus presents to the world that mockery of rank
and station which makes good men sad, and bad men triumphant.
To these observations we have been led by the altered fortunes of those
two families of whom our story treats. If the Darcys suddenly found
themselves brought down to a close acquaintanceship with poverty and its
fellows, they bore the change with that noble resignation that springs
from true regard for others at the sacrifice of ourselves. The little
shifts and straits of narrowed means were ever treated jestingly, the
trials that a gloomy spirit had converted into sorrows made matters of
merriment and laughter; and as the traveller sees the Arab tent in the
desert spread beside the ruined temple of ancient grandeur, and happy
faces and kind looks beneath the shade of ever-vanished splendor, so did
this little group maintain in their fall the kindly affection and the
high-souled courage that made of that humble cottage a home of happiness
and enjoyment.
Let us now turn to the west, where another and very different picture
presented itself. Although certain weighty questions remained to be
tried at law between the Darcys and the Hickmans, Bicknell could not
advise the Knight to contest the mortgage under which the Hickmans had
now taken possession of the abbey.
The reputation for patriotism and independence so fortunately acquired
by that family came at a most opportune moment. In no country of Europe
are the associations connected with the proprietorship of land more
regarded than in Ireland; this feeling, like most others truly Irish,
has the double property of being either a great blessing or a great
curse, for while it can suggest a noble attachment to country, it can
also, as we see it in our own day, be the fertile source of the most
atrocious crime.
Had Hickman O'Reilly succeeded to the estate of the Darcys at any other
moment than when popular opinion called the one a "patriot" and the
other a "traitor," the consequences would have been serious; all
the disposable force, civil and military, would scarcely have been
sufficient to secure possession. The thought of the "ould ancient
family" deposed and exiled by the men of yesterday, would have excited
a depth of feeling enough to stir the country far and near. Every trait
that adorned the one, for generations, would be remembered, while the
humble origin of the other would be offered as the bitterest reproach,
by those who thought in embodying the picture of themselves and their
fortune they were actually summing up the largest amount of obloquy and
disgrace. Such is mob principle in everything! Aristocracy has no
such admirers as the lowly born, just as the liberty of the press is
inexpressibly dear to that part of the population who know not how to
read.
When last we saw Gwynne Abbey, the scene was one of mourning, the
parting hour of those whose affections clung to the old walls, and who
were to leave it forever. We must now return there for a brief space
under different auspices, and when Mr. Hickman O'Reilly, the high
sheriff of the county, was entertaining a large and distinguished
company in his new and princely residence.
It was the assize week, and the judges, as well as the leading officers
of the Crown, were his guests; many of the gentry were also there,--some
from indifference to whom their host might be, others from curiosity to
see how the upstart, Bob Hickman, would do the honors; and there were
many who felt far more at their ease in the abbey now than when they had
the fears of Lady Eleanor Darcy's quietude and coldness of manner before
them.
No expense was spared to rival the style and retinue of the abbey under
its former owners. O'Reilly well knew the value of first impressions
in such matters, and how the report that would soon gain currency
would decide the matter for or against him. So profusely, and with such
disregard to money, was everything done, that, as a mere question of
cost, there was no doubt that never in the Knight's palmiest days had
anything been seen more magnificent than the preparations. Luxuries,
brought at an immense cost, and by contraband, from abroad; wines, of
the rarest excellence, abounded at every entertainment; equipages, more
splendid than any ever seen there before, appeared each morning; and
troops of servants without number moved hither and thither, displaying
the gorgeous liveries of the O'Reillys.
The guests were for the most part the neighboring gentry, the military,
and the members of the bar; but there were others also, selected with
peculiar care, and whose presence was secured at no inconsiderable
pains. These were the leading "diners-out" of Dublin, and recognized
"men about town," whose names were seen on club committees, and whose
word was law on all questions of society. Among them, the chief was Con
Heffernan; and he now saw himself for the first time a guest at Gwynne
Abbey. The invitation was made and accepted with a certain coquetting
that gave it the character of a reconciliation; there were political
differences to be got over, mutual recriminations to be forgotten; but
as each felt, for his own reasons, not indisposed to renew friendly
relations, the matter presented little difficulty, and when Mr. O'Reilly
received his guest, on his arrival, with a shake of both hands,
the action was meant and taken as a receipt in full for all past
misunderstanding, and both had too much tact ever to go back on
"bygones."
There had been a little correspondence between the parties, the early
portions of which were marked "Confidential," and the latter "Strictly
confidential and private." This related to a request made by O'Reilly
to Heffernan to entreat his influence in behalf of Lionel Darcy. Nothing
could exceed the delicacy of the negotiation; for after professing that
the friendship which had subsisted between his own son and young Darcy
was the active motive for the request, he went on to say that in the
course of certain necessary legal investigations it was discovered that
young Lionel, in the unguarded carelessness of a young and extravagant
man, had put his name to bills of a large amount, and even hinted that
he had not stopped there, but had actually gone the length of signing
his father's name to documents for the sale of property. To obtain an
appointment for him in some regiment serving in India would at once
withdraw him from the likelihood of any exposure in these matters.
To interest Heffernan in the affair was the object of O'Reilly's
correspondence; and Heffernan was only too glad, at so ready an
opportunity, to renew their raptured relations.
Lions were not as fashionable in those days as at present; but still the
party had its share in the person of Counsellor O'Halloran, the great
orator of the bar, and the great speaker at public meetings, the rising
patriot, who, not being deemed of importance enough to be bought, was
looked on as incorruptible. He had come down special to defend O'Reilly
in a record of Darcy versus Hickman,--the first case submitted
for trial by Bicknell, and one which, small in itself, would yet,
if determined in the Knight's favor, form a rule of great importance
respecting those that were to follow.
It was in the first burst of Hickman O'Reilly's indignation against
Government that he had secured O'Halloran as his counsel, never
anticipating that any conjuncture would bring him once more into
relations with the Ministry. His appointment of high sheriff, however,
and his subsequent correspondence with Heffernan, ending with the
invitation to the abbey, had greatly altered his sentiments, and he
more than once regretted the precipitancy with which he had selected his
advocate.
Whether "the Counsellor" did or did not perceive that his reception was
one of less cordiality and more embarrassment than might be expected,
it is not easy to say, for he was one of those persons who live too much
out of themselves to betray their own feelings to the world. He was a
large and well-looking man, but whose features would have been coarse in
their expression were it not for the animated intelligence of his eye,
and the quaint humor that played about the angles of his mouth, and
added to the peculiar drollery of an accent to which Kerry had lent all
its native archness. His gestures were bold, striking, and original; his
manner of speaking, even in private, impressive,--from the deliberate
slowness of his utterance, and the air of truthfulness sustained by
every agency of look, voice, and expression. The least observant could
not fail to remark in him a conscious power, a sense of his own great
gifts either in argument or invective; for he was no less skilful
in unravelling the tangled tissue of a knotted statement than in
overwhelming his adversary with a torrent of abusive eloquence.
The habits of his profession, but in particular the practice of
cross-examination, had given him an immense insight into the darker
recesses of the human heart, and made him master of all the subtleties
and evasions of inferior capacities. This knowledge he brought with him
into society, where his powers of conversation had already established
for him a high repute. He abounded in anecdote, which he introduced so
easily and naturally that the  propos had as much merit as the story
itself. Yet with all these qualities, and in a time when the members of
his profession were more than ever esteemed and courted, he himself
was not received, save on sufferance, into the better society of the
capital. The stamp of a "low tone," and the assertion of democratic
opinions, were two insurmountable obstacles to his social acceptance;
and he was rarely, if ever, seen in those circles which arrogated to
themselves the title of best. Whether it was a conscious sense of what
was "in him" powerful enough to break down such barriers as these,
and that, like Nelson, he felt the day would come when he would have a
"Gazette of his own," but his manner at times displayed a spirit of
haughty daring and effrontery that formed a singular contrast with the
slippery and insinuating softness of his nisi prius tone and gesture.
If we seem to dwell longer on this picture than the place the original
occupies in our story would warrant, it is because the character is not
fictitious, and there is always an interest to those who have seen the
broad current of a mighty river rolling onward in its mighty strength,
to stand beside the little streamlet which, first rising from the
mountain, gave it origin,--to mark the first obstacles that opposed its
course,--and to watch the strong impulses that moulded its destiny to
overcome them.
Whatever fears Hickman O'Reilly might have felt as to how his counsel,
learned in the law, would be received by the Government agent, Mr.
Heffernan, were speedily allayed. The gentlemen had never met before,
and yet, ere the first day went over, they were as intimate as old
acquaintances, each, apparently, well pleased with the strong good sense
and natural humor of the other. And so, indeed, it may be remarked in
the world, that when two shrewd, far-reaching individuals are brought
together, the attraction of quick intelligence and craft is sufficient
to draw them into intimate relations at once. There is something
wonderfully fraternal in roguery.
This was the only social difficulty O'Reilly dreaded, and happily it
was soon dispelled, and the general enjoyment was unclouded by even
the slightest accident. The judges were bon vivants, who enjoyed good
living and good wine; he of the Common Pleas, too, was an excellent
shot, and always exchanged his robes for a shooting-jacket on entering
the park, and despatched hares and woodcocks as he walked along, with
as much unconcern as he had done Whiteboys half an hour before. The
Solicitor-General was passionately fond of hunting, and would rather any
day have drawn a cover than an indictment; and so with the rest,--they
seemed all of them sporting-gentlemen of wit and pleasure, who did a
little business at law by way of "distraction." Nor did O'Halloran form
an exception; he was as ready as the others to snatch an interval
of pleasure amid the fatigues of his laborious day. But, somehow, he
contrived that no amount of business should be too much for him; and
while his ruddy cheek and bright eye bespoke perfect health and renewed
enjoyment, it was remarked that the lamp burned the whole night long
unextinguished in his chamber, and that no morning found him ever
unprepared to defend the interest of his client.
There was, as we have said, nothing to throw a damper on the general
joy. Fortune was bent on dealing kindly with Mr. O'Reilly; for while he
was surrounded with distinguished and delighted guests, his father, the
doctor, the only one whose presence could have brought a blush to his
cheek, was confined to his room by a severe cold, and unable to join the
party.
The assize calendar was a long one, and the town the last in the
circuit, so that the judges were in no hurry to move on; besides, Gwynne
Abbey was a quarter which it was very unlikely would soon be equalled
in style of living and resources. For all these several reasons the
business of the law went on with an easy and measured pace, the Court
opening each day at ten, and closing about three or four, when a
magnificent procession of carriages and saddle-horses drew up in the
main street to convey the guests back to the abbey.
While the other trials formed the daily subject of table-talk,
suggesting those stories of fun, anecdote, and incident with which no
other profession can enter into rivalry, the case of Darcy versus
Hickman was never alluded to, and, being adroitly left last on the list
for trial, could not possibly interfere with the freedom so essential to
pleasant intercourse.
The day fixed on for this record was a Saturday. It was positively the
last day the judges could remain, and having accepted an engagement to
a distant part of the country for that very day at dinner, the Court was
to sit early, and there being no other cause for trial, it was supposed
the cause would be concluded in time to permit their departure. Up to
this morning the high sheriff had never omitted, as in duty bound, to
accompany the judges to the court-house, displaying in the number and
splendor of his equipages a costliness and magnificence that excited the
wonder of the assembled gentry. On this day, however, he deemed it would
be more delicate on his part to be absent, as the matter in litigation
so nearly concerned himself. And half seriously and half in jest he made
his apologies to the learned baron who was to try the cause, and begged
for permission to remain at the abbey. The request was most natural, and
at once acceded to; and although Heffer-nan had expressed the greatest
desire to hear the Counsellor, he determined to pass the morning, at
least, with O'Reilly, and endeavor afterwards to be in time for the
address to the jury.
At last the procession moved off; several country gentlemen, who had
come over to breakfast, joining the party, and making the cavalcade, as
it entered the town, a very imposing body. It was the market-day, too;
and thus the square in front of the court-house was crowded with a
frieze-coated and red-cloaked population, earnestly gesticulating
and discussing the approaching trial, for to the Irish peasant the
excitement of a law process has the most intense and fascinating
interest. All the ordinary traffic of the day was either neglected or
carelessly performed, in the anxiety to see those who dispensed the
dread forms of justice, but more particularly to obtain a sight of the
young "Counsellor," who for the first time had appeared on this circuit,
but whose name as a patriot and an orator was widely renowned.
"Here he comes! Here he comes! Make way there!" went from mouth to
mouth, as O'Halloran, who had entered the inn for a moment, now issued
forth in wig and gown, and carrying a heavily laden bag in his hand. The
crowd opened for him respectfully and in dead silence, and then a hearty
cheer burst forth, that echoed through the wide square, and was taken up
by hundreds of voices in the neighboring streets.
It needed not the reverend companionship of Father John M'Enerty, the
parish priest of Curraghglass, who walked at his side, to secure him
this hearty burst of welcome, although of a truth the circumstance had
its merit also, and many favorable comments were passed upon O'Halloran
for the familiar way he leaned on the priest's arm, and the kindly
intelligence that subsisted between them.
If anything could have added to the pleasure of the assembled crowd at
the instant, it was an announcement by Father John, who, turning round
on the steps of the courthouse, informed them in a kind of confidential
whisper that was heard over the square, that "if they were good boys,
and did n't make any disturbance in the town," the Counsellor would give
them a speech when the trial was over.
The most deafening shout of applause followed this declaration, and
whatever interest the questions of law had possessed for them before was
now merged in the higher anxiety to hear the great Counsellor himself
discuss the "veto," that long-agitated question each had taught himself
to believe of nearest importance to himself.
"When last I visited this town," said Bicknell to the senior counsel
employed in the Knight's behalf, "I witnessed a very different scene.
Then we had triumphal arches, and bonfire illuminations, and addresses.
It was young Darcy's birthday, and a more enthusiastic reception it is
impossible to conceive than he met in these very streets from these very
people."
"There is only one species of interest felt for dethroned monarchs,"
said the other, caustically,--"how they bear their misfortunes."
"The man you see yonder waving his hat to young O'Reilly was one of
a deputation to congratulate the heir of Gwynne Abbey! I remember him
well,--his name is Mitchell."
"I hope not the same I see upon our jury-list here," said the
Counsellor, as he unfolded a written paper, and perused it attentively.
"The same man; he holds his house under the Darcys, and has received
many and deep favors at their hands."
"So much the worse, if we should find him in the jury-box. But have we
any chance of young Darcy yet? Do you give up all hope of his arrival?"
"The last tidings I received from my clerk were, that he was to follow
him down to Plymouth by that night's mail, and still hoped to be in time
to catch him ere the transport sailed."
"What a rash and reckless fellow he must be, that would leave a country
where he has such interests at stake!"
"If he felt that a point of honor or duty was involved, I don't believe
he 'd sacrifice a jot of either to gain this cause, and I 'm certain
that some such plea has been made use of on the present occasion."
"How they cheer! What's the source of their enthusiasm at this moment?
There it goes, that carriage with the green liveries and the Irish motto
round the crest. Look at O'Halloran, too! how he shakes hands with the
townsfolk; canvassing for a verdict already! Now, Bicknell, let us
move on; but, for my part, I feel our cause is decided outside the
court-house. If I 'm not very much mistaken, we are about to have an era
of 'popular justice' in Ireland, and our enemies could not wish us worse
luck."
CHAPTER IV. A SCENE AT THE ASSIZES
Although Mr. Hickman O'Reilly affected an easy unconcern regarding
the issue of the trial, he received during the morning more than one
despatch from the court-house narrating its progress. They were brief
but significant; and when Hefferuan, with his own tact, inquired if the
news were satisfactory, the reply was made by putting into his hands a
slip of paper with a few words written in pencil: "They are beaten,-the
verdict is certain."
"I concluded," said Heffernan, as he handed back the paper, "that the
case was not deemed by you a very doubtful matter."
"Neither doubtful nor important," said Hickman, calmly; "it was an
effort, in all probability suggested by some crafty lawyer, to break
several leases on the ground of forgery in the signatures. I am
sure nothing short of Mr. Darcy's great difficulties would ever have
permitted him to approve of such a proceeding."
"The shipwrecked sailor will cling to a hen-coop," said Heffernan. "By
the way, where are these Darcys? What has become of them?"
"Living in Wales, or in Scotland, some say."
"Are they utterly ruined?"
"Utterly, irretrievably. A course of extravagance maintained for years
at a rate of about double his income, loans obtained at any sacrifice,
sales of property effected without regard to loss, have overwhelmed him;
and the worst of it is, the little remnant of fortune left is likely
to be squandered in vain attempts to recover at law what he has lost by
recklessness."
Heffernan walked on for some moments in silence, and, as if pondering
over Hickman's words, repeated several times, half aloud: "No doubt of
it,--no doubt of it." Then added, in a louder tone: "The whole history
of this family, Mr. O'Reilly, is a striking confirmation of a remark I
heard made, a few days since, by a distinguished individual,--to you
I may say it was Lord Cornwallis. 'Heffernan,' said he, 'this country is
in a state of rapid transition; everything progresses but the old gentry
of the land; they alone seem rooted to ancient prejudices, and fast
confirmed in bygone barbarisms.' I ventured to ask him if he could
suggest a remedy for the evil, and I 'll never forget the tone with
which he whispered in my ear, 'Yes; supersede them!' And that, sir,"
said Heffernan, laying his hand confidentially on O'Reilly's arm,--"that
is and must be the future policy regarding Ireland."
Mr. Heffernan did not permit himself to risk the success of his stroke
by a word more, nor did he even dare to cast a look at his companion and
watch how his spell was working. As the marksman feels when he has shot
his bolt that no after-thought can amend the aim, so did he wait quietly
for the result, without a single effort on his part. "The remark is a
new one to me," said O'Reilly, at length; "but so completely does it
accord with my own sentiments, I feel as if I either had or might have
made it myself. The old school you speak of were little calculated to
advance the prosperity of the country; the attachment of the people to
them was fast wearing out."
"Nay," interposed Heffernan, "it was that very same attachment,
that rude remnant of feudalism, made the greatest barrier against
improvement. The law of the land was powerless in comparison with the
obligations of this clanship. It is time, full time, that the people
should become English in feeling, as they are in law and in language;
and to make them so, the first step is, to work the reformation in
the gentry. Now, at the hazard of a liberty which you may deem an
impertinence, I will tell you frankly, Mr. O'Reilly, that you, you
yourself, are admirably calculated to lead the van of this great
movement. It is all very natural, and perhaps very just, that in a
moment of chagrin with a minister or his party, a man should feel
indignant, and, although acting under a misconception, throw himself
into a direct opposition; yet a little reflection will show that such a
line involves a false position. Popularity with the masses could never
recompense a man like you for the loss of that higher esteem you must
sacrifice for it; the devoirs of your station impose a very different
class of duties from what this false patriotism suggests; besides, if
from indignation--a causeless indignation I am ready to prove it--you
separate yourself from the Government, you are virtually suffering your
own momentary anger to decide the whole question of your son's career.
You are shutting the door of advancement against a young man with
every adventitious aid of fortune in his favor; handsome, accomplished,
wealthy,-what limit need there be to his ambition? And finally, some
fellow, like our friend the Counsellor, without family, friends, or
fortune, but with lungs of leather and a ready tongue, will beat you
hollow in the race, and secure a wider influence over the mass of the
people than a hundred gentlemen like you. You will deem it, probably,
enough to spend ten or fifteen thousand on a contested election, and to
give a vote for your party in Parliament; he, on the other hand,
will write letters, draw up petitions, frame societies, meetings,
resolutions, and make speeches, every word of which will sink deeply
into the hearts of men whose feelings are his own. You, and others
in your station, will be little better than tools in his hands; and
powerful as you think yourselves to-day, with your broad acres and your
cottier freeholders, the time may come when these men will be less
at your bidding than his, and for this simple reason,--the man of
nothing will always be ready to bid higher for mob support than he who
has a fortune to lose."
"You have put a very strong case," said O'Reilly; "perhaps I should
think it stronger, if I had not heard most of the arguments before,
from yourself, and know by this time how their application to me has not
sustained your prophecy."
"I am ready to discuss that with you, too," said Heffer-nan. "I know how
it all happened: had I been with you the day you dined with Castlereagh,
the misunderstanding never could have occurred; but there was a fatality
in it all. Come," said he, familiarly, and he slipped his arm, as he
spoke, within O'Reilly's, "I am the worst diplomatist in the world, and
I fear I never should have risen to high rank in the distinguished
corps of engineers if such had been my destination. I can lay down the
parallels and the trenches patiently enough, I can even bring up my
artillery and my battering-train, but, hang it! somehow, I never can
wait for a breach to storm through. The truth is, if it were not for
a very strong feeling on the subject I have just spoken of, you never
would have seen me here this day. No man is happier or prouder to enjoy
your hospitality than I am, but I acknowledge it was a higher sentiment
induced me to accept your invitation. When your note reached me, I
showed it to Castlereagh.
"'What answer have you sent?' said he.
"'Declined, of course,' said I.
"'You are wrong, Heffernan,' said his Lordship, as he took from me the
note which I held ready sealed in my hand; 'in my opinion, Heffernan,
you are quite wrong.'
"'I may be so, my Lord; but I confess to you I always act from the first
impulse, and if it suggests regret afterwards, it at least saves trouble
at the time.'
"'Heffernan,' said the Secretary, as he calmly read over the lines of
your letter, 'there are many reasons why you should go: in the first
place, O'Reilly has really a fair grudge against us, and this note shows
that he has the manliness to forget it. Every line of it bespeaks the
gentleman, and I 'll not feel contented with myself until you convey to
him my own sorrow for what is past, and the high sense I entertain of
his character and conduct.'
"He said a great deal more; enough, if I tell you he induced me to
rescind my first intention, and to become your guest; and I may say that
I never followed advice the consequences of which have so thoroughly
sustained my expectations."
"This is very flattering," said O'Reilly; "it is, indeed, more than I
looked for; but, as you have been candid with me, I will be as open with
you: I had already made up my mind to retire, for a season at least,
from politics. My father, you know, is a very old man, and not without
the prejudices that attach to his age; he was always averse to those
ambitious views a public career would open, and a degree of coldness
had begun to grow up between us in consequence. This estrangement is now
happily at an end; and in his consenting to our present mode of life and
its expenditure, he is, in reality, paying the recompense of his former
opposition. I will not say what changes time may work in my opinion or
my line of acting; but I will pledge myself that, if I do resume the
path of public life, you are the very first man I will apprise of the
intention."
A cordial shake-hands ratified this compact; and Heffer-nan, who now saw
that the fortress had capitulated, only stipulating for the honors
of war, was about to add something very complimentary, when Beecham
O'Reilly galloped up, with his horse splashed and covered with foam.
"Don't you want to hear O'Halloran, Mr. Heffernan?" cried he.
"Yes, by all means."
"Come along, then; don't lose a moment; there's a phaeton ready for you
at the door, and if we make haste, we'll be in good time."
O'Reilly whispered a few words in his son's ear, to which the other
replied, aloud,--
"Oh! quite safe, perfectly safe. He was obliged to join his regiment,
and sail at a moment's notice."
"Young Darcy, I presume?" said Heffernan, with a look of malicious
intelligence. But no answer was returned, and O'Reilly continued to
converse eagerly in Beecham's ear.
"Here comes the carriage, Mr. Heffernan," said the young man; "so slip
in, and let's be off." And, giving his horse to a servant, he took his
seat beside Heffernan, and drove off at a rapid pace towards the town.
After a quick drive of some miles, they entered the town, and had no
necessity to ask if O'Halloran had begun his address to the jury. The
streets which led to the square before the court-house, and the square
itself, was actually crammed with country-people, of all sexes and ages;
some standing with hats off, or holding their hands close to their
ears, but all, in breathless silence, listening to the words of the
Counsellor, which were not less audible to those without than within the
building.
Nothing short of Beecham O'Reilly's present position in the county,
and the fact that the gratification they were then deriving was of his
family's procuring for them, could have enabled him to force a passage
through that dense crowd, which wedged up all the approaches. As it was,
he could only advance step by step, the horses and even the pole of the
carriage actually forcing the way through the throng.
As they went thus slowly, the rich tones of the speaker swelled on the
air with a clear, distinct, and yet so soft and even musical intonation
that they fell deeply into the hearts of the listeners. He was evidently
bent as much on appealing to those outside the court as to the jury, for
his speech was less addressed to the legal question at issue than to
the social condition of the peasantry; the all but absolutism of a
landlord,--the serf-like slavery of a tenantry, dependent on the will
or the caprice of the owners of the soil! With the consummate art of
a rhetorician, he first drew the picture of an estate happily
circumstanced, a benevolent landlord surrounded by a contented tenantry,
the blessings of the poor man, "rising like the dews of the earth, and
descending again in rain to refresh and fertilize the source it sprang
from." Not vaguely nor unskilfully, but with thorough knowledge, of his
subject, he descanted on the condition of the peasant, his toils, his
struggles against poverty and sickness borne with long-suffering and
patience, from the firm trust that, even in this world, his destinies
were committed to no cruel or unfeeling taskmaster. Although generally a
studied plainness and even homeliness of language pervaded all he said,
yet at times some bold figure, some striking and brilliant metaphor,
would escape him, and then, far from soaring--as it might be suspected
he had--above the comprehension of the hearers, a subdued murmur of
delight would follow the words, and swelling louder and louder, burst
forth at last into one great roar of applause. If a critical ear might
cavil at the incompleteness or inaptitude of his similes, to the warm
imagination and excited fancy of the Irish peasant they had no such
blemishes.
It was at the close of a brilliant peroration on this theme, that
Heffernan and Beecham O'Reilly reached the courthouse, and with
difficulty forcing their way, obtained standing-room near the bar.
The orator had paused, and turning round he caught Beecham's eye: the
glance exchanged was but of a second's duration, but, brief as it was,
it did not escape Heffernan's notice, and with a readiness he knew well
how to profit by, he assumed a quiet smile, as though to say that he,
too, had read its meaning. The young man blushed deeply; whatever his
secret thoughts were, he felt ashamed that another should seem to know
them, and in a hesitating whisper, said,--
"Perhaps my father has told you--"
A short nod from Heffernan--a gesture to imply anything or nothing--was
all his reply, and Beecham went on,--
"He's going to do it, now."
Heffernan made no answer, but, leaning forward on the rail, settled
himself to listen attentively to the speaker.
"Gentlemen of the jury," said O'Halloran, in a low and deliberate tone,
"if the only question I was interested in bringing before you this day
was the cause you sit there to try, I would conclude here. Assured as
I feel what your verdict will and must be, I would not add a word more,
nor weaken the honest merit of your convictions by anything like an
appeal to your feelings. But I cannot do this. The law of the land, in
the plenitude of its liberty, throws wide the door of justice, that all
may enter and seek redress for wrong, and with such evident anxiety that
he who believes himself aggrieved should find no obstacle to his right,
and that even he who frivolously and maliciously advances a charge
against another suffers no heavier penalty for his offence than the
costs of the suit. No, my Lords, for the valuable moments lost in a
vexatious cause, for the public time consumed, for insult and outrage
cast upon the immutable principles of right and wrong, you have nothing
more severe to inflict than the costs of the action!--a pecuniary fine,
seldom a heavy one, and not unfrequently to be levied upon insolvency!
What encouragement to the spirit of revengeful litigation! How
suggestive of injury is the system! How deplorable would it be if
the temple could not be opened without the risk of its altar being
desecrated! But, happily, there is a remedy--a great and noble
remedy--for an evil like this. The same glorious institutions that have
built up for our protection the bulwark of the law, have created another
barrier against wrong,--grander, more expansive, and more enduring
still; one neither founded on the variable basis of nationality or of
language, nor propped by the artifices of learned, or the subtleties
of crafty men; not following the changeful fortunes of a political
condition, or tempered by the tone of the judgment-seat, but of all
lands, of every tongue and nation and people, great, enduring, and
immutable,--the law of Public Opinion. To the bar of this judgment-seat,
one higher and greater than even your Lordships, I would now summon
the plaintiff in this action. There is no need that I should detail
the charge against him; the accusation he has brought this day is our
indictment,--his allegation is his crime."
The reader, by this time, may partake of Mr. Heffernan's prescience, and
divine what the secret intelligence between the Counsellor and Beecham
portended, and that a long-meditated attack on the Knight of Gwynne, in
all the relations of his public and private life, was the chief duty
of Mr. O'Halloran in the action. Taking a lesson from the great and
illustrious chief of a neighboring state, O'Reilly felt that Usurpation
can never be successful till Legitimacy becomes odious. The "prestige"
of the "old family" clung too powerfully to every class in the county
to make his succession respected. His low origin was too recent, his
moneyed dealings too notorious, to gain him acceptance, except on the
ruins of the Darcys. The new edifice of his own fame must be erected out
of the scattered and broken materials of his rival's house. If any one
was well calculated to assist in such an emergency, it was O'Halloran.
It was by--to use his own expression--"weeding the country of such men"
that the field would be opened for that new class of politicians who
were to issue their edicts in newspapers, and hold their parliaments in
public meetings. Against exclusive or exaggerated loyalty the struggle
would be violent, but not difficult; while against moderation, sound
sense and character, the Counsellor well knew the victory was not so
easy of attainment. He himself, therefore, had a direct personal object
in this attack on the Knight of Gwynne, and gladly accepted the special
retainer that secured his services.
By a series of artful devices, he so arranged his case that the Knight
of Gwynne did not appear as an injured individual seeking redress
against the collusive guilt of his agent and his tenantry, but as a
ruined gambler, endeavoring to break the leases he had himself granted
and guaranteed, and, by an act of perfidy, involve hundreds of innocent
families in hopeless beggary. To the succor of these unprotected people
Mr. Hickman O'Reilly was represented as coming forward, this noble
act of devotion being the first pledge he had offered of what might be
expected from him as the future leader of a great county.
He sketched with a masterly but diabolical ingenuity the whole career
of the Knight, representing him at every stage of life as the pampered
voluptuary seeking means for fresh enjoyment without a thought of the
consequences; he exhibited him dispensing, not the graceful duties
of hospitality, but the reckless waste of a tasteless household, to
counterbalance by profusion the insolent hauteur of his wife, "that
same Lady Eleanor who would not deign to associate with the wives and
daughters of his neighbors!" "I know not," cried the orator, "whether
you were more crushed by his gold or by her insolence: it was time
that you should weary of both. You took the wealth on trust, and the
rank on guess,--what now remains of either?"
He drew a frightful picture of a suffering and poverty-enslaved
tenantry, sinking fast into barbarism from hopelessness,--unhappily, no
Irishman need depend upon his imagination for the sketch. He contrasted
the hours of toil and sickness with the wanton spendthrift in his
pleasures,--the gambler setting the fate of families on the die,
reserving for his last hope the consolation that he might still betray
those whom he had ruined, land that when he had dissipated the last
shilling of his fortune, he still had the resource of putting his honor
up to auction! "And who is there will deny that he did this?" cried
O'Halloran. "Is there any man in the kingdom has not heard of his
conduct in Parliament--that foul act of treachery which the justice of
Heaven stigmatized by his ruin! How on the very night of the debate he
was actually on his way to inflict the last wound upon his country, when
the news came of his own overwhelming destruction! And, like as you have
seen sometime in our unhappy land the hired informer transferred from
the witness-table to the dock, this man stands now forth to answer for
his own offences!
"It was full time that the rotten edifice of this feudalist gentry
should fall; honor to you on whom the duty devolves to roll away the
first stone!"
A slight movement in the crowd behind the bar disturbed the silence in
which the Court listened to the speaker, and a murmur of disapprobation
was heard, when a hand, stretched forth, threw a little slip of paper on
the table before O'Halloran. It was addressed to him; and believing it
came from the attorney in the cause, he paused to read it. Suddenly his
features became of an ashy paleness, his lip trembled convulsively, and
in a voice scarcely audible from emotion, he addressed the bench,--
"My Lords, I ask the protection of this Court. I implore your Lordships
to see that an advocate, in the discharge of his duty, is not the mark
of an assassin. I have just received this note--" He attempted to read
it, but after a pause of a second or two, unable to utter a word, he
handed the paper to the bench.
The judge perused the paper, and immediately whispered an order that
the writer, or at least the bearer, of the note should be taken into
custody.
"You may rest assured, sir," said the senior judge, addressing
O'Halloran, "that we will punish the offender, if he be discovered,
with the utmost penalty the law permits. Mr. Sheriff, let the court be
searched."
The sub-sheriff was already, with the aid of a strong police force,
engaged in the effort to discover the individual who had thus dared to
interfere with the administration of justice; but all in vain. The court
and the galleries were searched without eliciting anything that could
lead to detection; and although several were taken up on suspicion, they
were immediately afterwards liberated on being recognized as persons
well known and in repute. Meanwhile the business of the trial stood
still, and O'Halloran, with his arms folded, and his brows bent in a
sullen frown, sat without speaking, or noticing any one around him.
The curiosity to know the exact words the paper contained was meanwhile
extreme, and a thousand absurd versions gained currency; for, in the
absence of all fact, invention was had recourse to. "Young Darcy is
here,--he was seen this morning on the mail,--it was he himself gave the
letter." Such were among the rumors around; while Con Hefferman, coolly
tapping his snuff-box, asked one of the lawyers near him, but in a voice
plainly audible on either side, "I hope our friend Bagenal Daly is well;
have you seen him lately?"
From that moment an indistinct murmur ran through the crowd that it was
Daly had come back to "the West" to challenge the bar, and the whole
bench, if necessary. Many added that there could no longer be any doubt
of the fact, as Mr. Heffernan had seen and spoken to him.
Order was at last restored; but so completely had this new incident
absorbed all the interest of the trial, that already the galleries began
to thin, and of the great crowd that filled the body of the court, many
had taken their departure. The Counsellor arose, agitated and evidently
disconcerted, to finish his task: he spoke, indeed, indignantly of the
late attempt to coerce the free expression of the advocate "by a brutal
threat;" but the theme seemed one he felt no pleasure in dwelling upon,
and he once more addressed himself to the facts of the case.
The judge charged briefly; and the jury, without retiring from the box,
brought in a verdict for Hickman O'Reilly.
When the judges retired to unrobe, a messenger of the court summoned
O'Halloran to their chamber. His absence was very brief; but when he
returned his face was paler, and his manner more disturbed than ever,
notwithstanding an evident effort to seem at ease and unconcerned. By
this time Hickman O'Reilly had arrived in the town, and Heffernan was
complimenting the Counsellor on the admirable display of his speech.
"I regret sincerely that the delicate nature of the position in which I
stood prevented my hearing you," said O'Reilly, shaking his hand.
"You have indeed had a great loss," said Heffernan; "a more brilliant
display I never listened to."
"Well, sir," interposed the little priest of Curraghglass, who, not
altogether to the Counsellor's satisfaction, had now slipped an arm
inside of his, "I hope the evil admits of remedy; Mr. O'Halloran intends
to address a few words to the people before he leaves the town."
Whether it was the blank look that suddenly O'Reilly's features assumed,
or the sly malice that twinkled in Heffernan's gray eyes, or that his
own feelings suggested the course, but the Counsellor hastily whispered
a few words in the priest's ear, the only audible portion of which was
the conclusion: "Be that as it may, I 'll not do it."
"I 'm ready now, Mr. O'Reilly," said he, turning abruptly round.
"My father has gone over to say good-bye to the judges," said Beecham;
"but I'll drive you back to the abbey,--the carriage is now at the
door."
With a few more words in a whisper to the priest, O'Halloran moved on
with young O'Reilly towards the door.
"Only think, sir," said Father John, dropping behind with Heffernan,
from whose apparent intimacy with O'Halloran he augured a similarity of
politics, "it is the first time the Counsellor was ever in our town,
the people have been waiting since two o'clock to hear him on the
'veto,'--sorra one of them knows what the same 'veto' is,--but it will
be a cruel disappointment to see him leave the place without so much as
saying a word."
"Do you think a short address from me would do instead?" said
Heffernan, slyly; "I know pretty well what's doing up in Dublin."
"Nothing could be better, sir," said Father John, in ecstasy; "if the
Counsellor would just introduce you in a few words, and say that, from
great fatigue, or a sore throat, or anything that way, he deputed his
friend Mr.--"
"Heffernan's my name."
"His friend Mr. Heffernan to state his views about the 'veto,'--mind,
it must be the 'veto,'-you can touch on the reform in Parliament, the
oppression of the penal laws, but the 'veto' will bring a cheer that
will beat them all."
"You had better hint the thing to the Counsellor," said Heffernan; "I am
ready whenever you want me."
As the priest stepped forward to make the communication to O'Halloran,
that gentleman, leaning on Beecham O'Reilly's arm, had just reached
the steps of the courthouse, where now a considerable police-force was
stationed,--a measure possibly suggested by O'Reilly himself.
The crowd, on catching sight of the Counsellor, cheered vociferously;
and, although they were not without fears that he intended to depart
without speaking, many averred that he would address them from the
carriage. Before Father John could make known his request, a young man,
dressed in a riding-costume, burst through the line of police, and,
springing up the steps, seized O'Halloran by the collar.
"I gave you a choice, sir," said he, "and you made it;" and at the same
instant, with a heavy horsewhip, struck him several times across the
shoulders, and even the face. So sudden was the movement, and so violent
the assault, that, although a man of great personal strength, O'Halloran
had received several blows almost before he could defend himself,
and when he had rallied, his adversary, though much lighter and less
muscular, showed in skill, at least, he was his superior. The struggle,
however, was not to end here; for the mob, now seeing their favorite
champion attacked, with a savage howl of vengeance dashed forward, and
the police, well aware that the youth would be torn limb from limb,
formed a line in front of him with fixed bayonets. For a few moments
the result was doubtful; nor was it until more than one retired into the
crowd bleeding and wounded, that the mob desisted, or limited their rage
to yells of vengeance.
[Illustration: 098]
Meanwhile the Counsellor was pulled back within the court-house by his
companions, and the young man secured by two policemen,--a circumstance
which went far to allay the angry tempest of the people without.
As, pale and powerless from passion, his livid cheek marked with a deep
blue welt, O'Halloran sat in one of the waiting-rooms of the court,
O'Reilly and his son endeavored, as well as they could, to calm down his
rage; expressing, from time to time, their abhorrence of the indignity
offered, and the certain penalty that awaited the offender. O'Halloran
never spoke; he tried twice to utter something, but the words died away
without sound, and he could only point to his cheek with a trembling
finger, while his eyes glared like the red orbs of a tiger.
As they stood thus, Heffernan slipped noiselessly behind O'Reilly, and
said in his ear,--
"Get him off to the abbey; your son will take care of him. I have
something for yourself to hear."
O'Reilly nodded significantly, and then, turning, said a few words in a
low, persuasive tone to O'Halloran, concluding thus: "Yes, by all means,
leave the whole affair in my hands. I 'll have no difficulty in making a
bench. The town is full of my brother magistrates."
"On every account I would recommend this course, sir," said Heffernan,
with one of those peculiarly meaning looks by which he so well knew how
to assume a further insight into any circumstance than his neighbors
possessed.
"I will address the people," cried O'Halloran, breaking his long silence
with a deep and passionate utterance of the words; "they shall see in
me the strong evidence of the insolent oppression of that faction that
rules this country; I 'll make the land ring with the tyranny that
would stifle the voice of justice, and make the profession of the bar a
forlorn hope to every man of independent feeling."
"The people have dispersed already," said Beecham, as he came back from
the door of the court; "the square is quite empty."
"Yes, I did that," whispered Heffernan in O'Reilly's ear; "I made the
servant put on the Counsellor's greatcoat, and drive rapidly off towards
the abbey. The carriage is now, however, at the back entrance to the
court-house; so, by all means, persuade him to return."
"When do you propose bringing the fellow up for examination, Mr.
O'Reilly?" said O'Halloran, as he arose from his seat.
"To-morrow morning. I have given orders to summon a full bench of
magistrates, and the affair shall be sifted to the bottom."
"You may depend upon that, sir," said the Counsellor, sternly. "Now I
'll go back with you, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly." So saying, he moved towards
a private door of the building, where the phaeton was in waiting,
and, before any attention was drawn to the spot, he was seated in the
carriage, and the horses stepping out at a fast pace towards home.
"It's not Bagenal Daly?" said O'Reilly, the very moment he saw the
carriage drive off.
"No, no!" said Heffernan, smiling.
"Nor the young Darcy,--the captain?"
"Nor him either. It's a young fellow we have been seeking for in vain
the last month. His name is Forester."
"Not Lord Castlereagh's Forester?"
"The very man. You may have met him here as Darcy's guest?"
O'Reilly nodded.
"What makes the affair worse is that the relationship with Castlereagh
will be taken up as a party matter by O'Halloran's friends in the press;
they will see a Castle plot, where, in reality, there is nothing to
blame save the rash folly of a hot-headed boy."
"What is to be done?" said O'Reilly, putting his hand to his forehead,
in his embarrassment to think of some escape from the difficulty.
"I see but one safe issue,--always enough to any question, if men have
resolution to adopt it."
"Let me hear what you counsel," said O'Reilly, as he cast a searching
glance at his astute companion.
"Get him off as fast as you can."
"O'Halloran! You mistake him, Mr. Heffernan; he'll prosecute the
business to the end."
"I'm speaking of Forester," said Heffernan, dryly; "it is his absence
is the important matter at this moment."
"I confess I am myself unable to appreciate your view of the case," said
O'Reilly, with a cunning smile; "the policy is a new one to me which
teaches that a magistrate should favor the escape of a prisoner who has
just insulted one of his own friends."
"I may be able to explain my meaning to your satisfaction," said
Heffernan, as, taking O'Reilly's arm, he spoke for some time in a low
but earnest manner. "Yes," said he, aloud, "your son Beecham was the
object of this young man's vengeance; chance alone turned his anger on
the Counsellor. His sole purpose in 'the West' was to provoke your son
to a duel, and I know well what the result of your proceedings to-morrow
would effect. Forester would not accept of his liberty on bail, nor
would he enter into a security on his part to keep the peace. You will
be forced, actually forced, to commit a young man of family and high
position to a gaol; and what will the world say? That in seeking
satisfaction for a very gross outrage on the character of his friend, a
young Englishman of high family was sent to prison! In Ireland, the tale
will tell badly; we always have more sympathy than censure for
such offenders. In England, how many will know of his friends
and connections, who never heard of your respectable bench of
magistrates,--will it be very wonderful if they side with their
countryman against the stranger?"
"How am I to face O'Halloran if I follow this counsel?" said O'Reilly,
with a thoughtful but embarrassed air. "Then, as to Lord Castlereagh,"
continued Heffernan, not heeding the question, "he will take your
interference as a personal and particular favor. There never was a more
favorable opportunity for you to disconnect yourself with the whole
affair. The hired advocate may calumniate as he will, but he can show
no collusion or connivance on your part. I may tell you, in confidence,
that a more indecent and gross attack was never uttered than this same
speech. I heard it, and from the beginning to the end it was a tissue of
vulgarity and falsehood. Oh! I know what you would say: I complimented
the speaker on his success, and all that; so I did, perfectly true, and
he understood me, too,--there is no greater impertinence, perhaps,
than in telling a man that you mistook his bad cider for champagne! But
enough of him. You may have all the benefit, if there be such, of the
treason, and yet never rub shoulders with the traitor. You see I am
eager on this point, and I confess I am very much so. Your son Beecham
could not have a worse enemy in the world of Club and Fashion than this
same Forester; he knows and is known to everybody."
"But I cannot perceive how the thing is to be done," broke in O'Reilly,
pettishly; "you seem to forget that O'Halloran is not the man to be put
off with any lame, disjointed story."
"Easily enough," said Heffernan, coolly; "there is no difficulty
whatever. You can blunder in the warrant of his committal; you can
designate him by a wrong Christian name; call him Robert, not Richard;
he may be admitted to bail, and the sum a low one. The rest follows
naturally; or, better than all, let some other magistrate-you surely
know more than one to aid in such a pinch--take the case upon himself,
and make all the necessary errors; that's the best plan."
"Conolly, perhaps," said O'Reilly, musingly; "he is a great friend of
Darcy's, and would risk something to assist this young fellow."
"Well thought of," cried Heffernan, slapping him on the shoulder;
"just give me a line of introduction to Mr. Conolly on one of your
visiting-cards, and leave the rest to me."
"If I yield to you in this business, Mr. Heffernan," said O'Reilly,
as he sat down to write, "I assure you it is far more from my implicit
confidence in your skill to conduct it safely to the end, than from
any power of persuasion in your arguments. O'Halloran is a formidable
enemy."
"You never were more mistaken in your life," said Heffernan, laughing,
"such men are only noxious by the terror they inspire; they are the
rattlesnakes of the world of mankind, always giving notice of their
approach, and never dangerous to the prudent. He alone is to be dreaded
who, tiger-like, utters no cry till his victim is in his fangs."
There was a savage malignity in the way these words were uttered
that made O'Reilly almost shudder. Heffernan saw the emotion he had
unguardedly evoked, and, laughing, said,--
"Well, am I to hold over the remainder of my visit to the abbey as a
debt unpaid? for I really have no fancy to let you off so cheaply."
"But you are coming back with me, are you not?"
"Impossible! I must take charge of this foolish boy, and bring him up to
Dublin; I only trust I have a vested right to come back and see you at a
future day."
O'Reilly responded to the proposition with courteous warmth; and with
mutual pledges, perhaps of not dissimilar sincerity, they parted,--the
one to his own home, the other to negotiate in a different quarter and
in a very different spirit of diplomacy.
CHAPTER V. MR. HEFFERNAN'S COUNSELS
Mr. Heffernan possessed many worldly gifts and excellences, but upon
none did he so much pride himself, in the secret recesses of his
heart,--he was too cunning to indulge in more public vauntings,--as in
the power he wielded over the passions of men much younger than himself.
Thoroughly versed in their habits of life, tastes, and predilections, he
knew how much always to concede to the warm and generous temperament
of their age, and to maintain his influence over them less by the
ascendancy of ability than by a more intimate acquaintance with all the
follies and extravagances of fashionable existence.
Whether he had or had not been a principal actor in the scenes he
related with so much humor, it was difficult to say; for he would gloss
over his own personal adventures so artfully that it was not easy to
discover whether the motive were cunning or delicacy. He seemed, at
least, to have done everything that wildness and eccentricity had ever
devised, to have known intimately every man renowned for such exploits,
and to have gone through a career of extravagance and dissipation quite
sufficient to make him an unimpeachable authority in every similar
case. The reserve which young men feel with regard to those older than
themselves was never experienced in Con Heffernan's company; they would
venture to tell him anything, well aware that, however absurd the story
or embarrassing the scrape, Hefferuan was certain to cap it by another
twice as extravagant in every respect.
Although Forester was by no means free from the faults of his age and
class, the better principles of his nature had received no severe or
lasting injury, and his estimation for Heffernan proceeded from a very
different view of his character from that which we have just alluded
to. He knew him to be the tried and trusted agent of his cousin,
Lord Castlereagh, one for whose abilities he entertained the greatest
respect; he saw him consulted and advised with on every question of
difficulty, his opinions asked, his suggestions followed; and if,
occasionally, the policy was somewhat tortuous, he was taught to believe
that the course of politics, like that "of true love, never did run
smooth." In this way, then, did he learn to look up to Heffernan, who
was too shrewd a judge of motives to risk a greater ascendancy by any
hazardous appeal to the weaker points of his character.
Fortune could not have presented a more welcome visitor to Forester's
eyes than Heffernau, as he entered the room of the inn where the
youth had been conducted by the sergeant of police, and where he sat
bewildered by the difficulties in which his own rashness had involved
him. The first moments of meeting were occupied by a perfect shower of
questions, as to how Heffernan came to be in that quarter of the world,
when he had arrived, and with whom he was staying. All questions which
Heffernan answered by the laughing subterfuge of saying, "Your
good genius, I suppose, sent me to get you out of your scrape; and
fortunately I am able to do so. But what in the name of everything
ridiculous could have induced you to insult this man, O'Halloran? You
ought to have known that men like him cannot fight; they would be
made riddles of if they once consented to back by personal daring the
insolence of their tongues. They set out by establishing for themselves
a kind of outlawry from honor, they acknowledge no debts within the
jurisdiction of that court, otherwise they would soon be bankrupt."
"They should be treated like all others without the pale of law, then,"
said Forester, indignantly.
"Or, like Sackville," added Heffernan, laughing, "when they put their
swords 'on the peace establishment,' they should put their tongues on
the 'civil list.' Well, well, there are new discoveries made every day;
some men succeed better in life by the practice of cowardice than others
ever did, or ever will do, by the exercise of valor."
"What can I do here? Is there anything serious in the difficulty?"
said Forester, hurriedly; for he was in no humor to enjoy the abstract
speculations in which Heffernan indulged.
"It might have been a very troublesome business," replied Heffernan,
quietly: "the judge might have issued a bench warrant against you, if
he did not want your cousin to make him chief baron; and Justice Conolly
might have been much more technically accurate, if he was not desirous
of seeing his son in an infantry regiment. It's all arranged now,
however; there is only one point for your compliance,--you must get out
of Ireland as fast as may be. O'Halloran will apply for a rule in the
King's Bench, but the proceedings will not extend to England."
"I am indifferent where I go to," said Forester, turning away; "and
provided this foolish affair does not get abroad, I am well content."
"Oh! as to that, you must expect your share of notoriety. O'Halloran
will take care to display his martyrdom for the people! It will bring
him briefs now; Heaven knows what greater rewards the future may have in
store from it!"
"You heard the provocation," said Forester, with an unsuccessful attempt
to speak calmly,--"the gross and most unpardonable provocation?"
"I was present," replied Heffernan, quietly.
"Well, what say you? Was there ever uttered an attack more false and
foul? Was there ever conceived a more fiendish and malignant slander?"
"I never heard anything worse."
"Not anything worse! No, nor ever one half so bad."
"Well, if you like it, I will agree with you; not one half so bad. It
was untrue in all its details, unmanly in spirit. But, let me add, that
such philippics have no lasting effect,--they are like unskilful mines,
that in their explosion only damage the contrivers. O'Reilly, who was
the real deviser of this same attack, whose heart suggested, whose head
invented, and whose coffers paid for it, will reap all the obloquy he
hoped to heap upon another. Take myself, for instance, an old time-worn
man of the world, who has lived long enough never to be sudden in my
friendships or my resentments, who thinks that liking and disliking are
slow processes,--well, even I was shocked, outraged at this affair;
and although having no more intimacy with Darcy than the ordinary
intercourse of social life, confess I could not avoid acting promptly
and decisively on the subject. It was a question, perhaps, more of
feeling than actual judgment,--a case in which the first impulse may
generally be deemed the right one." Here Heffernan paused, and drew
himself up with an air that seemed to say, "If I am confessing to a
weakness in my character, it is at least one that leans to virtue's
side."
Forester awaited with impatience for the explanation, and, not
perceiving it to come, said, "Well, what did you do in the affair?"
"My part was a very simple one," said Heffernan; "I was Mr. O'Reilly's
guest, one of a large party, asked to meet the judges and the
Attorney-General. I came in, with many others, to hear O'Halloran; but
if I did, I took the liberty of not returning again. I told Mr. O'Reilly
frankly that, in point of fact, the thing was false, and, as policy,
it was a mistake. Party contests are all very well, they are necessary,
because without them there is no banner to fight under; and the man
of mock liberality to either side would take precedence of those more
honest but less cautious than himself; but these things are great evils
when they enlist libellous attacks on character in their train. If the
courtesies of life are left at the door of our popular assemblies, they
ought at least to be resumed when passing out again into the world."
"And so you actually refused to go back to his house?" said Forester,
who felt far more interested in this simple fact than in all the
abstract speculation that accompanied it.
"I did so: I even begged of him to send my servant and my carriage after
me; and, had it not been for your business, before this time I had been
some miles on my way towards Dublin."
Forester never spoke, but he grasped Heffernan's hand, and shook it with
earnest cordiality.
"Yes, yes," said Heffernan, as he returned the pressure; "men can be
strong partisans, anxious and eager for their own side, but there is
something higher and nobler than party." He arose as he spoke, and
walked towards the window, and then, suddenly turning round, and with an
apparent desire to change the theme, asked, "But how came you here? What
good or evil fortune prompted you to be present at this scene?"
"I fear you must allow me to keep that a secret," said Forester, in some
confusion.
"Scarcely fair, that, my young friend," said Heffernan, laughing, "after
hearing my confession in full."
Forester seemed to feel the force of the observation, but, uncertain how
to act, he maintained a silence for several minutes.
"If the affair were altogether my own, I should not hesitate," said he
at length, "but it is not so. However, we are in confidence here, and
so I will tell you. I came to this part of the country at the earnest
desire of Lionel Darcy. I don't know whether you are aware of his sudden
departure for India. He had asked for leave of absence to give evidence
on this trial; the application was made a few days after a memorial he
sent in for a change of regiment. The demand for leave was unheeded, but
he received a peremptory order to repair to Portsmouth, and take charge
of a detachment under sailing-orders for India; they consisted of men
belonging to the Eleventh Light Dragoons, of which he was gazetted to
a troop. I was with him at Chatham when the letter reached him, and
he explained the entire difficulty to me, showing that he had no
alternative, save neglecting the interest of his family, on the one
hand, or refusing that offer of active service he had so urgently
solicited on the other. We talked the thing over one entire night
through, and at last, right or wrong, persuaded ourselves that any
evidence he could give would be of comparatively little value; and that
the refusal to join would be deemed a stain upon him as an officer, and
probably be the cause of greater grief to the Knight himself than his
absence at the trial. Poor fellow! he felt for more deeply for quitting
England without saying good-bye to his family than for all the rest."
"And so he actually sailed in the transport?" said Heffernan.
"Yes, and without time for more than a few lines to his father, and
a parting request to me to come over to Ireland and be present at the
trial. Whether he anticipated any attack of this kind or not, I cannot
say, but he expressed the desire so strongly I half suspect as much."
"Very cleverly done, faith!" muttered Heffernan, who seemed far more
occupied with his own reflections than attending to Forester's words;
"a deep and subtle stroke, Master O'Reilly, ably planned and as ably
executed."
"I am rejoiced that Lionel escaped this scene, at all events," said
Forester.
"I must say, it was neatly done," continued Heffernan, still following
out his own train of thought; "'Non contigit cuique,' as the Roman says;
it is not every man can take in Con Heffernan,--I did not expect Hickman
O'Reilly would try it." He leaned his head on his hand for some minutes,
then said aloud, "The best thing for you will be to join your regiment."
"I have left the army," said Forester, with a flush, half of shame, half
of anger.
"I think you were right," replied Heffernan, calmly, while he avoided
noticing the confusion in the young man's manner. "Soldiering is no
career for any man of abilities like yours; the lounging life of a
barrack-yard, the mock duties of parade, the tiresome dissipations of
the mess, suit small capacities and minds of mere routine. But you have
better stuff in you, and, with your connections and family interest,
there are higher prizes to strive for in the wheel of fortune."
"You mistake me," said Forester, hastily; "it was with no disparaging
opinion of the service I left it. My reasons had nothing in common with
such an estimate of the army."
"There's diplomacy, for instance," said Heffernan, not minding the
youth's remark; "your brother has influence with the Foreign Office."
"I have no fancy for the career."
"Well, there are Government situations in abundance. A man must do
something in our work-a-day world, if only to be companionable to those
who do. Idleness begets ennui and falling in love; and although the
first only wearies for the time, the latter lays its impress on all a
man's after-life, fills him with false notions of happiness, instils
wrong motives for exertion, and limits the exercise of capacity to
the small and valueless accomplishments that find favor beside the
work-table and the piano."
Forester received somewhat haughtily the unasked counsels of Mr.
Heffernan respecting his future mode of life, nor was it improbable that
he might himself have conveyed his opinion thereupon in words, had not
the appearance of the waiter to prepare the table for dinner interposed
a barrier.
"At what hour shall I order the horses, sir?" asked the man of
Heffernan.
"Shall we say eight o'clock, or is that too early?"
"Not a minute too early for me," said Forester; "I am longing to leave
this place, where I hope never again to set foot."
"At eight, then, let them be at the door; and whenever your cook is
ready, we dine."
CHAPTER VI. AN UNLOOKED-FOR PROMOTION
The same post that brought the Knight the tidings of his lost suit
conveyed the intelligence of his son's departure for India; and although
the latter event was one over which, if in his power, he would have
exercised no control, yet was it by far the more saddening of the two
announcements.
Unable to apply any more consolatory counsels, his invariable reply to
Lady Eleanor was, "It was a point of duty; the boy could not have
done otherwise; I have too often expressed my opinion to him about the
devoirs of a soldier to permit of his hesitating here. And as for our
suit, Mr. Bicknell says the jury did not deliberate ten minutes on their
verdict; whatever right we might have on our side, it was pretty clear
we had no law. Poor Lionel is spared the pain of knowing this, at
least." He sighed heavily, and was silent. Lady Eleanor and Helen spoke
not either; and except their long-drawn breathings nothing was heard in
the room.
Lady Eleanor was the first to speak. "Might not Lionel's evidence have
given a very different coloring to our cause if he had been there?"
"It is hard to say. I am not aware whether we failed upon a point of
fact or law. Mr. Bicknell writes like a man who felt his words were
costly matters, and that he should not put his client to unnecessary
expense. He limits himself to the simple announcement of the result, and
that the charge of the bench was very pointedly unfavorable. He says
something about a motion for a new trial, and regrets Daly's having
prevented his engaging Mr. O'Halloran, and refers us to the newspapers
for detail."
"I never heard a question of this O'Halloran," said Lady Eleanor, "nor
of Mr. Daly's opposition to him before."
"Nor did I, either; though, in all likelihood, if I had, I should have
been of Bagenal's mind myself. Employing such men has always appeared
to me on a par with the barbarism of engaging the services of savage
nations in a war against civilized ones; and the practice is defended
by the very same arguments,--if they are not with you, they are against
you."
"You are right, my dear father," said Helen, while her countenance
glowed with unusual animation; "leave such allies to the enemy if he
will, no good cause shall be stained by the scalping-knife and the
tomahawk."
"Quite right, my dearest child," said he, fondly; "no defeat is so bad
as such a victory."
"And where was Mr. Daly? He does not seem to have been at the trial?"
"No; it would appear as if he were detained by some pressing necessity
in Dublin. This letter is in his handwriting; let us see what he says."
Before the Knight could execute his intention, old Tate appeared at the
door, and announced the name of Mr. Dempsey.
"You must present our compliments," said Darcy, hastily, "and say that
a very particular engagement will prevent our having the pleasure of
receiving his visit this evening."
"This is really intolerable," said Lady Eleanor, who, never much
disposed to look favorably on that gentleman, felt his present
appearance anything but agreeable.
"You hear what your master says," said Helen to the old man, who, never
having in his whole life received a similar order, felt proportionately
astonished and confused.
"Tell Mr. Dempsey we are very sorry; but--"
"For all that, he won't be denied," said Paul, himself finishing the
sentence, while, passing unceremoniously in front of Tate, he walked
boldly into the middle of the room. His face was flushed, his forehead
covered with perspiration, and his clothes, stained with dust, showed
that he had come off a very long and fast walk. He wiped his forehead
with a flaring cotton handkerchief, and then, with a long-drawn puff,
threw himself back into an arm-chair.
There was something so actually comic in the cool assurance of the
little man, that Darcy lost all sense of annoyance at the interruption,
while he surveyed him and enjoyed the dignified coolness of Lady
Eleanor's reception.
"That's the devil's own bit of a road," said Paul, as he fanned himself
with a music-book, "between this and Coleraine. Whenever it 's not going
up a hill, it's down one. Do you ever walk that way, ma'am?"
"Very seldom indeed, sir."
"Faith, and I 'd wager, when you do, that it gives you a pain just here
below the calf of the leg, and a stitch in the small of the back."
Lady Eleanor took no notice of this remark, but addressed some
observation to Helen, at which the young girl smiled, and said, in a
whisper,--
"Oh, he will not stay long."
"I am afraid, Mr. Dempsey," said the Knight, "that. I must be
uncourteous enough to say that we are unprepared for a visitor this
evening. Some letters of importance have just arrived; and as they will
demand all our attention, you will, I am sure, excuse the frankness of
my telling you that we desire to be alone."
"So you shall in a few minutes more," said Paul, coolly. "Let me have
a glass of sherry and water, or, if wine is not convenient, ditto of
brandy, and I 'm off. I did n't come to stop. It was a letter that you
forgot at the post-office, marked 'with speed,' on the outside, that
brought me here; for I was spending a few days at Coleraine with old
Hewson."
The kindness of this thoughtful act at once eradicated every memory of
the vulgarity that accompanied it; and as the Knight took the letter
from his hands, he hastened to apologize for what he said by adding his
thanks for the service.
"I offered a fellow a shilling to bring it, but being harvest-time he
wouldn't come," said Dempsey. "Phew! what a state the roads are in! dust
up to your ankles!"
"Come now, pray help yourself to some wine and water," said the Knight;
"and while you do so, I 'll ask permission to open my letter."
"There 's a short cut down by Port-na-happle mill, they tell me, ma'am,"
said Dempsey, who now found a much more complaisant listener than at
first; "but, to tell you the truth, I don't think it would suit you
or me; there are stone walls to climb over and ditches to cross. Miss
Helen, there, might get over them, she has a kind of a thoroughbred
stride of her own, but fencing destroys me outright."
"It was a very great politeness to think of bringing us the letter, and
I trust your fatigues will not be injurious to you," said Lady Eleanor,
smiling faintly.
"Worse than the damage to a pair of very old shoes, ma'am, I don't
anticipate; I begin to suspect they've taken their last walk this
evening."
While Mr. Dempsey contemplated the coverings of his feet with a very sad
expression, the Knight continued to read the letter he held in his hand
with an air of extreme intentness.
"Eleanor, my dear," said he, as he retired into the deep recess of a
window, "come here for a moment."
"I guessed there would be something of consequence in that," said
Dempsey, with a sly glance from Helen to the two figures beside the
window. "The envelope was a thin one, and I read 'War Office' in the
corner of the inside cover."
Not heeding the delicacy of this announcement, but only thinking of the
fact, which she at once connected with Lionel's fortunes, Helen turned
an anxious and searching glance towards the window; but the Knight
and Lady Eleanor had entered a small room adjoining, and were already
concealed from view.
"Was he ever in the militia, miss?" asked Dempsey, with a gesture of his
thumb to indicate of whom he spoke.
"I believe not," said Helen, smiling at the pertinacity of his
curiosity.
"Well, well," resumed Dempsey, with a sigh, "I would not wish him a
hotter march than I had this day, and little notion I had of the same
tramp only ten minutes before. I was reading the 'Saunders' of Tuesday
last, with an account of that business done at Mayo between O'Halloran
and the young officer-you know what I mean?"
"No, I have not heard it; pray tell me," said she, with an eagerness
very different from her former manner.
"It was a horsewhipping, miss, that a young fellow in the Guards gave
O'Halloran, just as he was coming out of court; something the Counsellor
said about somebody in the trial,--names never stay in my head, but
I remember it was a great trial at the Westport assizes, and that
O'Halloran came down special, and faith, so did the young captain too;
and if the lawyer laid it on very heavily within the court, the red-coat
made up for it outside. But I believe I have the paper in my pocket,
and, if you like, I'll read it out for you."
"Pray do," said Helen, whose anxiety was now intense.
"Well, here goes," said Mr. Dempsey; "but with your permission I 'll
just wet my lips again. That 's elegant sherry!"
Having sipped and tasted often enough to try the young lady's patience
to its last limit, he unfolded the paper, and read aloud,--
"'When Counsellor O'Halloran had concluded his eloquent speech in the
trial of Darcy v. Hickman,--for a full report of which see our early
columns,--a young gentleman, pushing his way through the circle of
congratulating friends, accosted him with the most insulting and
opprobrious epithets, and failing to elicit from the learned gentleman
a reciprocity,'-that means, miss, that O'Halloran did n't show
fight,--'struck him repeatedly across the shoulders, and even the face,
with a horsewhip. He was immediately committed under a bench warrant,
but was liberated almost at once. Perhaps our readers may understand
these proceedings more clearly when we inform them that Captain
Forester, the aggressor in this case, is a near relative of our Irish
Secretary, Lord Castlereagh.' That 's very neatly put, miss, isn't it?"
said Mr. Dempsey, with a sly twinkle of the eye; "it's as much as to say
that the Castle chaps may do what they please. But it won't end there,
depend upon it; the Counsellor will see it out."
Helen paid little attention to the observation, for, having taken up the
paper as Mr. Dempsey laid it down, she was deeply engaged in the report
of the trial and O'Halloran's speech.
"Wasn't that a touching-up the old Knight of Gwynne got?" said Dempsey,
as, with his glass to his eye, he peered over her shoulder at the
newspaper. "Faith, O'Halloran flayed him alive! He 's the boy can do it!"
Helen scarce seemed to breathe, as, with a heart almost bursting with
indignant anger, she read the lines before her.
[Illustration: 118]
"Strike him!" cried she, at length, unable longer to control the passion
that worked within her; "had he trampled him beneath his feet, it had
not been too much?"
The little man started, and stared with amazement at the young girl,
as, with flashing eyes and flushed cheek, she arose from her seat, and,
tearing the paper into fragments, stamped upon them with her foot.
"Blood alive, miss, don't destroy the paper! I only got a loan of it
from Mrs. Kennedy, of the Post-office; she slipped it out of the cover,
though it was addressed to Lord O'Neil. Oh dear! oh dear! it's a nice
article now!"
These words were uttered in the very depth of despair, as, kneeling
down on the carpet, Mr. Dempsey attempted to collect and arrange the
scattered fragments.
"It's no use in life! Here's the Widow Wallace's pills in the middle of
the Counsellor's speech! and the last day's drawing of the lottery mixed
up with that elegant account of old Darcy's--"
A hand which, if of the gentlest mould, now made a gesture to enforce
silence, arrested Mr. Dempsey's words, and at the same moment the Knight
entered with Lady Eleanor. Darcy started as he gazed on the excited
looks and the air of defiance of his daughter, and for a second a deep
flush suffused his features, as with an angry frown he asked of Dempsey,
"What does this mean, sir?"
"D-n me if I know what it means!" exclaimed Paul, in utter despair at
the confusion of his own faculties. "My brain is in a whirl."
"It was a little political dispute between Mr. Dempsey and myself, sir,"
said Helen, with a faint smile. "He was reading for me an article
from the newspaper, whose views were so very opposite to mine, and his
advocacy of them so very animated, that--in short, we both became warm."
"Yes, that's it," cried Dempsey, glad to accept any explanation
of a case in which he had no precise idea wherein lay the
difficulty,--"that's it; I 'll take my oath it was."
"He is a fierce Unionist," said Helen, speaking rapidly to cover her
increasing confusion, "and has all the conventional cant by heart,
'old-fashioned opinions,' 'musty prejudices,' and so on."
"I did not suspect you were so eager a politician, my dear Helen," said
the Knight, as, half chidingly, he threw his eyes towards the scattered
fragments of the torn newspaper.
The young girl blushed till her neck became crimson: shame, at the
imputation of having so far given way to passion; sorrow, at the
reproof, whose injustice she did not dare to expose; and regret, at the
necessity of dissimulation, all overwhelming her at the same moment.
"I am not angry, my sweet girl," said the Knight, as he drew his arm
around her, and spoke in a low, fond accent. "I may be sorry--sincerely
sorry--at the social condition that has suffered political feeling to
approach our homes and our firesides, and thus agitate hearts as gentle
as yours by these rude themes. For your sentiments on these subjects I
can scarcely be a severe critic, for I believe they are all my own."
"Let us forget it all," said Helen, eagerly; for she saw-that Mr.
Dempsey, having collected once more the torn scraps, was busy in
arranging them into something like order. In fact, his senses were
gradually recovering from the mystification into which they had been
thrown, and he was anxious to vindicate himself before the party. "All
the magnanimity, however, must not be mine," continued she; "and until
that odious paper is consumed, I 'll sign no treaty of peace." So
saying, and before Dempsey could interfere to prevent it, she snatched
up the fragments, and threw them into the fire. "Now, Mr. Dempsey, we
are friends again," said she, laughing.
"The Lord grant it!" ejaculated Paul, who really felt no ambition for
so energetic an enemy. "I 'll never tell a bit of news in your company
again, so long as my name is Paul Dempsey. Every officer of the Guards
may horsewhip the Irish bar--I was forgetting--not a syllable more."
The Knight, fortunately, did not hear the last few words, for he was
busily engaged in reading the letter he still held in his hands; at
length he said,--
"Mr. Dempsey has conferred one great favor on us by bringing us this
letter; and as its contents are of a nature not to admit of any delay--"
"He will increase the obligation by taking his leave," added Paul,
rising, and, for once in his life, really well pleased at an opportunity
of retiring.
"I did not say that," said Darcy, smiling.
"No, no, Mr. Dempsey," added Lady Eleanor, with more than her wonted
cordiality; "you will, I hope, remain for tea."
"No, ma'am, I thank you; I have a little engagement,--I made a promise.
If I get safe out of the house without some infernal blunder or other,
it 's only the mercy of Providence." And with this burst of honest
feeling, Paul snatched up his hat, and without waiting for the ceremony
of leave-taking, rushed out of the room, and was soon seen crossing the
wide common at a brisk pace.
"Our little friend has lost his reason," said the Knight, laughing.
"What have you been doing to him, Helen?"
A gesture to express innocence of all interference was the only reply,
and the party became suddenly silent.
"Has Helen seen that letter?" said Lady Eleanor, faintly, and Darcy
handed the epistle to his daughter. "Read it aloud, my dear," continued
Lady Eleanor; "for, up to this, my impressions are so confused, I know
not which is reality, which mere apprehension."
Helen's eyes glanced to the top of the letter, and saw the words "War
Office;" she then proceeded to read:--
"'Sir,--In reply to the application made to the Commander-in-Chief
of the forces in your behalf, expressing your desire for an active
employment, I have the honor to inform you that his Royal Highness,
having graciously taken into consideration the eminent services rendered
by you in former years, and the distinguished character of that corps
which, raised by your exertions, still bears your name, has desired me
to convey his approval of your claim, and his desire, should a favorable
opportunity present itself, of complying with your wish. I have the
honor to remain, your most humble and obedient servant,
"'Harry Greville,
"Private Secretary."
On an enclosed slip of paper was the single line in pencil:--
"H. G. begs to intimate to Colonel Darcy the propriety of attending the
next levee of H. R. H., which will take place on the 14th."
"Now, you, who read riddles, my dearest Helen, explain this one to us.
I made no application of the kind alluded to, nor am I aware of any one
having ever done so for me. The thought never once occurred to me, that
his Majesty or his Royal Highness would accept the services of an old
and shattered hulk, while many a glorious three-decker lies ready to be
launched from the stocks. I could not have presumed to ask such a favor,
nor do I well know how to acknowledge it."
"But is there anything so very strange," said Helen, proudly, "that
those highly placed by station should be as highly gifted by nature,
and that his Royal Highness, having heard of your unmerited calumnies,
should have seen that this was the fitting moment to remember the
services you have rendered the Crown? I have heard that there are
several posts of high trust and honor conferred on those who, like
yourself, have won distinction in the service."
"Helen is right," said Lady Eleanor, drawing a long breath, and as if
released of a weighty load of doubt and uncertainty; "this is the real
explanation; the phrases of official life may give it another coloring
to our eyes, but such, I feel assured, is the true solution."
"I should like to think it so," said Darcy, feelingly; "it would be a
great source of pride to me at this moment, when my fortunes are lower
than ever they were,--lower than ever I anticipated they might be,--to
know that my benefactor was the Monarch. In any case I must lose no time
in acknowledging this mark of favor. It is now the 4th of the month; to
be in London by the 14th, I should leave this to-morrow."
"It is better to do so," said Lady Eleanor, with an utterance from which
a great effort had banished all agitation; "Helen and I are safe and
well here, and as happy as we can be when away from you and Lionel."
"Poor Lionel!" said the Knight, tenderly; "what good news for him it
would be were they to give me some staff appointment,--I might have him
near us. Come, Eleanor," added he, with more gayety of manner, "I feel a
kind of presentiment of good tidings. But we are forgetting Bagenal
Daly all this time; perhaps this letter of his may throw some light on
the matter."
Darcy now broke the seal of Daly's note, which, even for him, was one
of the briefest. This was so far fortunate, since his writing was in
his very worst style, blotted and half erased in many places, scarcely
legible anywhere. It was only by assembling a "committee of the whole
house" that the Darcys were enabled to decipher even a portion of this
unhappy document. As well as it could be rendered, it ran somewhat
thus:--
"The verdict is against us; old Bretson never forgave you carrying away
the medal from him in Trinity some fifty years back; he charged dead
against you; I always said he would. Summum jus, summa injuria--The
Chief Justice--the greatest wrong! and the jury the fellows who lived
under you, in your own town, and their fathers and grandfathers! at
least, as many of the rascals as had such.--Never mind, Bicknell has
moved for a new trial; they have gained the 'Habere' this time, and so
has O'Halloran--you heard of the thrashing--"
Here two tremendous patches of ink left some words that followed quite
unreadable.
"What can this mean?" said Darcy, repeating the passage over three
or four times, while Helen made no effort to enlighten him in the
difficulty. Battled in all his attempts, he read on: "'I saw him in his
way through Dublin last night,' Who can he possibly mean?" said Darcy,
laying down the letter, and pondering for several minutes.
"O'Halloran, perhaps," said Lady Eleanor, in vain seeking a better
elucidation.
"Oh, not him, of course!" cried Darcy; "he goes on to say, that 'he is
a devilish high-spirited young fellow, and for an Englishman a
warm-blooded animal.' Really this is too provoking; at such a time as
this he might have taken pains to be a little clearer," exclaimed Darcy.
The letter concluded with some mysterious hints about intelligence that
a few days might disclose, but from what quarter or on what subject
nothing was said, and it was actually with a sense of relief Darcy read
the words, "Yours ever, Bagenal Daly," at the foot of the letter, and
thus spared himself the torment of further doubts and guesses.
Helen was restrained from at once conveying the solution of the mystery
by recollecting the energy she had displayed in her scene with Mr.
Dempsey, and of which the shame still lingered on her flushed cheek.
"He adds something here about writing by the next post," said Lady
Eleanor.
"But before that arrives I shall be away," said the Knight; and the
train of thought thus evoked soon erased all memory of other matters.
And now the little group gathered together to discuss the coming
journey, and talk over all the plans by which anxiety was to be beguiled
and hope cherished till they met again.
"Miss Daly will not be a very importunate visitor," said Lady Eleanor,
dryly, "judging at least from the past; she has made one call here since
we came, and then only to leave her card."
"And if Helen does not cultivate a more conciliating manner, I scarce
think that Mr. Dempsey will venture on coming either," said the Knight,
laughing.
"I can readily forgive all the neglect," said Helen, haughtily, "in
compensation for the tranquillity."
"And yet, my dear Helen," said Darcy, "there is a danger in that same
compact. We should watch carefully to see whether, in the isolation of
a life apart from others, we are not really indulging the most refined
selfishness, and dignifying with the name of philosophy a solitude we
love for the indulgence of our own egotism. If we are to have our hearts
stirred and our sympathies strongly moved, let the themes be great ones,
but above all things let us avoid magnifying the petty incidents
of daily occurrence into much consequence: this is what the life of
monasteries and convents teaches, and a worse lesson there need not be."
Darcy spoke with more than usual seriousness, for he had observed some
time past how Helen had imbibed much of Lady Eleanor's distance towards
her humble neighbors, and was disposed to retain a stronger memory of
their failings in manner than of their better and heartier traits of
character.
The young girl felt the remark less as a reproof than a warning, and
said,--
"I will not forget it."
CHAPTER VII. A PARTING INTERVIEW
When Heffernan, with his charge, Forester, reached Dublin, he drove
straight to Castlereagh's house, affectedly to place the young man under
the protection of his distinguished relative, but in reality burning
with eager impatience to recount his last stroke of address, and to
display the cunning artifice by which he had embroiled O'Reilly with the
great popular leader. Mr. Heffernan had a more than ordinary desire
to exhibit his skill on this occasion; he was still smarting under the
conscious sense of having been duped by O'Reilly, and could not rest
tranquilly until revenged. Under the mask of a most benevolent purpose,
O'Reilly had induced Heffernan to procure Lionel Darcy an appointment to
a regiment in India. Heffernan undertook the task, not, indeed, moved by
any kindliness of feeling towards the youth, but as a means of reopening
once more negotiations with O'Reilly; and now to discover that he
had interested himself simply to withdraw a troublesome witness in a
suit--that he had been, in his own phrase, "jockeyed"--was an insult to
his cleverness he could not endure.
As Heffernan and Forester drove up to the door, they perceived that a
travelling-carriage, ready packed and loaded, stood in waiting, while
the bustle and movement of servants indicated a hurried departure.
"What's the matter, Hutton?" asked Heffernan of the valet who appeared
at the moment; "is his Lordship at home?"
"Yes, sir, in the drawing-room; but my Lord is just leaving for England.
He is now a Cabinet Minister."
Heffernan smiled, and affected to hear the tidings with delight, while
he hastily desired the servant to announce him.
The drawing-room was crowded by a strange and anomalous-looking
assemblage, whose loud talking and laughing entirely prevented the
announcement of Con Heffernan's name from reaching Lord Castlereagh's
ears. Groups of personal friends come to say good-bye, deputations eager
to have the last word in the ear of the departing Secretary, tradesmen
begging recommendations to his successor, with here and there a
disappointed suitor, earnestly imploring future consideration, were
mixed up with hurrying servants, collecting the various minor articles
which lay scattered through the apartment.
The time which it cost Heffernan to wedge his way through the dense
crowd was not wholly profitless, since it enabled him to assume that
look of cordial satisfaction at the noble Secretary's promotion which
he was so very far from really feeling. Like most men who cultivate mere
cunning, he underrated all who do not place the greatest reliance upon
it, and in this way conceived a very depreciating estimate of Lord
Castlereagh's ability. Knowing how deeply he had himself been trusted,
and how much employed in state transactions, he speculated on a long
career of political influence, and that, while his Lordship remained as
Secretary, his own skill and dexterity would never be dispensed with.
This pleasant illusion was now suddenly dispelled, and he saw all his
speculations scattered to the wind at once; in fact, to borrow his own
sagacious illustration, "he had to submit to a new deal with his hand
full of trumps."
He was still endeavoring to disentangle himself from the throng, when
Lord Castlereagh's quick eye discovered him.
"And here comes Heffernan," cried he, laughingly; "the only man wanting
to fill up the measure of congratulations. Pray, my Lord, move one step
and rescue our poor friend from suffocation."
"By Jove! my Lord, one would imagine you were the rising and not the
setting sun, from all this adulating assemblage," said Heffernan, as
he shook the proffered hand of the Secretary, and held it most
ostentatiously in his cordial pressure. "This was a complete surprise
for me," added he. "I only arrived this evening with Forester."
"With Dick? Indeed! I'm very glad the truant has turned up again. Where
is he?"
"He passed me on the stairs, I fancy to his room, for he muttered
something about going over in the packet along with you."
"And where have you been, Heffernan, and what doing?" asked Lord
Castlereagh, with that easy smile that so well became his features.
"That I can scarcely tell you here," said Heffernan, dropping his voice
to a whisper, "though I fancy the news would interest you." He made a
motion towards the recess of a window, and Lord Castlereagh accepted the
suggestion, but with an indolence and half-apathy which did not escape
Heffernan's shrewd perception. Partly piqued by this, and partly
stimulated by his own personal interest in the matter, Heffernan
related, with unwonted eagerness, the details of his visit to the West,
narrating with all his own skill the most striking characteristics of
the O'Reilly household, and endeavoring to interest his hearer by those
little touches of native archness in description of which he was no mean
master.
But often as they had before sufficed to amuse his Lordship, they seemed
a failure now; for he listened, if not with impatience, yet with
actual indifference, and seemed more than once as if about to stop the
narrative by the abrupt question, "How can this possibly interest me?"
Heffernan read the expression, and felt it as plainly as though it were
spoken.
"I am tedious, my Lord," said he, whilst a slight flush colored the
middle of his cheek; "perhaps I only weary you."
"He must be a fastidious hearer who could weary of Mr. Heffernan's
company," said his Lordship, with a smile so ambiguous that Heffernan
resumed with even greater embarrassment,--
"I was about to observe, my Lord, that this same member for Mayo
has become much more tractable. He evidently sees the necessity of
confirming his new position, and, I am confident, with very little
notice, might be con-verted into a stanch Government supporter."
"Your old favorite theory, Heffernan," said the Secretary, laughing; "to
warm these Popish grubs into Protestant butterflies by the sunshine of
kingly favor, forgetting the while that 'the winter of their discontent'
is never far distant. But please to remember, besides, that gold mines
will not last forever,--the fountain of honor will at last run dry; and
if--"
"I ask pardon, my Lord," interrupted Heffernan. "I only alluded to those
favors which cost the Minister little, and the Crown still less,--that
social acceptance from the Court here upon which some of your Irish
friends set great store. If you could find an opportunity of suggesting
something of this kind, or if your Lordship's successor--"
"Heaven pity him!" exclaimed Lord Castlereagh. "He will have enough on
his hands, without petty embarrassments of this sort. Without you have
promised, Heffernan," added he, hastily. "If you have already made any
pledge, of course we must sustain your credit."
"I, my Lord! I trust you know my discretion better than to suspect me.
I merely threw out the suggestion from supposing that your Lordship's
interest in our poor concerns here might outlive your translation to a
more distinguished position."
There was a tone of covert impertinence in the accent, as well as the
words, which, while Lord Castlereagh was quick enough to perceive, he
was too shrewd to mark by any notice.
"And so," said he, abruptly changing the topic, "this affair of
Forester's shortened your visit?"
"Of course. Having cut the knot, I left O'Reilly and Conolly to the
tender mercies of O'Halloran, who, I perceive by to-day's paper, has
denounced his late client in round terms. Another reason, my Lord, for
looking after O'Reilly at this moment. It is so easy to secure a prize
deserted by her crew."
"I wish Dick had waited a day or two," said Lord Castlereagh, not
heeding Heffernan's concluding remark, "and then I should have been off.
As it is, he would have done better to adjourn the horse-whipping sine
die, His lady-mother will scarcely distinguish between the two parties
in such a conflict, and probably deem the indignity pretty equally
shared by both parties."
"A very English judgment on an Irish quarrel," observed Heffernan.
"And you yourself, Heffernan,--when are we to see you in London?"
"Heaven knows, my Lord. Sometimes I fancy that I ought not to quit
my post here, even for a day; then again I begin to fear lest the new
officials may see things in a different light, and that I may be thrown
aside as the propagator of antiquated notions."
"Mere modesty, Heffernan," said Lord Castlereagh, with a look of the
most comic gravity. "You ought to know by this time that no government
can go on without you. You are the fly-wheel that regulates motion
and perpetuates impulse to the entire machine. I 'd venture almost to
declare that you stand in the inventory of articles transmitted from one
viceroy to another; and as we read of 'one throne covered with crimson
velvet, and one state couch with gilt supporters,' so we might chance to
fall upon the item of 'one Con Heffernan, Kildare Place.'"
"In what capacity, my Lord?" said Heffernan, endeavoring to conceal his
anger by a smile.
"Your gifts are too numerous for mention. They might better be summed up
under the title of 'State Judas.'"
"You forget, my Lord, that he carried the bag. Now I was never
purse-bearer even to the Lord Chancellor. But I can pardon the simile,
coming, as I see it does, from certain home convictions. Your Lordship
was doubtless assimilating yourself to another historical character of
the same period, and, would, like him, accept the iniquity, but 'wash
your hands' of its consequences."
"Do you hear that, my Lord?" said Lord Castlereagh, turning round,
and addressing the Bishop of Kilmore. "Mr. Heffernan has discovered
a parallel between my character and that of Pontius Pilate." A look of
rebuking severity from the prelate was directed towards Heffernan, who
meekly said,--
"I was only reproving his Lordship for permitting me to discharge
all the duties of Secretary for Ireland, and yet receive none of the
emoluments."
"But you refused office in every shape and form," said Lord Castlereagh,
hastily. "Yes, gentlemen, as the last act of my official life amongst
you,"--here he raised his voice, and moved into the centre of the
room,--"I desire to make this public declaration, that as often as
I have solicited Mr. Heffernan to accept some situation of trust
and profit under the Crown, he has as uniformly declined; not, it is
needless to say, from any discrepancy in our political views, for I
believe we are agreed on every point, but upon the ground of maintaining
his own freedom of acting and judging."
The declamatory tone in which he spoke these words, and the glances of
quiet intelligence that were exchanged through the assembly, were in
strong contrast with the forced calmness of Heffernan, who, pale and red
by turns, could barely suppress the rage that worked within him; nor
was it without an immense effort he could mutter a feigned expression of
gratitude for his Lordship's panegyric, while he muttered to himself,--
"You shall rue this yet!"
CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRE.
It was late in the evening as the Knight of Gwynne entered Dublin, and
took up his abode for the night in an obscure inn at the north side
of the city. However occupied his thoughts up to that time by the
approaching event in his own fortune, he could not help feeling a sudden
pang as he saw once more the well-known landmarks that reminded him of
former days of happiness and triumph. Strange as it may now sound, there
was a time when Irish gentlemen were proud of their native city; when
they regarded its University with feelings of affectionate memory,
as the scene of early efforts and ambitions, and could look on its
Parliament House as the proud evidence of their national independence!
Socially, too, they considered Dublin--and with reason--second to no
city of Europe; for there was a period, brief but glorious, when the
highest breeding of the courtier mingled with the most polished wit and
refined conversation, and when the splendor of wealth, freely displayed
as it was, was only inferior to the more brilliant lustre of a society
richer in genius and in beauty than any capital of the world.
None had been a more favored participator in these scenes than Darcy
himself: his personal gifts, added to the claims of his family and
fortune, secured him early acceptance in the highest circles; and if his
abilities had not won the very highest distinctions, it seemed rather
from his own indifference than from their deficiency.
In those days his arrival in town was the signal for a throng of
visitors to call, all eagerly asking on what day they might secure
him to dine or sup, to meet this one or that. The thousand flatteries
society stores up for her favorites, all awaited him. Parties whose
fulfilment hung listlessly in doubt were now hastily determined on, as
"Darcy has come" got whispered abroad; and many a scheme of pleasure but
half planned found a ready advocacy when the prospect of obtaining him
as a guest presented itself.
The consciousness of social success is a great element in the victory.
Darcy had this, but without the slightest taint of vain boastfulness
or egotism; his sense of his own distinction was merely sufficient to
heighten his enjoyment of the world, without detracting ever so little
from the manly and unassuming features of his character. It is true he
endeavored, and even gave himself pains, to be an agreeable companion;
but he belonged to a school and a time when conversation was cultivated
as an art, and when men preferred making the dinner-table and the
drawing-room the arena of their powers, to indicting verses for an
"Annual," or composing tales for a fashionable "Miscellany."
We have said enough, perhaps, to show what Dublin was to him once. How
very different it seemed to his eyes now! The season was late summer,
and the city dusty and deserted,--few persons in the streets, scarcely
a carriage to be seen; an air of listlessness and apathy was over
everything, for it was the period when the country was just
awakening after the intoxicating excitement of the Parliamentary
straggle,--awakening to discover that it had been betrayed and deserted!
As soon as Darcy had taken some slight refreshment, he set out in search
of Daly. His first visit was to Henrietta Street, to his own house,
or rather what had been his, for it was already let, and a flaring
brass-plate on the door proclaimed it the office of a fashionable
solicitor. He knocked, and inquired if any one "knew where Mr. Bagenal
Daly now resided;" but the name seemed perfectly unknown. He next tried
Bicknell's; but that gentleman had not returned since the circuit:
he was repairing the fatigues of his profession by a week or two's
relaxation at a watering-place.
He did not like himself to call at the club, but he despatched a
messenger from the inn, who brought word back that Mr. Daly had not
been there for several weeks, and that his present address was unknown.
Worried and annoyed, Darcy tried in turn each place where Daly had been
wont to frequent, but all in vain. Some had seen him, but not lately;
others suggested that he did not appear much in public on account of his
moneyed difficulties; and one or two limited themselves to a cautious
declaration of ignorance, with a certain assumed shrewdness, as though
to say that they could tell more if they would.
It was near midnight when Darcy returned to the inn, tired and worn
out by his unsuccessful search. The packet in which he was to sail for
England was to leave the port early in the morning, and he sat down in
the travellers' room, exhausted and fatigued, till his chamber should be
got ready for him.
The inn stood in one of the narrow streets leading out of Smithfield,
and was generally resorted to by small farmers and cattle-dealers
repairing to the weekly market. Of these, three or four still lingered
in the public room, conning over their accounts and discussing the
prices of "short-horns and black faces" with much interest, and
anticipating all the possible changes the new political condition of the
country might be likely to induce.
Darcy could scarcely avoid smiling as he overheard some of these
speculations, wherein the prospect of a greater export trade was deemed
the most certain indication of national misfortune. His attention was,
however, suddenly withdrawn from the conversation by a confused murmur
of voices, and the tramp of many feet in the street without The noise
gradually increased, and attracted the notice of the others, and
suddenly the words "Fire! fire!" repeated from mouth to mouth, explained
the tumult.
As the tide of men was borne onward, the din grew louder, and at length
the narrow street in front of the inn became densely crowded by a mob
hurrying eagerly forward, and talking in loud, excited voices.
"They say that Newgate is on fire, sir," said the landlord, as, hastily
entering, he addressed Darcy; "but if you 'll come with me to the top of
the house, we 'll soon see for ourselves."
Darcy followed the man to the upper story, whence, by a small ladder,
they obtained an exit on the roof. The night was calm and starlight,
and the air was still. What a contrast--that spangled heaven in all its
tranquil beauty--to the dark streets below, where, in tumultuous uproar,
the commingled mass was seen by the uncertain glimmer of the lamps, few
and dim as they were. Darcy could mark that the crowd consisted of
the very lowest and most miserable-looking class of the capital, the
dwellers in the dark alleys and purlieus of the ill-favored region. By
their excited gestures and wild accents, it was clear to see how much
more of pleasure than of sorrow they felt at the occasion that now
roused them from their dreary garrets and damp cellars. Shouts of mad
triumph and cries of menace burst from them as they went. The Knight was
roused from a moody contemplation of the throng by the landlord saying
aloud,--
"True enough, the jail is on fire: see, yonder, where the dark smoke is
rolling up, that is Newgate."
"But the building is of stone, almost entirely of stone, with little or
no wood in its construction," said Darcy; "I cannot imagine how it could
take fire."
"The floors, the window-frames, the rafters are of wood, sir," said the
other; "and then," added he, with a cunning leer, "remember what the
inhabitants are!"
The Knight little minded the remark, for his whole gaze was fixed on the
cloud of smoke, dense and black as night, that rolled forth, as if
from the ground, and soon enveloped the jail and all the surrounding
buildings in darkness.
"What can that mean?" said he, in amazement.
"It means that this is no accident, sir," said the man, shrewdly; "it's
only damp straw and soot can produce the effect you see yonder; it
is done by the prisoners--see, it is increasing! and here come the
fire-engines!"
As he spoke, a heavy, cavernous sound was heard rising from the street,
where now a body of horse-police were seen escorting the fire-engines.
The service was not without difficulty, for the mob offered every
obstacle short of open resistance; and once it was discovered that the
traces were cut, and considerable delay thereby occasioned.
"The smoke is spreading; see, sir, how it rolls this way, blacker and
heavier than before!"
"It is but smoke, after all," said Darcy; but although the words were
uttered half contemptuously, his heart beat anxiously as the dense
volume hung suspended in the air, growing each moment blacker as fresh
masses arose. The cries and yells of the excited mob were now wilder and
more frantic, and seemed to issue from the black, ill-omened mass that
filled the atmosphere.
"That's not smoke, sir; look yonder!" said the man, seizing Darcy's arm,
and pointing to a reddish glare that seemed trying to force a passage
through the smoke, and came not from the jail, but from some building at
the side or in front of it.
"There again!" cried he, "that is fire!"
The words were scarcely uttered, when a cheer burst from the mob
beneath. A yell more dissonant and appalling could not have broken from
demons than was that shout of exultation, as the red flame leaped up and
flashed towards the sky. As the strong host of a battle will rout and
scatter the weaker enemy, so did the fierce element dispel the less
powerful; and now the lurid glow of a great fire lit up the air, and
marked out with terrible distinctness the waving crowd that jammed up
the streets,--the windows filled with terrified faces, and the very
house-tops crowded by terror-stricken and distracted groups.
The scene was truly an awful one; the fire raged in some houses exactly
in front of the jail, pouring with unceasing violence its flood of flame
through every door and window, and now sending bright jets through
the roofs, which, rent with a report like thunder, soon became one
undistinguish-able mass of flame. The cries for succor, the shouts
of the firemen, the screams of those not yet rescued, and the still
increasing excitement of the mob, mingling their hellish yells of
triumph through all the dread disaster, made up a discord the most
horrible; while, ever and anon, the police and the crowd were in
collision, vain efforts being made to keep the mob back from the front
of the jail, whither they had fled as a refuge from the heat of the
burning houses.
The fire seemed to spread, defying all the efforts of the engines. From
house to house the lazy smoke was seen to issue for a moment, and then,
almost immediately after, a new cry would announce that another building
was in flames. Meanwhile the smoke, which in the commencement had spread
from the courtyard and windows of the jail, was again perceived to
thicken in the same quarter, and suddenly, as if from a preconcerted
signal, it rolled out from every barred casement and loopholed
aperture,--from every narrow and deep cell within the lofty walls; and
the agonized yell of the prisoners burst forth at the same moment, and
the air seemed to vibrate with shrieks and cries.
"Break open the jail!" resounded on every side. "Don't let the prisoners
be burned alive!" was uttered in accents whose humanity was far inferior
to their menace; and, as if with one accord, a rush was made at the
strongly barred gates of the dark building. The movement, although made
with the full force of a mighty multitude, was in vain. In vain the
stones resounded upon the thickly studded door, in vain the strength of
hundreds pressed down upon the oaken barrier. They might as well have
tried to force the strong masonry at either side of it!
"Climb the walls!" was now the cry; and the prisoners re-echoed the
call in tones of shrieking entreaty. The mob, savage from their recent
repulse at the gate, now seized the ladders employed by the firemen, and
planted them against the great enclosure-wall of the jail. The police
endeavored to charge, but, jammed up by the crowd, their bridles in many
instances cut, their weapons wrested from them, they were almost at the
mercy of the mob. Orders had been despatched for troops; but as yet they
had not appeared, and the narrow streets, being actually choked up
with people, would necessarily delay their progress. If there were any
persons in that vast mass disposed to repel the violence of the mob,
they did not dare to avow it, the odds were so fearfully on the side of
the multitude.
The sentry who guarded the gate was trampled down. Some averred he was
killed in the first rush upon the gate; certain it was his cap and coat
were paraded on a pole, as a warning of what awaited his comrades within
the jail, should they dare to fire on the people. This horrible banner
was waved to and fro above the stormy multitude. Darcy had but time to
mark it, when he saw the crowd open, as if cleft asunder by some giant
band, and at the same instant a man rode through the open space, and,
tearing down the pole, felled him who carried it to the earth by a
stroke of his whip. The red glare of the burning houses made the scene
distinct as daylight; but the next moment a rolling cloud of black smoke
hid all from view, and left him to doubt the evidence of his eyesight.
"Did you see the horseman?" asked Darcy, in eager curiosity, for he did
not dare to trust his uncorroborated sense.
"There he is!" cried the other. "I know him by a white band on his arm.
See, he mounts one of the ladders!--there!--he is near the top!"
A cheer that seemed to shake the very atmosphere now rent the air, as,
pressing on like soldiers to a breach, the mob approached the walls.
Some shots were fired by the guard, and their effect might be noted
by the more savage yells of the mob, whose exasperation was now like
madness.
"The shots have told,--see!" cried the man. "Now the people are
gathering in close groups, here and there."
But Darcy's eyes were fixed on the walls, which were already crowded
with the mob, the dark figures looking like spectres as they passed and
repassed through the dense canopy of smoke.
"The soldiers! the soldiers!" screamed the populace from below; and at
the instant a heavy lumbering sound crept on, and the head of a cavalry
squadron wheeled into the square before the jail. The remainder of the
troop soon defiled; but instead of advancing, as was expected, they
opened their ranks, and displayed the formidable appearance of two
eight-pounders, from which the limbers were removed with lightning
speed, and their mouths turned full upon the crowd. Meanwhile an
infantry force was seen entering the opposite side of the square, thus
showing the mob that they were taken in front and rear, no escape being
open save by the small alleys which led off from the street before the
prison. The military preparations took scarcely more time to effect than
we have employed to relate; and now began a scene of tumult and terror
the most dreadful to witness. The order to prime and load, followed
by the clanking crash of four hundred muskets; the close ranks of the
cavalry, as if with difficulty restrained from charging down upon them;
and the lighted fuses of the artillery,--all combined to augment the
momentary dread, and the shouts of vengeance so lately heard were at
once changed into piercing cries for mercy. The blazing houses,
from which the red fire shot up unrestrained, no longer attracted
notice,--the jail itself had no interest for those whose danger was
become so imminent.
An indiscriminate rush was made towards the narrow lanes for escape,
and from these arose the most piercing and agonizing cries,--for while
pressed down and trampled, many were trodden under foot never again
to rise; others were wounded or burned by the falling timbers of the
blazing buildings; and the fearful cry of "The soldiers! the soldiers!"
still goaded them on by those behind.
"Look yonder," cried Darcy's companion, seizing him by the arm,--"look
there,--near the corner of the market! See, the troops have not
perceived that ladder, and there are two fellows now descending it."
True enough. At a remote angle of the jail, not concealed from view by
the smoke, stood the ladder in question.
"How slowly they move!" cried Darcy, his eyes fixed upon the figures
with that strange anxiety so inseparable from the fate of all who are
engaged in hazardous enterprise. "They will certainly be taken."
"They must be wounded," cried the other; "they seem to creep rather than
step--I know the reason, they are in fetters."
Scarcely was the explanation uttered when the ladder was seen to be
violently moved as if from above, and the next moment was hurled back
from the wall, on which several soldiers were now perceived firing on
those below.
"They are lost!" said the Knight; "they are either captured or cut down
by this time."
"The square is cleared already," said the other; "how quietly the troops
have done their work! And the fire begins to yield to the engines."
The square was indeed cleared; save the groups beside the fire-engines,
and here and there a knot gathered around some wounded man, the space
was empty, the troops having drawn off to the sides, around which they
stood in double file. A dark cloud rested over the jail itself, but no
longer did any smoke issue from the windows; and already the fire, its
rage in part expended, in part subdued, showed signs of decline.
"If the wind was from the west," said the landlord, "there 's no saying
where that might have stopped this night!"
"It is a strange occurrence altogether," said the Knight, musingly.
"Not a bit strange, sir," replied the other, whose neighborhood made him
acquainted with classes and varieties of men of whom Darcy knew nothing;
"it was an attempt by the prisoners."
"Do you think so?" asked Darcy.
"Ay, to be sure, sir; there's scarcely a year goes over without one
contrivance or another for escape. Last autumn two fellows got away by
following the course of the sewers and gaining the Liffey; they must
have passed two days underground, and up to their necks in water a great
part of the time."
"Ay, and besides that," observed another,-for already some ten or
twelve persons were assembled on the roof as well as Darcy and the
landlord,--"they had to wade the river at the ebb-tide, when the mud is
at least eight or ten feet deep."
"How that was done, I cannot guess," said Darcy.
"A man will do many a thing for liberty, sir," remarked another, who
was buttoned up in a frieze coat, although the night was hot and sultry;
"these poor devils there were willing to risk being roasted alive for
the chance of it."
"Quite true," said Darcy; "fellows that have a taste for breaking the
law need not be supposed desirous of observing it as to their mode of
death; and yet they must have been daring rascals to have made such an
attempt as this."
"Maybe you know the old song, sir," said the other, laughing,--
"There s many a man no bolts can keep,
No chains be made to bind them,
And tho' the fetters be heavy, and cells be deep,
He 'll fling them far behind them."
"I have heard the ditty," answered the Knight; "and if my memory serves
me, the last lines run thus,--
"Though iron bolts may rust and rot,
And stone and mortar crumble,
Freney, beware! for well I wot
Your pride may have a tumble."
"Devil a lie in that, anyhow, sir," said the other, laughing heartily;
"and an uglier tumble a man needn't have than to slip through Tom
Galvin's fingers. But I see the fire is out now; so I 'll be jogging
homeward. Good-night, sir."
"Good-night," said Darcy; and then, as the other moved away, turning to
the landlord, he asked if he knew the stranger.
"No, sir," was the reply; "he came up with some others to have a look at
the fire."
"Well, I 'll to my bed," said Darcy; "let me be awakened at four
o'clock. I see I shall have but a short sleep; the day is breaking
already."
CHAPTER IX. BOARDING-HOUSE CRITICISM.
It was not until after the lapse of several days that Darcy's departure
was made known to the denizens of Port Ballintray.
If the event was slow of announcement, they endeavored to compensate for
the tardiness of the tidings by the freedom of their commentary on all
its possible and impossible reasons. There was not a casualty, in the
whole catalogue of human vicissitudes, unquoted; deaths, births, and
marriages were ransacked in newspapers; all sudden and unexpected
turns of fortune were well weighed, accidents and offences scanned
with cunning eyes, and the various paragraphs to which editorial
mysteriousness gave an equivocal interpretation were commented on with a
perseverance and an ingenuity worthy of a higher theme.
It may be remarked that no class of persons are viewed more
suspiciously, or excite more sharp criticism from their neighbors,
than those who, with evidently narrow means, prefer retirement and
estrangement from the world to mixing in the small circle of some petty
locality. A hundred schemes are put in motion to ascertain by what right
such superiority is asserted,--why, and on what grounds, they affect
to be better than their neighbors, and so on; the only offence all the
while consisting of an isolation which cannot with truth imply any such
imputation.
When the Knight of Gwynne found himself by an unexpected turn of fortune
condemned to a station so different from his previous life, he addressed
himself at once to the difficulties of his lot; and, well aware that all
reserve on his part would be set down as the cloak of some deep mystery,
he affected an air of easy cordiality with such of the boarding-house
party as he ever met, and endeavored, by a tone of well-assumed
familiarity, to avoid all detection of the difference between him and
his new associates.
It was in this spirit that he admitted Mr. Dempsey to his acquaintance,
and even asked him to his cottage. In this diplomacy he met with little
assistance from Lady Eleanor and his daughter; the former, from a
natural coldness of manner and an instinctive horror of everything low
and underbred. Helen's perceptions of such things were just as acute,
but, inheriting the gay and lively temperament of her father's house,
she better liked to laugh at the absurdities of vulgar people than
indulge a mere sense of dislike to their society. Such allies were too
dangerous to depend on, and hence the Knight conducted his plans unaided
and unsupported.
Whether Mr. Dempsey was bought off by the flattering exception made in
his favor, and that he felt an implied superiority on being deemed
their advocate, he certainly assumed that position in the circle of Mrs.
Fumbally's household, and on the present occasion sustained his part
with a certain mysterious demeanor that imposed on many.
"Well, he's gone, at all events!" said a thin old lady with a green
shade over a pair of greener eyes; "that can't be denied, I hope! Went
off like a shot on Tuesday morning. Sandy M'Shane brought him into
Coleraine, for the Dublin coach; and, by the same token, it was an
outside place he took--"
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," interposed a fat little woman, with a
choleric red face and a tremulous underlip,--she was an authoress in the
provincial papers, and occasionally invented her English as well as her
incidents,--"it was the Derry mail he went by. Archy M'Clure trod on his
toe, and asked pardon for it, just to get him into conversation; but he
seemed very much dejected, and wouldn't interlocute."
"Very strange indeed!" rejoined the lady of the shade, "because I had my
information from Williams, the guard of the coach."
"And I mine from Archy M'Clure himself."
"And both were wrong," interposed Paul Dempsey, triumphantly.
"It's not very polite to tell us so, Mr. Dempsey," said the thin old
lady, bridling.
"Perhaps the politeness may equal the voracity," said the fat lady, who
was almost boiling over with wrath.
"This Gwynne wasn't all right, depend upon it," interposed a certain
little man in powder; "I have my own suspicions about him."
"Well, now, Mr. Dunlop, what's your opinion? I'd like to hear it."
"What does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?" rejoined the little gentleman,
turning to the authoress,--for in the boarding-house they both
presided judicially in all domestic inquisitions regarding conduct and
character,--"what does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?"
"I prefer letting Mr. Dunlop expose himself before me."
"The case is doubtful--dark--mysterious," said Dunlop, with a solemn
pause after each word.
"The more beyond my conjunctions," said the lady. "You remember what the
young gentleman says in the Latin poet, 'Sum Davy, non sum Euripides.'"
"I 'll tell you my opinion, then," said Mr. Dunlop, who was evidently
mollified by the classical allusion; and with firm and solemn gesture he
crossed over to where she sat, and whispered a few words in her ear.
A slight scream, and a long-drawn "Oh!" was all the answer.
"Upon my soul, I believe so," said Mr. Dunlop, thrusting both hands into
the furthest depths of his coat-pockets; "nay, more, I'll maintain it!"
"I know what you are driving at," said Dempsey, laughing; "you think
he's the gauger that went off with Mrs. Murdoch of Ballyquirk--"
"Mr. Dempsey! Mr. Dempsey! the ladies, sir! the ladies!" called out two
or three reproving voices from the male portion of the assembly; while,
as if to corroborate the justice of the appeal, the thin lady drew her
shade down two inches lower, and Mr. Dunlop's face became what painters
call "of a warm tint."
"Oh! never talk of a rope where a man's father was hanged," muttered
Paul to himself, for he felt all the severity of his condemnation,
though he knew that the point of law was against him.
"There 's a rule in this establishment, Mr. Dempsey," said Mr. Dunlop,
with all the gravity of a judge delivering a charge,--"a rule devised
to protect the purity, the innocence,"--here the ladies held down their
heads,--"the beauty--"
"Yes, sir, and I will add, the helplessness of that sex--"
"Paul 's right, by Jove!" hiccuped Jack Leonard, whose faculties, far
immersed in the effects of strong whiskey-and-water, suddenly flashed
out into momentary intelligence,--"I say he's right! Who says the
reverse?"
"Oh, Captain Leonard! oh dear, Mr. Dunlop!" screamed three or four
female voices in concert, "don't let it proceed further."
A faint and an anxious group were gathered around the little gentleman,
whose warlike indications grew stronger as pacific entreaties increased.
"He shall explain his words," said he, with a cautious glance to see
that his observation was not overheard; then, seeing that his adversary
had relapsed into oblivion, he added, "he shall withdraw them;" and
finally, emboldened by success, he vociferated, "or' he shall eat them.
I 'll teach him," said the now triumphant victor, "that it is not in
Mark Dunlop's presence ladies are to be insulted with impunity. Let the
attempt be made by whom it will,--he may be a lieutenant on half pay or
on full pay!--I tell him, I don't care a rush."
"Of course not!" "Why would you?" and so on, were uttered in ready
chorus around him; and he resumed,--
"And as for this Gwynne, or Quin, who lives up at 'The Corvy' yonder,
for all the airs he gives himself, and his fine ladies too, my simple
belief is he 's a Government spy!"
"Is that your opinion, sir?" said a deep and almost solemn voice; and at
the same instant Miss Daly appeared at the open window. She leaned her
arm on the sill, and calmly stared at the now terrified speaker, while
she repeated the words, "Is that your opinion, sir?"
Before the surprise her words had excited subsided, she stood at the
door of the apartment. She was dressed in her riding-habit, for she had
that moment returned from an excursion along the coast.
"Mr. Dunlop," said the lady, advancing towards him, "I never play the
eavesdropper; but you spoke so loud, doubtless purposely, that nothing
short of deafness could escape hearing you. You were pleased to express
a belief respecting the position of a gentleman with whom I have the
honor to claim some friendship."
"I always hold myself ready, madam, to render an account to any
individual of whom I express an opinion,--to himself, personally, I
mean."
"Of course you do, sir. It is a very laudable habit," said she, dryly;
"but in this case--don't interrupt me--in the present case it cannot
apply, because the person traduced is absent. Yes, sir, I said
traduced."
"Oh, madam, I must say the word would better suit one more able to
sustain it. I shall take the liberty to withdraw." And so saying, he
moved towards the door; but Miss Daly interposed, and, by a gesture
of her hand, in which she held a formidable horsewhip, gave a very
unmistakable sign that the passage was not free.
"You 'll not go yet, sir. I have not done with you," said she, in a
voice every accent of which vibrated in the little man's heart.
"You affect to regret, sir, that I am not of the sex that exacts
satisfaction, as it is called; but I tell you, I come of a family that
never gave long scores to a debt of honor. You have presumed--in a
company, certainly, where the hazard of contradiction was small--to
asperse a gentleman of whom you know nothing,--not one single fact,--not
one iota of his life, character, or fortune. You have dared to call him
by words every letter of which would have left a welt on your shoulders
if uttered in his hearing. Now, as I am certain he would pay any little
debts I might have perchance forgotten in leaving a place where I had
resided, so will I do likewise by him; and here, on this spot, and in
this fair company, I call upon you to unsay your falsehood, or--" Here
she made one step forward, with an air and gesture that made Mr. Dunlop
retire with a most comic alacrity. "Don't be afraid, sir," continued
she, laughing. "My brother, Mr. Bagenal Daly, will arrive here soon. He
's no new name to your ears. In any case, I promise you that whatever
you find objectionable in my proceedings towards you he will be most
happy to sustain. Now, sir, the hand wants four minutes to six. If the
hour strike before you call yourself a wanton, gratuitous calumniator, I
'll flog you round the room."
A cry of horror burst from the female portion of the assembly at a
threat the utterance of which was really not less terrific than the
meaning.
"Such a spectacle," continued Miss Daly, sarcastically, "I should
scruple to inflict on this fair company; but the taste that could find
pleasure in witless, pointless slander may not, it is possible, dislike
to see a little castigation. Now, sir, you have just one minute and a
quarter."
"I protest against this conduct, madam. I here declare--"
[Illustration: 146]
"Declare nothing, sir, till you have avowed yourself by your real name
and character. If you cannot restrain your tongue, I 'll very soon
convince you that its consequences are far from agreeable. Is what you
have spoken false?"
"There may come a heavy reckoning for all this, madam," said Dunlop,
trembling between fear and passion.
"I ask you again, and for the last time, are your words untrue? Very
well, sir. You held a commission in Germany, they say; and probably,
as a military man, you may think it undignified to surrender, except on
compulsion."
With these words Miss Daly advanced towards him with a firm and
determined air, while a cry of horror arose through the room, and the
fairer portion intrepidly threw themselves in front of their champion,
while Dempsey and the others only restrained their laughter for fear of
personal consequences. Pushing fiercely on, Miss Daly was almost at his
side, when the door of the room was opened, and a deep and well-known
voice called out to her,--
"Maria, what the devil is all this?"
"Oh, Bagenal," cried she, as she held out her hand, "I scarcely expected
you before eight o'clock."
"But in the name of everything ridiculous, what has happened? Were you
about to horsewhip this pleasant company?"
"Only one of its members," said Miss Daly, coolly,--"a little gentleman
who has thought proper to be more lavish of his calumny than his
courage. I hand him over to you now; and, faith, though I don't think
that he had any fancy for me, he 'll gain by the exchange! You 'll find
him yonder," said she, pointing to a corner where already the majority
of the party were gathered together.
Miss Daly was mistaken, however, for Mr. Dunlop had made his escape
during the brief interchange of greetings between the brother and
sister. "Come, Bagenal," said she, smiling, "it's all for the best. I
have given him a lesson he 'll not readily forget,--had you been the
teacher, he might not have lived to remember it."
"What a place for you!" said Bagenal, as he threw his eye
superciliously around the apartment and its occupants; then taking her
arm within his own, he led her forth, and closed the door after them.
Once more alone, Daly learned with surprise, not unmixed with sorrow,
that his sister had never seen the Darcys, and save by a single call,
when she left her name, had made no advances towards their acquaintance.
She showed a degree of repugnance, too, to allude to the subject, and
rather endeavored to dismiss it by saying shortly,--"Lady Eleanor is a
fine lady, and her daughter a wit What could there be in common between
us?"
"But for Darcy's sake?"
"For his sake I stayed away," rejoined she, hastily; "they would
have thought me a bore, and perhaps have told him as much. In a word,
Bagenal, I did n't like it, and that's enough. Neither of us were
trained to put much constraint on our inclinations. I doubt if the
lesson would be easily learned at our present time of life."
Daly muttered some half-intelligible bitterness about female obstinacy
and wrong-headedness, and walked slowly to and fro. "I must see Maurice
at once," said he, at length.
"That will be no easy task; he left this for Dublin on Tuesday last."
"And has not returned? When does he come back?"
"His old butler, who brought me the news, says not for some weeks."
"Confusion and misery!" exclaimed Daly, "was there ever anything so
ill-timed! And he's in Dublin?"
"He went thither, but there would seem some mystery about his ultimate
destination; the old man binted at London."
"London!" said he, with a heavy sigh. "It's now the 18th, and on
Saturday she sails."
"Who sails?" asked Miss Daly, with more of eagerness than she yet
exhibited.
"Oh, I forgot, Molly, I had n't told you, I 'm about to take a
voyage,--not a very long one, but still distant enough to make me wish
to say good-bye ere we separate. If God wills it, I shall be back early
in the spring."
"What new freak is this, Bagenal?" said she, almost sternly; "I thought
that time and the world's crosses might have taught you to care for
quietness, if not for home."
"Home!" repeated he, in an accent the sorrow of which sank into her very
heart; "when had I ever a home? I had a house and lands, and equipages,
horses, and liveried servants,--all that wealth could command, or, my
own reckless vanity could prompt,--but these did not make a home!"
"You often promised we should have such one day, Bagenal," said she,
tenderly, while she stole her hand within his; "you often told me that
the time would come when we should enjoy poverty with a better grace
than ever we dispensed riches."
"We surely are poor enough to make the trial now," said he, with a
bitterness of almost savage energy.
"And if we are, Bagenal," replied she, "there is the more need to draw
more closely to each other; let us begin at once."
"Not yet, Molly, not yet," said he, passing his hand across his eyes. "I
would grasp such a refuge as eagerly as yourself, for," added he, with
deep emotion, "I am to the full as weary; but I cannot do it yet."
Miss Daly knew her brother's temper too long and too well either to
offer a continued opposition to any strongly expressed resolve, or to
question him about a subject on which he showed any desire of reserve.
"Have you no Dublin news for me?" she said, as if willing to suggest
some less touching subject for conversation.
"No, Molly; Dublin is deserted. The few who still linger in town seem
only half awake to the new condition of events. The Government party are
away to England; they feel, doubtless, bound in honor to dispense
their gold in the land it came from; and the Patriots--Heaven bless the
mark!--they look as rueful as if they began to suspect that Patriotism
was too dear a luxury after all."
"And this burning of Newgate,-what did it mean? Was there, as the
newspaper makes out, anything like a political plot connected with it?"
"Nothing of the kind, Molly. The whole affair was contrived among the
prisoners. Freney, the well-known highwayman, was in the jail, and,
although not tried, his conviction was certain."
"And they say he has escaped. Can it be possible that some persons of
influence, as the journals hint, actually interested themselves for the
escape of a man like this?"
"Everything is possible in a state of society like ours, Molly."
"But a highwayman--a robber--a fellow that made the roads unsafe to
travel!"
"All true," said Daly, laughing. "Nobody ever kept a hawk for a
singing-bird; but he 's a bold villain to pounce upon another."
"I like not such appliances; they scarcely serve a good name, and they
make a bad one worse."
"I'm quite of your mind, Molly," said Daly, thoughtfully; "and if honest
men were plenty, he would be but a fool who held any dealings with the
knaves. But here comes the car to convey me to 'The Corvy.' I will make
a hasty visit to Lady Eleanor, and be back with you by supper-time."
CHAPTER X. DALY'S FAREWELL.
Neither of the ladies were at home when Bagenal Daly, followed by his
servant Sandy, reached "The Corvy," and sat down in the porch to await
their return. Busied with his own reflections, which, to judge from the
deep abstraction of his manner, seemed weighty and important, Daly
never looked up from the ground, while Sandy leisurely walked round the
building to note the changes made in his absence, and comment, in no
flattering sense, on the art by which the builder had concealed so many
traits of "The Corvy's" origin.
"Ye 'd no ken she was a ship ava!" said he to himself, as he examined
the walls over which the trellised creepers were trained, and the
latticed windows festooned by the honeysuckle and the clematis, and
gazed in sadness over the altered building. "She's no a bit like the
auld Corvy!"
"Of course she 's not!" said Daly, testily, for the remark had suddenly
aroused him from his musings. "What the devil would you have? Are you
like the raw and ragged fellow I took from this bleak coast, and led
over more than half the world?"
"Troth, I am no the same man noo that I was sax-and-forty years agane,
and sorry I am to say it."
"Sorry,--sorry! not to be half-starved and less than half-clad; hauling
a net one day, and being dragged for yourself the next--sorry!"
"Even sae, sore sorry. Eight-and-sixty may be aye sorry not to be
twa-and-twenty. I ken nae rise in life can pay off that score. It 's na
ower pleasant to think on, but I'm no the man I was then. No, nor, for
that matter, yerself neither."
Daly was too long accustomed to the familiarity of Sandy's manner to
feel offended at the remark, though he did not seem by any means to
relish its application. Without making any reply, he arose and entered
the hall. On every side were objects reminding him of the past, strange
and sad commentary on the words of his servant. Sandy appeared to feel
the force of such allies, and, as he stood near, watched the effect the
various articles produced on his master's countenance.
"A bonnie rifle she is," said he, as if interpreting the admiring look
Daly bestowed upon a richly ornamented gun. "Do you mind the day yer
honor shot the corbie at the Tegern See?"
"Where the Tyrol fellows set on us, on the road to Innspruck, and I
brought down the bird to show them that they had to deal with a marksman
as good at least as themselves."
"Just sae; it was a bra' shot; your hand was as firm, and your eye as
steady then as any man's."
"I could do the feat this minute," said Daly, angrily, as turning away
he detached a heavy broadsword from the wall.
"She was aye over weighty in the hilt," said Sandy, with a dry malice.
"You used to draw that bowstring to your ear," said Daly, sternly, as he
pointed to a Swiss bow of portentous size.
"I had twa hands in those days," said the other, calmly, and without the
slightest change of either voice or manner.
Not so with him to whom they were addressed. A flood of feelings seemed
to pour across his memory, and, laying his hand on Sandy's shoulder,
he said, in an accent of very unusual emotion, "You are right, Sandy, I
must be changed from what I used to be."
"Let us awa to the auld life we led in those days," said the other,
impetuously, "and we 'll soon be ourselves again! Does n't that remind
yer honor of the dark night on the Ottawa, when you sent the canoe, with
the pine-torch burning in her bow, down the stream, and drew all the
fire of the Indian fellows on her?"
"It was a grand sight," cried Daly, rapturously, "to see the dark river
glittering with its torchlight, and the chiefs, as they stood rifle in
hand, peering into the dense pine copse, and making the echoes ring with
their war-cries."
"It was unco near at one time," said Sandy, as he took up the fold of
the blanket with which his effigy in the canoe was costumed. "There 's
the twa bullet-holes, and here the arrow-bead in the plank, where I had
my bead! If ye had missed the Delaware chap wi' the yellow cloth on his
forehead--"
"I soon changed its color for him," said Daly, savagely.
"Troth did ye; ye gied him a bonny war-paint. How he sprang into the
air! I think I see him noo; many a night when I 'm lying awake, I think
I can hear the dreadful screech he gave, as he plunged into the river."
"It was not a cry of pain, it was baffled vengeance," said Daly.
"He never forgave the day ye gripped him by the twa hands in yer ain
one, and made the squaws laugh at him. Eh, how that auld deevil they
cau'd Black Buffalo yelled! Her greasy cheeks shook and swelled over her
dark eyes, till the face looked like nothing but a tar lake in Demerara
when there 's a hurricane blowin' over it."
"You had rather a tenderness in that quarter, if I remember aright,"
said Daly, dryly.
"I 'll no deny she was a bra sauncie woman, and kenned weel to make a
haggis wi' an ape's head and shoulders." Sandy smacked his lips, as if
the thought had brought up pleasant memories.
"How I escaped that bullet is more than I can guess," said Daly, as he
inspected the blanket where it was pierced by a shot; and as he spoke,
he threw its wide folds over his shoulders, the better to judge of the
position.
"Ye aye wore it more on this side," said Sandy, arranging the folds with
tasteful pride; "an', troth, it becomes you well. Tak the bit tomahawk
in your hand, noo. Ech! but yer like yoursel once more."
"We may have to don this gear again, and sooner than you think," said
Daly, thoughtfully.
"Nae a bit sooner than I 'd like," said Sandy. "The salvages, as they
ca' them, hae neither baillies nor policemen, they hae nae cranks about
lawyers and 'tornies; a grip o' a man's hair and a sharp knife is even
as mickle a reason as a hempen cord and a gallows tree! Ech, it warms my
bluid again to see you stridin' up and doon,--if you had but a smudge o'
yellow ochre, or a bit o' red round your eyes, ye 'd look awful well."
"What are you staring at?" said Daly, as Sandy opened a door stealthily,
and gazed down the passage towards the kitchen.
"I 'm thinking that as there is naebody in the house but the twa lasses,
maybe your honor would try a war-cry,--ye ken ye could do it bra'ly
once."
"I may need the craft soon again," said Daly, thoughtfully.
"Mercy upon us! here 's the leddies!" cried Sandy. But before Daly could
disencumber himself of his weapons and costume, Helen entered the hall.
[Illustration: 154]
If Lady Eleanor started at the strange apparition before her, and
involuntarily turned her eye towards the canoe, to see that its occupant
was still there, it is not much to be wondered at, so strongly did the
real and the counterfeit man resemble each other. The first surprise
over, he was welcomed with sincere pleasure. All the eccentricities
of character which in former days were commented on so sharply were
forgotten, or their memory replaced by the proofs of his ardent
devotion.
"How well you are looking!" was his first exclamation, as he gazed at
Lady Eleanor and Helen alternately, with that steady stare which is one
of the prerogatives of age towards beauty.
"There is no such tonic as necessity," said Lady Eleanor, smiling, "and
it would seem as if health were too jealous to visit us when we have
every other blessing."
"It is worth them all, madam. I am an old man, and have seen much of the
world, and I can safely aver that what are called its trials lie chiefly
in our weaknesses. We can all of us carry a heavier load than fortune
lays on us--" He suddenly checked himself, as if having unwittingly
lapsed into something like rebuke, and then said, "I find you alone; is
it not so?"
"Yes; Darcy has left us, suddenly and almost mysteriously, without you
can help us to a clearer insight. A letter from the War Office arrived
here on Tuesday, acknowledging, in most complimentary terms, the
fairness of his claim for military employment, and requesting his
presence in London. This was evidently in reply to an application,
although the Knight made none such."
"But he has friends, mamma,--warm-hearted and affectionate ones,-who
might have done so," said Helen, as she fixed her gaze steadily on Daly.
"And you, madam, have relatives of high and commanding influence," said
he, avoiding to return Helen's glance,--"men of rank and station, who
might well feel proud of such a protg as Maurice Darcy. And what
have they given him?"
"We can tell you nothing; the official letter may explain more to your
clear-sightedness, and I will fetch it." So saying, Lady Eleanor arose
and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when Daly stood up,
and, walking over, leaned his arm on the back of Helen's chair.
"You received my letter, did you not?" said he, hurriedly. "You know the
result of the trial?"
Helen nodded assent, while a secret emotion covered her face with
crimson, as Daly resumed,--
"There was ill-luck everywhere: the case badly stated; Lionel absent;
I myself detained in Dublin, by an unavoidable necessity,--everything
unfortunate even to the last incident. Had I been there, matters would
have taken another course. Still, Helen, Forester was right; and, depend
upon it, there is no scanty store of generous warmth in a heart that can
throb so strongly beneath the aiguiletted coat of an aide-de-camp. The
holiday habits of that tinsel life teach few lessons of self-devotion,
and the poor fellow has paid the penalty heavily."
"What has happened?" said Helen, in a voice scarcely audible.
"He is disinherited, I hear. All his prospects depended on his mother;
she has cast him off, and, as the story goes, is about to marry.
Marriage is always the last vengeance of a widow."
"Here is the letter," said Lady Eleanor, entering; "let us hope you can
read its intentions better than we have."
"Flattering, certainly," muttered Daly, as he conned over the lines to
himself. "It's quite plain they mean to do something generous. I trust I
may learn it before I sail."
"Sail! you are not about to travel, are you?" asked Lady Eleanor, in a
voice that betrayed her dread of being deprived of such support.
"Oh! I forgot I had n't told you. Yes, madam, another of those strange
riddles which have beset my life compels me to take a long voyage--to
America."
"To America!" echoed Helen; and her eye glanced as she spoke to the
Indian war-cloak and the weapons that lay beside his chair.
"Not so, Helen," said Daly, smiling, as if replying to the insinuated
remark; "I am too old for such follies now. Not in heart, indeed, but in
limb," added he, sternly; "for I own I could ask nothing better than the
prairie or the pine-forest. I know of no cruelty in savage life that has
not its counterpart amid our civilization; and for the rude virtues that
are nurtured there, they are never warmed into existence by the hotbed
of selfishness."
"But why leave your friends,--your sister?"
"My sister!" He paused, and a tinge of red came to his cheek as he
remembered how she had failed in all attention to the Darcys. "My
sister, madam, is self-willed and headstrong as myself. She acknowledges
none of the restraints or influence by which the social world consents
to be bound and regulated; her path has ever been wild and erratic as
my own. We sometimes cross, we never contradict, each other." He paused,
and then muttered to himself, "Poor Molly! how different I knew you
once! And so," added he, aloud, "I must leave without seeing Darcy! and
there stands Sandy, admonishing me that my time is already up. Good-bye,
Lady Eleanor; good-bye, Helen." He turned his head away for a second,
and then, in a voice of unusual feeling, said: "Farewell is always a sad
word, and doubly sad when spoken by one old as I am; but if my heart
is heavy at this moment, it is the selfish sorrow of him who parts from
those so near. As for you, madam, and your fortunes, I am full of good
hope. When people talk of suffering virtue, believe me, the element of
courage must be wanting; but where the stout heart unites with the good
cause, success will come at last."
He pressed his lips to the hands he held within his own, and hurried,
before they could reply, from the room.
"Our last friend gone!" exclaimed Lady Eleanor, as she sank into a
chair.
Helen's heart was too full for utterance, and she sat down silently,
and watched the retiring figure of Daly and his servant till they
disappeared in the distance.
CHAPTER XI. THE DUKE OF YORK'S LEVEE.
When Darcy arrived in London, he found a degree of political excitement
for which he was little prepared. In Ireland the Union had absorbed
all interest and anxiety, and with the fate of that measure were
extinguished the hopes of those who had speculated on national
independence. Not so in England; the real importance of the annexation
was never thoroughly considered till the fact was accomplished, nor,
until then, were the great advantages and the possible evils well and
maturely weighed. Then, for the first time, came the anxious question,
What next? Was the Union to be the compensation for large concessions to
the Irish people, or was it rather the seal of their incorporation
with a more powerful nation, who by this great stroke of policy would
annihilate forever all dream of self-existence? Mr. Pitt inclined to the
former opinion, and believed the moment propitious to award the Roman
Catholic claims, and to a general remission of those laws which pressed
so heavily upon them. To this opinion the King was firmly and, as it
proved, insurmountably opposed; he regarded the Act of Union as
the final settlement of all possible disagreements between the two
countries, as the means of uniting the two Churches, and, finally,
of excluding at once and forever the admission of Roman Catholics to
Parliament. This wide difference led to the retirement of Mr. Pitt, and
subsequently to the return of the dangerous indisposition of the King,
an attack brought on by the anxiety and agitation this question induced.
The hopes of the Whig party stood high; the Prince's friends, as they
were styled, again rallied around Carlton House, where, already, the
possibility of a long Regency was discussed. Besides these causes of
excitement were others of not less powerful interest,--the growing power
of Bonaparte, the war in Egypt, and the possibility of open hostilities
with Russia, who had now thrown herself so avowedly into the alliance of
France.
Such were the stirring themes Darcy found agitating the public mind, and
he could not help contrasting the mighty interests they involved with
the narrow circle of consequences a purely local legislature could
discuss or decide upon. He felt at once that he trod the soil of a more
powerful and more ambitious people, and he remembered with a sigh his
own anticipations, that in the English Parliament the Irish members
would be but the camp-followers of the Crown or the Opposition.
If he was English in his pride of government and his sense of national
power and greatness, he was Irish in his tastes, his habits, and his
affections. If he gloried in the name of Briton as the type of national
honor and truth throughout the globe, he was still more ardently
attached to that land where, under the reflected grandeur of the
monarchy, grew up the social affections of a poorer people. There is
a sense of freedom and independence in the habits of semi-civilization
very fascinating to certain minds, and all the advantages of more
polished communities are deemed shallow compensation for the ready
compliance and cordial impulses of the less cultivated.
With all his own high acquirements the Knight was of this mind; and if
he did not love England less, he loved Ireland more.
Meditating on the great changes of fortune Ireland had undergone even
within his own memory, he moved along through the crowded thoroughfares
of the mighty city, when he heard his name called out, and at the same
instant a carriage drew up close by him.
"How do you do, Knight?" said a friendly voice, as a hand was stretched
forth to greet him. It was Lord Castle-reagh, who had only a few weeks
previous exchanged his office of Irish Secretary for a post at the Board
of Trade. The meeting was a cordial one on both sides, and ended in
an invitation to dine on the following day, which Darcy accepted with
willingness, as a gage of mutual good feeling and esteem.
"I was talking about you to Lord Netherby only yesterday," said Lord
Castlereagh, "and, from some hints he dropped, I suspect the time is
come that I may offer you any little influence I possess, without it
taking the odious shape of a bargain; if so, pray remember that I have
as much pride as yourself on such a score, and will be offended if you
accept from another what might come equally well through me."
The Knight acknowledged this kind speech with a grateful smile and a
pressure of the hand, and was about to move on, when Lord Castlereagh
asked if he could not drop him in his carriage at his destination, and
thus enjoy, a few moments longer, his society.
"I scarcely can tell you, my Lord," said Darcy, laughing, "which way I
was bent on following. I came up to town to present myself at the Duke
of York's leve, and it is only a few moments since I remembered that I
was not provided with a uniform."
"Oh, step in then," cried Lord Castlereagh, hastily; "I think I can
manage that difficulty for you. There is a leve this very morning; some
pressing intelligence has arrived from Egypt, and his Royal Highness has
issued a notice for a reception for eleven o'clock. You are not
afraid," said Lord Castlereagh, laughing, as Darcy took his seat beside
him,--"you are not afraid of being seen in such company now."
"If I am not, my Lord, set my courage down to my principle; for I never
felt your kindness so dangerous," said the Knight, with something of
emotion.
A few moments of rapid driving brought them in front of the Duke's
residence, where several carriages and led horses were now standing, and
officers in full dress were seen to pass in and out, with signs of haste
and eagerness.
"I told you we should find them astir here," said Lord Castlereagh.
"Holloa, Fane, have you heard anything new to-day?"
The officer thus addressed touched his hat respectfully, and approaching
the window of the carriage, whispered a few words in Lord Castlereagh's
ear.
"Is the news confirmed?" said his Lordship, calmly.
"I believe so, my Lord; at least, Edgecumbe says he heard it from
Dundas, who got it from Pitt himself."
"Bad tidings these, Knight," said Lord Castlereagh, as the aide-de-camp
moved away; "Pulteney's expedition against Ferrol has failed. These
conjoint movements of army and navy seem to have a most unlucky
fortune."
"What can you expect, my Lord, from an ill-assorted 'Union'?" said
Darcy, slyly.
"They 'll work better after a time," said Lord Castlereagh, smiling
good-humoredly at the hit; "for the present, I acknowledge the success
is not flattering. The general always discovers that the land batteries
can only be attacked in the very spot where the admiral pronounces the
anchorage impossible; each feels compromised by the other; hence envy
and every manner of uncharitableness."
"And what has been the result here? Is it a repulse?"
"You can scarcely call it that, since they never attacked. They looked
at the place, sailed round it, and, like the King of France in the
story, they marched away again. But here we are at length at the door;
let us try if we cannot accomplish a landing better than Lord Keith and
General Moore."
Through a crowd of anxious faces, whose troubled looks tallied with the
evil tidings, Lord Castlereagh and Darcy ascended the stairs and reached
the antechamber, now densely thronged by officers of every grade of the
service. His Lordship was immediately recognized and surrounded by many
of the company, eager to hear his opinion.
"You don't appear to credit the report, my Lord," said Darcy, who
had watched with some interest the air of quiet incredulity which he
assumed.
"It is all true, notwithstanding," said he, in a whisper; "I heard it
early this morning at the Council, and came here to see how it would be
received. They say that war will be soon as unpopular with the red-coats
as with the no-coats; and really, to look at these sombre faces, one
would say there was some truth in the rumor. But here comes Taylor." And
so saying, Lord Castlereagh moved forward, and laid his hand on the arm
of an officer in a staff uniform.
"I don't think so, my Lord," said he, in reply to some question from
Lord Castlereagh; "I 'll endeavor to manage it, but I 'm afraid I
shall not succeed. Have you heard of Elliot's death? The news has just
arrived."
"Indeed! So then the government of Chelsea is to give away. Oh, that
fact explains the presence of so many veteran generals! I really was
puzzled to conceive what martial ardor stirred them."
"You are severe, my Lord," said Darcy; "I hope you are unjust."
"One is rarely so in attributing a selfish motive anywhere," said the
young nobleman, sarcastically. "But, Taylor, can't you arrange
this affair? Let me present my friend meanwhile: The Knight of
Gwynne--Colonel Taylor."
Before Taylor could more than return the Knight's salutation he was
summoned to attend his Royal Highness; and at the same moment the
folding-doors at the end of the apartment were thrown open, and the
reception began.
Whether the sarcasm of Lord Castlereagh was correct, or that a nobler
motive was in operation, the number of officers was very great; and
although the Duke rarely addressed more than a word or two to each,
a considerable time elapsed before Lord Castlereagh, with the Knight
following, had entered the room.
"It is against a positive order of his Royal Highness, my Lord," said an
aide-de-camp, barring the passage; "none but field-officers, and in full
uniform, are received by his Royal Highness."
Lord Castlereagh whispered something, and endeavored to move on; but
again the other interposed, saying, "Indeed, my Lord, I'm deeply grieved
at it, but I cannot--I dare not transgress my orders."
The Duke, who had been up to this moment engaged in conversing with a
group, suddenly turned, and perceiving that the presentations were not
followed up, said, "Well, gentlemen, I am waiting." Then recognizing
Lord Castlereagh, he added, "Another time, my Lord, another time:
this morning belongs to the service, and the color of your coat excludes
you."
"I ask your Royal Highness's pardon," said Lord Castlereagh, in a tone
of great deference, while he made the apology an excuse for advancing a
step into the room. "I have but just left the Council, and was anxious
to inform you that your Royal Highness's suggestions have been fully
adopted."
"Indeed! is that the case?" said the Duke, with an elated look, while
he drew his Lordship into the recess of a window. The intelligence,
to judge from the Duke's expression, must have been both important and
satisfactory, for he looked intensely eager and pleased by turns.
"And so," said he, aloud, "they really have determined on Egypt? Well,
my Lord, you have brought me the best tidings I 've heard for many a
day."
"And like all bearers of good despatches," said Lord Castlereagh,
catching up the tone of the Duke, "I prefer a claim to your Royal
Highness's patronage."
"If you look for Chelsea, my Lord, you are just five minutes too late.
Old Sir Harry Belmore has this instant got it."
"I could have named as old and perhaps a not less distinguished soldier
to your Royal Highness, with this additional claim,--a claim I must say,
your Royal Highness never disregards"--
"That he has been unfortunate with the unlucky," said the Duke,
laughing, and good-naturedly alluding to his own failure in the
expedition to the Netherlands; "but who is your friend?"
"The Knight of Gwynne,--an Irish gentleman."
"One of your late supporters, eh, Castlereagh?" said the Duke, laughing.
"How came he to be forgotten till this hour? Or did you pass him a bill
of gratitude payable at nine months after date?"
"No, my Lord, he was an opponent; he was a man that I never could buy,
when his influence and power were such as to make the price of his own
dictating. Since that day, fortune has changed with him."
"And what do you want with him now?" said the Duke, while his eyes
twinkled with a sly malice; "are you imitating the man that bowed down
before statues of Hercules and Apollo at Rome, not knowing when the time
of those fellows might come up again? Is that your game?"
"Not exactly, your Royal Highness; but I really feel some scruples of
conscience that, having assisted so many unworthy candidates to pensions
and peerages, I should have done nothing for the most upright man I met
in Ireland."
"If we could make him a Commissary-General," said the Duke, laughing,
"the qualities you speak of would be of service now: there never was
such a set of rascals as we have got in that department! But come, what
can we do with him? What 's his rank in the army? Where did he serve?"
"If I dare present him to your Royal Highness without a uniform," said
Lord Castlereagh, hesitatingly, "he could answer these queries better
than I can."
"Oh, by Jove! it is too late for scruples now,--introduce him at once."
Lord Castlereagh waited for no more formal permission, but, hastening to
the antechamber, took Darcy's hand, and led him forward.
"If I don't mistake, sir," said the Duke, as the old man raised his head
after a deep and courteous salutation, "this is not the first time we
have met. Am I correct in calling you Colonel Darcy?"
The Knight bowed low in acquiescence.
"The same officer who raised the Twenty-eighth Light Dragoons, known as
Darcy's Light Horse?"
The Knight bowed once more.
"A very proud officer in command," said the Duke, turning to Lord
Castlereagh with a stern expression on his features; "a colonel who
threatened a prince of the blood with arrest for breach of duty."
"He had good reason, your Royal Highness, to be proud," said the Knight,
firmly; "first, to have a prince to serve under his command; and,
secondly, to have held that station and character in the service to have
rendered so unbecoming a threat pardonable."
"And who said it was?" replied the Duke, hastily.
"Your Royal Highness has just done so."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, my Lord Duke," said Darcy, with a calm and unmoved look,
"that your Royal Highness would never have recurred to the theme to one
humbled as I am, if you had not forgiven it."
"As freely as I trust you forgive me, Colonel Darcy," said the Duke,
grasping his hand and shaking it with warmth. "Now for my part: what
can I do for you?--what do you wish?"
"I can scarcely ask your Royal Highness; I find that some kind friend
has already applied on my behalf. I could not have presumed, old and
useless as I am, to prefer a claim myself."
"There's your own regiment vacant," said the Duke, musing. "No, by
Jove! I remember Lord Netherby asking me for it the other day for some
relative of his own. Taylor, is the colonelcy of the Twenty-eighth
promised?"
"Your Royal Highness signed it yesterday."
"I feared as much. Who is it?--perhaps he'd exchange."
"Colonel Maurice Darcy, your Royal Highness, unattached."
"What! have I been doing good by stealth? Is this really so?"
"If it be, your Royal Highness," said Darcy, smiling, "I can only assure
you that the officer promoted will not exchange."
"The depot is at Gosport, your Royal Highness," said Taylor, in reply to
a question from the Duke.
"Well, station it in Ireland, Colonel Darcy may prefer it," said the
duke; "for, as the regiment forms part of the expedition to Egypt, the
depot need not be moved for some time to come."
"Your Royal Highness can increase the favor by only one concession--dare
I ask it?--to permit me to take the command on service."
The Duke gazed with astonishment at the old man, and gradually his
expression became one of deep interest, as he said,--
"Colonel Darcy could claim as a right what I feel so proud to accord
him as a favor. Make a note of that, Taylor," said the Duke, raising his
voice so as to be heard through the room: "'Colonel Darcy to take the
command on service at his own special request.' Yes, gentlemen," added
he, louder, "these are times when the exigencies of the service demand
alike the energy of youth and the experience of age; it is, indeed,
a happy conjuncture that finds them united. My Lord Castlereagh and
Colonel Darcy, are you disengaged for Wednesday?"
They both bowed respectfully.
"Then on Wednesday I'll have some of your brother officers to meet you,
Colonel. Now, Taylor, let us get through our list."
So saying, the Duke bowed graciously; and Lord Castlereagh and the
Knight retired, each too full of pleasure to utter a word as he went.
CHAPTER XII. THE TWO SIDES OF A MEDAL
Although the Knight lost not an hour in writing to Lady Eleanor,
informing her of his appointment, the letter, hastily written, and
intrusted to a waiter to be posted, was never forwarded, and the first
intelligence of the event reached her in a letter from her courtly
relative, Lord Netherby.
So much depends upon the peculiar tact and skill of the writer, and
so much upon our own frame of mind at the time of reading, that it is
difficult to say whether we do not bear up better under the announcement
of any sudden and sorrowful event from the hand of one less cared for
than from those nearest and dearest to our hearts. The consolations that
look like the special pleadings of affection become, as it were,
the mere expressions of impartiality. The points of view, being so
different, give a different aspect to the picture, and gleams of light
fall where, seen from another quarter, all was shadow and gloom. So
it was here. What, if the tidings had come from her husband, had been
regarded in the one painful light of separation and long absence,
assumed, under Lord Netherby's style, the semblance of a most gratifying
event, with, of course, that alloy of discomfort from which no human
felicity is altogether free: so very artfully was this done, that Lady
Eleanor half felt as if, in indulging in her own sorrow, she were merely
giving way to a selfish regret; and as Helen, the better to sustain her
mother's courage, affected a degree of pleasure she was really far from
feeling, this added to the conviction that she ought, if she could, to
regard her husband's appointment as a happy event.
"Truly, mamma," said Helen, as she sat with the letter before her, "Me
style c'est l'homme.' His Lordship is quite heroic when describing all
the ftes and dinners of London; all the honors showered on papa in
visiting-cards and invitations; how excellencies called, and royal
highnesses shook hands: he even chronicles the distinguishing favor of
the gracious Prince, who took wine with him. But listen to him when the
theme is really one that might evoke some trait, if not of enthusiasm,
at least of national pride: 'As for the expedition, my dear cousin,
though nobody knows exactly for what place it is destined, everybody is
aware that it is not intended to be a fighting one. Demonstrations are
now the vogue, and it is become just as bad taste for our army to
shed blood as it would be for a well-bred man to mention a certain
ill-conducted individual before ears polite. Modern war is like a game
at whist between first-rate players; when either party has four by
honors, he shows his hand, and saves the trouble of a contest. The
Naval Service is, I grieve to say, rooted to its ancient prejudices, and
continues its abominable pastime of broadsides and boardings; hence its
mob popularity at this moment! The army will, however, always be the
gentlemanlike cloth, and I thank my stars I don't believe we have a
single relative afloat. Guy Herries was the last; he was shot or piked,
I forget which, in boarding a Spanish galliot off Cape Verde. "Que
diable allait-il faire dans cette galre?" Rest satisfied, therefore,
if the gallant Knight has little glory, he will have no dangers; our
expeditions never land. Jekyll says they are only intended to give the
service an appetite for fresh meat and soft bread, after four months'
biscuit and salt beef. At all events, my dear cousin, reckon on
seeing my friend the Knight gazetted as major-general on the very next
promotions. The Prince is delighted with him; and I carried a message
from his Royal Highness yesterday to the War Office in his behalf. You
would not come to see me, despite all the seductions I threw out, and
now the season is nigh over. May I hope better things for the next year,
when perhaps I can promise an inducement the more, and make your welcome
more graceful by dividing its cares with one far more competent than
myself to fulfil them.'--What does he mean, mamma?"
"Read on, my dear; I believe I can guess the riddle."
"'The person I allude to was, in former days, if not actually a friend,
a favored intimate of yours; indeed, I say that this fact is but another
claim to my regard.'--Is it possible, mamma, his Lordship thinks of
marrying?"
"Even so, Helen," said Lady Eleanor, sighing, for she remembered how,
in his very last interview with her at Gwynne Abbey, he spoke of his
resolve on making Lionel his heir; but then, those were the days of
their prosperous fortune, the time when, to all seeming, they needed no
increase of wealth.
If Helen was disposed to laugh at the notion of Lord Netherby's
marrying, a glance at the troubled expression of her mother's features
would have checked the emotion. The heritage was a last hope, which was
not the less cherished that she had never imparted it to another.
"Shall I read on?" said Helen, timidly; and at a signal from Lady
Eleanor she resumed: "'I know how much "badinage" a man at my time
of life must expect from his acquaintances, and how much of kind
remonstrance from his friends, when he announces his determination to
marry. A good deal of this must be set down to the score of envy, some
of it proceeds from mere habit on these occasions, and lastly, one's
bachelor friends very naturally are averse to the closure against them
of a house "o on dne." I have thought of all this, and, per contra,
I have set down the isolation of one, if not deserted, at least somewhat
neglected by his relatives, and fancied that if not exactly of that age
when people marry for love, I am not yet quite so old but I may become
the object of true and disinterested affection.
"'Lady------(I have pledged my honor not to write her name, even to
you) is, in rank and fortune, fully my equal, in every other quality my
superior. The idlers at "Boodle's" can neither sneer at a "msalliance,"
nor hint at the "faiblesse" of an "elderly gentleman." It is a marriage
founded on mutual esteem, and, so far as station is concerned, on
equality; and when I say that his Royal Highness has expressed his
unqualified approval of the step, I believe I can add no more. I owe
you, my dear cousin, this early and full explanation of my motives
on many accounts: if the result should change the dispositions I once
believed unalterable, I beg it may be understood as proceeding far more
from necessity than the sincere wish of your very affectionate relative,
"'Netherby.
"'My regret at not seeing Helen here this season is, in a measure,
alleviated by Lady--------- telling me that brunettes were more the
rage; her Ladyship, who is no common arbiter, says that no "blonde"
attracted any notice: even Lady Georgiana Maydew drew no admiration.
My fair cousin is, happily, very young, et les beaux jours viendront,
even before hers have lost their brilliancy.
"'I am sorry Lionel left the Coldstreams; with economy he could very
well have managed to hold his ground, and we might have obtained
something for him in the Household. As for India, the only influential
person I know is my wine-merchant; he is, I am told, a Director of
the Honorable Company, but he 'd certainly adulterate my Madeira if I
condescended to ask him a favor.'"
"Well, Helen, I think you will agree with me, selfishness is the
most candid of all the vices; how delightfully unembarrassed is his
Lordship's style, how frank, honest, and straightforward!"
"After his verdict upon 'blondes', mamma," said Helen, laughing, "I dare
not record my opinion of him,--I cannot come into court an impartial
evidence. This, however, I will say, that if his Lordship be not an
unhappy instance of the school, I am sincerely rejoiced that Lionel is
not being trained up a courtier; better a soldier's life with all its
hazards and its dangers, than a career so certain to kill every manly
sentiment."
"I agree with you fully, Helen; life cannot be circumscribed within
petty limits and occupied by petty cares without reducing the mind to
the same miniature dimensions; until at last so immeasurably greater are
our own passions and feelings than the miserable interests around us, we
end by self-worship and egotism, and fancy ourselves leviathans because
we swim in a fish-pond. But who can that be crossing the grass-plot
yonder? I thought our neighbors of Port Ballintray had all left the
coast?"
"It is the gentleman who dined here, mamma, the man that never spoke--I
forget his name--"
Helen had not time to finish, when a modest tap was heard at the door,
and the next moment Mr. Leonard presented himself. He was dressed with
more than his wonted care, but the effort to make poverty respectable
was everywhere apparent; the blue frock was brushed to the very verge
of its frail existence, the gloves were drawn on at the hazard of their
integrity, and his hat, long inured to every vicissitude of weather,
had been cocked into a strange counterfeit of modish smartness. With all
these signs of unusual attention to appearances, his manner was modest
even to humility, and he took a chair with the diffidence of one who
seemed to doubt the propriety of being seated in such a presence.
Notwithstanding Lady Eleanor's efforts at conversation, aided by Helen,
who tried in many ways to relieve the embarrassment of their visitor,
this difficulty seemed every moment greater, and he seemed, as he really
felt, to have summoned up all his courage for an undertaking, and in
the very nick of the enterprise, to have left himself beggared of his
energy. A vague assent, a look of doubt and uncertainty, a half-muttered
expression of acquiescence in whatever was said, was all that could
be obtained from him; but still, while his embarrassment appeared each
instant greater, he evinced no disposition to take his leave. Lady
Eleanor, who, like many persons whose ordinary manner is deemed cold and
haughty, could exert at will considerable powers of pleasing, did her
utmost to put her visitor at his ease, and by changing her topics from
time to time, detect, if possible, some clew to his coming. It was all
in vain: he followed her, it is true, as well as he was able, and with a
bewildered look of constrained attention, seemed endeavoring to interest
himself in what she said, but it was perfectly apparent, all the while,
that his mind was preoccupied, and by very different thoughts.
At length she remained silent, and resuming the work she was engaged
on when he entered, sat for some time without uttering a word, or even
looking up. Mr. Leonard coughed slightly, but, as if terrified at his
own rashness, soon became mute and still. At last, after a long pause,
so long that Lady Eleanor and Helen, forgetful of their visitor, had
become deeply immersed in their own reflections, Mr. Leonard arose
slowly, and with a voice not free from a certain tremor, said, "Well,
madam, then I suppose I may venture to say that I saw you and Miss Darcy
both well."
Lady Eleanor looked up with astonishment, for she could not conceive the
meaning of the words, nor in what quarter they were to be reported.
"I mean, madam," said Leonard, "that when I present myself to the
Colonel, I may take the liberty to mention having seen you."
"Do you speak of my husband, sir,--Colonel Darcy?" said Lady Eleanor,
with a very different degree of interest in her look and accent.
"Yes, madam," said Leonard, with a kind of forced courage in his manner.
"I hope to be under his command in a few days."
"Indeed, sir!" said Lady Eleanor, with animation; "I did not know that
you had served, still less that you were about to join the army once
more."
Leonard blushed deeply, and he suddenly grew deadly pale, while, in a
voice scarcely louder than a mere whisper, he muttered, "So then, madam,
Colonel Darcy has never spoken of me to you?"
Lady Eleanor, who misunderstood the meaning of the question, seemed
slightly confused as she replied, "I have no recollection of it, sir,--I
cannot call up at this moment having heard your name from my husband."
"I ought to have known it,--I ought to have been certain of it," said
Leonard, in a voice bursting from emotion, while the tears gushed from
his eyes; "he could not have asked me to his house to sit down at his
table as a mere object of your pity and contempt; and yet I am nothing
else."
The passionate vehemence in which he now spoke seemed so different from
his recent manner, that both Lady Eleanor and Helen had some doubts
as to his sanity, when he quickly resumed: "I was broke for
cowardice,--dismissed the service with disgrace,--degraded! Well may I
call it so, to be what I became. I would tell you that I was not
guilty,--that Colonel Darcy knows,--but I dare not choose between the
character of a coward and--a drunkard. I had no other prospect before me
than a life of poverty and repining,--maybe of worse,--of shame and
ignominy! when, last night, I received these letters; I scarcely thought
they could be for me, even when I read my name on them. Yes, madam, this
letter from the War Office permits me to serve as a volunteer with the
Eighth Regiment of Foot; and this, which is without signature, encloses
me fifty pounds to buy my outfit and join the regiment. It does not need
a name; there is but one man living could stoop to help such as I am,
and not feel dishonored by the contact; there is but one man brave
enough to protect him branded as a coward."
"You are right, sir," cried Helen; "this must be my father's doing."
Leonard tried to speak, but could not; a trembling motion of his lips,
and a faint sound issued, but nothing articulate. Lady Eleanor stopped
him as he moved towards the door, and taking his hand pressed it
cordially, while she said, "Be of good heart, sir; my husband is not
less quick to perceive than he is ever ready to befriend. Be assured he
would not now be your ally if he had not a well-grounded hope that you
would merit it. Farewell, then; remember you have a double tie to duty,
and that his credit as well as your own is on the issue."
Leonard muttered a faint "I will," and departed.
"How happily timed is this little incident, Helen," said Lady Eleanor,
as she drew her daughter to her side; "how full of pleasant hope
it fills the heart, at a moment when the worldly selfishness of the
courtier's letter had left us low and sorrow-struck! These are indeed
the sunny spots in life, that never look so brilliant as when seen amid
lowering skies and darkening storms."
CHAPTER XIII. AN UNCEREMONIOUS VISIT
As winter drew near, with its dark and leaden skies, and days and nights
of storm and hurricane, so did the worldly prospect of Lady Eleanor and
her daughter grow hourly more gloomy. Bicknell's letters detailed new
difficulties and embarrassments on every hand. Sums of money supposed to
have been long since paid and acknowledged by Gleeson, were now demanded
with all the accruing interest; rights hitherto unquestioned were now
threatened with dispute, as Hickman O'Reilly's success emboldened others
to try their fortune. Of the little property that still remained to
them, the rents were withheld until their claim to them should be once
more established by law. Disaster followed disaster, till at length the
last drop filled up the measure of their misery, as they learned that
the Knight's personal liberty was at stake, and more than one writ was
issued for his arrest.
The same post that brought this dreadful intelligence brought also a few
lines from Darcy, the first that had reached them since his departure.
His note was dated from the "'Hermione' frigate, off the Needles," and
contained little more than an affectionate farewell. He wrote in health,
and apparently in spirits, full of the assurance of a speedy and happy
meeting; nor was there any allusion to their embarrassments, save in
the vague mention of a letter he had written to Bicknell, and who would
himself write to Lady Eleanor.
"It is not, dearest Eleanor," wrote he, "the time we would have selected
for a separation, when troubles thicken around us; yet who knows if the
incident may not fall happily, and turn our thoughts from the loss of
fortune to the many blessings we enjoy in mutual affection and in our
children's love, all to thicken around us at our meeting? I confess,
too, I have a pride in being thought worthy to serve my country still,
not in the tiresome monotony of a depot, but in the field,--among the
young, the gallant, and the brave! Is it not enough to take off half
this load of years, and make me fancy myself the gay colonel you may
remember cantering beside your carriage in the Park--I shame to say how
long ago! I wonder what the French will think of us, for nearly every
officer in command might be superannuated, and Abercrombie is as
venerable in white hairs as myself! There are, however, plenty of young
and dashing fellows to replace us, and the spirit of the whole army is
admirable.
"Whither we are destined, what will be our collective force, and what
the nature of the expedition, are profound secrets, with which even the
generals of brigades are not intrusted; so that all I can tell you is,
that some seven hundred and fifty of us are now sailing southward, under
a steady breeze from the north-northwest; that the land is each moment
growing fainter to my eyes, while the pilot is eagerly pressing me to
conclude this last expression of my love to yourself and dearest Helen.
Adieu.
"Ever yours,
"Maurice Darcy."
As with eyes half dimmed by tears Lady Eleanor read these lines, she
could not help muttering a thanksgiving that her husband was at least
beyond the risk of that danger of which Bicknell spoke,--an indignity,
she feared, he never could have survived.
"And better still," cried Helen, "if a season of struggle and privation
awaits us, that we should bear it alone,' and not before his eyes, for
whom such a prospect would be torture. Now let us see how to meet the
evil." So saying, she once more opened Bicknell's letter, and began to
peruse it carefully; while Lady Eleanor sat, pale and in silence, nor
even by a gesture showing any consciousness of the scene.
"What miserable trifling do all these legal subtleties seem!" said the
young girl, after she had read for some time; "how trying to patience
to canvass the petty details by which a clear and honest cause must
be asserted! Here are fees to counsel, briefs, statements, learned
opinions, and wise consultations multiplied to show that we are the
rightful owners of what our ancestors have held for centuries,
while every step of usurpation by these Hickmans would appear almost
unassailable. With what intensity of purpose, too, does that family
persecute us! All these actions are instituted by them; these bonds are
all in their hands. What means this hate?"
Lady Eleanor looked up; and as her eyes met Helen's, a faint flush
colored her cheek, for she thought of her interview with the old doctor,
and that proposal by which their conflicting interests were to be
satisfied.
"We surely never injured them," resumed the young girl, eagerly; "they
were always well and hospitably received by us. Lionel even liked
Beecham, when they were boys together,-a mild and quiet youth he was."
"So I thought him, too," said Lady Eleanor, stealing a cautious glance
at her daughter. "We saw them," continued she, more boldly, "under
circumstances of no common difficulty,--struggling under the
embarrassment of a false social position, with such a grandfather!"
"And such a father! Nay, mamma, of the two you must confess the doctor
was our favorite. The old man's selfishness was not half so vulgar as
his son's ambition."
"And yet, Helen," said Lady Eleanor, calmly, "such are the essential
transitions by which families are formed; wealthy in one generation,
aspiring in the next, recognized gentry--mayhap titled--in the third.
It is but rarely that the whole series unfolds itself before our eyes at
once, as in the present instance, and consequently it is but rarely that
we detect so palpably all its incongruities and absurdities. A few
years more," added she, with a deep sigh, "and these O'Reillys will be
regarded as the rightful owners of Gwynne Abbey by centuries of descent;
and if an antiquary detect the old leopards of the Darcys frowning from
some sculptured keystone, it will be to weave an ingenious theory of
intermarriage between the houses."
"An indignity they might well have spared us," said Helen, proudly.
"Such are the world's changes," continued Lady Eleanor, pursuing her
own train of thought. "How very few remember the origin of our proudest
houses, and how little does it matter whether the foundations have been
laid by the rude courage of some lawless baron of the tenth century, or
the crafty shrewdness of some Hickman O'Reilly of the nineteenth!"
If there was a tone of bitter mockery in Lady Eleanor's words, there was
also a secret meaning which, even to her own heart, she would not
have ventured to avow. By one of those strange and most inexplicable
mysteries of our nature, she was endeavoring to elicit from her daughter
some expression of dissent to her own recorded opinion of the O'Reillys
and seeking for some chance word which might show that Helen regarded
an alliance with that family with more tolerant feelings than she did
herself.
Her intentions on this head were uot destined to be successful. Helen's
prejudices on the score of birth and station were rather strengthened
than shaken by the changes of fortune; she cherished the prestige of
their good blood as a source of proud consolation that no adversity
could detract from. Before, however, she could reply, the tramp of a
horse's feet--a most unusual sound--was heard on the gravel without; and
immediately after the heavy foot of some one, as if feeling his way in
the dark towards the door. Without actual fear, but not without intense
anxiety, both mother and daughter heard the heavy knocking of a loaded
horsewhip on the door; nor was it until old Tate had twice repeated his
question that a sign replied he might open the door.
"Look to the pony there!" cried a voice, as the old man peered out into
the dark night. And before he could reply or resist, the speaker pushed
past him and entered the room. "I crave your pardon, my Lady Eleanor,"
said she,--for it was Miss Daly, who, drenched with rain and all
splashed with mud, now stood before them,--"I crave your pardon for this
visit of so scant ceremony. Has the Knight returned yet?"
The strong resemblance to her brother Bagenal, increased by her gesture
and the tones of her voice, at once proclaimed to Lady Eleanor who her
visitor was; and as she rose graciously to receive her, she replied that
"the Knight, so far from having returned, had already sailed with the
expedition under General Abercrombie."
Miss Daly listened with breathless eagerness to the words, and as they
concluded, she exclaimed aloud, "Thank God!" and threw herself into
a chair. A pause, which, if brief, was not devoid of embarrassment,
followed; and while Lady Eleanor was about to break it, Miss Daly again
spoke, but with a voice and manner very different from before: "You will
pardon, I am certain, the rudeness of my intrusion, Lady Eleanor, and
you, too, Miss Darcy, when I tell you that my heart was too full of
anxiety to leave any room for courtesy. It was only this afternoon that
an accident informed me that a person had arrived in this neighborhood
with a writ to arrest the Knight of Gwynne. I was five-and-twenty
miles from this when I heard the news, and although I commissioned my
informant to hasten thither with the tidings, I grew too full of dread,
and had too many fears of a mischance, to await the result, so that I
resolved to come myself."
"How full of kindness!" exclaimed Lady Eleanor, while Helen took Miss
Daly's hand and pressed it to her lips. "Let our benefactress not suffer
too much in our cause. Helen, dearest, assist Miss Daly to a change of
dress. You are actually wet through."
"Nay, nay, Lady Eleanor, you must not teach me fastidiousness. It has
been my custom for many a year not to care for weather, and in the kind
of life I lead such training is indispensable." Miss Daly removed her
hat as she spoke, and, pushing back her dripping hair, seemed really
insensible to the discomforts which caused her hosts so much uneasiness.
"I see clearly," resumed she, laughing, "I was right in not
making myself known to you before; for though you may forgive the
eccentricities that come under the mask of good intentions, you 'd
never pardon the thousand offences against good breeding and the world's
prescription which spring from the wayward fancies of an old maid who
has lived so much beyond the pale of affection she has forgotten all the
arts that win it."
"If you are unjust to yourself, Miss Daly, pray be not so to us; nor
think that we can be insensible to friendship like yours."
"Oh, as for this trifling service, you esteem it far too highly;
besides, when you hear the story, you'll see how much more you have to
thank your own hospitality than my promptitude."
"This is, indeed, puzzling me," exclaimed Lady Eleanor.
"Do you remember having met and received at your house a certain Mr.
Dempsey?"
"Certainly, he dined with us on one occasion, and paid us some three or
four visits. A tiresome little vulgar man, with a most intense curiosity
devouring him to know everything of everybody."
"To this gift, or infirmity, whichever it be, we are now indebted. Since
the breaking-up of the boarding-house at Port Ballintray, which this
year was somewhat earlier than usual,"--here Miss Daly smiled slightly,
as though there lay more in the words than they seemed to imply,--"Mr.
Dempsey betook himself to a little village near Glenarm, where I have
been staying, and where the chief recommendation as a residence lay
possibly in the fact that the weekly mail-car to Derry changed horses
there. Hence an opportunity of communing with the world he valued at
its just price. It so chanced that the only traveller who came for three
weeks, arrived the night before last, drenched to the skin, and so ill
from cold, hunger, and exhaustion that, unable to prosecute his journey
farther, he was carried from the car to his bed. Mr. Dempsey, whose
heart is really as kind as inquisitive, at once tendered his services to
the stranger, who after some brief intercourse commissioned him to open
his portmanteau, and taking out writing-materials, to inform his friends
in Dublin of his sudden indisposition, and his fears that his illness
might delay, or perhaps render totally abortive, his mission to the
north. Here was a most provoking mystery for Mr. Dempsey. The very
allusion to a matter of importance, in this dubious half-light, was
something more than human nature should be tried with; and if the
patient burned with the fever of the body, Mr. Dempsey suffered under
the less tolerable agony of mental torment,--imagining every
possible contingency that should bring a stranger down into a lonely
neighborhood, and canvassing every imaginable inducement, from seduction
to highway robbery. Whether the sick man's sleep was merely the heavy
debt of exhausted nature, or whether Mr. Dempsey aided his repose by
adding a few drops to the laudanum prescribed by the doctor, true it is,
he lay in a deep slumber, and never awoke till late the following
day; meanwhile Mr. Dempsey recompensed his Samaritanism by a careful
inspection of the stranger's trunk and its contents, and, in particular,
made a patient examination of two parchment documents, which,
fortunately for his curiosity, were not sealed, but simply tied with red
tape.
[Illustration: 180]
Great was his surprise to discover that one of these was a writ to
arrest a certain Paul Dempsey, and the other directed against the
resident of 'The Corvy,' whom he now, for the first time, learned was
the Knight of Gwynne.
"Self-interest, the very instinct of safety itself, weighed less with
him than his old passion for gossip; and no sooner had he learned the
important fact of who his neighbor was, than he set off straight to
communicate the news to me. I must do him the justice to say, that when
I proposed his hastening off to you with the tidings, the little man
acceded with the utmost promptitude; but as his journey was to be
performed on foot, and by certain mountain paths not always easily
discovered in our misty climate, it is probable he could not reach this
for some hours."
When Miss Daly concluded, Lady Eleanor and her daughter renewed their
grateful acknowledgments for her thoughtful kindness. "These are sad
themes by which to open our acquaintance," said Lady Eleanor; "but it
is among the prerogatives of friendship to share the pressure of
misfortune, and Mr. Daly's sister can be no stranger to ours."
"Nor how undeserved they were," added Miss Daly, gravely.
"Nay, which of us can dare say so much?" interrupted Lady Eleanor; "we
may well have forgotten ourselves in that long career of prosperity
we enjoyed,--for ours was, indeed, a happy lot! I need not speak of
my husband to one who knew him once so well. Generous, frank, and
noble-hearted as he always was,-his only failing the excessive
confidence that would go on believing in the honesty of others, from the
prompting of a spirit that stooped to nothing low or unworthy,--he never
knew suspicion." "True," echoed Miss Daly, "he never did suspect!" There
was such a plaintive sadness in her voice that it drew Helen's eyes
towards her; nor could all her efforts conceal a tear that trickled
along her cheek.
"And to what an alternative are we now reduced!" continued Lady Eleanor,
who, with all the selfishness of sorrow, loved to linger on the painful
theme,--"to rejoice at separation, and to feel relieved in thinking that
he is gone to peril life itself rather than endure the lingering death
of a broken heart!"
"Yes, young lady," said Miss Daly, turning towards Helen, "such are
the recompenses of the most endearing affection, such the penalties of
loving. Would you not almost say, 'It were better to be such as I am,
unloved, uncared for, without one to share a joy or grief with?' I half
think so myself," added she, suddenly rising from her chair. "I can
almost persuade myself that this load of life is easier borne when all
its pressure is one's own."
"You are not about to leave us?" said Lady Eleanor, taking her hand
affectionately.
"Yes," replied she, smiling sadly, "when my heart has disburdened itself
of an immediate care, I become but sorry company, and sometimes think
aloud. How fortunate I have no secrets!--Bring my pony to the door,"
said she, as Tate answered the summons of the bell.
"But wait at least for daylight," said Helen, eagerly; "the storm is
increasing, and the night is dark and starless. Remember what a road you
've come."
"I often ride at this hour and with no better weather," said she,
adjusting the folds of her habit; "and as to the road, Puck knows it too
well to wander from the track, daylight or dark."
"For our sakes, I entreat you not to venture till morning," cried Lady
Eleanor.
"I could not if I would," said Miss Daly, steadily. "By to-morrow, at
noon, I have an engagement at some distance hence, and much to arrange
in the mean time. Pray do not ask me again. I cannot bear to refuse
you, even in such a trifle; and as to me or my safety, waste not another
thought about it. They who have so little to live for are wondrous
secure from accident."
"When shall we see you? Soon, I hope and trust!" exclaimed both mother
and daughter together.
Miss Daly shook her head; then added hastily, "I never promise anything.
I was a great castle-builder once, but time has cured me of the habit,
and I do not like, even by a pledge, to forestall the morrow. Farewell,
Lady Eleanor. It is better to see but little of me, and think the
better, than grow weary of my waywardness on nearer acquaintance. Adieu,
Miss Darcy; I am glad to have seen you; don't forget me." So saying, she
pressed Helen's hands to her lips; but ere she let them drop, she
squeezed a letter into her grasp; the moment after, she was gone.
"Oh, then, I remember her the beauty wonst!" said Tate, as he closed the
door, after peering out for some seconds into the dark night: "and
proud she was too,--riding a white Arabian, with two servants in
scarlet liveries after her! The world has quare changes; but hers is the
greatest ever I knew!"
CHAPTER XIV. A TTE--TTE AND A LETTER
Long after Miss Daly's departure, Lady Eleanor continued to discuss the
eccentricity of her manners and the wilful abruptness of her address;
for although deeply sensible and grateful for her kindness, she dwelt on
every' peculiarity of her appearance with a pertinacity that more than
once surprised her daughter. Helen, indeed, was very far from being a
patient listener, not only because she was more tolerant in her estimate
of their visitor, but because she was eager to read the letter so
secretly intrusted to her hands. A dread of some unknown calamity, some
sad tidings of her father or Lionel, was ever uppermost in her thoughts,
nor could she banish the impression that Miss Daly's visit had another
and very different object than that which she alleged to Lady Eleanor.
It may be reckoned among the well-known contrarieties of life, that our
friends are never more disposed to be long-winded and discursive than at
the very time we would give the world to be alone and to ourselves. With
a most malicious intensity they seem to select that moment for indulging
in all those speculations by which people while away the weary hours.
In such a mood was Lady Eleanor Darcy. Not only did she canvass and
criticise Miss Daly, as she appeared before them, but went off into
long rambling reminiscences of all she had formerly heard about her;
for although they had never met before, Miss Daly had been the reigning
Belle of the West before her own arrival in Ireland.
"She must have been handsome, Helen, don't you think so?" said she, at
the end of a long enumeration of the various eccentricities imputed to
her.
"I should say very handsome," replied Helen.
"Scarcely feminine enough, perhaps," resumed Lady Eleanor,--"the
features too bold, the expression too decided; but this may have been
the fault of a social tone, which required everything in exaggeration,
and would tolerate nothing save in excess."
"Yes, mamma," said Helen, vaguely assenting to a remark she had not
attended to.
"I never fancied that style, either in beauty or in manner," continued
Lady Eleanor. "It wants, in the first place, the great element of
pleasing; it is not natural."
"No, mamma!" rejoined Helen, mechanically as before.
"Besides," continued Lady Eleanor, gratified at her daughter's ready
assent, "for one person to whom these mannerisms are becoming, there are
at least a hundred slavish imitators ready to adopt without taste, and
follow without discrimination. Now, Miss Daly was the fashion once. Who
can say to what heresies she has given origin, to what absurdities in
dress, in manner, and in bearing?"
Helen smiled, and nodded an acquiescence without knowing to what.
"There is one evil attendant on all this," said Lady Eleanor, who, with
the merciless ingenuity of a thorough poser, went on ratiocinating from
her own thoughts; "one can rarely rely upon even the kindest intentions
of people of this sort, so often are their best offices but mere
passing, fitful impulses; don't you think so?"
"Yes, mamma," said Helen, roused by this sudden appeal to a more than
usual acquiescence, while totally ignorant as to what.
"Then, they have seldom any discretion, even when they mean well."
"No, mamma."
"While they expect the most implicit compliance on your part with every
scheme they have devised for your benefit."
"Very true," chimed in Helen, who assented at random.
"Sad alternative," sighed Lady Eleanor, "between such rash friendship
and the lukewarm kindness of our courtly cousin."
"I think not!" said Helen, who fancied she was still following the
current of her mother's reflections.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Eleanor, iu astonishment, while she looked at
her daughter for an explanation.
"I quite agree with you, mamma," cried Helen, blushing as she spoke, for
she was suddenly recalled to herself.
"The more fortunate is the acquiescence, my dear," said Lady Eleanor,
dryly, "since it seems perfectly instinctive. I find, Helen, you have
not been a very attentive listener, and as I conclude I must have been a
very unamusing companion, I'll even say good-night; nay, my sweet child,
it is late enough not to seek excuse for weariness--goodnight."
Helen blushed deeply; dissimulation was a very difficult task to her,
and for a moment seemed more than her strength could bear. She had
resolved to place the letter in her mother's hands, when the thought
flashed across her, that if its contents might occasion any sudden or
severe shock, she would never forgive herself. This mental struggle,
brief as it was, brought the tears to her eyes,--an emotion Lady Eleanor
attributed to a different cause, as she said,--
"You do not suppose, my dearest Helen, that I am angry because your
thoughts took a pleasanter path than my owu."
"Oh, no,-no!" cried Helen, eagerly, "I know you are not. It is my own--"
She stopped; another word would have revealed everything, and with an
affectionate embrace she hurried from the room.
"Poor child!" exclaimed her mother; "the courage that sustained us both
so long is beginning to fail her now; and yet I feel as if our trials
were but commencing."
While Lady Eleanor dwelt on these sad thoughts, Helen sat beside her bed
weeping bitterly.
"How shall I bear up," thought she, "if deprived of that confiding trust
a mother's love has ever supplied,--without one to counsel or direct
me?"
Half fearing to open the letter, lest all her resolves should be altered
by its contents, she remained a long time balancing one difficulty
against another. Wearied and undecided, she turned at last to the letter
itself, as if for advice. It was a strange hand, and addressed to "Miss
Daly." With trembling fingers she unfolded the paper, and read the
writer's name,--"Richard Forester."
[Illustration: 186]
A flood of grateful tears burst forth as she read the words; a sense
of relief from impending calamity stole over her mind, while she said,
"Thank God! my father and Lionel--" She could say no more, for sobbing
choked her utterance. The emotions, if violent, passed rapidly off; and
as she wiped away her tears, a smile of hope lit up her features. At any
other time she would have speculated long and carefully over the causes
which made Forester correspond with Miss Daly, and by what right she
herself should be intrusted with his letter. Now her thoughts were
hurried along too rapidly for reflection. The vague dread of misfortune,
so suddenly removed, suggested a sense of gratitude that thrilled
through her heart like joy. In such a frame of mind she read the
following lines:--
At Sea. My dear Miss Daly,-I cannot thank you enough for your letter,
so full of kindness, of encouragement, and of hope. How much I stand
in need of them! I have strictly followed every portion of your
counsel,--would that I could tell you as successfully as implicitly!
The address of this letter will, however, be the shortest reply to that
question. I write these lines from the "Hermione" frigate. Yes, I am a
volunteer in the expedition to the Mediterranean; and only think who is
my commanding officer,--the Knight himself. I had enrolled myself
under the name of Conway; but when called up on deck this morning for
inspection, such was my surprise on seeing the Knight of Gwynne, or, as
he is now called, Colonel Darcy, I almost betrayed myself. Fortunately,
however, I escaped unnoticed,--a circumstance I believe I owe chiefly to
the fact that several young men of family are also volunteers, so that
my position attracted no unusual attention. It was a most anxious moment
for me as the colonel came down the line, addressing a word here and
there as he went; he stopped within one of me, and spoke for some
seconds to a young fellow whose appearance indicated delicate health.
How full of gentleness and benevolence were his words! But when he
turned and fixed his eyes on me, my heart beat so quick, my head grew
so dizzy, I thought I should have fainted. He remained at least half a
minute in front of me, and then asked the orderly for my name--"Conway!
Conway!" repeated he more than once. "A very old name. I hope you'll do
it credit, sir," added he, and moved on,--how much to my relief I need
not say. What a strange rencontre! Often as I wonder at the singular
necessity that has made me a private soldier, all my astonishment is
lost in thinking of the Knight of Gwynne's presence amongst us; and yet
he looks the soldier even as much as he did the country gentleman when
I first saw him, and, strangely too, seems younger and more active than
before. To see him here, chatting with the officers under his command,
moving about, taking interest in everything that goes on, who would
suspect the change of fortune that has befallen him! Not a vestige
of discontent, not even a passing look of impatience on his handsome
features; and yet, with this example before me, and the consciousness
that my altered condition is nothing in comparison with his, I am
low-spirited and void of hope! But a few weeks ago I would have thought
myself the luckiest fellow breathing, if told that I were to serve
under Colonel Darcy, and now I feel ashamed and abashed, and dread a
recognition every time I see him. In good truth, I cannot forget the
presumption that led me first to his acquaintance. My mind dwells on
that unhappy mission to the West, and its consequences. My foolish
vanity in supposing that I, a mere boy, uninformed, and without
reflection, should be able to influence a man so much my superior in
every way! and this, bad as it is, is the most favorable view of my
conduct, for I dare not recall the dishonorable means by which I was to
buy his support. Then, I think of my heedless and disreputable quarrel.
What motives and what actions in the eyes of her whose affection I
sought! How worthily am I punished for my presumption!
I told you that I strictly followed the advice of your last letter.
Immediately on receiving it I wrote a few lines to my mother, entreating
her permission to see and speak with her, and expressing an earnest
hope that our interview would end in restoring me to the place I so long
enjoyed in her affection. A very formal note, appointing the following
day, was all the reply.
On arriving at Berkeley Square, and entering the drawing-room, I found,
to my great astonishment, I will not say more, that a gentleman, a
stranger to me, was already there, seated at the fire, opposite my
mother, and with that easy air that bespoke his visit was not merely
accidental, but a matter of pre-arrangement.
Whatever my looks might have conveyed, I know not, but I was not given
the opportunity for a more explicit inquiry, when my mother, in her
stateliest of manners, arose and said,--
"Richard, I wish to present you to my esteemed friend, Lord Netherby;
a gentleman to whose kindness you are indebted for any favorable
construction I can put upon your folly, and who has induced me to
receive you here to-day."
"If I knew, madam, that such influence had been necessary, I should
have hesitated before I laid myself under so deep an obligation to his
Lordship, to whose name and merits I confess myself a stranger."
"I am but too happy, Captain Forester," interposed the Earl, "if any
little interest I possess in Lady Wallincourt's esteem enables me to
contribute to your reconciliation. I know the great delicacy of
an interference, in a case like the present, and how officious and
impertinent the most respectful suggestions must appear, when offered by
one who can lay no claim, at least to your good opinion."
A very significant emphasis on the word "your," a look towards my
mother, and a very meaning smile from her in reply, at once revealed to
me what, till then, I had not suspected,--that his Lordship meditated a
deeper influence over her Ladyship's heart than the mere reconciliation
of a truant son to her esteem.
"I believe, my Lord," said I, hastily, and I fear not without some
anger,--"I believe I should not have dared to decline your kind
influence in my behalf, had I suspected the terms on which you would
exert it. I really was not aware before that you possessed, so fully,
her Ladyship's confidence."
"If you read the morning papers, Captain Forester," said he, with the
blandest smile, "you could scarcely avoid learning that my presence here
is neither an intrusion nor an impertinence."
"My dear mother," cried I, forgetting all, save the long-continued grief
by which my father's memory was hallowed, "is this really the case?"
"I can forgive your astonishment," replied she, with a look of anger,
"that the qualities you hold so highly in your esteem should have met
favor from one so placed and gifted as the Earl of Netherby."
"Nay, madam; on the contrary. My difficulty is to think how any new
proffer of attachment could find reception in a heart I fondly thought
closed against such appeals; too full of its own memories of the past to
profane the recollection by--"
I hesitated and stopped. Another moment, and I would have uttered a word
which for worlds I would not have spoken.
My mother became suddenly pale as marble, and lay back in her chair
as if faint and sick. His Lordship adjusted his neckcloth and his
watch-chain, and walked towards the window, with an air of as much
awkwardness as so very courtly a personage could exhibit.
"You see, my Lord," said my mother,--and her voice trembled at every
word,--"you see, I was right: I told you how much this interview would
agitate and distress me."
"But it need not, madam," interposed I; "or, at all events, it may be
rendered very brief. I sought an opportunity of speaking to you, in the
hope that whatever impressions you may have received of my conduct in
Ireland were either exaggerated or unjust; that I might convince you,
however I may have erred in prudence or judgment, I have transgressed
neither in honor nor good faith."
"Vindications," said my mother, "are very weak things in the face of
direct facts. Did you, or did you not, resign your appointment on the
viceroy's staff--I stop not to ask with what scant courtesy--that you
might be free to rove over the country, on some knight-errant absurdity?
Did you, after having one disreputable quarrel in the same neighborhood,
again involve yourself and your name in an affair with a notorious
mob-orator and disturber, and thus become the 'celebrity' of the
newspapers for at least a fortnight? And lastly, when I hoped, by
absence from England, and foreign service, to erase the memory of
these follies--to give them no harsher name,--did you not refuse the
appointment, and without advice or permission sell out of the army
altogether?"
"Without adverting to the motives, madam, you have so kindly attributed
to me, I beg to say 'yes' to all your questions. I am no longer an
officer in his Majesty's service."
"Nor any longer a member of my family, sir," said my mother,
passionately; "at least so far as the will rests with me. A gentleman
so very independent in his principles is doubtless not less so in his
circumstances. You are entitled to five thousand pounds only, by your
father's will: this, if I mistake not, you have received and spent many
a day ago. I will not advert to what my original intentions in your
behalf were; they are recorded, however, in this paper, which you,
my Lord, have read." Here her Ladyship drew forth a document, like
a law-paper, while the Earl bowed a deep acquiescence, and muttered
something like--"Very generous and noble-minded, indeed!"
"Yes, sir," resumed my mother, "I had no other thought or object, save
in establishing you in a position suitable to your name and family; you
have thought fit to oppose my wishes on every point, and here I end the
vain struggle." So saying, she tore the paper in pieces, and threw the
fragments into the fire.
A deep silence ensued, which I, for many reasons, had no inducement
to break. The Earl coughed and hemmed three or four times, as though
endeavoring to hit upon something that might relieve the general
embarrassment, but my mother was again the first to speak.
"I have no doubt, sir, you have determined on some future career. I am
not indiscreet enough to inquire what; but that you may not enter upon
it quite unprovided, I have settled upon you the sum of four hundred
pounds yearly. Do not mistake me, nor suppose that this act proceeds
from any lingering hope on my part that you will attempt to retrace your
false steps, and recover the lost place in my affection. I am too well
acquainted with the family gift of determination, as it is flatteringly
styled, to think so. You owe this consideration entirely to the kind
interference of the Earl of Netherby. Nay, my Lord, it is but fair that
you should have any merit the act confers, where you have incurred all
the responsibility."
"I will relieve his Lordship of both," said I. "I beg to decline your
Ladyship's generosity and his Lordship's kindness, with the self-same
feeling of respect."
"My dear Captain Forester, wait one moment," said Lord Netherby, taking
my arm. "Let me speak to you, even for a few moments."
"You mistake him, my Lord," said my mother, with a scornful smile, while
she arose to leave the room,--"you mistake him much."
"Pray hear me out," said Lord Netherby, taking my hand in both his own.
"It is no time, nor a case for any rash resolves," whispered he; "Lady
Wallincourt has been misinformed,--her mind has been warped by stories
of one kind or other. Go to her, explain fully and openly everything."
"Her Ladyship is gone, my Lord," exclaimed I, stopping him.
Yes, she had left the room while we were yet speaking. This was my
last adieu from my mother! I remember little more, though Lord Netherby
detained me still some time, and spoke with much kindness; indeed,
throughout, his conduct was graceful and good-natured.
Why should I weary you longer? Why speak of the long dreary night,
and the longer day that followed this scene,--swayed by different
impulses,-now hoping and fearing alternately,--not daring to seek
counsel from my friends, because I well knew what worldly advice would
be given,--I was wretched. In the very depth of my despondency, like a
ray of sunlight darting through some crevice of a prisoner's cell, came
your own words to me, "Be a soldier in more than garb or name, be one
in the generous ardor of a bold career. Let it be your boast that you
started fairly in the race, and so distanced your competitors." I caught
at the suggestion with avidity. I was no more depressed or down-hearted.
I felt as if, throwing off my load of care, a better and a brighter day
was about to break for me; the same evening I left London for Plymouth,
and became a volunteer.
Before concluding these lines, I would ask why you tell me no more
of Miss Darcy than that "she is well, and, the reverse of her fortune
considered, in spirits." Am I to learn no more than that? Will you not
say if my name is ever spoken by or before her? How am I remembered? Has
time-have my changed fortunes softened her stern determination towards
me? Would that I could know this,--would that I could divine what may
lurk in her heart of compassionate pity for one who resigned all for
her love, and lost! With all my gratitude for your kindness, when I
well-nigh believed none remained in the world for me,
I am, yours in sincere affection,
Richard Forester.
I forgot to ask if you can read one strange mystery of this business, at
least so the words seem to imply. Lord Netherby said, when endeavoring
to dissuade me from leaving my mother's house, "Remember, Captain
Forester, that Lady Wallincourt's prejudices regarding your Irish
friends have something stronger than mere caprice to strengthen them.
You must not ask her to forget as well as forgive, all at once." Can you
interpret this riddle for me? for although at the time it made little
impression, it recurs to my mind now twenty times a day.
Here concluded Forester's letter. A single line in pencil was written
at the foot, and signed "M. D. ": "I am a bad prophet, or the volunteer
will turn out better than the aide-de-camp."
CHAPTER XV. A DINNER AT COM HEFFERNAN'S
When the Union was carried, and the new order of affairs in Ireland
assumed an appearance of permanence, a general feeling of discontent
began to exhibit itself in every class in the capital. The patriots
saw themselves neglected by the Government, without having reaped in
popularity a recompense for their independence. The mercantile interest
perceived, even already, the falling off in trade from the removal of a
wealthy aristocracy; and the supporters of the Minister, or such few as
still lingered in Dublin, began to suspect how much higher terms they
might have exacted for their adhesion, had they only anticipated the
immensity of the sacrifice to which they contributed.
Save that comparatively small number who had bargained for English
peerages and English rank, and had thereby bartered their nationality,
none were satisfied.
Even the moderate men--that intelligent fraction who believe that no
changes are fraught with one half the good or evil their advocates
or opponents imagine--even they were disappointed on finding that the
incorporation of the Irish Parliament with that of England was the
chief element of the new measure, and no more intimate or solid Union
contemplated. The shrewd men of every party saw not only how difficult
would be the future government of the country, but that the critical
moment was come which should decide into whose hands the chief influence
would fall. Among these speculators on the future, Mr. Heffernan held a
prominent place. No man knew better the secret machinery of office,
none had seen more of that game, half fair, half foul, by which an
administration is sustained. He knew, moreover, the character and
capability of every public man in Ireland, had been privy to their
waverings and hesitations, and even their bargains with the Crown; he
knew where gratified ambition had rendered a new peer indifferent to a
future temptation, and also where abortive negotiations had sowed the
seeds of a lingering disaffection.
To construct a new party from these scattered elements--a party which,
possessing wealth and station, had not yet tasted any of the sweets of
patronage--was the task he now proposed to himself. By this party, of
whom he himself was to be the organ, he hoped to control the Minister,
and support him by turns. Of those already purchased by the Government,
few would care to involve themselves once more in the fatigues of a
public life. Many would gladly repose on the rewards of their victory;
many would shrink from the obloquy their reappearance would inevitably
excite. Mr. Heffernan had then to choose his friends either from
that moderate section of politicians whom scruples of conscience
or inferiority of ability had left un-bought, or the more energetic
faction, suddenly called into existence by the success of the French
Revolution, and of which O'Halloran was the leader. For many reasons his
choice fell on the former. Not only because they possessed that standing
and influence which, derived from property, would be most regarded in
England, but that their direction and guidance would be an easier
task; whereas the others, more numerous and more needy, could only be
purchased by actual place or pension, while in O'Halloran Heffernan
would always have a dangerous rival, who, if he played subordinate for a
while, it would only be at the price of absolute rule hereafter.
From the moment Lord Castlereagh withdrew from Ireland, Mr. Heffernan
commenced his intrigue,--at first by a tour of visits through the
country, in which he contrived to sound the opinions of a great number
of persons, and subsequently by correspondence, so artfully sustained
as to induce many to commit themselves to a direct line of action which,
when discussing, they had never speculated on seeing realized.
With a subtlety of no common kind, and an indefatigable industry,
Heffernan labored in the cause during the summer and autumn, and with
such success that there was scarcely a county in Ireland where he had
not secured some leading adherent, while for many of the boroughs he had
already entered into plans for the support of new candidates of his own
opinions.
The views he put forward were simply these: Ireland can no longer be
governed by an oligarchy, however powerful. It must be ruled either by
the weight and influence of the country gentlemen, or left to the mercy
of the demagogue. The gentry must be rewarded for their adhesion, and
enabled to maintain their pre-eminence, by handing over to them the
patronage, not in part or in fractions, but wholly and solely. Every
civil appointment must be filled up by them,--the Church, the law, the
revenue, the police, must all be theirs. "The great aristocracy,"
said he, "have obtained the marquisates and earldoms; bishoprics and
governments have rewarded their services. It is now our turn; and
if our prizes be less splendid and showy, they are not devoid of some
sterling qualities.
"To make Ireland ungovernable without us must be our aim and object,--to
embarrass and confound every administration, to oppose the ministers,
pervert their good objects, and exaggerate their bad. Pledged to no
distinct line of acting, we can be patriotic when it suits us, and
declaim on popular rights when nothing better offers. Acting in concert,
and diffusing an influence in every county and town and corporation,
what ministry can long resist us, or what government anxious for office
would refuse to make terms with us? With station to influence society,
wealth to buy the press, activity to watch and counteract our enemies, I
see nothing which can arrest our progress. We must and will succeed."
Such was the conclusion of a letter he wrote to one of his most trusted
allies,--a letter written to invite his presence in Dublin, where a
meeting of the leading men of the new party was to be held, and their
engagements for the future determined upon.
For this meeting Heffernan made the greatest exertions, not only that it
might include a great portion of the wealth and influence of the land,
but that a degree of clat and splendor should attend it, the more
likely to attract notice from the secrecy maintained as to its object
and intention. Many were invited on the consideration of the display
their presence would make in the capital; and not a few were tempted by
the opportunity for exhibiting their equipages and their liveries at a
season when the recognized leaders of fashion were absent.
It is no part of our object to dwell on this well-known intrigue, one
which at the time occupied no small share of public attention, and even
excited the curiosity and the fears of the Government. Enough when
we say that Mr. Heffernan's disappointments were numerous and severe.
Letters of apology, some couched in terms of ambiguous cordiality,
others less equivocally cold, came pouring in for the last fortnight.
The noble lord destined to fill the chair regretted deeply that domestic
affairs of a most pressing nature would not permit of his presence. The
baronet who should move the first resolution would be compelled to be
absent from Ireland; the seconder was laid up with the gout. Scarcely
a single person of influence had promised his attendance: the greater
number had given vague and conditional replies, evidently to gain time
and consult the feeling of their country neighbors.
These refusals and subterfuges were a sad damper to Mr. Heffernan's
hopes. To any one less sanguine, they would have led to a total
abandonment of the enterprise. He, however, was made of sterner stuff,
and resolved, if the demonstration could effect no more, it could at
least be used as a threat to the Government,--a threat of not less
power because its terrors were involved in mystery. With all these
disappointments time sped on, the important day arrived, and the great
room of the Rotunda, hired specially for the occasion, was crowded by a
numerous assemblage, to whose proceedings no member of the public press
was admitted. Notice was given that in due time a declaration, drawn
up by a committee, would be published; but until then the most profound
secrecy wrapped their objects and intentions.
The meeting, convened for one o'clock, separated at five; and, save the
unusual concourse of carriages, and the spectacle of some liveries new
to the capital, there seemed nothing to excite the public attention. No
loud-tongued orator was heard from without, nor did a single cheer mark
the reception of any welcome sentiment; and as the members withdrew, the
sarcastic allusions of the mob intimated that they were supposed to be
a new sect of "Quakers." Heffernan's carriage was the last to leave the
door; and it was remarked, as he entered it, that he looked agitated and
ill,--signs which few had ever remarked in him before. He drove rapidly
home, where a small and select party of friends had been invited by him
to dinner.
He made a hasty toilet, and entered the drawing-room a few moments after
the first knock at the street-door announced the earliest guest. It
was an old and intimate friend, Sir Giles St. George, a south-country
baronet of old family, but small fortune, who for many years had
speculated on Heffernan's interest in his behalf. He was a shrewd,
coarse man, who from eccentricity and age had obtained a species of
moral "writ of ease," absolving him from all observance of the usages
in common among all well-bred people,--a privilege he certainly did not
seem disposed to let rust from disuse.
"Well, Con," said he, as he stood with his back to the fire, and
his hands deeply thrust into his breeches-pockets,--"well, Con, your
Convention has been a damnable failure. Where the devil did you get up
such a rabble of briefless barristers, ungowned attorneys, dissenting
ministers, and illegitimate sons? I'd swear, out of your seven hundred,
there were not five-and-twenty possessed of a fifty-pound freehold,--not
five who could defy the sheriff in their own county."
Heffernan made no reply, but with arms crossed, and his head leaned
forward, walked slowly up and down the room, while the other resumed,--
"As for old Killowen, who filled the chair, that was enough to damn
the whole thing. One of King James's lords, forsooth!--why, man, what
country gentleman of any pretension could give precedence to a fellow
like that, who neither reads, writes, nor speaks the King's English--and
your great gun, Mr. Hickman O'Reilly--"
"False-hearted scoundrel!" muttered Heffernan, half aloud.
"Faith he may be, but he's the cleverest of the pack. I liked his speech
well. There was good common sense in his asking for some explicit plan
of proceeding,--what you meant to do, and how to do it. Eh, Con, that
was to the point."
"To the point!" repeated Heffernan, scornfully; "yes, as the declaration
of an informer, that he will betray his colleagues, is to the point."
"And then his motion to admit the reporters," said St. George, as with a
malignant pleasure he continued to suggest matter of annoyance.
"He 's mistaken, however," said Heffernan, with a sarcastic bitterness
that came from his heart. "The day for rewards is gone by. He 'll never
get the baronetcy by supporting the Government in this way. It is the
precarious, uncertain ally they look more after. There is consummate
wisdom, Giles, in not saying one's last word. O'Reilly does not seem
aware of that. Here come Godfrey and Hume," said he, as he looked out of
the window. "Burton has sent an apology."
"And who is our sixth?"
"O'Reilly--and here's his carriage. See how the people stare admiringly
at his green liveries; they scarcely guess that the owner is meditating
a change of color. Well, Godfrey, in time for once. Why, Robert, you
seem quite fagged with your day's exertion. Ah! Mr. O'Reilly, delighted
to find you punctual. Let me present you to my old friend Sir Giles St.
George. I believe, gentlemen, you need no introduction to each other.
Burton has disappointed us; so we may order dinner at once."
As Mr. Heffernan took the head of the table, not a sign of his former
chagrin remained to be seen. An air of easy conviviality had entirely
replaced his previous look of irritation, and in his laughing eye and
mellow voice there seemed the clearest evidence of a mind perfectly at
ease, and a spirit well disposed to enjoy the pleasures of the board. Of
his guests, Godfrey was a leading member of the Irish bar, a man of good
private fortune and a large practice, who, out of whim rather than from
any great principle, had placed himself in contiuual opposition to the
Government, and felt grievously injured and affronted when the minister,
affecting to overlook his enmity, offered him a silk gown. Hume was a
Commissioner of Customs, and had been so for some thirty years; his only
ambition in life being to retire on his full salary, having previously
filled his department with his sons and grandsons. The gentle
remonstrances of the Secretary against his plan had made him one of
the disaffected, but without courage to avow or influence to direct his
animosity. Of Mr. O'Reilly the reader needs no further mention. Such was
the party who now sat at a table most luxuriously supplied; for although
Heffeman was very far from a frequent inviter, yet his dinners were
admirably arranged, and the excellence of his wine was actually a
mystery among the bons vivants of the capital. The conversation turned
of course upon the great event of the day; but so artfully was the
subject managed by Heffeman that the discussion took rather the shape of
criticism on the several speakers, and their styles of delivery, than on
the matter of the meeting itself.
"How eager the Castle folks will be to know all about it!" said
Godfrey. "Cooke is, I hear, in a sad taking to learn the meaning of the
gathering."
"I fancy, sir," said St. George, "they are more indifferent than you
suppose. A meeting held by individuals of a certain rank and property,
and convened with a certain degree of ostentation, can scarcely ever be
formidable to a government."
"You forget the Volunteers," said Heffernan.
"No, I remember their assembling well enough, and a very absurd business
they made of it. The Bishop of Downe was the only man of nerve amongst
them; and as for Lord Charlemont, the thought of an attainder was never
out of his head till the whole association was disbanded."
"They were very formidable, indeed," said Heffernan, gravely. "I can
assure you that the Government were far more afraid of their defenders
than of the French."
"A government that is ungrateful enough to neglect its supporters,"
chimed in Hume, "men that have spent their best years in its service,
can scarcely esteem itself very secure. In the department I belong to
myself, for instance--"
"Yours is a very gross case," interrupted Heffernan, who from old
experience knew what was coming, and wished to arrest it.
"Thirty-four years, come November next, have I toiled as a
commissioner."
"Unpaid!" exclaimed St. George, with a well-simulated horror,--"unpaid!"
"No, sir; not without my salary, of course. I never heard of any man
holding an office in the Revenue for the amusement it might afford him.
Did you, Godfrey?"
"As for me," said the lawyer, "I spurn their patronage. I well know the
price men pay for such favors."
"What object could it be to you," said Heffernan, "to be made
Attorney-General or placed on the bench, a man independent in every
seuse? So I said to Castlereagh, when he spoke on the subject: 'Never
mind Godfrey,' said I, 'he'll refuse your offers; you'll only offend him
by solicitation;' and when he mentioned the 'Rolls'--"
Here Heffernan paused, and filled his glass leisurely. An interruption
contrived to stimulate Godfrey's curiosity, and which perfectly
succeeded, as he asked in a voice of tremulous eagerness,--
"Well, what did you say?"
"Just as I replied before,--'he 'll refuse you.'"
"Quite right, perfectly right; you have my unbounded gratitude for the
answer," said Godfrey, swallowing two bumpers as rapidly as he could
fill them.
"Very different treatment from what I met,--an old and tried supporter
of the party," said Hume, turning to O'Reilly and opening upon him the
whole narrative of his long-suffering neglect.
"It's quite clear, then," said St. George, "that we are agreed,--the
best thing for us would be a change of Ministry."
"I don't think so at all," interposed Heffernan.
"Why, Con," interrupted the baronet, "they should have you at any
price,--however these fellows have learned the trick,--the others know
nothing about it You 'd be in office before twenty-four hours."
"So I might to-morrow," said Heffernan. "There's scarcely a single post
of high emolument and trust that I have not been offered and refused.
The only things I ever stipulated for in all my connection with the
Government were certain favors for my personal friends." Here he looked
significantly towards O'Reilly; but the glance was intercepted by the
commissioner, who cried out,--"Well, could they say I had no claim?
Could they deny thirty-four years of toil and slavery?"
"And in the case for which I was most interested," resumed Heffernan,
not heeding the interruption, "the favor I sought would have been
more justly bestowed from the rank and merits of the party than as a
recompense for any sen-ices of mine."
"I won't say that, Heffernan," said Hume, with a look of modesty, who
with the most implicit good faith supposed he was the party alluded
to; "I won't go that far; but I will and must say, that after
four-and-thirty years as a commissioner--"
"A man must have laid by a devilish pretty thing for the rest of his
life," said St. George, who felt all the bitterness of a narrow income
augmented by the croaking complaints of the well-salaried official.
"Well, I hope better days are coming for all of us," said Heffernan,
desirous of concluding the subject ere it should take an untoward turn.
"You have got a very magnificent seat in the west, sir," said St.
George, addressing O'Reilly, who during the whole evening had done
little more than assent or smile concurrence with the several speakers.
"The finest thing in Ireland," interrupted Heffernan.
"Nay, that is saying too much," said O'Reilly, with a look of half-real,
half-affected bashfulness. "The abbey certainly stands well, and the
timber is well grown."
"Are you able to see Clew Bay from the small drawing-room still?--for
I remember remarking that the larches on the side of the glen would
eventually intercept the prospect."
"You know the Abbey, then?" asked O'Reilly, forgetting to answer the
question addressed to him.
"Oh, I knew it well. My family is connected-distantly, I believe--with
the Darcys, and in former days we were intimate. A very sweet place
it was; I am speaking of thirty years ago, and of course it must have
improved since that."
"My friend here has given it every possible opportunity," said
Heffernan, with a courteous inclination of the head.
"I've no doubt of it," said St. George; "but neither money nor bank
securities will make trees grow sixty feet in a twelvemonth. The
improvements I allude to were made by Maurice Darcy's father; he sunk
forty thousand pounds in draining, planting, subsoiling, and what not.
He left a rent-charge in his will to continue his plans; and Maurice and
his son--what's the young fellow called?--Lionel, isn't it?--well, they
are, or rather they were, bound to expend a very heavy sum annually on
the property."
A theme less agreeable to O'Reilly's feelings could scarcely have been
started; and though Heffernan saw as much, he did not dare to interrupt
it suddenly, for fear of any unpalatable remark from St. George. Whether
from feeling that the subject was a painful one, or that he liked to
indulge his loquacity in detailing various particulars of the Darcys and
their family circumstances, the old man went on without ceasing,--now
narrating some strange caprice of an ancestor in one century, now
some piece of good fortune that occurred to another. "You know the old
prophecy in the family, I suppose, Mr. O'Reilly?" said he, "though, to
be sure, you are not very likely to give it credence."
"I scarcely can say I remember what you allude to."
"By Jove, I thought every old woman in the west would have told it to
you. How is this the doggerel runs--ay, here it is,--
'A new name in this house shall never begin
Till twenty-one Darcys have died in Gwynne.'
Now, they say that, taking into account all of the family who have
fallen in battle, been lost at sea, and so on, only eleven of the stock
died at the Abbey."
Although O'Reilly affected to smile at the old rhyme, his cheek became
deadly pale, and his hand shook as he lifted the glass to his lips. It
was no vulgar sense of fear, no superstitious dread that moved his cold
and calculating spirit, but an emotion of suppressed anger that the
ancient splendor of the Darcys should be thus placed side by side with
his own unhonored and unknown family.
"I don't think I ever knew one of these good legends have even so much
of truth,--though the credit is now at an end," said Heffernau, gayly.
"I'll engage old Darcy's butler wouldn't agree with you," replied
St. George. "Ay, and Maurice himself had a great dash of old Irish
superstition in him, for a clever, sensible fellow as he was."
"It only remains for my friend here, then, to fit up a room for the
Darcys and invite them to die there at their several conveniences," said
Con, laughing. "I see no other mode of fulfilling the destiny."
"There never was a man played his game worse," resumed St. George, who
with a pertinacious persistence continued the topic. "He came of age
with a large unencumbered estate, great family influence, and a very
fair share of abilities. It was the fashion to say he had more, but I
never thought so; and now, look at him!"
"He had very heavy losses at play," said Heffernan, "certainly."
"What if he had? They never could have materially affected a fortune
like his. No, no. I believe 'Honest Tom' finished him,--raising money to
pay off old debts, and then never clearing away the liabilities. What a
stale trick, and how invariably it succeeds!"
"You do not seem, sir, to take into account an habitually expensive mode
of living," insinuated O'Reilly, quietly.
"An item, of course, but only an item in the sum total," replied St.
George. "No man can eat and drink above ten thousand a year, and Darcy
had considerably more. No; he might have lived as he pleased, had he
escaped the acquaintance of honest Tom Gleeson. By the by, Con, is there
any truth in the story they tell about this fellow, and that he really
was more actuated by a feeling of revenge towards Darcy than a desire
for money?"
"I never heard the story. Did you, Mr. O'Reilly?" asked Heffernan.
"Never," said O'Reilly, affecting an air of unconcern, very ill
consorting with his pale cheek and anxious eye.
"The tale is simply this: that, as Gleeson waxed wealthy, and began to
assume a position in life, he one day called on the Knight to request
him to put his name up for ballot at 'Daly's.' Darcy was thunderstruck,
for it was in those days when the Club was respectable; but still
the Knight had tact enough to dissemble his astonishment, and would
doubtless have got through the difficulty had it not been for Bagenal
Daly, who was present, and called out, 'Wait till Tuesday, Maurice, for
I mean to propose M'Cleery, the breeches-maker, and then the thing won't
seem so remarkable!' Gleeson smiled and slipped away, with an oath to
his own heart, to be revenged on both of them. If there be any truth in
the story, he did ruin Daly, by advising some money-lender to buy up all
his liabilities."
"I must take the liberty to correct you, sir," said O'Reilly, actually
trembling with anger. "If your agreeable anecdote has no better
foundation than the concluding hypothesis, its veracity is inferior to
its ingenuity. The gentleman you are pleased to call a money-lender is
my father; the conduct you allude to was simply the advance of a large
sum on mortgage."
"Foreclosed, like Darcy's, perhaps," said St. George, his irascible face
becoming blood-red with passion.
"Come, come, Giles, you really can know nothing of the subject you are
talking of; besides, to Mr. O'Reilly the matter is a personal one."
"So it is," muttered St. George; "and if report speaks truly, as
unpleasant as personal."
This insulting remark was not heard by O'Reilly, who was deeply engaged
in explaining to the lawyer beside him the minute legal details of the
circumstance.
"Shrewd a fellow as Gleeson was," said St. George, interrupting
O'Reilly, by addressing the lawyer, "they say he has left some flaw open
in the matter, and that Darcy may recover a very large portion of the
lost estate."
"Yes; if for instance this bond should be destroyed. He might move in
Equity--"
"He 'd move heaven and earth, sir, if it's Bagenal Daly you mean," said
St. George, who had stimulated his excitement by drinking freely. "Some
will tell you that he is a steadfast, firm friend; but I 'll vouch for
it, a more determined enemy never drew breath."
"Very happily for the world we live in, sir," said O'Reilly, "there are
agencies more powerful than the revengeful and violent natures of such
men as Mr. Daly."
"He's every jot as quick-sighted as he's determined; and when he wagered
a hogshead of claret that Darcy would one day sit again at the head of
his table in Gwynne Abbey--"
"Did he make such a bet?" asked O'Reilly, with a faint laugh.
"Yes; he walked down the club-room, and offered it to any one present,
and none seemed to fancy it; but young Kelly, of Kildare, who, being a
new member just come in, perhaps thought there might be some clat in
booking a bet with Bagenal Daly."
"Would you like to back his opinion, sir?" said O'Reilly, with a
simulated softness of voice; "or although I rarely wager, I should have
no objection to convenience you here, leaving the amount entirely at
your option."
"Which means," said St. George, as his eyes sparkled with wine and
passion, "that the weight of your purse is to tilt the beam against
that of my opinion. Now, I beg leave to tell you--"
"Let me interrupt you, Giles; I never knew my Burgundy disagree with any
man before, but I d smash every bottle of it to-morrow if I thought it
could make so pleasant a fellow so wrong-headed and unreasonable. What
say you if we qualify it with some cognac and water?"
"Maurice Darcy is my relative," said St. George, pushing his glass
rudely from him, "and I have yet to learn the unreasonableness of
wishing well to a member of one's own family. His father and mine were
like brothers! Ay, by Jove! I wonder what either of them would think of
the changes time has wrought in their sons' fortunes." His voice dropped
into a low, muttering sound, while he mumbled on, "One a beggar and an
exile, the other"--here his eye twinkled with a malicious intelligence
as he glanced around the board--"the other the guest of Con Heffernan."
He arose as he spoke, and fortunately the noise thus created prevented
his words being overheard. "You 're right, Con," said he, "that Burgundy
has been too much for me. The wine is unimpeachable, notwithstanding."
The others rose also; although pressed in all the customary hospitality
of the period to have "one bottle more," they were resolute in taking
leave, doubtless not sorry to escape the risk of any unpleasant
termination to the evening's entertainment.
The lawyer and the commissioner agreed to see St. George home; for
although long seasoned to excesses, age had begun to tell upon him, and
his limbs were scarcely more under control than his tongue. O'Reilly had
dropped his handkerchief, he was not sure whether in the drawing or the
dinner room, and this delayed him a few moments behind the rest; and
although he declared, at each moment, the loss of no consequence, and
repeated his "good-night," Heffernan held his hand and would not suffer
him to leave.
"Try under Mr. O'Reilly's chair, Thomas.--Singular specimen of a by-gone
day, the worthy baronet!" said he, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Would
you believe it, he and Darcy have not been on speaking terms for thirty
years, and yet how irritable be showed himself in his behalf!"
"He seems to know something of the family affairs, however," said
O'Reilly, cautiously.
"Not more than club gossip; all that about Daly and his wager is a week
old."
"I hope my father may never hear it," said O'Reilly, compassionately;
"he has all the irritability of age, and these reports invariably urge
him on to harsh measures, which, by the least concession, he would
never have pursued. The Darcys, indeed, have to thank themselves for
any severity they have experienced at our hands. Teasing litigation and
injurious reports of us have met all our efforts at conciliation."
"A compromise would have been much better, and more reputable for
all parties," said Heffernan, as he turned to stir the fire, and thus
purposely averted his face while making the remark.
"So it would," said O'Reilly, hurriedly; then stopping abruptly short,
he stammered out, "I don't exactly know what you mean by the word, but
if it implies a more amicable settlement of all disputed points between
us, I perfectly agree with you."
Heffernan never spoke: a look of cool self-possession and significance
was all his reply. It seemed to say, "Don't hope to cheat me; however,
you may rely on my discretion."
"I declare my handkerchief is in my pocket all this while," said
O'Reilly, trying to conceal his rising confusion with a laugh.
"Good-night, once more--you 're thinking of going over to England
to-morrow evening?"
"Yes, if the weather permits, I 'll sail at seven. Can I be of any
service to you?"
"Perhaps so: I may trouble you with a commission. Good-night."
"So, Mr. Hickman, you begin to feel the hook! Now let us see if we
cannot play the fish without letting him know the weakness of the
tackle!" said Heffernan, as he looked after him, and then slowly
retraced his steps to the now deserted drawing-room.
"How frequently will chance play the game more skilfully for us than all
our cleverness!" said he, while he paced the room alone. "That old bear,
St. George, who might have ruined everything, has done me good service.
O'Reilly's suspicions are awakened, his fears are aroused; could I only
find a clew to his terror, I could hold him as fast by his fears as by
this same baronetcy. This baronetcy," added he, with a sneering laugh,
"that I am to negotiate for, and--be refused!"
With this sentiment of honest intentions on his lips, Mr. Heffernan
retired to rest, and, if this true history is to be credited, to sleep
soundly till morning.
CHAPTER XVI. PAUL DEMPSEY'S WALK
With the most eager desire to accomplish his mission, Paul Dempsey did
not succeed in reaching "The Corvy" until late on the day after Miss
Daly's visit. He set out originally by paths so secret and circuitous
that he lost his way, and was obliged to pass his night among the hills,
where, warned by the deep thundering of the sea that the cliffs were
near, he was fain to await daybreak ere he ventured farther. The
trackless waste over which his way led was no bad emblem of poor Paul's
mind, as, cowering beneath a sand-hill, he shivered through the long
hours of night. Swayed by various impulses, he could determine on no
definite line of action, and wavered and doubted and hesitated, till his
very brain was addled by its operations.
At one moment he was disposed, like good Launcelot Gobbo, to "run for
it," and, leaving Darcy and all belonging to him to their several fates,
to provide for his own safety; when suddenly a dim vision of meeting
Maria Daly in this world or the next, and being called to account for
his delinquency, routed such determinations. Then he revelled in the
glorious opportunity for gossip afforded by the whole adventure. How he
should astonish Coleraine and its neighborhood by his revelations of
the Knight and his family! Gossip in all its moods and tenses, from
the vague indicative of mere innuendo, to the full subjunctive of open
defamation! Not indeed that Mr. Dempsey loved slander for itself; on
the contrary, his temperament was far more akin to kindliness than its
opposite; but the passion for retailing one's neighbor's foibles or
misfortunes is an impulse that admits no guidance; and as the gambler
would ruin his best friend at play, so would the professed gossip
calumniate the very nearest and dearest to him on earth. There are in
the social as in the mercantile world characters who never deal in the
honest article of commerce, but have a store of damaged, injured, or
smuggled goods, to be hawked about surreptitiously, and always to be
sold in the "strictest secrecy." Mr. Dempsey was a pedler in this wise,
and, if truth must be told, he did not dislike his trade.
And yet, at moments, thoughts of another and more tender kind were
wafted across Paul's mind, not resting indeed long enough to make any
deep impression, but still leaving behind them, as pleasant thoughts
always will, little twilights of happiness. Paul had been touched--a
mere graze, skin deep, but still touched--by Helen Darcy's beauty and
fascinations. She had accompanied him more than once on the piano while
he sang, and whether the long-fringed eyelashes and the dimpled cheek
had done the mischief, or that the thoughtful tact with which she
displayed Paul's good notes and glossed over his false ones had won his
gratitude, certain is it he had already felt a very sensible regard for
the young lady, and more than once caught himself, when thinking about
her, speculating on the speedy demise of Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey's
Grove, and all the consequences that might ensue therefrom.
If the enjoyment Mr. Dempsey's various peculiarities afforded Helen
suggested on her part the semblance of pleasure in his society, Paul
took these indications all in his own favor, and even catechized himself
how far he might be deemed culpable in winning the affections of a
charming young lady, so long as his precarious condition forbid all
thought of matrimony. Now, however, that he knew who the family really
were, such doubts were much allayed; for, as he wisely remarked to
himself, "Though they are ruined, there 's always nice picking in the
wreck of an Indiaman!" Such were the thoughts by which his way was
beguiled, when late in the afternoon he reached "The Corvy."
Lady Eleanor and her daughter were out walking when Mr. Dempsey arrived,
and, having cautiously reconnoitred the premises, ventured to approach
the door. All was quiet and tranquil about the cottage; so, reassured by
this, he peered through the window into the large hall, where a cheerful
fire now blazed and shed a mellow glow over the strange decorations of
the chamber. Mr. Dempsey had often desired an opportunity of examining
these curiosities at his leisure. Not indeed prompted thereto by any
antiquarian taste, but, from a casual glance at the inscriptions, he
calculated on the amount of private history of the Dalys he should
obtain. Stray and independent facts, it is true, but to be arranged by
the hand of a competent and clever commentator.
With cautious hand he turned the handle of the door and entered.
There he stood, in the very midst of the coveted objects; and never did
humble bookworm gaze on the rich titles of an ample library with more
enthusiastic pleasure. He drew a long breath to relieve his overburdened
heart, and glutted his eyes in ecstasy on every side. Enthusiasm takes
its tone from individuality, and doubtless Mr. Dempsey felt at that
moment something as Belzoni might, when, unexpectedly admitted within
some tomb of the Pyramids, he found himself about to unravel some secret
history of the Pharaohs.
"Now for it," said he, half aloud; "let us do the thing in order; and
first of all, what have we here?" He stooped and read an inscription
attached to a velvet coat embroidered with silver,--
"Coat worn by B. D. in his duel with Colonel Matthews,--62,--the
puncture under the sword-arm being a tierce outside the guard; a very
rare point, and which cost the giver seriously."
"He killed Matthews, of course," added Dempsey; "the passage can mean
nothing else, so let us be accurate as to fact and date."
So saying, he proceeded to note down the circumstance in a little
memorandum-book. "So!" added he, as he read his note over; "now for the
next. What can this misshapen lump of metal mean?"
"A piece of brute gold, presented with twelve female slaves by the
chiefs of Doolawochyeekeka on B. D.'s assuming the sovereignty of the
island."
"Brute gold," said Mr. Dempsey; "devilish little of the real thing
about it, I'll be sworn! I suppose the ladies were about equally refined
and valuable."
"Glove dropped by the Infanta Donna Isidore within the arena at Madrid,
a few moments after Ruy Peres da Castres was gored to death."
A prolonged low whistle from Mr. Dempsey was the only comment he made on
this inscription; while he stooped to examine the fragment of a bull's
horn, from which a rag of scarlet cloth was hanging. The inscription
ran, "Portion of horn broken as the bull fell against the barrier of the
circus. The cloth was part of Da Castres' vest."
A massive antique helmet, of immense size and weight, lay on the floor
beside this. It was labelled, "Casque of Rudolf v. Hapsbourg, presented
to B. D. after the tilt at Regensburg by Edric Conrad Wilhelm Kur Furst
von Bavera, a.d. 1750."
A splendid goblet of silver gilt, beautifully chased and ornamented, was
inscribed on the metal as being the gift of the Doge of Venice to his
friend Bagenal Daly; and underneath was written on a card, "This cup
was drained to the bottom at a draught by B. D. after a long and deep
carouse, the liquor strong 'Vino di Cypro.' The Doge tried it and
failed; the mark within shows how far he drank."
"By Jove! what a pull!" exclaimed Dempsey, who, as he peered into
the capacious vessel, looked as if he would not object to try his own
prowess at the feat.
Wonderment at this last achievement seemed completely to have taken
possession of Mr. Dempsey; for while his eyes ranged over weapons
of every strange form and shape,--armor, idols, stuffed beasts and
birds,--they invariably came back to the huge goblet with an admiring
wonder that showed that here at least there was an exploit whose merits
he could thoroughly appreciate.
"A half-gallon can is nothing to it!" muttered he, as he replaced it on
its bracket.
The reflection was scarcely uttered, when the quick tramp of a horse and
the sound of wheels without startled him. He hastened to the window just
in time to perceive a jaunting-car drive up to the wicket, from which
three men descended. Two were common-looking fellows in dark upper
coats and glazed hats; the third, better dressed, and with a
half-gentlemanlike air, seemed the superior. He threw off a loose
travelling-coat, and discovered, to Mr. Dempsey's horror, the features
of his late patient at Larne, the sheriff's officer from Dublin. Yes,
there was no doubt about it. That smart, conceited look, the sharp and
turned-up nose, the scrubby whisker, proclaimed him as the terrible
Anthony Nickie, of Jervas Street, a name which Mr. Dempsey had read on
his portmanteau before guessing how its owner was concerned in his own
interests.
What a multitude of terrors jostled each other in his mind as the men
approached the door, and what resolves did he form and abandon in the
same moment! To escape by the rear of the house while the enemy was
assailing the front, to barricade the premises and stand a siege, to arm
himself--and there was a choice of weapons--and give battle, were all
rapid impulses no sooner conceived than given up. A loud summons of the
door-bell announced his presence; and ere the sounds died away, Tate's
creaking footstep and winter cough resounded along the corridor. Mr.
Dempsey threw a last despairing glance around, and the thought flashed
across him, how happily would he exchange his existence with any of the
grim images and uncouth shapes that grinned and glared on every side,
ay, even with that saw-mouthed crocodile that surmounted the chimney!
Quick as his eye traversed the chamber, he fancied that the savage
animals were actually enjoying his misery, and Sandy's counterpart
appeared to show a diabolical glee at his wretched predicament. It
was at this instant he caught sight of the loose folds of the Indian
blanket, which enveloped Bagenal Daly's image. The danger was too
pressing for hesitation; he stepped into the canoe, and cowering down
under the warlike figure, awaited his destiny. Scarcely had the drapery
closed around him when Tate admitted the new arrival.
"'The Corvy? '" said Mr. Nickie to the old butler, who with decorous
ceremony bowed low before him. "'The Corvy,' ain't it?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tate.
"All right, Mac," resumed Nickie, turning to the elder of his two
followers, who had closely dogged him to the door. "Bring that
carpet-bag and the small box off the car, and tell the fellow he 'll
have time to feed his horse at that cabin on the road-side."
He added something in a whisper, too low for Tate to hear, and then,
taking the carpet-bag, he flung it carelessly in a corner, while he
walked forward and deposited the box on the table before the fire.
"His honor is coming to dine, maybe?" asked Tate, respectfully; for old
habit of his master's hospitality had made the question almost a matter
of course, while age had so dimmed his eyesight that even Anthony Nickie
passed with him for a gentleman.
"Coming to dine," repeated Nickie, with a coarse laugh; "that's a
bargain there 's always two words to, my old boy. I suppose you 've
heard it is manners to wait to be asked, eh?--without," added he, after
a second's pause,--"without I 'm to take this as an invitation."
"I believe your honor might, then," said Tate, with a smile. "'Tis many
a one I kept again the family came home for dinner, and sorrow word of
it they knew till they seen them dressed in the drawing-room! And the
dinner-table!" said Tate, with a sigh, half in regret over the past,
half preparing himself with a sufficiency of breath for a lengthened
oration,-"the dinner-table! it's wishing it I am still! After laying for
ten, or maybe twelve, his honor would come in and say, 'Tate, we 'll be
rather crowded here, for here 's Sir Gore Molony and his family. You 'll
have to make room for five more.' Then Miss Helen would come springing
in with, 'Tate, I forgot to say Colonel Martin and his officers are to
be here at dinner.' After that it would be my lady herself, in her own
quiet way, 'Mr. Sullivan,'-she nearly always called me that,--'could n't
you contrive a little space here for Lady Burke and Miss MacDonnel? But
the captain beat all, for he 'd come in after the soup was removed, with
five or six gentlemen from the hunt, splashed and wet up to their necks;
over he 'd go to the side-table, where I 'd have my knives and forks,
all beautiful, and may I never but he 'd fling some here, others there,
till he 'd clear a space away, and then he'd cry, 'Tate, bring back the
soup, and set some sherry here.' Maybe that wasn't the table for
noise, drinking wine with every one at the big table, and telling such
wonderful stories that the servants did n't know what they were doing,
listening to them. And the master--the heavens be about him!--sending me
over to get the names of the gentlemen, that he might ask them to take
wine with him. Oh, dear--oh, dear, I 'm sure I used to think my heart
was broke with it; but sure it's nigher breaking now that it's all past
and over."
"You seem to have had very jolly times of it in those days," said
Nickie.
"Faix, your honor might say so if you saw forty-eight sitting down
to dinner every day in the parlor for seven weeks running; and Master
Lionel--the captain that is--at the head of another table in the
library, with twelve or fourteen more,--nice youths they wor!"
While Tate continued his retrospections, Mr. Nickie had unlocked his
box, and cursorily throwing a glance over some papers, he muttered to
himself a few words, and then added aloud,--"Now for business."
CHAPTER XVII. MR. ANTHONY NICKIE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
We have said that Mr. Dempsey had barely time to conceal himself when
the door was opened,--so narrow indeed was his escape, that had the new
arrival been a second sooner, discovery would have been inevitable; as
it was, the pictorial Daly and Sandy rocked violently to and fro, making
their natural ferocity and grimness something even more terrible than
usual. Mr. Nickie remarked nothing of this. His first care was to divest
himself of certain travelling encumbrances, like one who proposes to
make a visit of some duration, and then, casting a searching look around
the premises, he proceeded,--
"Now for Mr. Darcy--"
"If ye 'r maning the Knight of Gwynne, sir, his honor--"
"Well, is his honor at home?" said the other, interrupting with a saucy
laugh.
"No, sir," said Tate, almost overpowered at the irreverence of his
questioner.
"When do you expect him, then,--in an hour or two hours?"
"He 's in England," said Tate, drawing a long breath.
"In England! What do you mean, old fellow? He has surely not left this
lately?"
"Yes, sir, 'twas the King sent for him, I heerd the mistress say."
A burst of downright laughter from the stranger stopped poor Tate's
explanation.
"Why, it's you his Majesty ought to have invited," cried Mr. Nickie,
wiping his eyes, "you yourself, man; devilish fit company for each
other you 'd be."
Poor Tate had not the slightest idea of the grounds on which the
stranger suggested his companionship for royalty, but he was not the
less insulted at the disparagement of his master thus implied.
"'T is little I know about kings or queens," growled out the old man,
"but they must be made of better clay than ever I seen yet, or they 're
not too good company for the Knight of Gwynne."
After a stare for some seconds, half surprise, half insolence, Nickie
said, "You can tell me, perhaps, if this cottage is called 'The Corvy'?"
"Ay, that's the name of it."
"The property of one Bagenal Daly, Esquire, isn't it?"
Tate nodded an assent.
"Maybe he is in England too," continued Nickie. "Perhaps it was the
Queen sent for him,--he 's a handsome man, I suppose?"
"Faix, you can judge for yourself," said Tate, "for there he is, looking
at you this minute."
Nickie turned about hastily, while a terrible fear shot through him that
his remarks might have been heard by the individual himself; for, though
a stranger to Daly personally, he was not so to his reputation for
hare-brained daring and rashness, nor was it till he had stared at the
wooden representative for some seconds that he could dispel his dread of
the original.
"Is that like him?" asked he, affecting a sneer.
"As like as two pays," said Tate, "barring about the eyes; Mr. Daly's
is brighter and more wild-looking. The Blessed Joseph be near us!"
exclaimed the old man, crossing himself devoutly, "one would think the
crayture knew what we were saying. Sorra lie in 't, there 's neither
luck nor grace in talking about you!"
This last sentiment, uttered in a faint voice, was called forth by an
involuntary shuddering of poor Mr. Dempsey, who, feeling that the whole
scrutiny of the party was directed towards his hiding-place, trembled so
violently that the plumes nodded, and the bone necklace jingled with the
motion.
While Mr. Nickie attributed these signs to the wind, he at the same
time conceived a very low estimate of poor Tate's understanding,--an
impression not altogether un-warranted by the sidelong and stealthy
looks which he threw at the canoe and its occupants.
"You seem rather afraid of Mr. Daly," said he, with a sneering laugh.
"And so would you be, too, if he was as near you as that chap is,"
replied Tate, sternly. "I 've known braver-looking men than either of us
not like to stand before him. I mind the day--"
Tate-s reminiscences were brought to a sudden stop by perceiving his
mistress and Miss Darcy approaching the cottage; and hastening forward,
he threw open the door, while by way of introduction he said,--
"A gentleman for the master, my Lady."
Lady Eleanor flushed up, and as suddenly grew pale. She guessed at once
the man and his errand.
"The Knight of Gwynne is from home, sir," said she, in a voice her
efforts could not render firm.
"I understand as much, madam," said Nickie, who was struggling to
recover the easy self-possession of his manner with the butler, but
whose awkwardness increased at every instant. "I believe you expect him
in a day or two?"
This was said to elicit if there might be some variance in the statement
of Lady Eleanor and her servant.
"You are misinformed, sir. He is not in the kingdom, nor do I anticipate
his speedy return."
"So I told him, my Lady," broke in the old butler. "I said the King
wanted him--"
"You may leave the room, Tate," said Lady Eleanor, who perceived with
annoyance the sneering expression old Tate's simplicity had called up in
the stranger's face. "Now, sir," said she, turning towards him, "may I
ask if your business with the Knight of Gwynne is of that nature that
cannot be transacted in his absence or through his law agent?"
"Scarcely, madam," said Nickie, with a sententious gravity, who, in the
vantage-ground his power gave him, seemed rather desirous of prolonging
the interview. "Mr. Darcy's part can scarcely be performed by deputy,
even if he found any one friendly enough to undertake it."
Lady Eleanor never spoke, but her hand grasped her daughter's more
closely, and they both stood pale and trembling with agitation. Helen
was the first to rally from this access of terror, and with an assured
voice she said,--
"You have heard, sir, that the Knight of Gwynne is absent; and as you
say your business is with him alone, is there any further reason for
your presence here?"
Mr. Nickie seemed for a moment taken aback by this unexpected speech,
and for a few seconds made no answer; his nature and his calling,
however, soon supplied presence of mind, and with an air of almost
insolent familiarity he answered,--
"Perhaps there may be, young lady." He turned, and opening the door,
gave a sharp whistle, which was immediately responded to by a cry of
"Here we are, sir," and the two followers already mentioned entered the
cottage.
"You may have heard of such a thing as an execution, ma'am," said
Nickie, addressing Lady Eleanor, in a voice of mock civility, "the
attachment of property for debt. This is part of my business at the
present moment."
"Do you mean here, sir--in this cottage?" asked Lady Eleanor, in an
accent scarcely audible from terror.
"Yes, ma'am, just so. The law allows fourteen days for redemption, with
payment of costs, until which time these men here will remain on the
premises; and although these gimcracks will scarcely pay my client's
costs, we must only make the best of it."
"But this property is not ours, sir. This cottage belongs to a friend."
"I am aware of that, ma'am. And that friend is about to answer for his
own sins on the present occasion, and not yours. These chattels are
attached as the property of Bagenal Daly, Esquire, at the suit of Peter
Hickman, formerly of Loughrea, surgeon and apothecary."
"Is Mr. Daly aware-does he know of these proceedings?" gasped Lady
Eleanor, faintly.
"In the multiplicity of similar affairs, ma'am, it is quite possible he
may have let this one escape his memory; for if I don't mistake, he
has two actions pending in the King's Bench, an answer in equity, three
cases of common assault, and a contempt ol court,--all upon his hands
for this present session, not to speak of what this may portend."
Here he took a newspaper from his pocket, and having doubled down a
paragraph, handed it to Lady Eleanor.
Overwhelmed by grief and astonishment, she made no motion to take the
paper, and Mr. Nickie, turning to Helen, read aloud,--
'"There is a rumor prevalent in the capital this morning, to which we
cannot, in the present uncertainty as to fact, make any more than a
guarded allusion. It is indeed one of those strange reports which we can
neither credit nor reject,--the only less probable thing than its truth
being that any one could deliberately fabricate so foul a calumny. The
story in its details we forbear to repeat; the important point, however,
is to connect the name of a well-known and eccentric late M. P. for an
Irish borough with the malicious burning of Newgate, and the subsequent
escape of the robber Freney.
"'The reasons alleged for this most extraordinary act are so marvellous,
absurd, and contradictory that we will not trifle with our readers'
patience by recounting them. The most generally believed one, however,
is, that the senator and the highwayman had maintained, for years past,
an intercourse of a very confidential nature, the threat to reveal
which, on his trial, Freney used as compulsory means of procuring his
escape.'
"Carrick goes further," added Mr. Nickie, as he restored the paper to
his pocket, "and gives the name of Bagenal Daly, Esq., in full; stating,
besides, that he sailed for Halifax on Sunday last."
Lady Eleanor and Helen exchanged looks of intelligent meaning, as he
finished the paragraph. To them Daly's hurried departure had a most
significant importance.
"This, ma'am, among other reasons," resumed Nickie, "was another hint to
my client to press his claim; for Mr. Daly's departure once known, there
would soon be a scramble for the little remnant of his property. With
your leave, I 'll now put the keepers in possession. Perhaps you 'll not
be offended," added he, in a lower tone, "if I remark that it's usual to
offer the men some refreshment. Come here, M'Dermot," said he, aloud,-"a
very respectable man, and married, too,--the ladies will make you
comfortable, Mick, and I 'm sure you 'll be civil and obliging."
A grunt and a gesture with both hands was the answer.
"Falls, we'll station you in the kitchen; mind you behave yourself.
"I 'll just take a slight inventory of the principal things,--a mere
matter of form, ma'am,--I know you 'll not remove one of them," said Mr.
Nickie, who, like most coarsely minded people, was never more offensive
than when seeking to be complimentary. He did not notice, however,
the indignant look with which his speech was received, but proceeded
regularly in his office.
There is something insupportably offensive and revolting in the
business-like way of those who execute the severities of the law. Like
the undertaker, they can sharpen the pangs of misfortune by vulgarizing
its sorrows. Lady Eleanor gazed, in but half-consciousness, at
the scene; the self-satisfied assurance of the chief, the ruffian
contented-ness of his followers, grating on every prejudice of her mind.
Not so Helen; more quick to reason on impressions, she took in, at a
glance, their sad condition, and saw that, in a few days at furthest,
they should be houseless as well as friendless in the world,--no one
near to counsel or to succor them! Such were her thoughts as almost
mechanically her eyes followed the sheriff's officer through the
chamber.
"Not that, sir," cried she, hastily, as he stopped in front of a
miniature of her father, and was noting it down in his list, among the
objects of the apartment,--"not that, sir."
"And why not, miss?" said Nickie, with a leer of impudent familiarity.
"It is a portrait of the Knight of Gwynne, sir, and our property."
"Sorry for it, miss, but the law makes no distinction with regard to
property on the premises. You can always recover by a replevin."
"Come, Helen, let us leave this," said Lady Eleanor, faintly; "come
away, child."
"You said, sir," said Helen, turning hastily about,--"you said, sir,
that these proceedings were taken at the suit of Dr. Hickman. Was it his
desire that we should be treated thus?"
"Upon my word, young lady, he gave no special directions on the subject,
nor, if he had, would it signify much. The law, once set in motion, must
take its course; I suppose you know that."
Helen did not hear his speech out, for, yielding to her mother, she
quitted the apartment.
Mr. Nickie stood for a few moments gazing at the door by which they had
made their exit, and then, turning towards M'Dermot, with a knowing wink
he said, "We'll be better friends before we part, I 'll engage, little
as she likes me now."
"Faix, I never seen yer equal at getting round them," answered the sub,
in a voice of fawning flattery, the very opposite of his former gruff
tone.
"That's the way I always begin, when they take a saucy way with them,"
resumed Nickie, who felt evidently pleased at the other's admiration.
"And when they 're brought down a bit to a sense of their situation, I
can just be as kind as I was cruel."
"Never fear ye!" said M'Dermot, with a sententious shake of the head.
"Devil a taste of her would lave the room, if it wasn't for the mother."
"I saw that plain enough," said Nickie, as he threw a self-approving
look at himself in a tall mirror opposite.
"She's a fine young girl, there's no denying it," said M'Dermot, who
anticipated, as the result of his chief's attention, a more liberal
scale of treatment for himself. "But I don't know how ye 'll ever get
round her, though to be sure if you can't, who can?"
"This inventory will keep me till night," said Nickie, changing the
theme quite suddenly, "and I'll miss Dempsey, I 'm afraid."
"I hope not; sure you have his track,--haven't you?"
"Yes, and I have four fellows after him, along the shore here, but they
say he 's cunning as a fox. Well, I 'll not give him up in a hurry,
that's all. Is that rain I hear against the glass, Mick?"
"Ay, and dreadful rain too!" said the other, peeping through the window,
which now rattled and shook with a sudden squall of wind. "You 'll not
be able to leave this so late."
"So I 'm thinking, Mick," said Nickie, laying down his
writing-materials, and turning his back to the fire; "I believe I must
stay where I am."
"'T is yourself is the boy!" cried Mick, with a look of admiration at
his master.
"You 're wrong, Mick," said he, with a scarce repressed smile, "all
wrong; I wasn't thinking of her."
"Maybe not," said M'Dermot, shaking his head doubtfully; "maybe she's
not thinking of you this minute! But, afther all, I don't know how ye
'll do it. Any one would say the vardic was again you."
"So it is, man, but can't we move for a new trial?" So saying, he turned
suddenly about, and pulled the bell.
M'Dermot said nothing, but stood staring at his chief, with a
well-feigned expression of wonderment, as though to say, "What is he
going to do next?"
The summons was speedily answered by old Tate, who stood in respectful
attention within the door. Not the slightest suspicion had crossed the
butler's mind of Mr. Nickie's calling, or of his object with the
Knight, or his manner would certainly have displayed a very different
politeness. "Didn't you ring, sir?" said he, with a bow to Nickie, who
now seemed vacillating, and uncertain how to proceed.
"Yes--I did--ring--the--bell," replied he, hesitating between each
word of the sentence. "I was about to say that, as the night was so
severe,--a perfect hurricane it seems,--I should remain here. Eh, did
you speak?"
"No, sir," replied Tate, respectfully.
"You can inform your mistress, then, and say, with Mr. Nickie's
respectful compliments,-mind that!--that if they have no objection, he
would be happy to join them at supper."
Tate stood as if transfixed, not a sign of anger, not even of surprise
in his features. The shock had actually stupefied him.
"Do ye hear what the gentleman 's saying to you?" asked Mick, in a stern
voice.
"Sir?" said Tate, endeavoring to recover his routed faculties,--"sir?"
"Tell the old fool what I said," muttered Nickie, with angry impatience;
and then, as if remembering that his message might possibly be not
over-courteously worded by Mr. M'Dennot, he approached Tate, and said,
"Give your mistress Mr. Nickie's compliments, and say that, not being
able to return to Coleraine, he hopes he may be permitted to pass the
evening with her and Miss Darcy." This message, uttered with
great rapidity, as if the speaker dare not trust himself with more
deliberation, was accompanied by a motion of the hand, which half pushed
the old butler from the room.
Neither Mr. Nickie nor his subordinate exchanged a word during Tate's
absence. The former, indeed, seemed far less confident of his success
than at first, and M'Dermot waited the issue, for his cue what part to
take in the transaction.
If Tate's countenance, when he left the room, exhibited nothing but
confusion and bewilderment, when he reentered it his looks were composed
and steadfast.
"Well?" said Nickie, as the old butler stood for a second without
speaking,--"well?"
"Her Ladyship says that you and the other men, sir, may receive any
accommodation the house affords." He paused for a moment or two, and
then added, "Her Ladyship declines Mr. Nickie's society."
"Did she give you that message herself?" asked Nickie, hastily; "are
those her own words?"
"Them's her words," said Tate, dryly.
"I never heerd the likes--"
"Stop, Mick, hold your tongue!" said Nickie, to his over-zealous
follower; while he muttered to himself, "My name is n't Anthony Nickie,
or I 'll make her repent that speech! Ay, faith," said he, aloud, as
turning to the portrait of the Knight he appeared to address it, "you
shall come to the hammer as the original did before you." If Tate had
understood the purport of this sarcasm, it is more than probable the
discussion would have taken another form; as it was, he listened to Mr.
Nickie's orders about the supper with due decorum, and retired to make
the requisite preparations. "I will make a night of it, by-------,"
exclaimed Nickie, as with clinched fist he struck the table before him.
"I hope you know how to sing, Mick?"
"I can do a little that way, sir," grinned the ruffian, "when the
company is pressin'. If it was n't too loud--"
"Too loud! you may drown the storm out there, if ye 're able. But wait
till we have the supper and the liquor before us, as they might cut
off the supplies." And with this prudent counsel, they suffered Tate to
proceed in his arrangements, without uttering another word.
CHAPTER XVIII. A CONVIVIAL EVENING
While Tate busied himself in laying the table, Mr. Nickie, with
bent brows and folded arms, passed up and down the apartments, still
ruminating on the affront so openly passed upon him, and cogitating
how best to avenge it. As passing and repassing he cast his eyes on the
preparations, he halted suddenly, and said, "Lay another cover here."
Tate stood, uncertain whether he had heard aright the words, when Nickie
repeated, "Don't you hear me? I said lay another cover. The gentleman
will sup here."
"Oh! indeed," exclaimed Tate, as, opening his eyes to the fullest
extent, he appeared to admit a new light upon his brain; "I beg pardon,
sir, I was thinking that this gentleman might like to sup with the other
gentleman, out in the kitchen beyond!"
"I said he 'd sup here," said Nickie, vehemently, for he felt the taunt
in all its bitterness.
"I say, old fellow," said M'Dermot in Tate's ear, "you needn't be
sparin' of the liquor. Give us the best you have, and plenty of it. It
is all the same to yer master, you know, in a few days. I was saying,
sir," said he to Nickie, who, overhearing him, turned sharply round,-"I
was saying, sir, that he might as well give up the ould bin with the
cobweb over it. It's the creditors suffers now, and we've many a way of
doin' a civil turn."
"His mistress has shut the door on that," said Nickie, savagely, "and
she may take the consequences."
"Oh, never mind him," whispered M'Dermot to Tate; "he 's the
best-hearted crayture that ever broke bread, but passionate, d' ye mind,
passionate."
Poor Tate, who had suddenly become alive to the characters and objects
of his quests, was now aware that his mistress's refusal to admit the
chief might possibly be productive of very disastrous consequences;
for, like all low Irishmen, he had a very ample notion of the elastic
character of the law, and thought that its pains and penalties were
entirely at the option of him who executed it.
"Her Ladyship never liked to see much company," said he, apologetically.
"Well, maybe so," rejoined M'Dennot, "but in a quiet homely sort of a
way, sure she need n't have refused Mr. Anthony; little she knows, there
's not the like of him for stories about the Court of Conscience and the
Sessions."
"I don't doubt it," exclaimed Tate, who, in assenting, felt pretty
certain that his fascinations would scarcely have met appreciation in
the society of his mistress and her daughter.
"And if ye heerd him sing 'Hobson's Choice,' with a new verse of his own
at the end!"
Tate threw a full expression of wondering admiration into his features,
and went on with his arrangements in silence.
"Does he know anything of Dempsey, do you think?" said Nickie, in a
whisper to his follower.
"Not he," muttered the other, scornfully; "the crayture seems half a
nat'ral." Then, in a voice pitched purposely loud, he said, "Do you
happen to know one Dempsey in these parts?"
"Paul Dempsey?" added Nickie.
"A little, short man, with a turned-up nose, that walks with his
shoulders far back and his hands spread out? Ay, I know him well; he
dined here one day with the master, and sure enough he made the company
laugh hearty!"
"I 'd be glad to meet him, if he 's as pleasant as you say," said
Nickie, slyly.
"There's nothing easier, then," said Tate; "since the boarding-house is
closed there at Ballintray, he's up in Coleraine for the winter. I hear
he waits for the Dublin mail, at M'Grotty's door, every evening, to see
the passengers, and that he has a peep at the way-bill before the agent
himself."
"Has he so many acquaintances that he is always on the look out for
one?"
"Faix, if they'd let him," cried Tate, laughing, "I believe he 'd know
every man, woman, and child in Ireland. For curiosity, he beats all ever
I seen."
As Tate spoke, a sudden draught of wind seemed to penetrate the
chamber,--at least the canoe and its party shook perceptibly.
"We'll have a rare night of it," said Nickie, drawing nearer to the
fire. Then resuming, added, "And you say I'll have no difficulty to find
him?"
"Not the least, bedad! It would be far harder to escape him, from all
I hear. He watches the coach, and never leaves it till he sees the fore
boot and the hind one empty; not only looking the passengers in the
face, but tumbling over the luggage, reading all the names, and where
they 're going. Oh, he's a wonderful man for knowledge!"
"Indeed," said Nickie, with a look of attention to draw on the garrulity
of the old man.
"I've reason to remember it well," said Tate, putting both hands to his
loins. "It was the day he dined here I got the rheumatiz in the small of
my back. When I went to open the gate without there for him, he kept me
talking for three quarters of an hour in the teeth of an east wind that
would shave a goat,--asking me about the master and the mistress and
Miss Helen, ay, and even about myself at last,--if I had any brothers,
and what their names was, and who was Mister Daly, and whether he did
n't keep a club-house. By my conscience, it's well for him ould Bagenal
did n't hear him!"
A clattering sound from the canoe suddenly interrupted Tate's narrative;
he stopped short, and muttered, in a tone of unfeigned terror,--
"That's the way always,-may I never see glory! ye can't speak of him but
he hears ye!"
A rude laugh from Nickie, chorused still more coarsely by M'Dermot,
arrested Tate's loquacity, and he finished his arrangements without
speaking, save in a few broken sentences.
If Mr. Nickie could have been conciliated by material enjoyments, he
might decidedly have confessed that the preparations for his comfort
were ample and hospitable. A hot supper diffused its savory steam on a
table where decanters and flasks of wine of different sorts and sizes
attested that the more convivial elements of a feast were not forgotten.
Good humor was, however, not to be restored by such amends. He was
wounded in his self-love, outraged in his vanity; and he sat down in
a dogged silence to the meal, a perfect contrast in appearance to the
coarse delight of his subordinate.
While Tate remained to wait on them, Nickie's manner and bearing were
unchanged. A sullen, sulky expression sat on features which, even when
at the best, conveyed little better than a look of shrewd keenness;
nor could the appetite with which he eat suggest a passing ray of
satisfaction to his face.
"I am glad we are rid of that old fellow at last," said he, as the door
closed upon Tate. "Whether fool or knave, I saw what he was at; he would
have been disrespectful if he dared."
"I did n't mind him much, sir," said M'Dermot, honestly confessing that
the good cheer had absorbed his undivided attention.
"I did, then; I saw his eyes fixed effectually on us,--on you
particularly. I thought he would have laughed outright when you helped
yourself to the entire duck."
Nickie spoke this with an honest severity, meant to express his
discontent with his companion fully as much as with the old butler.
"Well, it was an excellent supper, anyhow," said M'Dermot, taking the
bottle which Nickie pushed towards him somewhat rudely; "and here 's
wishing health and happiness and long life to ye, Mr. Anthony. May ye
always have as plentiful a board, and better company round it."
There was a fawning humility in the fellow's manner that seemed to
gratify the other, for he nodded a return to the sentiment, and, after a
brief pause, said,--"The servants in these grand houses,--and that old
fellow, you may remark, was with the Darcys when they were great
people,--they give themselves airs to everybody they think below the
rank of their master."
"Faix, they might behave better to you, Mr. Anthony," said M'Dermot.
"Well, they're run their course now," said Nickie, not heeding the
remark. "Both master and man have had their day. I 've seen more
executions on property in the last six months than ever I did in all my
life before. Creditors won't wait now as they used to do. No influence
now to make gaugers and tide-waiters and militia officers; no privilege
of Parliament to save them from arrest!"
"My blessings on them for that, anyhow," said M'Dermot, finishing his
glass. "The Union 's a fine thing."
"The fellows that got the bribes--and, to be sure, there was plenty of
money going--won't stay to spend it in Ireland; devil a one will remain
here, but those that are run out and ruined."
"Bad luck to it for a Bill!" said M'Dermot, who felt obliged to
sacrifice his consistency in his desire to concur with each new
sentiment of his chief.
"The very wine we're drinking, maybe, was given for a vote. Pitt knew
well how to catch them."
"Success attend him!" chimed in M'Dermot.
"And just think of them now," continued Nickie, whose ruminations were
never interrupted by the running commentary,--"just think of them!
selling the country, trade, prosperity, everything, for a few hundred
pounds."
"The blackguards!"
"Some, to be sure, made a fine thing out of it. Not like old Darcy here;
they were early in the market, and got both rank and money too."
"Ay, that was doin' it in style!" exclaimed Mike, who expressed himself
this time somewhat equivocally, for safety's sake.
"There 's no denying it, Castlereagh was a clever fellow!"
"The best man ever I seen--I don't care who the other is."
"He knew when to bid, and when to draw back; never became too pressing,
but never let any one feel himself neglected; watched his opportunities
slyly, and when the time came, pounced down like a hawk on his victim."
"Oh, the thieves' breed! What a hard heart he had!" muttered M'Dermot,
perfectly regardless of whom he was speaking.
Thus did Mr. Nickie ramble on, in the popular cant, over the subject
of the day; for although the Union was now carried, and its
consequences--whatever they might be--so far inevitable, the men whose
influence effected the measure were still before the bar of public
opinion,--an ordeal not a whit more just and discriminating than it
usually is. While the current of these reminiscences ran on, varied by
some anecdote here or some observation there, both master and man
drank deeply. So long as good liquor abounded, Mr. M'Dermot could have
listened with pleasure, even to a less entertaining companion; and as
for Nickie, he felt a vulgar pride in discussing, familiarly and by
name, the men of rank and station who took a leading part in Irish
politics. The pamphlets and newspapers of the day had made so many
private histories public, had unveiled so many family circumstances
before the eyes of the world, that his dissertations had all the seeming
authenticity of personal knowledge.
It was at the close of a rather violent denunciation of the
"Traitors"--as the Government party was ever called--that Nickie,
striking the table with his fist, called on M'Dermot to sing.
"I say, Mac," cried he, with a faltering tongue, and eyes red and
bleared from drink,--"the old lady--wouldn't accept my society--she did
n't think--An-tho-ny Nickie, Esquire--good enough--to sit down--at her
table. Let us show her what she has lost, my boy. Give her 'Bob Uniake's
Boots' or 'The Major's Prayer.'"
"Or what d' ye think of the new ballad to Lord Castlereagh, sir?"
suggested M'Dermot, modestly. "It was the last thing Rhoudlim had when I
left town."
"Is it good?" hiccuped Nickie.
"If ye heerd Rhoudlim--"
"D----n Rhoudlim!--she used to sing that song Parsons made on the
attorneys. Parsons never liked us, Mac. You know what he said to Holmes,
who went to him for a subscription of five shillings, to help to bury
Mat Costegan. 'Was n't he an attorney?' says Parsons. 'He was,' says the
other. 'Well, here 's a pound,' says he; 'take it and bury four!'"
"Oh, by my conscience, that was mighty nate!" said M'Dermot, who
completely forgot himself.
Nickie frowned savagely at his companion, and for a moment seemed about
to express his anger more palpably, when he suddenly drank off his
glass, and said, "Well, the song,-let us have it now."
"I 'm afraid--I don't know more than a verse here and there," said Mac,
bashfully stroking down his hair, and mincing his words; "but with the
help of a chorus--"
"Trust me for that," cried Nickie, who now drank glass after glass
without stopping; "I'm always ready for a song." So saying he burst out
into a half-lachryinose chant,--
"An old maid had a roguish eye!
And she was call'd the great Kamshoodera!
Rich was she and poor was I!
Fol de dol de die do!
"I forget the rest, Mickie, but it goes on about a Nabob and a bear,
and--a--what's this ye call it, a pottle of green gooseberries that Lord
Clangoff sold to Mrs. Kelfoyle."
"To be sure; I remember it well," said Mac, humoring the drunken
lucubrations; "but my chant is twice as aisy to sing,--the air is the
'Black Joke;' and any one can chorus."
"Well, open the proceedings," hiccuped Nickie; "state the case."
And thus encouraged, Mr. M'Dermot cleared his throat, and in a voice
loud and coarse enough to be heard above the howling din, began:--
"Though many a mile he's from Erin away,
Here 's health and long life to my Lord Castlereagh,
With his bag full of guineas so bright!
'T was he that made Bishops and Deans by the score,
And Peers, of the fashion of Lord Donoughmore!
And a Colonel of horse of our friend Billy Lake,
And Wallincourt a Lord,--t'other day but Joe Blake,
With his bag full of guineas so bright.
"Come Beresford, Bingham, Luke Fox, and Tyrone,
Come Kearney, Bob Johnston, and Arthur Malone,
With your bag full of guineas so bright;
Lord Charles Fitzgerald and Kit Fortescue,
And Henry Deane Grady,--we 'll not forget you,
Come Cuffe, Isaac Corry, and General Dunne,
And you Jemmy Vandeleur,--come every one,
With your bag full of guineas so bright.
Come Talbot and Townsend, Come Toler and Trench,
Tho' made for the gallows, ye 're now on the Bench,
With your bag full of guineas so bright
But if ever again this black list I 'll begin,
The first name I 'll take is the ould Knight of Gwynne,
Who, robb'd of his property, stripped of his pelf,
Would be glad to see Erin as poor as himself.
With no bag full of guineas so bright.
"If the Parliament 's gone, and the world it has scoffed us,
What a blessing to think that we 've Tottenham Loftus,
With his bag full of guineas so bright.
Oh, what consolation through every disaster,
To know that your Lordship is made our Postmaster,
And your uncle a Bishop, your aunt--but why mention,
Two thousand a year, 'of a long service pension'
Of a bag full of guineas so bright.
"But what is the change, since your Lordship appears!
You found us all Paupers, you left us all Peers,
With your bag full of guineas so bright.
Not a man in the island, however he boast,
But has a good reason to fill to the toast,--
From Cork to the Causeway, from Howth to Clue Bay,
A health and long life to my Lord Castlereagh,
With his bag full of guineas so bright."
The boisterous accompaniment by which Mr. Nickie testified his
satisfaction at the early verses had gradually subsided into a low
droning sound, which at length, towards the conclusion, lapsed into a
prolonged heavy snore. "Fast!" exclaimed M'Dermot, holding the candle
close to his eyes. "Fast!" Then taking up the decanter, he added, "And
if ye had gone off before, it would have been no great harm.
Ye never had the bottle out of yer grip for the last hour and half!" He
heaped some wood on the grate, refilled his glass, and then disposing
himself so as to usurp a very large share of the blazing fire, prepared
to follow the good example of his chief. Long habit had made an
arm-chair to the full as comfortable as a bed to the worthy functionary,
and his arrangements were scarcely completed, when his nose announced by
a deep sound that he was a wanderer in the land of dreams.
Poor Mr. Dempsey--for if the reader may have forgotten him all this
while, we must not--listened long and watchfully to the heavy notes, nor
was it without considerable fear that he ventured to unveil his head and
take a peep under Daly's arm at the sleepers. Reassured by the seeming
heaviness of the slumberers, he dared a step farther, and at last seated
himself bolt upright in the canoe, glad to relieve his cramped-up legs,
even by this momentary change of position. So cautious were all his
movements, so still and noiseless every gesture, that had there been a
waking eye to mark him, it would have been hard enough to distinguish
between his figure and those of his inanimate neighbors.
[Illustration: 236]
The deep and heavy breathing of the sleepers was the only sound to be
heard; they snored as if it were a contest between them; still it
was long before Dempsey could summon courage enough to issue from his
hiding-place, and with stealthy steps approach the table. Cautiously
lifting the candle, he first held it to the face of one and then of the
other of the sleepers. His next move was to inspect the supper-table,
where, whatever the former abundance, nothing remained save the veriest
fragments: the bottles too were empty, and poor Dempsey shook his head
mournfully as he poured out and drank the last half-glass of sherry in a
decanter. This done, he stood for a few minutes reflecting what step
he should take next. A sudden change of position of Nickie startled him
from these deliberations, and Dempsey cowered down beneath the table in
terror. Scarcely daring to breathe, Paul waited while the sleeper moved
from side to side, muttering some short and broken words; at length he
seemed to have settled himself to his satisfaction, for so his prolonged
respiration bespoke. Just as he had turned for the last time, a heavy
roll of papers fell from his pocket to the floor. Dempsey eyed the
packet with a greedy look, but did not dare to reach his hand towards
it, till well assured that the step was safe.
Taking a candle from the table, Paul reseated himself on the floor, and
opened a large roll of documents tied with red tape; the very first he
unrolled seemed to arrest his attention strongly, and although passing
on to the examination of the remainder, he more than once recurred to
it, till at length creeping stealthily towards the fire, he placed it
among the burning embers, and stirred and poked until it became a mere
mass of blackened leaves.
"There," muttered he, "Paul Dempsey 's his own man again. And now what
can he do for his friends? Ha, ha! 'Execution against Effects of Bagenal
Daly, Esq.,'" said he, reading half aloud; "and this lengthy affair
here, 'Instructions to A. N. relative to the enclosed'-let us see what
that may be." And so saying, he opened the scroll; a bright flash of
flame burst out from among the slumbering embers, and ere it died away
Paul read a few lines of the paper. "What scoundrels!" muttered he,
as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, for already had
honest Paul's feelings excited him to the utmost. The flame was again
flickering, in another moment it would be out, when, stealing forth his
hand, he placed an open sheet upon it, and then, as the blaze caught, he
laid the entire bundle of papers on the top, and watched them till they
were reduced to ashes.
"Maybe it's a felony--I'm sure it's a misdemeanor at least--what I 've
done now," muttered he; "but there was no resisting it. I wish I thought
it was no heavier crime to do the same by these worthy gentlemen here."
Indeed, for a second or two, Paul's hesitation seemed very considerable.
Fear, or something higher in principle, got the victory at length, and
after a long silence he said,--
"Well, I 'll not harm them." And with this benevolent sentiment he stood
up, and detaching Darcy's portrait from the wall, thrust it into his
capacious pocket. This done, he threw another glance over the table,
lest some unseen decanter might still remain; but no, except a water-jug
of pure element, nothing remained.
"Good-night, and pleasant dreams t'ye both," muttered Paul, as, blowing
out one candle, he took the other, and slipped, without the slightest
noise, from the room.
CHAPTER XIX. MR. DEMPSEY BEHIND THE SCENE
No very precise or determined purpose guided Mr. Dempsey's footsteps as
he issued from the hall and gained the corridor, from which the various
rooms of the cottage opened. Benevolent intentions of the vaguest kind
towards Lady Eleanor were commingled with thoughts of his own safety,
and perhaps more strongly than either, an intense curiosity to inspect
the domestic arrangements of the family, not without the hope of finding
something to eat.
He had now been about twenty-four hours without food, and to a man who
habitually lived in a boarding-house, and felt it a point of honor to
consume as much as he could for his weekly pay, the abstinence was far
from agreeable. If then his best inspirations were blended with some
selfishness, he was not quite unpardonable. Mr. Dempsey tried each door
as he went along, and although they were all unlocked, the interiors
responded to none of his anticipations. The apartments were plainly but
comfortably furnished; in some books lay about, and an open piano told
of recent habitation. In one, which he judged rightly to be the
Knight's drawing-room, a table was covered over with letters and law
papers,--documents which honest Paul beheld with some feeling akin to
Aladdin, when he surveyed the inestimable treasures he had no means of
carrying away with him from the mine. A faint gleam of light shone
from beneath a door at the end of the corridor, and thither with silent
footsteps he now turned. All was still: he listened as he drew near; but
except the loud ticking of a clock, nothing was to be heard. Paul tried
to reconnoitre by the keyhole, but it was closed. He waited for some
time unable to decide on the most fitting course, and at length opened
the door, and entered. Stopping short at the threshold, Paul raised the
candle, to take a better view of the apartment. Perhaps any one save
himself would have returned on discovering it was a bedroom. A large
old-fashioned bed, with a deep and massive curtain closely drawn, stood
against one wall; beside it, on the table, was a night-lamp, from which
the faint glimmer he had first noticed proceeded. Some well-stuffed
arm-chairs were disposed here and there, and on the tables lay articles
of female dress. Mr. Dempsey stood for a few seconds, and perhaps
some secret suspicion crept over him that this visit might be thought
intrusive. It might be Lady Eleanor's, or perhaps Miss Darcy's chamber.
Who was to say she was not actually that instant in bed asleep? Were
the fact even so, Mr. Dempsey only calculated on a momentary shock of
surprise at his appearance, well assured that his explanation would be
admitted as perfectly satisfactory. Thus wrapped in his good intentions,
and shrouding the light with one hand, he drew the curtain with the
other. The bed was empty, the coverings were smooth, the pillows
unpressed. The occupant, whoever it might be, had not yet taken
possession. Mr. Dempsey's fatigue was only second to his hunger, and
having failed to discover the larder, it is more than probable he would
have contented himself with the gratification of a sleep, had he not
just at that instant perceived a light flickering beside and beneath the
folds of a heavy curtain which hung over a doorway at the farthest
end of the room. His spirit of research once more encouraged, he
moved towards it, and drawing it very gently, admitted his eye in the
interspace. A glass door intervened between him and a small chamber, but
permitted him to see without being heard by those within. Flattening
his features on the glass, he stared at the scene; and truly one less
inspired by the spirit of inquiry might have felt shocked at being thus
placed. Lady Eleanor sat in her dressing-gown on a sofa, while, half
kneeling, half lying at her feet, was Helen, her head concealed in
her mother's lap, and her long hair loosely flowing over her neck and
shoulders. Lady Eleanor was pale as death, and the marks of recent tears
were ou her cheeks; but still her features wore the expression of deep
tenderness and pity, rather than of selfish sorrow. Helen's face was
hidden; but her attitude, and the low sobbing sounds that at intervals
broke the stillness, told how her heart was suffering.
[Illustration: 242]
"My dear, dear child," said Lady Eleanor, as she laid her hand upon the
young girl's head, "be comforted. Rest assured that in making me the
partner in your sorrow, I will be the happier participator in your joy,
whenever its day may come. Yes, Helen, and it will come."
"Had I told you earlier--"
"Had you done so," interrupted Lady Eleanor, "you had been spared much
grief, for I could have assured you, as I now do, that you are not to
blame,--that this young man's rashness, however we may deplore it, had
no promptings from us."
Helen replied, but in so low a tone that Mr. Dempsey could not catch the
words; he could hear, however, Lady Eleanor uttering at intervals words
of comfort and encouragement, and at last she said,--
"Nay, Helen, no half-confidence, my child. Acknowledge it fairly, that
your opinion of him is not what it was at first; or if you will not
confess it, leave it to my own judgment And why should you not?" added
she, in a stronger voice; "wiser heads may reprove his precipitancy,
criticise what would be called his folly, but you may be forgiven for
thinking that his Quixotism could deserve another and a fonder title.
And I, Helen, grown old and chilly-hearted, each day more distrustful
of the world, less sanguine in hope, more prone to suspect,--even I feel
that devotion like his has a strong claim on your affection. And shall
I own to you that on the very day he brought us that letter a kind of
vague presentiment that I should one day like him stole across me. What
was the noise? Did you not hear something stir?" Helen had heard it, but
paid no further attention, for there was no token of any one being near.
Noise, however, there really was, occasioned by Mr. Dempsey, who, in
his eagerness to hear, had pushed the door partly open. For some moments
back, honest Paul had listened with as much embarrassment as curiosity,
sorely puzzled to divine of whom the mother and daughter were speaking.
The general tenor of the conversation left the subject no matter
of difficulty. The individual was the only doubtful question. Lady
Eleanor's allusion to a letter, and her own feelings at the moment, at
once reminded him of her altered manner to himself on the evening he
brought the epistle from Coleraine, and how she, who up to that time had
treated him with unvarying distance and reserve, had as suddenly become
all the reverse.
"Blood alive!" said he to himself, "I never as much as suspected it!"
His eagerness to hear further was intense; and although he had contrived
to keep the door ajar, his curiosity was doomed to disappointment, for
it was Helen who spoke, and her words were uttered in a low, faint tone,
utterly inaudible where he stood. Whatever pleasure Mr. Dempsey might
have at first derived from his contraband curiosity, was more than
repaid now by the tortures of anxiety. He suspected that Helen was
making a full confession of her feelings towards him, and yet he could
not catch a syllable. Lady Eleanor, too, when she spoke again, it was in
an accent almost equally faint; and all that Paul could gather was that
the mother was using expressions of cheerfulness and hope, ending with
the words,--
"His own fortunes look now as darkly as ours; mayhap the same bright
morning will dawn for both together, Helen. We have hope to cheer us,
for him and for us."
"Ah! true enough," muttered Paul; "she's alluding to old Bob Dempsey,
and if the Lord would take him, we 'd all come right again."
Helen now arose, and seated herself beside her mother, with her head
leaning ou her shoulder; and Mr. Dempsey might have been pardoned if
he thought she never looked more beautiful. The loose folds of her
night-dress less concealed than delineated the perfect symmetry of her
form; while through the heavy masses of the luxuriant hair that fell
upon her neck and shoulders, her skin seemed more than ever delicately
fair. If Paul's mind was a perfect whirl of astonishment, delight,
and admiration, his doubts were no less puzzling. What was he to do?
Should he at once discover himself, throw himself at Helen's feet in a
rapture, confessing that he had heard her avowal, and declare that the
passion was mutual? This, although with evident advantages on the score
of dramatic effect, had also its drawback. Lady Eleanor, who scarcely
looked as well in dishabille as her daughter, might feel offended. She
might take it ill, also, that he had been a listener. Paul had heard of
people who actually deemed eavesdropping unbecoming! Who knows,
among her own eccentricities, if this one might not find place? Paul,
therefore, resolved on a more cautious advance, and, for his guidance,
applied his ear once more to the aperture. This time, however, without
success, for they spoke still lower than before; nor, after a long and
patient waiting, could he hear more than that the subject was their
present embarrassment, and the necessity of immediately removing from
"The Corvy," but where to, and how, they could not determine.
There was no time to ask Bicknell's advice; before an answer could
arrive, they would be exposed to all the inconvenience, perhaps insult,
which Mr. Nickie's procedure seemed to threaten. The subject appeared
one to which all their canvassing had brought no solution, and at last
Lady Eleanor said,--
"How thankful I am, Helen, that I never wrote to Lord Netherby; more
than once, when our difficulties seemed to thicken, I half made up my
mind to address him. How much would it add to my present distress
of mind, if I had yielded to the impulse! The very thought is now
intolerable."
"Pride! pride!" muttered Paul.
"And I was so near it," ejaculated Lady Eleanor.
"Yes," said Helen, sharply; "our noble cousin's kindness would be a sore
aggravation of our troubles."
"Worse than the mother, by Jove!" exclaimed Paul. "Oh dear! if I had a
cousin a lord, maybe he'd not hear of me."
Lady Eleanor spoke again; but Paul could only catch a stray word here
and there, and again she reverted to the necessity of leaving the
cottage at once.
"Could we even see this Mr. Dempsey," said she, "he knows the country
well, and might be able to suggest some fitting place for the moment, at
least till we could decide on better."
Paul scarcely breathed, that he might catch every syllable.
"Yes," said Helen, eagerly, "he would be the very person to assist us;
but, poor little man! he has his own troubles, too, at this moment."
"She's a kind creature," muttered Paul; "how fond I'm growing of her!"
"It is no time for the indulgence of scruples; otherwise, Helen, I 'd
not place much reliance on the gentleman's taste."
"Proud as Lucifer," thought Paul.
"His good-nature, mamma, is the quality we stand most in need of, and I
have a strong trust that he is not deficient there."
"What a situation to be placed in!" sighed Lady Eleanor: "that we should
turn with a shudder from seeking protection where it is our due, and yet
ask counsel and assistance from a man like this!"
"I feel no repugnance whatever to accepting such a favor from Mr.
Dempsey, while I should deem it a great humiliation to be suitor to the
Earl of Netherby."
"And yet he is our nearest relative living,--with vast wealth and
influence, and I believe not indisposed towards us. I go too fast,
perhaps," said she, scornfully; "his obligations to my own father were
too great and too manifold, that I should say so."
"What a Tartar!" murmured Paul.
"If the proud Earl could forget the services my dear father rendered
him, when, a younger son, without fortune or position, he had no other
refuge than our house,--if he could wipe away the memory of benefits
once received,--he might perhaps be better minded towards us; but
obligation is so suggestive of ill-will."
"Dearest mamma," said Helen, laughing, "if your hopes depend upon his
Lordship's forgetfulness of kindness, I do think we may afford to be
sanguine. I am well inclined to think that he is not weighed down by
the load of gratitude that makes men enemies. Still," added she, more
seriously, "I am very averse to seeking his aid, or even his counsel; I
vote for Mr. Dempsey."
"How are we to endure the prying impertinence of his curiosity? Have you
thought of that, Helen?"
Paul's cheek grew scarlet, and his very fingers' ends tingled.
"Easily enough, mamma. Nay, if our troubles were not so urgent, it would
be rather amusing than otherwise; and with all his vulgarity--"
"The little vixen!" exclaimed Paul, so much off his guard that both
mother and daughter started.
"Did you hear that, Helen? I surely heard some one speak."
"I almost thought so," replied Miss Darcy, taking up a candle from the
table, and proceeding towards the door. Mr. Dempsey had but time to
retreat behind the curtain of the bed, when she reached the spot where
he had been standing. "No, all is quiet in the house," said she,
opening the door into the corridor and listening. "Even our respectable
guests would seem to be asleep." She waited for a few seconds, and then
returned to her place on the sofa.
Mr. Dempsey had either heard enough to satisfy the immediate cravings
of his curiosity, or, more probably, felt his present position too
critical; for when he drew the curtain once more close over the glass
door, he slipped noiselessly into the corridor, and entering the first
room he could find, opened the window and sprang out.
"You shall not be disappointed in Paul Dempsey, anyhow," said he, as he
buttoned up the collar of his coat, and pressed his hat more firmly
on his head. "No, my Lady, he may be vulgar and inquisitive, though I
confess it's the first time I ever heard of either; but he is not the
man to turn his back on a good-natured action, when it lies full
in front of him. What a climate, to be sure! it blows from the four
quarters of the globe all at once, and the rain soaks in and deluges
one's very heart's blood. Paul, Paul, you 'll have a smart twinge of
rheumatism from this night's exploit."
It may be conjectured that Mr. Dempsey, like many other gifted people,
had a habit of compensating for the want of society by holding little
dialogues or discourses with himself,--a custom from which he derived no
small gratification, for, while it lightened the weariness of a lonely
way, it enabled him to say many more flattering and civil things to
himself than he usually heard from an ungrateful world.
"They talk of Demerara," said he; "I back Antrim against the world for
a hurricane. The rainy season here lasts all the year round; and if
practice makes perfect--There, now I 'm wet through, I can't be worse.
Ah! Helen, Helen, if you knew how unfit Paul Dempsey is to play Paris!
By the way, who was the fellow that swam the Hellespont for love of
a young lady? Not Laertes, no--that's not it-Leander, that's the
name--Leander."
Paul muttered the name several times over, and by a train of thought
which we will not attempt to follow or unravel, began humming to himself
the well-known Irish ditty of--
"Teddy, ye gander,
Yer like a Highlander."
He soon came to a stop in the words, but continued to sing the air, till
at last he broke out in the following version of his own:--
"Paul Dempsey, ye gander,
You 're like that Leander
Who for somebody's daughter--for somebody's daughter
Did not mind it one pin
To be wet to the skin,
With a dip in salt water--a dip in salt water.
"Were you wiser, 'tis plain,
You 'd be now in Coleraine,
A nightcap on your head--a nightcap on your head,
With a jorum of rum,
Made by old Mother Fum,
At the side of your bed--at the side of your bed.
"For tho' love is divine,
When the weather is fine,
And a season of bliss--a season of bliss,
'Tis a different thing
For a body to sing
On a night such as this--a night such as this.
"Paul Dempsey! remember,
On the ninth of December
You 'll be just forty-six--you 'll be just forty-six,
And the world will say
That at your time o' day
You 're too old for these tricks--you 're too old for these tricks.
"And tho' water may show
One's love, faith,
I know I 'd rather prove mine--I 'd rather prove mine
With my feet on the fender;
'T is then I grow tender,
O'er a bumper of wine--o'er a bumper of wine!
"A bumper of wine!" sighed he. "On my conscience, it would be an ugly
toast I 'd refuse to drink this minute, if the liquor was near.
"Ah! when warm and snog,
With my legs on the rug,
By a turf fire red--a turf fire red--
But how can I rhyme it?
With this horrid climate,
Destroying my head--destroying my head?
"With a coat full of holes,
And my shoes without soles,
And my hat like a teapot--my hat like a teapot--
"Oh, murther, murther!" screamed he, aloud, as his shins came in contact
with a piece of timber, and he fell full length to the ground, sorely
bruised, and perfectly enveloped in snow. It was some minutes before he
could rally sufficiently to get up; and although he still shouted for
help, seeing a light in a window near, no one came to his assistance,
leaving poor Paul to his own devices.
It was some consolation for his sufferings to discover that the object
over which he had stumbled was the shaft of a jaunting-car, such a
conveyance being at that moment what he most desired to meet with. The
driver at last made his appearance, and informed him that he had brought
Nickie and his two companions from Larne, and was now only waiting their
summons to proceed to Coleraine.
Paul easily persuaded the man that he could earn a fare in the mean
time, for that Nickie would probably not leave "The Corvy" till late
on the following day, and that by a little exertion he could manage to
drive to Coleraine and back before he was stirring. It is but fair to
add that poor Mr. Dempsey supported his arguments by lavish promises of
reward, to redeem which he speculated on mortgaging his silver watch,
and probably his umbrella, when he reached Coleraine.
It was yet a full hour before daybreak, as Lady Eleanor, who had passed
the night in her dressing-room, was startled by a sharp tapping noise
at her window; Helen lay asleep on the sofa, and too soundly locked
in slumber to hear the sounds. Lady Eleanor listened, and while half
fearing to disturb the young girl, wearied and exhausted as she was, she
drew near to the window. The indistinct shadow of a figure was all that
she could detect through the gloom, but she fancied she could hear a
weak effort to pronounce her name.
There could be little doubt of the intentions of the visitor; whoever he
should prove, the frail barrier of a window could offer no resistance
to any one disposed to enter by force, and, reasoning thus, Lady Eleanor
unfastened the casement, and cried, "Who is there?"
A strange series of gestures, accompanied by a sound between a sneeze
and the crowing of a cock, was all the reply; and when the question was
repeated in a louder tone, a thin quivering voice muttered, "Pau-au-l
De-de-dempsey, my La-dy."
"Mr. Dempsey, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Eleanor. "Oh! pray come round to
the door at your left hand; it is only a few steps from where you are
standing."
Short as the distance was, Mr. Dempsey's progress was of the slowest,
and Lady Eleanor had already time to awaken Helen, ere the half-frozen
Paul had crossed the threshold.
"He has passed the night in the snow," cried Lady Eleanor to her
daughter, as she led him towards the fire.
"No, my Lady," stammered out Paul, "only the last hour and a half;
before that I was snug under old Daly's blanket."
A very significant interchange of looks between mother and daughter
seemed to imply that poor Mr. Dempsey's wits were wandering.
"Call Tate; let him bring some wine here at once, Helen."
"It's all drunk; not a glass in the decanter," murmured Paul, whose
thoughts recurred to the supper-table.
"Poor creature, his mind is quite astray," whispered Lady Eleanor,
her compassion not the less strongly moved, because she attributed his
misfortune to the exertions he had made in their behalf. By this time
the group was increased by the arrival of old Tate, who, in a flannel
nightcap fastened under the chin, and a very ancient dressing-gown of
undyed wool, presented a lively contrast to the shivering condition of
Mr. Dempsey.
"It's only Mr. Dempsey!" said Lady Eleanor, sharply, as the old butler
stood back, crossing himself and staring with sleepy terror at the white
figure.
"May I never! But so it is," exclaimed Tate, in return to an attempt at
a bow on Dempsey's part, which he accomplished with a brackling noise
like creaking glass.
"Some warm wine at once," said Helen, while she heaped two or three logs
upon the hearth.
"With a little ginger in it, miss," grinned Paul. But the polite attempt
at a smile nearly cut his features, and ended in a most lamentable
expression of suffering.
"This is the finest thing in life agin' the cowld," said Tate, as
he threw over the shivering figure a Mexican mantle, all worked and
embroidered with quills, that gave the gentle Mr. Dempsey the air of an
enormous porcupine. The clothing, the fire, and the wine, of which he
partook heartily, soon restored him, and erelong he had recounted to
Lady Eleanor the whole narrative of his arrival at "The Corvy," his
concealment in the canoe, the burning of the law papers, and even
down to the discovery of the jaunting-car, omitting nothing, save the
interview he had witnessed between the mother and daughter.
Lady Eleanor could not disguise her anxiety on the subject of the burned
documents, but Paul's arguments were conclusive in reply,--
"Who's to tell of it? Not your Ladyship, not Miss Helen; and as to Paul,
meaning myself, my discretion is quite Spanish. Yes, my Lady," said he,
with a tragic gesture that threw back the loose folds of his costume,
"there is an impression abroad, which I grieve to say is widespread,
that the humble individual who addresses you is one of those unstable,
fickle minds that accomplish nothing great; but I deny it, deny it
indignantly. Let the occasion but arise, let some worthy object present
itself, or herself,"--he gave a most melting look towards Helen, which
cost all her efforts to sustain without laughter,--"and then, madam, Don
Paulo Dempsey will come out in his true colors."
"Which I sincerely hope may not be of the snow tint," said Lady Eleanor,
smiling. "But pray, Mr. Dempsey, to return to a theme more selfish. You
are sufficiently aware of our unhappy circumstances here at this moment,
to see that we must seek some other abode, at least for the present. Can
you then say where we can find such?"
"Miss Daly's neighborhood, perhaps," broke in Helen.
"Never do,-not to be thought of," interrupted Paul; "there's nothing for
it but the Panther--"
"The what, sir?" exclaimed Lady Eleanor, in no small surprise.
"The Panther, my Lady, Mother Fum's! snug, quiet, and respectable;
social, if you like,--selfish, if you please it. Solitary or gregarious;
just as you fancy."
"And where, sir, is the Panther?" said Lady Eleanor, who in her
innocence supposed this to be the sign of some village inn.
"In the Diamond of Coleraine, my Lady, opposite M'Grotty's, next but one
to Kitty Black's hardware, and two doors from the Post-Office; central
and interesting. Mail-car from Newtown, Lim.,--takes up passengers,
within view of the windows, at two every day. Letters given out at
four,--see every one in the town without stirring from your window.
Huston's, the apothecary, always full of people at post hour. Gibbin's
tobacco-shop assembles all the Radicals at the same time to read the
'Patriot.' Plenty of life and movement."
"Is there nothing to be found more secluded, less--"
"Less fashionable, your Ladyship would observe. To be sure there is; but
there 's objections,--at least I am sure you would dislike the prying,
inquisitive spirit--Eh? Did you make an observation, miss?"
"No, Mr. Dempsey," said Helen, with some difficulty preserving a
suitable gravity. "I would only remark that you are perfectly in the
right, and that my mother seeks nothing more than a place where we can
remain without obtrusiveness or curiosity directed towards us."
"There will always be the respectful admiration that beauty exacts,"
replied Paul, bowing courteously, "but I can answer for the delicacy of
Coleraine as for my own."
If this assurance was not quite as satisfactory to the ladies as
Mr. Dempsey might have fancied it ought to be, there was really no
alternative; they knew nothing of the country, which side to direct
their steps, or whither to seek shelter; besides, until they had
communicated with Bicknell, they could not with safety leave the
neighborhood to which all their letters were addressed.
It was then soon determined to accept Mr. Dempsey's suggestion and
safe-conduct, and leaving Tate for the present to watch over such of
their effects as they could not conveniently carry with them, to set out
for Coleraine. The arrangements were made as speedily as the resolve,
and day had scarcely dawned ere they quitted "The Corvy."
CHAPTER XX. MR. HEFFERNAN OUT-MANOEUVRED
It was on the very same evening that witnessed these events, that Lord
Castlereagh was conducting Mr. Con Heffernan to his hotel, after
a London dinner-party. The late Secretary for Ireland had himself
volunteered the politeness, anxious to hear some tidings of people
and events which, in the busy atmosphere of a crowded society, were
unattainable. He speedily ran over a catalogue of former friends and
acquaintances, learning, with that surprise with which successful men
always regard their less fortunate contemporaries, that this one was
still where he had left him, and that the other jogged on his daily road
as before, when he suddenly asked,--
"And the Darcys, what of them?"
Heffernan shrugged his shoulders without speaking.
"I am sorry for it," resumed the other; "sorry for the gallant old
Knight himself, and sorry for a state of society in which such changes
are assumed as evidences of progress and prosperity. These upstart
Hickmans are not the elements of which a gentry can be formed."
"O'Reilly still looks to you for the baronetcy, my Lord," replied
Heffernan, with a half-sneer. "You have him with or against you on that
condition,--at least, so I hear."
"Has he not had good fortune enough in this world to be satisfied?
He has risen from nothing to be a man of eminence, wealth, and county
influence; would it not be more reasonable in him to mature his position
by a little patience, than endanger it by fresh shocks to public
opinion? Even a boa, my dear Heffernan, when he swallows a goat, takes
six months to digest his meal. No! no! such men must be taught reserve,
if their own prudence does not suggest it!"
"I believe you are right, my Lord," said Heffernan, thoughtfully;
"O'Reilly is the very man to forget himself in the sunshine of court
favor, and mistake good luck for desert."
"With all his money, too," rejoined Lord Castlereagh, "his influence
will just be proportioned to the degree of acceptance his constituents
suppose him to possess with us here. He has never graduated as a
Patriot, and his slight popularity is only 'special gratia.' His patent
of Gentleman has not come to him by birth."
"For this reason the baronetcy--"
"Let us not discuss that," said Lord Castlereagh, quickly. "There is an
objection in a high quarter to bestow honors, which would seem to ratify
the downfall of an ancient house." He seemed to have said more than he
was ready to admit, and to change the theme turned the conversation on
the party they had just quitted.
"Sir George Hannaper always does these things well."
Mr. Heffernan assented blandly, but not over eagerly. London was not
"his world," and the tone of a society so very different to what he
was habituated had not made on him the most favorable impression.
"And after all," said Lord Castlereagh, musingly, "there is a great
deal of tact--ability, if you will--essential to the success of such
entertainments, to bring together men of different classes and shades
of opinion, people who have never met before, perhaps are never to meet
again, to hit upon the subjects of conversation that may prove generally
interesting, without the risk of giving undue preponderance to any one
individual's claims to superior knowledge. This demands considerable
skill."
"Perhaps the difficulty is not so great here, my Lord," said
Heffernan, half timidly, "each man understands his part so well;
information and conversational power appear tolerably equally
distributed; and when all the instruments are so well tuned, the leader
of the orchestra has an easy task."
"Ah! I believe I comprehend you," said Lord Castlereagh, laughing; "you
are covertly sneering at the easy and unexciting quietude of our London
habits. Well, Heffernan, I admit we are not so fond of solo performances
as you are in Dublin; few among us venture on those 'obligate passages'
which are so charming to Irish ears; but don't you think the concerted
pieces are better performed?"
"I believe, my Lord," said Heffernan, abandoning the figure in his
anxiety to reply, "that we would call this dull in Ireland. I 'm afraid
that we are barbarous enough to set more store by wit and pleasantry
than on grave discussion and shrewd table-talk. It appears to me that
these gentlemen carry an air of business into their conviviality."
"Scarcely so dangerous an error as to carry conviviality into business,"
said Lord Castlereagh, slyly.
"There's too much holding back," said Heffernan, not heeding the taunt;
"each man seems bent on making what jockeys call 'a waiting race.'"
"Confess, however," said Lord Castlereagh, smiling, "there 's no
struggle, no hustling at the winning-post: the best horse comes in
first---"
"Upon my soul, my Lord," said Heffernan, interrupting, "I have yet
to learn that there is such a thing. I conclude from your Lordship's
observation that the company we met to-day were above the ordinary run
of agreeability."
"I should certainly say so."
"Well, then, I can only affirm that we should call this a failure in our
less polished land. I listened with becoming attention; the whole thing
was new to me, and I can safely aver I neither heard one remark
above the level of commonplace, nor one observation evidencing acute
perception of passing events or reflection on the past. As to wit or
epigram--"
"Oh, we do not value these gifts at your price; we are too thrifty a
nation, Heffernan, to expend all our powder on fireworks."
"Faith, I agree with you, my Lord; the man who would venture on a rocket
would be treated as an incendiary."
"Come, come, Heffernan, I 'll not permit you to say so. Did you ever
in any society see a man more appreciated than our friend Darcy was the
last evening we met him, his pleasantry relished, his racy humor well
taken, and his stores of anecdote enjoyed with a degree of zest I have
never seen surpassed?"
"Darcy was always too smooth for our present taste," said Heffernan,
caustically. "His school was antiquated years ago; there was a dash of
the French courtier through the Irishmen of his day."
"That made the most polished gentlemen of Europe, I've been told," said
Lord Castlereagh, interrupting. "I know your taste inclines to a less
chastened and more adventurous pleasantry, shrewd insight into an
antagonist's weak point, a quick perception of the ridiculous---"
"Allied with deep knowledge of men and motives, my Lord," said
Heffernan, catching up the sentence, "a practical acquaintance with
the world in its widest sense; that cultivated keenness that smacks of
reading intentions before they are avowed, and divining plans before
they are more than conceived. These solid gifts are all essential to the
man who would influence society, whether in a social circle or in the
larger sphere of active life."
"Ah! but we were talking of merely social qualities," said Lord
Castlereagh, stealing a cautious look of half malice, "the wit that sets
the table in a roar."
"And which, like lightning, my Lord, must now and then prove dangerous,
or men will cease to be dazzled by its brilliancy. Now, I rather incline
to think that the Knight's pleasantry is like some of the claret we were
drinking to-day, a little spoiled by age."
"I protest strongly against the judgment," said Lord Castlereagh, with
energy; "the man who at his time of life consents to resume the toils
and dangers of a soldier's career must not be accused of growing old."
"Perhaps your Lordship would rather shift the charge of senility
against the Government which appoints such an officer," said Heffernan,
maliciously.
"As to that," said Lord Castlereagh, laughingly, "I believe the whole
thing was a mistake. Some jealous but indiscreet friend of Darcy's made
an application in his behalf, and without his cognizance, pressing
the claim of an old and meritorious officer, and directly asking for a
restitution to his grade. This was backed by Lord Netherby, one of the
lords in waiting, and without much inquiry--indeed, I fancy without
any--he was named colonel, in exchange from the unattached list. The
Knight was evidently flattered by so signal a mark of favor, and, if I
read him aright, would not change his command for a brigade at home. In
fact, he has already declined prospects not less certain of success."
"And is this really the mode in which officers are selected for an
enterprise of hazard and importance?" said Heffernan, affecting a tone
of startled indignation as he spoke.
"Upon my word, Heffernan," said Lord Castlereagh, subduing the rising
tendency to laugh outright, "I fear it is too true. We live in days of
backstairs and court favor. I saw an application for the office of Under
Secretary for Ireland, so late as yesterday--"
"You did, my Lord!" interrupted Heffernan, with more warmth than he
almost ever permitted himself to feel. "You did, from a man who has
rendered more unrewarded services to the Government than any individual
in the kingdom."
"The claim was a very suitable one," said Lord Castle-reagh, mildly.
"The gentleman who preferred it could point to a long list of successful
operations, whose conduct rested mainly or solely on his own consummate
skill and address; he could even allege the vast benefit of his advice
to young and not over-informed Chief Secretaries---"
"I would beg to observe, my Lord---"
"Pray allow me to continue," said Lord Castlereagh, laying his hand
gently on the other's arm. "As one of that helpless class so feelingly
alluded to, I am ready to evince the deepest sense of grateful
acknowledgments. It may be that I would rather have been mentioned more
flatteringly; that the applicant had spoken of me as an apter and more
promising scholar---"
"My Lord, I must and will interrupt you. The memorial, which was
presented in my name, was sent forward under the solemn pledge that
it should meet the eyes of Mr. Pitt alone; that whether its prayer was
declined or accorded, none, save himself, should have cognizance of
it. If, after this, it was submitted to your Lordship's critical
examination, I leave it to your good taste and your sense of decorum how
far you can avow or make use of the knowledge so obtained."
"I was no party in the compact you allege, nor. I dare to say, was Mr.
Pitt," said Lord Castlereagh, proudly; but, momentarily resuming his
former tone, he went on: "The Prime Minister, doubtless, knew how
valuable the lesson might be to a young man entering on public life
which should teach him not to lay too much store by his own powers
of acuteness, not to trust too implicitly to his own qualities of
shrewdness and perception; and that, by well reflecting on the aid he
received from others, he might see how little the subtraction would
leave for his own peculiar amount of skill. In this way I have to
acknowledge myself greatly Mr. Heffernan's debtor, since, without the
aid of this document, I should never have recognized how ignorant I was
of every party and every public man in Ireland; how dependent on his
good guidance; how I never failed save in rejecting, never succeeded
save in profiting by his wise and politic counsels."
"Is your Lordship prepared to deny these assertions?" said Heffernan,
with an imperturbable coolness.
"Am I not avowing my grateful sense of them?" said Lord Castlereagh,
smiling blandly. "I feel only the more deeply your debtor, because, till
now, I never knew the debt,--both principal and interest must be paid
together; but seriously, Heffernan, if you wanted office, was I not the
proper channel to have used in asking for it? Why disparage your pupil
while extolling your system?"
"You did my system but little credit, my Lord," replied Heffernan, with
an accent as unmoved as before; "you bought votes when you should
have bought the voters themselves; you deemed the Bill of Union the
consummation of Irish policy,--it is only the first act of the piece.
You were not the first general who thought he beat the enemy when he
drove in the pickets."
"Would my tactics have been better had I made one of my spies a
major-general, Mr. Heffernan?" said Lord Castlereagh, sneeringly.
"Safer, my lord,--far safer," said Heffernan, "for he might not have
exposed you afterwards. But I think this is my hotel; and I must say it
is the first time in my life that I have closed an interview with your
Lordship without regret."
"Am I to hope it will be the last?" said Lord Castle-reagh, laughing.
"The last interview, my Lord, or the last occasion of regretting its
shortness?" said Heffernan, with a slight anxiety of voice.
"Whichever Mr. Heffernan opines most to his advantage," was the cool
reply.
"The former, with your permission, my Lord," said Heffernan, as a flush
suffused his cheek. "I wish your Lordship a very good night."
"Good-night, good-night! Stay, Thomas, Mr. Heffernan has forgotten his
gloves."
"Thanks, my Lord; they were not left as a gage of battle, I assure you."
"I feel certain of it," said Lord Castlereagh, laughing. "Good-night,
once more."
The carriage rolled on, and Mr. Heffernan stood for an instant gazing
after it through the gloom.
"I might have known it," muttered he to himself; "these lords are the
only people who do stick to each other nowadays." Then, after a pause,
he added, "Drogheda is right, by Jove! there 's no playing against 'four
by honors.'"
And with this reflection he slowly entered the hotel, and repaired to
his chamber.
CHAPTER XXI. A BIT OF B Y-P L A Y.
Reverses of fortune might be far more easily supported, if they did not
entail, as their inevitable consequence, the association with those
all of whose tastes, habits, and opinions run in a new and different
channel. It is a terrible aggravation to the loss of those comforts
which habit has rendered necessaries, to unlearn the usages of a certain
condition, and adopt those of a class beneath us,--or, what is still
worse, engage in the daily, hourly conflict between our means and our
requirements.
Perhaps Lady Eleanor Darcy and her daughter never really felt the
meaning of their changed condition, nor understood its poignancy, till
they saw themselves as residents of Mrs. Fumbally's boarding-house,
whither Mr. Dempsey's polite attentions had conducted them. It was to
no want of respect on that lady's part that any portion of this
feeling could be traced. "The Panther" had really behaved with the most
dignified consideration; and while her new guests were presented as
Mrs. and Miss Gwynne, intimated, by a hundred little adroit devices
of manner, that their real rank and title were regarded by her as
inviolable secrets,--not the less likely to be respected that she was
herself ignorant of both. Heaven knows what secret anguish the retention
of these facts cost poor Paul! secrecy being with him a quality
something like Acres' courage, which "oozed out of his fingers' ends."
Mr. Dempsey hated those miserly souls that can treasure up a fact for
their own personal enjoyment, and yet never invite a neighbor to
partake of it; and it was a very inefficient consolation to him, in this
instance, to throw a mysterious cloak over the strangers, and, by an air
of profound consciousness, seek to impose on the other boarders. He
made less scruple about what he deemed his own share of the mystery;
and scarcely had Mrs. Fumbally performed the honors of the two small
chambers destined for Lady Eleanor and Helen, than Paul followed her to
the little apartment familiarly termed her "den," and shutting the door,
with an appearance of deep caution, took his place opposite to her at
the fire.
"Well, Mr. Dempsey," said Mrs. Fumbally, "now that all is done
and settled,--now that I have taken these ladies into the
'Establishment,'"--a very favorite designation of Mrs. Fum's when she
meant to be imposing,--"I hope I am not unreasonable iu expecting a full
and complete account from you of who they are, whence they came, and, in
fact, every particular necessary to satisfy me concerning them."
"Mrs. Gwynne! Miss Gwynne! mother and daughter--Captain Gwynne, the
father, on the recruiting staff in the Isle of Skye, or, if you like it
better, with his regiment at St. John's. Mrs. G------, a Miss Rickaby,
one of the Rickabys of Pwhlmdlwmm, North Wales--ancient family--small
estate--all spent--obliged to live retired--till--till--no matter
what--a son comes of age--to sign something--or anything that way--"
"This is all fiddle-faddle, Mr. Dempsey," said Mrs. Fum, with an
expression that seemed to say, "Take care how you trifle with me."
"To be sure it is," rejoined Paul; "all lies, every word of it. What
do you say, then, if we have her the Widow Gwynne--husband shot at
Bergen-op-Zoom--"
"I say, Mr. Dempsey, that if you wish me to keep your secret before the
other boarders--"
"The best way is never to tell it to you--eh, Mrs. Fum? Well, come, I
will be open. Name, Gwynne--place of abode unknown--family ditto--means
supposed to be ample--daughter charming--so very much so, indeed,
that if Paul Dempsey were only what he ought--the Dempsey of Dempsey's
Grove--"
"Oh, is that it?" said Mrs. Fumbally, endeavoring to smile,-"is that
it?"
"That's it," rejoined Paul, as he drew up his shirt-collar, and adjusted
his cravat.
"Isn't she very young, Mr. Dempsey?" said Mrs. Fum, slyly.
"Twenty, or thereabouts, I take it," said Paul, carelessly,--"quite
suitable as regards age."
"I never thought you 'd marry, Mr. Dempsey," said Mrs. Fum, with a
languishing look, that contrasted strangely with the habitually shrewish
expression of the "Pauther's" face.
"Can't help it, Mrs. Fum. The last of the Romans! No more Dempseys when
I 'm gone, if I don't. Elder branch all dropped off,--last twig of the
younger myself."
"Ah! these are considerations, indeed!" sighed the lady. "But don't you
think that a person more like yourself in taste--more similar in opinion
of the world? She looks proud, Mr. Dempsey; I should say, overbearingly
proud."
"Rather proud myself, if that's all," said Dempsey, drawing himself up,
and protruding his chin with a most comic imitation of dignity.
"Only becomingly so, Mr. Dempsey,--a proper sense of self-respect, a due
feeling for your future position in life,--I never saw more than that, I
must say. Now, I could n't help remarking the way that young lady threw
herself into the chair, and the glance she gave at the room. It
was number eight, Mr. Dempsey, with the chintz furniture, and the
looking-glass over the chimney! Well, really you 'd say, it was poor
Leonard's room, with the settee bed in the corner,--the look she gave
it!"
"Indeed!" exclaimed Dempsey, who really felt horrified at this
undervaluing judgment of what every boarder regarded as the very sanctum
of the Fumbally Temple.
"Truth, every word of it!" resumed Mrs. Fum. "I thought my ears
deceived me, as she said to her mother, 'Oh, it 's all very neat and
clean!'--neat and clean, Mr. Dempsey! The elegant rug which I worked
myself--the pointer--and the wild duck."
"Like life, by Jove, if it was n't that the dog has only three legs."
"Perspective, Mr. Dempsey, don't forget its perspective; and if the
bird's wings are maroon, I could n't help it, it was the only color to
be had in the town."
"The group is fine,--devilish fine!" said Paul, with the air of one whose
word was final.
"'Neat and clean' were the expressions she used. I could have cried as
I heard it." Here the lady, probably in consideration for the omission,
wiped her eyes, and dropped her voice to a very sympathetic key.
"She meant it well, depend upon it, Mrs. Fum, she meant it well."
"And the old lady," resumed Mrs. Fumbally, deaf to every consolation,
"lay back in her chair this way, and said, 'Oh, it will all do very
well,--you 'll not find us troublesome, Mrs. Flumary!' I haven't been
the head of this establishment eight-and-twenty years to be called
Flumary. How these airs are to be tolerated by the other boarders, I'm
sure is more than I can say."
It appeared more than Mr. Dempsey could say also, if one might pronounce
from the woe-begone expression of his face; for, up to this moment
totally wrapped up in the mysterious portion of the affair, he had lost
sight of all the conflicting interests this sudden advent would call
into activity.
"That wasn't all," continued Mrs. Fumbally; "for when I told them
the dinner-hour was five, the old lady interrupted me with, 'For the
present, with your permission, we should prefer dining at six.' Did any
one ever hear the like? I 'll have a pretty rebellion in the house, when
it gets out! Mrs. Mackay will have her tea upstairs every night; Mr.
Dunlop will always breakfast in bed. I would n't be surprised if Miss
Boyle stood out for broth in the middle of the day."
"Oh!" exclaimed Paul, holding up both hands in horror.
"I vow and protest, I expect that next!" exclaimed Mrs. Fum, as folding
her arms, and fixing her eyes rigidly on the grate, she sat, the ideal
of abused and injured benevolence. "Indeed, Mr. Dempsey," said she,
after a long silence on both sides, "it would be a great breach of the
regard many years of intimacy with you has formed, if I did not say,
that your affections are misplaced. Beauty is a perishable gift."
Paul looked at Mrs. Fumbally, and seemed struck with the truth of her
remark.
"But the qualities of the miud, Mr. Dempsey, those rare endowments that
make happy the home and hearth. You 're fond of beef hash with pickled
onions," said she, smiling sweetly; "well, you shall have one to-day."
"Good creature!" muttered Paul, while he pressed her hand
affectionately. "The best heart in the world!"
"Ah, yes," sighed the lady, half soliloquizing, "conformity of
temper,--the pliancy of the reed,--the tender attachment of the ivy."
Paul coughed, and drew himself up proudly, and, as if a sudden thought
occurred to him that he resembled the oak of the forest, he planted his
feet firmly, and stood stiff and erect.
"You are not half careful enough about yourself, Mr. Dempsey,--never
attend to changing your damp clothes,--and I assure you the climate here
requires it; and when you come in cold and wet, you should always step
in here, on your way upstairs, and take a little something warm and
cordial. I don't know if you approve of this," suiting the action to the
words. Mrs. Fum had opened a small cupboard in the wall, and taken out
a quaint-looking flask, and a very diminutive glass.
"Nectar, by Jove,--downright nectar!"
"Made with some white currants and ginger," chimed in Mrs. Fum, simply,
as if to imply, "See what skill can effect; behold the magic power of
intelligence!"
"White currants and ginger!" echoed Paul, holding out the glass to be
refilled.
"A trifle of spirits, of course."
"Of course! could n't be comforting without it."
"That's what poor dear Fumbally always called, 'Ye know, ye know!' It
was his droll way of saying 'Noyau!'" Here Mrs. F. displayed a conflict
of smiles and tears, a perfect April landscape on her features. "He had
such spirits!"
"I don't wonder, if he primed himself with this often," said Dempsey,
who at last relinquished his glass, but with evident unwillingness.
[Illustration: 266]
"He used to say that his was a happy home!" sobbed Mrs. Fum, while she
pressed her handkerchief to her face.
Paul did not well know what he should say, or if, indeed, he was called
upon to utter a sentiment at all; but he thought he could have drunk
another glass to the late Fum's memory, if his widow had n't kept such a
tight grip of the flask.
"Oh, Mr. Dempsey, who could have thought it would come to this?" The
sorrowful drooping of her eyelids, as she spoke, seemed to intimate
an allusion to the low state of the decanter, and Dempsey at once
replied,--
"There's a very honest glass in it still."
"Kind--kind creature!" sobbed Mrs. Fum, as she poured out the last of
the liquor. And Paul was sorely puzzled, whether the encomium applied to
the defunct or himself. "Do you know, Mr. Dempsey," here she gave a kind
of hysterical giggle, that might take any turn,--hilarious, or the
reverse, as events should dictate,--"do you know that as I see you
there, standing before the fire, looking so pleasant and cheerful, so
much at home, as a body might say, I can't help fancying a great
resemblance between you and my poor dear Fum. He was older than you,"
said she, rapidly, as a slight cloud passed over Paul's features;-"older
and stouter, but he had the same jocose smile, the same merry voice, and
even that little fidgety habit with the hands. I know you 'll forgive
me,--even that was his."
This was in all probability strictly correct, inasmuch as for several
years before his demise the gifted individual had labored under a
perpetual "delirium tremens."
"He rather liked this kind of thing," said Paul, pantomiming the action
of drinking with his now empty glass.
"In moderation,-only in moderation."
"I 've heard that it disagreed with him," rejoined Paul, who, not
pleased with his counterpart, resolved on showing a knowledge of his
habits.
"So it did," sighed Mrs. Fum; "and he gave it up in consequence."
"I heard that, too," said Paul; and then muttered to himself, "on the
morning he died."
A gentle tap at the door now broke in upon the colloquy, and a very
slatternly servant woman, with bare legs and feet, made her appearance.
"What d'ye want, Biddy?" asked her mistress, in an angry voice. "I 'm
just settling accounts with Mr. Dempsey, and you bounce in as if the
house was on fire."
"It 's just himsel 's wanted," replied the northern maiden; "the leddie
canna get on ava without him, he maun come up to number 'eight,' as soon
as he can."
"I 'm ready," quoth Paul, as he turned to arrange his cravat, and run
his hand through his hair; "I 'm at their service."
"Remember, Mr. Dempsey, remember, that what I've spoken to you this day
is in the strictest confidence. If matters have proceeded far with the
young lady upstairs, if your heart, if hers be really engaged, forget
everything,--forget me."
Mrs. Fumbally's emotion had so overpowered her towards the end of her
speech, that she rushed into an adjoining closet and clapped-to the
door, an obstacle that only acted as a sound-board to her sobs, and from
which Paul hastened with equal rapidity to escape.
An entire hemisphere might have separated the small chamber where Mr.
Dempsey's late interview took place from the apartment on the first
floor, to which he now was summoned, and so, to do him justice, did Paul
himself feel; and not all the stimulating properties of that pleasant
cordial could allay certain tremors of the heart, as he turned the
handle of the door.
Lady Eleanor was seated at a writing-table, and Helen beside her,
working, as Mr. Dempsey entered, and, after a variety of salutations,
took a chair, about the middle of the room, depositing his hat and
umbrella beside him.
"It would seem, Mr. Dempsey," said Lady Eleanor, with a very benign
smile, "it would seem that we have made a very silly mistake; one, I
am bound to say, you are quite exonerated from any share in, and the
confession of which will, doubtless, exhibit my own and my daughter's
cleverness in a very questionable light before you. Do you know, Mr.
Dempsey, we believed this to be an inn."
"An inn!" broke in Paul, with uplifted hands.
"Yes, and it was only by mere accident we have discovered our error, and
that we are actually in a boarding-house. Pray now, Helen, do not laugh,
the blunder is quite provoking enough already."
Why Miss Darcy should laugh, and what there could be to warrant the use
of the epithet, "provoking," Paul might have been broken on the wheel
without being able to guess, while Lady Eleanor went on,--
"Now, it would seem customary for the guests to adopt here certain hours
in common,--breakfasting, dining together, and associating like the
members of one family."
Paul nodded an assent, and she resumed.
"I need scarcely observe to you, Mr. Dempsey, how very unsuited either
myself or Miss Darcy would be to such an assembly, if even present
circumstances did not more than ever enjoin a life of strict
retirement."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Paul in a tone of deprecation, "there never was
anything more select than this. Mother Fum never admits without a
reference; I can show you the advertisement in the Derry papers. We kept
the Collector out for two months, till he brought us a regular bill of
health, as a body might say."
"Could you persuade them to let us remain in 'Quarantine,' then, for a
few days?" said Helen, smiling.
"Oh, no! Helen, nothing of the kind; Mr. Dempsey must not be put to any
troublesome negotiations, on our account. There surely must be an hotel
of some sort in the town."
"This is a nice mess!" muttered Paul, who began to anticipate some of
the miseries his good nature might cost him.
"A few days, a week at furthest, I hope, will enable us to communicate
with our law adviser, and decide upon some more suitable abode. Could
you, then, for the meanwhile, suggest a comfortable inn, or if not, a
lodging in the town?"
Paul wrung his hands in dismay, but uttered not a syllable.
"To be candid, Mr. Dempsey," said Helen, "my father has a horror of
these kind of places, and you could recommend us no country inn, however
humble, where he would not be better pleased to hear of our taking
refuge."
"But, Fumbally's! the best-known boarding-house in the North."
"I should be sincerely grieved, to be understood as uttering one
syllable in its disparagement," rejoined Lady Eleanor; "I could not
ask for a more satisfactory voucher of its respectability; but ours are
peculiar circumstances."
"Only a pound a week," struck in Paul, "with extras."
"Nothing could be more reasonable; but pray understand me, I speak of
course in great ignorance, but it would appear to me that persons living
together in this fashion have a kind of right to know something of those
who present themselves for the first time amongst them. Now, there are
many reasons why neither my daughter nor myself would like to submit to
this species of inquiry."
"I 'll settle all that," broke in Paul; "leave that to me, and you 'll
have no further trouble about it."
"You must excuse my reliance even on such discretion," said Lady
Eleanor, with more hauteur than before.
"Are we to understand that there is neither inn nor lodging-house to be
found?" said Helen.
"Plenty of both, but full of bagmen," ejaculated Paul, whose
contrivances were all breaking down beneath him.
"What is to be done?" exclaimed Lady Eleanor to her daughter.
"Lord bless you!" cried Paul, in a whining voice, "if you only come down
amongst them with that great frill round your neck you wore the first
day I saw you at 'The Corvy,' you 'll scare them so, they 'll never have
courage to utter a word. There was Miss Daly--when she was here--"
"Miss Daly,-Miss Maria Daly!" exclaimed both ladies together.
"Miss Maria Daly," repeated Dempsey, with an undue emphasis on every
syllable. "She spent the summer with us on the coast."
"Where had she resided up to that time, may I ask?" said Lady Eleanor,
hastily.
"At 'The Corvy'--always at 'The Corvy,' until your arrival."
"Oh, Helen, think of this!" whispered Lady Eleanor, in a voice tremulous
with agitation. "Think what sacrifices we have exacted from our
friends,--and now, to learn that while we stand hesitating about
encountering the inconveniences of our lot, that we have been subjecting
another to that very same difficulty from which we shrink." Then,
turning to Mr. Dempsey, she added,--
"I need not observe, sir, that while I desire no mystery to be thrown
around our arrival here, I will not be the less grateful for any
restraint the good company may impose on themselves as to inquiries
concerning us. We are really not worth the attention, and I should
be sorry to impose upon kind credulity by any imaginary claim to
distinction."
"You'll dine below, then?" asked Paul, far more eager to ascertain this
fact than any reasons that induced it.
Lady Eleanor bowed; and Dempsey, with a face beaming with delight, arose
to withdraw and communicate the happy news to Mrs. Fumbally.
CHAPTER XXII. A GLANCE AT MRS. FUMBALLY'S.
Great as Lady Eleanor's objection was to subjecting herself or her
daughter to the contact of a boarding-house party, when the resolve
was once taken the matter cost her far less thought or anxiety than it
occasioned to the other inmates of the "Establishment." It is only
in such segments of the great world that curiosity reaches its true
intensity, and the desire to know every circumstance of one's neighbor
becomes an absorbing passion. A distrustful impression that nobody
is playing on "the square "--that every one has some special cause
of concealment, some hidden shame--seems the presiding tone of these
places.
Mrs. Fumbally's was no exception to the rule, and now that the residents
had been so long acquainted that the personal character and fortune of
each was known to all, the announcement of a new arrival caused the most
lively sensations of anxiety.
Directories were ransacked for the name of Gwynne, and every separate
owner of the appellation canvassed and discussed. Army lists were
interrogated and conned over. Dempsey himself was examined for two hours
before a "Committee of the whole house;" and though his inventive
powers were no mean gifts, certain discrepancies, certain unexplained
difficulties, did not fail to strike the acute tribunal, and he was
dismissed as unworthy of credit. Baffled, not beaten, each retired to
dress for dinner,--a ceremony, be it remarked, only in use on great
occasions,--fully impressed with the conviction that the Gwynne case
was a legitimate object of search and discovery.
It is not necessary here to allude to the strange display of costume
that day called forth, nor what singular extravagances in dress each
drew from the armory of his fascinations. The collector closed the
Custom-house an hour earlier, that he might be properly powdered for the
occasion. Miss Boyle abandoned, "for the nonce," her accustomed walk on
the Banside, where the officers used to lounge, and in the privacy of
her chamber prepared for the event. There is a tradition of her being
seen, with a formidable array of curl-papers, so late as four in the
afternoon. Mr. Dunlop was in a perpetual trot all day, between his
tailor and his bootmaker, sundry alterations being required at
a moment's notice. Mrs. Fumbally herself, however, eclipsed all
competitors, as, in a robe of yellow satin, spotted with red, she made
her appearance in the drawing-room; her head-dress being a turban of the
same prevailing colors, but ornamented by a drooping plume of feathers
and spangles so very umbrageous and pendent, that she looked like a
weeping-ash clad in tinsel. A crimson brooch of vast proportions--which,
on near inspection, turned out to be a portrait of the departed
Fumbally, but whose colors were, unhappily, not "fast ones"--confined
a scarf of green velvet, from which envious time had worn off all the
pile, and left a "sear and yellow" stubble everywhere perceptible.
Whether Mrs. Fum's robe had been devised at a period when dresses were
worn much shorter, or that, from being very tall, a sufficiency of the
material could not be obtained,--but true it is, her costume would have
been almost national in certain Scotch regiments, and necessitated,
for modesty's sake, a peculiar species of ducking trip, that, with the
nodding motion of her head, gave her the gait of a kangaroo.
Scarcely had the various individuals time to give a cursory glance
at their neighbors' finery, when Lady Eleanor appeared leaning on her
daughter's arm. Mr. Dempsey had waited for above half an hour outside
the door to offer his escort, which being coldly but civilly declined,
the ladies entered.
Mrs. Fumbally rose to meet her guests, and was about to proceed in due
form with a series of introducings, when Lady Eleanor cut her short by
a very slight but courteous salutation to the company collectively, and
then sat down.
The most insufferable assumption of superiority is never half so
chilling in its effect upon underbred people as the calm quietude of
good manners.
And thus the party were more repelled by Lady Eleanor and her daughter's
easy bearing than they would have felt at any outrageous pretension.
The elegant simplicity of their dress, too, seemed to rebuke the stage
finery of the others, and very uneasy glances met and were interchanged
at this new companionship. A few whispered words, an occasional
courageous effort to talk aloud, suddenly ending in a cough, and an
uneasy glance at the large silver watch over the chimney, were all that
took place, when the uncombed head of a waiter, hired specially for the
day, gave the announcement that dinner was served.
"Mr. Dempsey--Mr. Dunlop," said Mrs. Fumbally, with a gesture towards
Lady Eleanor and her daughter. The gentlemen both advanced a step and
then stood stock still, as Lady Eleanor, drawing her shawl around her
with one hand, slipped the other within her daughter's arm. Every eye
was now turned towards Mr. Dunlop, who was a kind of recognized type
of high life; and he, feeling the urgency of the moment, made a step in
advance, and with extended arm, said, "May I have the honor to offer my
arm?"
"With your leave, I'll take my daughter's, sir," said Lady Eleanor,
coldly; and without paying the least attention to the various
significant glances around her, she walked forward to the dinner-room.
The chilling reserve produced by the new arrivals had given an air of
decorous quietude to the dinner, which, if gratifying to Lady Eleanor
and Helen, was very far from being so to the others, and as the
meal proceeded, certain low mutterings--the ground swell of a coming
storm--announced the growing feeling of displeasure amongst them.
Lady Eleanor and Miss Darcy were too unconscious of having offered any
umbrage to the party to notice these indications of discontent; nor did
they remark that Mr.
Dempsey himself was becoming overwhelmed by the swelling waves of
popular indignation.
A very curt monosyllable had met Lady Eleanor in the two efforts she
had made at conversation with her neighbor, and she was perhaps not
very sorry to find that table-talk was not a regulation of the
"Establishment".
Had Lady Eleanor or Helen been disposed to care for it, they might
have perceived that the dinner itself was not less anomalous than the
company, and like them suffered sorely from being over-dressed. They,
however, affected to eat, and seemed satisfied with everything, resolved
that, having encountered the ordeal, they would go through with it to
the last. The observances of the table had one merit in the Fumbally
household; they were conducted with no unnecessary tediousness. The
courses--if we dare so apply the name to an irregular skirmish of meats,
hot, cold, and rchauff--followed rapidly, the guests ate equally so,
and the table presented a scene, if not of convivial enjoyment, at least
of bustle and animation, that supplied its place. This movement, so to
call it, was sufficiently new to amuse Helen Darcy, who, less pained
than her mother at their companionship, could not help relishing many
of the eccentric features of the scene; everything in the dress, manner,
tone of voice, and bearing of the company presenting such a striking
contrast to all she had been used to. This enjoyment on her part,
although regulated by the strictest good-breeding, was perceived, or
rather suspected, by some of the ladies present, and looks of very
unmistakable anger were darted towards her from the end of the table, so
that both mother and daughter felt the moment a very welcome one when a
regiment of small decanters were set down on the board, and the ladies
rose to withdraw.
If Lady Eleanor had consulted her own ardent wishes, she would at once
have retired to her room, but she had resolved on the whole sacrifice,
and took her place in the drawing-room, determined to follow in every
respect the usages around her. Mrs. Fumbally addressed a few civil words
to her, and then left the room to look after the cares of the household.
The group of seven ladies who remained, formed themselves into a coterie
apart, and producing from sundry bags and baskets little specimens of
female handiwork, began arranging their cottons and worsteds with a most
praiseworthy activity.
While Lady Eleanor sat with folded bands and half-closed lids, sunk in
her own meditations, Helen arose and walked towards a book-shelf, where
some well-thumbed volumes were lying. An odd volume of "Delphine,"
a "Treatise on Domestic Cookery," and "Moore's Zeluco" were not
attractive, and she sauntered to the piano, on which were scattered
some of the songs from the "Siege of Belgrade," the then popular piece;
certain comic melodies lay also among them, inscribed with the name of
Lawrence M'Farland, a gentleman whom they had heard addressed several
times during dinner. While Helen turned over the music pages, the eyes
of the others were riveted on her; and when she ran her fingers over the
keys of the cracked old instrument, and burst into an involuntary laugh
at its discordant tones, a burst of unequivocal indignation could no
longer be restrained.
"I declare, Miss M'Corde," said an old lady with a paralytic shake in
her head, and a most villanous expression in her one eye,--"I declare I
would speak to her, if I was in your place."
"Unquestionably," exclaimed another, whose face was purple with
excitement; and thus encouraged, a very thin and very tall personage,
with a long, slender nose tipped with pink, and light red hair in
ringlets, arose from her seat, and approached where Helen was standing.
"You are perhaps not aware, ma'am," said she, with a mincing, lisping
accent, the very essence of gentility, "that this instrument is not a
'house piano.'"
Helen blushed slightly at the address, but could not for her life guess
what the words meant. She had heard of grand pianos and square pianos,
of cottage pianos, but never of "house pianos," and she answered in the
most simple of voices, "Indeed."
"No, ma'am, it is not; it belongs to your very humble servant,"--here
she courtesied to the ground,-"who regrets deeply that its tone should
not have more of your approbation."
"And I, ma'am," said a fat old lady, waddling over, and wheezing
as though she should choke, "I have to express my sorrow that the
book-shelf, which you have just ransacked, should not present something
worthy of your notice. The volumes are mine."
"And perhaps, ma'am," cried a third, a little meagre figure, with a
voice like a nutmeg-grater, "you could persuade the old lady, who I
presume is your mother, to take her feet off that worked stool. When I
made it, I scarcely calculated on the honor it now enjoys!"
Lady Eleanor looked up at this instant, and although unconscious of what
was passing, seeing Helen, whose face was now crimson, standing in the
midst of a very excited group, she arose hastily, and said,--
"Helen, dearest, is there anything the matter?"
"I should say there was, ma'am," interposed the very fat lady,--"I
should be disposed to say there was a great deal the matter. That to
make use of private articles as if they were for house use, to thump one
lady's piano, to toss another lady's books, to make oneself comfortable
in a chair specially provided for the oldest boarder, with one's feet
on another lady's footstool,--these are liberties, ma'am, which become
something more than freedoms when taken by unknown individuals."
"I beg you will forgive my daughter and myself," said Lady Eleanor, with
an air of real regret; "our total ignorance--"
"I thought as much, indeed," muttered she of the shaking head; "there is
no other word for it."
"You are quite correct, ma'am," said Lady Eleanor, at once addressing
her in the most apologetic of voices,-"I cannot but repeat the word; our
very great ignorance of the usages observed here is our only excuse, and
I beg you to believe us incapable of taking such liberties in future."
If anything could have disarmed the wrath of this Holy Alliance, the
manner in which these words were uttered might have done so. Far from
it, however. When the softer sex are deficient in breeding, mercy
is scarcely one of their social attributes. Had Lady Eleanor assumed
towards them the manner with which in other days she had repelled vulgar
attempts at familiarity, they would in all probability have shrunk
back, abashed and ashamed; but her yielding suggested boldness, and
they advanced, with something like what in Cossack warfare is termed a
"Hurra," an indiscriminate clang of voices being raised in reprobation
of every supposed outrage the unhappy strangers had inflicted on the
company. Amid this Babel of accusation Lady Eleanor could distinguish
nothing, and while, overwhelmed by the torrent, she was preparing
to take her daughter's arm and withdraw, the door which led into the
dining-room was suddenly thrown open, and the convivial party entered
en masse.
[Illustration: 280]
"Here's a shindy, by George!" cried Mr. M'Farland,--the Pickle, and the
wit of the Establishment,--"I say, see how the new ones are getting it!"
While Mr. Dempsey hurried away to seek Mrs. Fumbally herself, the
confusion and uproar increased; the loud, coarse laughter of the
"Gentlemen" being added to the wrathful violence of the softer sex.
Lady Eleanor, how-ever, had drawn her daughter to her side, and
without uttering a word, proceeded to leave the room. To this course a
considerable obstacle presented itself in the shape of the Collector,
who, with expanded legs, and hands thrust deep into his side-pockets,
stood against the door.
"Against the ninth general rule, ma'am, which you may read in the frame
over the chimney!" exclaimed he, in a voice somewhat more faltering and
thicker than became a respectable official. "No lady or gentleman can
leave the room while any dispute in which they are concerned remains
unsettled. Isn't that it, M'Farland?" cried he, as the young gentleman
alluded to took down the law-table from its place.
"All right," replied M'Farland; "the very best rule in the house.
Without it, all the rows would take place in private! Now for a court of
inquiry. Mr. Dunlop, you are for the prosecution, and can't sit."
"May I beg, sir, you will permit us to pass out?" said Lady Eleanor, in
a voice whose composure was slightly shaken.
"Can't be, ma'am; in contravention of all law," rejoined the Collector.
"Where is Mr. Dempsey?" whispered Helen, in her despair; and though the
words were uttered in a low voice, one of the ladies overheard them.
A general titter ran immediately around, only arrested by the fat lady
exclaiming aloud, "Shameless minx!"
A very loud hubbub of voices outside now rivalled the tumult within,
amid which one most welcome was distinguished by Helen.
"Oh, mamma, how fortunate! I hear Tate's voice."
"It's me,--it's Mrs. Fumbally," cried that lady, at the same moment
tapping sharply at the door.
"No matter, can't open the door now. Court is about to sit," replied the
Collector. "Mrs. Gwynne stands arraigned for--for what is't? There 's no
use in making that clatter; the door shall not be opened."
This speech was scarcely uttered, when a tremendous bang was heard, and
the worthy Collector, with the door over him, was hurled on his face in
the midst of the apartment, upsetting in his progress a round table and
a lamp over the assembled group of ladies.
Screams of terror, rage, pain, and laughter were now commingled; and
while some assisted the prostrate official to rise, and sprinkled his
temples with water, others bestowed their attentions on the discomfited
fair, whose lustre was sadly diminished by lamp-oil and bruises, while
a third section, of which M'Farland was chief, lay back in their chairs
and laughed vociferously. Meanwhile, how and when nobody could tell,
Lady Eleanor and her daughter had escaped and gained their apartments in
safety.
A more rueful scene than the room presented need not be imagined. The
Collector, whose nose bled profusely, sat pale, half fainting, in
one corner, while some kind friends labored to stop the bleeding, and
restore him to animation. Lamentations of the most poignant grief were
uttered over silks, satins, and tabinets irretrievably ruined; while
the paralytic lady having broken the ribbon of her cap, her head rolled
about fearfully, and even threatened to come clean off altogether. As
for poor Mrs. Fumbally, she flew from place to place, in a perfect agony
of affliction; now wringing her hands over the prostrate door, now over
the fragments of the lamp, and now endeavoring to restore the table,
which, despite all her efforts, would not stand upon two legs. But the
most miserable figure of all was Paul Dempsey, who saw no footing for
himself anywhere. Lady Eleanor and Helen must detest him to the day
of his death. The boarders could never forgive him. Mrs. Fum would as
certainly regard him as the author of all evil, and the Collector would
inevitably begin dunning him for an unsettled balance of fourteen and
ninepence, lost at "Spoiled five" two winters before.
Already, indeed, symptoms of his unpopularity began to show themselves.
Angry looks and spiteful glances were directed towards him, amidst
muttered expressions of displeasure. How far these manifestations might
have proceeded there is no saying, had not the attention of the company
been drawn to the sudden noise of a carriage stopping at the street
door.
"Going, flitting, evacuating the territory!" exclaimed M'Farland, as
from an open window he contemplated the process of packing a post-chaise
with several heavy trunks and portmanteaus.
"The Gwynnes!" muttered the Collector, with his handkerchief to his
face.
"Even so! flying with camp equipage and all. There stands your victor,
that little old fellow with the broad shoulders. I say, come here a
moment," called he aloud, making a sign for Tate to approach. "The
Collector is not in the least angry for what's happened; he knew you did
n't mean anything serious. Pray, who are these ladies, your mistresses I
mean?"
"Lady Eleanor Darcy and Miss Darcy, of Gwynne Abbey," replied Tate,
sturdily, as he gave the names with a most emphatic distinctness.
"The devil it was!" exclaimed M'Farland.
"By my conscience, ye may well wonder at being in such company, sir,"
said Tate, laughing, and resuming his place just in time to assist
Lady Eleanor to ascend the steps. Helen quickly followed, the door was
slammed to, and, Tate mounting with the alacrity of a town footman, the
chaise set out at a brisk pace down the street.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE COAST IN WINTER
Although Tate Sullivan had arrived in Coleraine and provided himself
with a chaise expressly to bring his mistress and her daughter back
to "The Corvy,"--from which the sheriff's officers had retired in
discomfiture, on discovering the loss of their warrants,--Lady Eleanor,
dreading a renewal of the law proceedings, had determined never to
return thither.
From the postilion they learned that a small but not uncomfortable
lodging could be had near the little village of Port Ballintray, and to
this spot they now directed their course. The transformation of a little
summer watering-place into the dismal village of some poor fishermen in
winter, is a sad spectacle; nor was the picture relieved by the presence
of the fragments of a large vessel, which, lately lost with all its
crew, hung on the rocks, thumping and clattering with every motion of
the waves. By the faint moonlight Lady Eleanor and her daughter could
mark the outlines of figures, as they waded in the tide or clambered
along the rocks, stripping the last remains of the noble craft, and
contending with each other for the spoils of the dead.
If the scene itself was a sorrowful one, it was no less painful to their
eyes from feeling a terrible similitude between their own fortunes and
that of the wrecked vessel; the gallant ship, meant to float in its
pride over the ocean, now a broken and shattered wreck, falling asunder
with each stroke of the sea!
"How like and yet how unlike!" sighed Lady Eleanor; "if these crushed
and shattered timbers have no feeling in the hour of adversity, yet are
they denied the glorious hopefulness that in the saddest moments clings
to humanity. Ours is shipwreck, too, but, taken at its worst, is only
temporary calamity!"
Helen pressed her mother's hands with fervor to her lips; perhaps never
had she loved her with more intensity than at that instant.
The chaise drew up at the door of a little cabin, built at the foot of,
and, as it actually seemed, against a steep rocky cliff of great height.
In summer it was regarded as one of the best among the surrounding
lodgings, but now it looked dreary enough. A fishing-boat, set up on
one end, formed a kind of sheltering porch to the doorway; while spars,
masts, and oars were lashed upon the thatch, to serve as a protection
against the dreadful gales of winter.
A childless widow was the only occupant, whose scanty livelihood was
eked out by letting lodgings to the summer visitors,--a precarious
subsistence, which in bad seasons, and they were not unfrequent,
failed altogether. It was with no small share of wonderment that Mary
Spellan--or "old Molly," as the village more usually called her--saw a
carriage draw up to the cabin door late of a dark night in winter; nor
was this feeling unalloyed by a very strong tincture of suspicion, for
Molly was an Antrim woman, and had her proportion of the qualities, good
and bad, of the "Black North."
"They 'll no be makin' a stay on't," said she to the postboy, who,
in his capacity of interpreter, had got down to explain to Molly
the requirements of the strangers. "They 'll be here to-day and awa
to-morrow, I 'm thenkin'," said she, with habitual and native distrust.
"And what for wull I make a 'hottle'"--no greater indignity could be
offered to the lodging-house keeper than to compare the accommodation
in any respect with that of an hotel--"of my wee bit house, takin' out
linen and a' the rest o' it for maybe a day or twa."
Lady Eleanor, who watched from the window of the chaise the course of
the negotiations without hearing any part of the colloquy, was impatient
at the slow progress events seemed to take, and supposing that the
postboy's demands were made with more regard to their habits than to old
Molly's means of accommodation, called out,--
"Tell the good woman that we are easily satisfied; and if the cabin be
but clean and quiet--"
"What's the leddie sayin'?" said Molly, who heard only a stray word, and
that not overpleasing to her.
"She 's saying it will do very well," said the postboy, conciliatingly,
"and 'tis maybe a whole year she 'll stay with you."
"Ech, dearee me!" sighed Molly, "it's wearisome enough to hae' them a'
the summer, without hae'ing them in the winter too. Tell her to come
ben, and see if she likes the place." And with this not over-courteous
proposal, Molly turned her back, and rolled, rather thau walked, into
the cabin.
The three little rooms which comprised the whole suite destined for
strangers, were, in all their poverty, scrupulously clean; and Molly,
gradually thawed by the evident pretensions of her guests, volunteered
little additions to the furniture, as she went along, concluding with
the very characteristic remark,--
"But ye maun consider, that it's no my habit, or my likin' either, to
hae lodgers in the winter; and af ye come, ye maun e'en pay for your
whistle, like ither folk."
This was the arrangement that gave Lady Eleanor the least trouble; and
though the terms demanded were in reality exorbitant, they were acceded
to without hesitation by those who never had had occasion to make
similar compacts, and believed that the sum was a most reasonable one.
As is ever the case, the many wants and inconveniences of a restricted
dwelling were far more placidly endured by those long habituated to
every luxury than by their followers; and so, while Lady Eleanor and
Helen submitted cheerfully to daily privations of one kind or other,
Tate lived a life of everlasting complaint and grumbling over the narrow
accommodation of the cabin, continually irritating old Molly by demands
impossible to comply with, and suggesting the necessity of changes
perfectly out of her power to effect. It is but justice to the faithful
old butler to state, that to this line of conduct he was prompted by
what he deemed due to his mistress and her high station, rather than by
any vain hope of ever succeeding, his complaints being less demands for
improvement than after the fashion of those "protests" which dissentient
members of a legislature think it necessary to make in cases where
opposition is unavailing.
These half-heard mutterings of Tate were the only interruptions to a
life of sad but tranquil monotony. Lady Eleanor and her daughter lived
as though in a long dream; the realities around them so invested with
sameness and uniformity that days, weeks, and months blended into each
other, and became one commingled mass of time, undivided and unmarked.
Of the world without they heard but little; of those dearest to them,
absolutely nothing. The very newspapers maintained a silence on the
subject of the expedition under Abercrombie, so that of the Knight
himself they had no tidings whatever. Of Daly they only heard once, at
the end of one of Bicknell's letters, one of those gloomy records of the
law's delay; that he said, "You will be sorry to learn that Mr. Bagenal
Daly, having omitted to appear personally or by counsel in a cause
lately called on here, has been cast in heavy damages, and pronounced
in contempt, neither of which inflictions will probably give him much
uneasiness, if, as report speaks, he has gone to pass the remainder of
his days in America. Miss Daly speaks of joining him, when she learns
that he has fixed on any spot of future residence." The only particle of
consolation extractable from the letter was in a paragraph at the end,
which ran thus: "O'Reilly's solicitor has withdrawn all the proceedings
lately commenced, and there is an evident desire to avoid further
litigation. I hear that for the points now in dispute an arbitration
will be proposed. Would you feel disposed or free to accept such
an offer, if made? Let me know this, as I should be prepared at all
events."
Even this half-confession of a claim gave hope to the drooping spirits
of Lady Eleanor, and she lost no time in acquainting Bicknell with her
opinion that while they neither could nor would compromise the rights
of their son, for any interests actually their own, and terminating
with their lives, they would willingly adopt any arrangement that should
remove the most pressing evils of poverty, and permit them to live
united for the rest of their days.
The severe winter of northern Ireland closed in, with all its darkening
skies and furious storms; scattered fragments of wrecked vessels, spars,
and ship-gear strewed the rocky coast for miles. The few cottages here
and there were closed and barricaded as if against an enemy, the roofs
fastened down by ropes and heavy implements of husbandry, to keep safe
the thatch; the boats of the fishermen drawn up on land, grouped round
the shealings in sad but not unpicturesque confusion. The ever-restless
sea beating like thunder upon that iron shore, the dark impending clouds
lowering over cliff and precipice, were all that the eye could mark.
No cattle were on the hills; the sheep nestling in the little glens and
valleys were almost undistinguishable from the depth of gloom around;
not a man was to be seen.
The little village of Port Ballintray, which a few months before
abounded in all the sights and sounds of human intercourse, was now
perfectly deserted. Most of the cottages were fastened on the inside;
in some the doors, burst open by the storm, showed still more
unquestionably that no dwellers remained; the little gardens, tended
with such care, were now uprooted and devastated; fallen trellises and
ruined porches were seen on every side; and even Mrs. Fumbally's, the
pride and glory of the place, had not escaped the general wreck, and the
flaunting archway, on which, in bright letters, her name was inscribed,
hung pensively by one pillar, and waved like a sad pendulum, "counting
the weary minutes over!"
While nothing could less resemble the signs of habitation than the
aspect of matters without, within a fire burned on more than one hearth,
and a serving-woman was seen moving from place to place occupied in
making those arrangements which bespoke the speedy arrival of visitors.
It was long after nightfall that a travelling carriage and four--a rare
sight in such a place, even in the palmiest days of summer--drew up
at the front of the little garden, and after some delay a very old and
feeble man was lifted out, and carried between two servants into the
house; he was followed by another, whose firm step and erect figure
indicated the prime of life; while after him again came a small man,
most carefully protected by coats and comforters against the severity of
the season. He walked lame, and in the shuddering look he gave around in
the short transit from the carriage to the house-door, showed that such
prospects, however grand and picturesque, had few charms for him.
A short interval elapsed after the luggage was removed from the
carriage, and then one of the servants mounted the box, the horses'
beads were turned, and the conveyance was seen retiring by the road to
Coleraine.
The effective force of Mrs. Fum's furniture was never remarkable, in
days of gala and parade; it was still less imposing now, when nothing
remained save an invalided garrison of deal chairs and tables, a few
curtainless beds, and a stray chest of drawers or two of the rudest
fashion.
The ample turf fire on the hearth of the chief sitting-room, cheering
and bright as was its aspect, after the dark and rainy scene without
doors, could not gladden the air of these few and comfortless movables
into a look of welcome; and so one of the newly arrived party seemed to
feel, as he threw his glance over the meagre-looking chamber, and in a
half-complaining, half-inquiring tone, said,--
"Don't you think, sir, they might have done this a little better? These
windows are no defence against the wind or rain, the walls are actually
soaked with wet; not a bit of carpet, not a chair to sit upon! I 'm
greatly afraid for the old gentleman; if he were to be really ill in
such a place--"
A heavy fit of coughing from the inner room now seemed to corroborate
the suspicion.
"We must make the best of it, Nalty," said the other. "Remember, the
plan was of your own devising; there was no time for much preparation
here, if even it had been prudent or possible to make it; and as to
my father, I warrant you his constitution is as good as yours or mine;
anxiety about this business has preyed upon him; but let your plan only
succeed, and I warrant him as able to undergo fatigue and privation as
either of us."
"His cough is very troublesome," interposed Nalty, timidly.
"About the same I have known it every winter since I was a boy," said
the other, carelessly. "I say, sir," added he, louder, while he tapped
the door with his knuckles,--"I say, sir, Nalty is afraid you have
caught fresh cold."
"Tell him his annuity is worth three years' purchase," said the old man
from within, with a strange unearthly effort at a laugh. "Tell him,
if he 'll pay five hundred pounds down, I 'll let him run his own life
against mine in the deed."
"There, you hear that, Nalty! What say you to the proposal?"
"Wonderful old man! astonishing!" muttered Nalty, evidently not
flattered at the doubts thus suggested as to his own longevity.
"He doesn't seem to like that, Bob, eh?" called out the old man, with
another cackle.
"After that age they get a new lease, sir,--actually a new lease of
life," whispered Nalty.
Mr. O'Reilly--for it was that gentleman, who, accompanied by his father
and confidential lawyer, formed the party--gave a dry assent to the
proposition, and drawing his chair closer to the fire, seemed to occupy
himself with his own thoughts. Meanwhile the old doctor continued to
maintain a low muttering conversation with his servant, until at length
the sounds were exchanged for a deep snoring respiration, and he slept.
The appearance of a supper, which, if not very appetizing, was at least
very welcome, partially restored the drooping spirits of Mr. Nalty, who
now ate and talked with a degree of animation quite different from his
former mood.
"The ham is excellent, sir, and the veal very commendable," said he,
perceiving that O'Reilly sat with his untouched plate before him, "and a
glass of sherry is very grateful after such a journey."
"A weary journey, indeed," said O'Reilly, sighing: "the roads in this
part of the island would seem seldom travelled, and the inns never
visited; however, if we succeed, Nalty--"
"So we shall, sir, I have not the slightest doubt of it; it is perfectly
evident that they have no money to go on. 'The sinews of war' are
expended, all Bicknell's late proceedings indicate a failing exchequer;
that late record, for instance, at Westport, should never have been left
to a common jury."
"All this may be true, and yet we may find them unwilling to adopt a
compromise: there is a spirit in this class of men very difficult to
deal with."
"But we have two expedients," interrupted Nalty.
"Say, rather, a choice between two; you forget that if we try my
father's plan, the other can never be employed."
"I incline to the other mode of procedure," said Nalty, thoughtfully;
"it has an appearance of frankness and candor very likely to influence
people of this kind; besides, we have such a strong foundation to go
upon,--the issue of two trials at bar, both adverse to them, O'Grady's
opinion on the ejectment cases equally opposed to their views. The
expense of a suit in equity to determine the validity of the entail, and
show how far young Darcy can be a plaintiff: then the cases for a jury;
all costly matters, sir! Bicknell knows this well; indeed, if the truth
were out, I suspect Sam is getting frightened about his own costs, he
has sold out of the funds twice to pay fees."
"Yet the plan is a mere compromise, after all," said O'Reilly; "it is
simply saying, relinquish your right, and accept so much money."
"Not exactly, sir; we deny the right, we totally reject the claim, we
merely say, forego proceedings that are useless, spare yourselves and us
the cost and publicity of legal measures, whose issue never can benefit
you, and, in return for your compliance, receive an annuity or a sum, as
may be agreed upon."
"But how is Lady Eleanor to decide upon a course so important, in the
absence of her husband and her son? Is it likely, is it possible, she
would venture on so bold a step?"
"I think so; Bicknell half acknowledged that the funds of the suit were
her jointure, and that Darcy, out of delicacy towards her, had left it
entirely at her option to continue or abandon the proceedings."
"Still," said O'Reilly, "a great difficulty remains; for supposing them
to accept our terms, that they give up the claim and accept a sum
in return, what if at some future day evidence should turn up to
substantiate their views,--they may not, it is true, break the
engagement--though I don't see why they should not--but let us imagine
them to be faithful to the contract,-what will the world say? In what
position shall we stand when the matter gains publicity?"
"How can it, sir?" interposed Nalty, quickly; "how is it possible, if
there be no trial? The evidence, as you call it, is no evidence unless
produced in court. You know, sir," said the little man, with twinkling
eyes and pleased expression, "that a great authority at common law only
declined the testimony of a ghost because the spirit was n't in court
to be cross-examined. Now all they could bring would be rumor, newspaper
allegations and paragraphs, asterisks and blanks."
"There may come a time when public opinion, thus expounded, will be
as stringent as the judgments of the law courts," said O'Reilly,
thoughtfully.
"I am not so certain of that, sir; the license of an unfettered press
will always make its decisions inoperative; it is 'the chartered
libertine' the poet speaks of."
"But what if, yielding to public impression, it begins to feel that its
weight is in exact proportion to its truth, that well-founded opinions,
just judgments, correct anticipations, obtain a higher praise and price
than scandalous anecdotes and furious attacks? What if that day should
arrive, Nalty? I am by no means convinced that such an era is distant."
"Let it come, sir," said the little man, rubbing his hands, "and when it
does there will be enough employment on its hand without going back on
our trangressions; the world will always be wicked enough to keep the
moralist at his work of correction. But to return to our immediate
object, I perceive you are inclined to Dr. Hickman's plan."
"I am so far in its favor," said O'Reilly, "that it solves the present
difficulty, and prevents all future danger. Should my father succeed
in persuading Lady Eleanor to this marriage, the interest of the
two families is inseparably united. It is very unlikely that any
circumstance, of what nature soever, would induce young Darcy to dispute
his sister's claim, or endanger her position in society. This settlement
of the question is satisfactory in itself, and shows a good face to the
world, and I confess I am curious to know what peculiar objection you
can see against it."
"It has but one fault, sir."
"And that?"
"Simply, it is impossible."
"Is it the presumption of a son of mine seeking an alliance with
the daughter of Maurice Darcy that appears so very impossible?" said
Hickman, with a hissing utterance of each word, that bespoke a fierce
conflict of passion within him.
"Certainly not, sir," replied Nalty, hastily excusing himself. "I am
well aware which party contributes most to such a compact. Mr. Beecham
O'Reilly might look far higher--"
"Wherein lies the impossibility you speak of, then?" rejoined O'Reilly,
sternly.
"I need scarcely remind you, sir," said Nalty, with an air of deep
humility, "you that have seen so much more of life than I have, of
what inveterate prejudices these old families, as they like to call
themselves, are made up; that, creating a false standard of rank, they
adhere to its distinctions with a tenacity far greater than what they
exhibit towards the real attributes of fortune. They seem to adopt for
their creed the words of the old song,--
"The King may make a Baron bold,
Or an Earl of any fool, sir,
But with all his power, and all his gold
He can never make an O'Toole, sir."
"These are very allowable feelings when sustained by wealth and
fortune," said O'Reilly, quietly.
"I verily believe their influence is greater in adversity," said Nalty;
"they seem to have a force of consolation that no misery can rob them
of. Besides, in this case--for we should not lose sight of the matter
that concerns us most--we must not forget that they regard your family
in the light of oppressors. I am well aware that you have acted legally
and safely throughout; but still--let us concede something to human
prejudices and passions--is it unreasonable to suppose that they charge
you and yours with their own downfall?"
"The more natural our desire to repair the apparent wrong."
"Very true on your part, but not perhaps the more necessary on theirs
to accept the amende."
"That will very much depend, I think, on the way of its being proffered.
Lady Eleanor, cold, haughty, and reserved as she is to the world, has
always extended a degree of cordiality and kindness towards my father;
his age, his infirmities, a seeming simplicity in his character, have
had their influence. I trust greatly to this feeling, and to the effect
of a request made by an old man, as if from his death-bed. My father is
not deficient in the tact to make an appeal of this kind very powerful;
at all events, his heart is in the scheme, and nothing short of that
would have induced me to venture on this long and dreary journey at
such a season. Should he only succeed in gaining an influence over Lady
Eleanor, through pity or any other motive, we are certain to succeed.
The Knight, I feel sure, would not oppose; and as for the young lady, a
handsome young fellow with a large fortune can scarcely be deemed very
objectionable."
"How was the proposition met before?" said Nalty, inquiringly; "was
their refusal conveyed in any expression of delicacy? Was there any
acknowledgment of the compliment intended them?"
"No, not exactly," said O'Reilly, blushing; for, while he hesitated
about the danger of misleading his adviser, he could not bear to repeat
the insolent rejection of the offer. "The false position in which the
families stood towards each other made a great difficulty; but, more
than all, the influence of Bagenal Daly increased the complexity; now
he, fortunately for us, is not forthcoming, his debts have driven him
abroad, they say."
"So, then, they merely declined the honor in cold and customary phrase?"
said Nalty, carelessly.
"Something in that way," replied O'Reilly, affecting an equal unconcern;
"but we need not discuss the point, it affords no light to guide us
regarding the future."
If Nalty saw plainly that some concealment was practised towards him, he
knew his client too well to venture on pushing his inquiries further;
so he contented himself with asking when and in what manner O'Reilly
proposed to open the siege.
"To-morrow morning," replied the other; "there's no time to be lost.
A few lines from my father to Lady Eleanor will acquaint her with his
arrival in the neighborhood, after a long and fatiguing search for her
residence. We may rely upon him performing his part well; he will allude
to his own breaking health in terms that will not fail to touch her,
and ask permission to wait upon her. As for us, Nalty, we must not be
foreground figures in the picture. You, if known to be here at all, must
be supposed to be my father's medical friend. I must be strictly in the
shade."
Nalty gave a grim smile at the notion of his new professional character,
and begged O'Reilly to proceed.
"Our strategy goes no further; such will be the order of battle. We must
trust to my father for the mode he will engage the enemy afterwards, for
the reasons which have led him to take this step,--the approaching close
of a long life, unburdened with any weighty retrospect, save that which
concerns the Darcy family; for, while affecting to sorrow over their
changed fortunes, he can attribute their worst evils to bad counsels
and rash advice, and insinuate how different had been their lot had they
only consented to regard us--as they might and ought to have done--in
the light of friends. Hush! who is speaking there?"
They listened for a second or two, and then came the sound of the old
man's voice, as he talked to himself in his sleep; his accents were
low and complaining, as if he were suffering deeply from some mental
affliction, and at intervals a heavy sob would break from him.
"He is ill, sir; the old gentleman is very ill!" said Nalty, in real
alarm.
"Hush!" said O'Reilly, as, with one hand on the door, he motioned
silence with the other.
"Yes, my Lady," muttered the sleeper, but in a voice every syllable of
which was audible, "eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to utter
this last wish and die. It is the last request of one that has already
left the things of this world, and would carry from it nothing but the
thought that will track him to the grave!" A burst of grief, too sudden
and too natural to admit of a doubt of its sincerity, followed the
words; and O'Reilly was about to enter the room, when a low dry laugh
arrested his steps, and the old man said,--
"Ay! Bob Hickman, did n't I tell you that would do? I knew she 'd cry,
and I told you, if she cried one tear, the day was ours!"
There was something so horrible in the baseness of a mind thus revelling
in its own duplicity, that even Nalty seemed struck with dread. O'Reilly
saw what was passing in the other's mind, and, affecting to laugh at
these "effects of fatigue and exhaustion," half led, half pushed him
from the room, and said "Good-night."
CHAPTER XXIV. THE DOCTOR'S LAST DEVICE.
"Tell Mister Bob--Mr. O'Reilly I mean--to come to me," were the first
words of old Dr. Hickman, as he awoke on the following morning.
"Well, sir, how have you slept?" said his son, approaching the bedside,
and taking a chair; "have you rested well?"
"Middling,-only middling, Bob. The place is like a vault, and the rats
have it all their own way. They were capering about the whole night, and
made such a noise trying to steal off with one of my shoes." "Did they
venture that far?"
"Ay, did they! but I couldn't let it go with them. I know you 're in
a hurry to stand in them yourself, Bob, and leave me and the rats to
settle it between us--ay!" "Really, sir, these are jests---"
"Too like earnest to be funny, Bob; so I feel them myself. Ugh! ugh!
The damp of this place is freezing the very heart's blood of me. How
is Nalty this morning?" "Like a fellow taken off a wreck, sir, after a
week's starvation. He is sitting at the fire there, with two blankets
round him, and vows to heaven, every five minutes, that if he was once
back in Old Dominick Street, a thousand guineas would n't tempt him to
such another expedition."
The old doctor laughed till it made him cough, and when the fit was
over, laughed again, wiping his weeping eyes, and chuckling in the most
unearthly glee at the lawyer's discomfiture.
"Wrapped up in blankets, eh, Bob?" said he, that he might hear further
of his fellow-traveller's misery.
O'Reilly saw that he had touched the right key, and expatiated for some
minutes upon Nalty's sufferings, throwing out, from time to time, adroit
hints that only certain strong and hale constitutions could endure
privations like these. "Now, you, sir," continued he, "you look as much
yourself as ever; in fact, I half doubt how you are to play the sick
man, with all these signs of rude health about you."
"Leave that to me, Bob; I think I've seen enough of them things to know
them now. When I 've carried my point, and all's safe and secure, you
'll see me like the pope we read of, that looked all but dead till they
elected him, and then stood up stout and hearty five minutes after,--we
'll have a miracle of this kind in our own family."
"I suspect, sir, we shall have difficulty in obtaining an interview,"
said O'Reilly.
"No!" rejoined the old man, with a scarcely perceptible twinkle of his
fishy eyes.
"Nalty 's of my opinion, and thinks that Lady Eleanor will positively
decline it."
"No," echoed he once more.
"And that, without any suspicion of our plan, she will yet refuse to
receive you."
"I 'm not going to ask her, Bob," croaked the old doctor, with a species
of chuckling crow in his voice.
"Then you have abandoned your intention," exclaimed O'Reilly, in dismay,
"and the whole journey has been incurred for nothing."
"No!" said the doctor, whose grim old features were lit up with a most
spiteful sense of his superior cunning.
"Then I don't understand you,--that's clear," exclaimed O'Reilly,
testily. "You say that you do not intend to call upon her--"
"Because she's coming here to see me," cried the old man, in a scream
of triumph; "read that, it's an answer to a note I sent off at eight
o'clock. Joe waited and brought back this reply." As he spoke, he drew
from beneath his pillow a small note, and handed it to his son. O'Reilly
opened it with impatience, and read:--
"Lady Eleanor Darcy begs to acknowledge the receipt of Dr. Hickman's
note, and, while greatly indisposed to accept of an interview which
must be so painful to both parties without any reasonable prospect of
rendering service to either, feels reluctant to refuse a request made
under circumstances so trying. She will therefore comply with Dr.
Hickman's entreaty, and, to spare him the necessity of venturing abroad
in this severe weather, will call upon him at twelve o'clock, should she
not learn in the meanwhile that the hour is inconvenient."
"Lady Eleanor Darcy come out to call upon you, sir!" said O'Reilly, with
an amazement in part simulated to flatter the old man's skill, but far
more really experienced. "This is indeed success."
"Ay, you may well say so," chimed in the old man; "for besides that
I always look ten years older when I 'm in bed and unshaved, with my
nightcap a little off,--this way,--the very sight of these miserable
walls, green with damp and mould, this broken window, and the
poverty-struck furniture, will all help, and I can get up a cough, if I
only draw a long breath."
"I vow, sir, you beat us all; we are mere children compared to you. This
is a master-stroke of policy."
"What will Nalty say now--eh, Bob?"
"Say, sir? What can any one say, but that the move showed a master's
hand, as much above our skill to accomplish as it was beyond our wit to
conceive? I should like greatly to hear how you intend to play the game
out," said O'Reilly, throwing a most flattering expression of mingled
curiosity and astonishment into his features.
"Wait till I see what trumps the adversary has in hand, Bob; time enough
to determine the lead when the cards are dealt."
"I suppose I must keep out of sight, and perhaps Nalty also."
"Nalty ought to be in the house if we want him; as my medical friend,
he could assist to draw any little memorandum we might determine upon;
a mere note, Bob, between friends, not requiring the interference
of lawyers, eh?" There was something fiendish in the low laugh which
accompanied these words. "What brings that fellow into the room so
often, putting turf on, and looking if the windows are fast? I don't
like him, Bob." This was said in reference to a little chubby man, in
a waiter's jacket, who really had taken every imaginable professional
privilege to obtrude his presence.
"There, there, that will do," said O'Reilly, harshly; "you needn't come
till we ring the bell."
"Leave the turf-basket where it is. Don't you think we can mind the fire
for ourselves?"
"Let Joe wait, that will be better, sir," whispered O'Reilly; "we cannot
be too cautious here." And with a motion of the hand he dismissed the
waiter, who, true to his order, seemed never to hear "an aside."
"Leave me by myself, Bob, for half an hour; I 'd like to collect my
thoughts,--to settle and think over this meeting. It's past eleven now,
and she said twelve o'clock in the note."
"Well, I 'll take a stroll over the hills, and be back for dinner about
three; you'll be up by that time."
"That will I, and very hungry too," muttered the old man. "This dying
scene has cost me the loss of my breakfast; and, faith, I 'm so weak
and low, my head is quite dizzy. There 's an old saying, Mocking is
catching; and sure enough there may be some truth in it too."
O'Reilly affected not to hear the remark, and moved towards the door,
when he turned about and said,--
"I should say, sir, that the wisest course would be to avoid anything
like coercion, or the slightest approach to it. The more the appeal is
made to her feelings of compassion and pity--"
"For great age and bodily infirmity," croaked the old man, while the
filmy orbs shot forth a flash of malicious intelligence.
"Just so, sir. To others' eyes you do indeed seem weak and bowed down
with years. It is only they who have opportunity to recognize the
clearness of your intellect and the correctness of your judgment can see
how little inroad time has made."
"Ay, but it has, though," interposed the old man, irritably. "My hand
shakes more than it used to do; there 's many an operation I 'd not be
able for as I once was."
"Well, well, sir," said his son, who found it difficult to repress the
annoyance he suffered from his continual reference to the old craft;
"remember that you are not called upon now to perform these things."
"Sorry I am it is so," rejoined the other. "I gave up seven hundred a
year when I left Loughrea to turn gentleman with you at Gwynne Abbey;
and faith, the new trade isn't so profitable as the old one! So it is,"
muttered he to himself; "and now there 's a set of young chaps come into
the town, with their medical halls, and great bottles of pink and blue
water in the windows! What chance would I have to go back again?"
O'Reilly heard these half-uttered regrets in silence; he well knew
that the safest course was to let the feeble brain exhaust its scanty
memories without impediment. At length, when the old doctor seemed to
have wearied of the theme, he said,--
"If she make allusion to the Dalys, sir, take care not to confess our
mistake about that cabin they called 'The Corvy,' and which you remember
we discovered that Daly had settled upon his servant. Let Lady Eleanor
suppose that we withdrew proceedings out of respect to her."
"I know, I know," said the old man, querulously, for his vanity was
wounded by these reiterated instructions.
"It is possible, too, sir, she 'd stand upon the question of rank; if
so, say that Heffernan--no, say that Lord Castlereagh will advise the
king to confer the baronetcy on the marriage--don't forget that, sir--on
the marriage."
"Indeed, then, I'll say nothing about it," said he, with an energy
almost startling. "It's that weary baronetcy cost me the loan to
Heffernan on his own bare bond; I 'm well sick of it! Seven thousand
pounds at five and a half per cent, and no security!"
"I only thought, sir, it might be introduced incidentally," said
O'Reilly, endeavoring to calm down this unexpected burst of irritation.
"I tell you I won't. If I'm bothered anymore about that same baronetcy,
I 'll make a clause in my will against my heir accepting it How bad you
are for the coronet with the two balls; faix, I remember when the family
arms had three of them; ay, and we sported them over the door, too. Eh,
Bob, shall I tell her that?"
"I don't suppose it would serve our cause much, sir," said O'Reilly,
repressing with difficulty his swelling anger. Then, after a moment, he
added, "I could never think of obtruding any advice of mine, sir, but
that I half feared you might, in the course of the interview, forget
many minor circumstances, not to speak of the danger that your natural
kindliness might expose you to in any compact with a very artful woman
of the world."
"Don't be afraid of that anyhow, Bob," said he, with a most hideous
grin. "I keep a watchful eye over my natural kindliness, and, to say
truth, it has done me mighty little mischief up to this. There, now,
leave me quiet and to myself."
When the old man was left alone, his head fell slightly forward, and his
hands, clasped together, rested on his breast. His eyes, half closed and
downcast, and his scarcely heaving chest, seemed barely to denote life,
or at most that species of life in which the senses are steeped in
apathy. The grim, hard features, stiffened by years and a stern nature,
never moved; the thin, close-drawn lips never once opened; and to any
observer the figure might have seemed a lifeless counterfeit of old age.
And yet within that brain, fast yielding to time and infirmity, where
reason came and went like the flame of some flickering taper, and where
memory brought up objects of dreamy fancy as often as bygone events,
even there plot and intrigue held their ground, and all the machinery of
deception was at work, suggesting, contriving, and devising wiles that
in their complexity were too puzzling for the faculties that originated
them. Is there a Nemesis in this, and do the passions by which we have
swayed and controlled others rise up before us in our weak hours, and
become the tyrants of our terror-stricken hearts?
It is not our task, were it even in our power, to trace the strange
commingled web of reality and fiction that composed the old man's
thoughts. At one time he believed he was supplicating the Knight
to accord him some slight favor, as he had done more than once
successfully. Then he suddenly remembered their relative stations, so
strangely reversed; the colossal fortune he had himself accumulated; the
hopes and ambitions of his son and grandson, whose only impediments to
rank and favor lay in himself, the humble origin of all this wealth. How
strange and novel did the conviction strike him that all the benefit of
his vast riches lay in the pleasure of their accumulation, that for him
fortune had no seductions to offer! Rank, power, munificence, what were
they? He never cared for them.
No; it was the game he loved even more than the stake, that tortuous
course of policy by which he had outwitted this man and doubled on that.
The schemes skilfully conducted, the plots artfully accomplished,--these
he loved to think over; and while he grieved to reflect upon the
reckless waste he witnessed in the household of his sou, he felt a
secret thrill of delight that he, and he alone, was capable of those
rare devices and bold expedients by which such a fortune could
be amassed. Once and only once did any expression of his features
sympathize with these ponderings; and then a low, harsh laugh broke
suddenly from him, so fleeting that it failed to arouse even himself. It
came from the thought that if after his death his son or grandson would
endeavor to forget his memory, and have it forgotten by others, that
every effort of display, every new evidence of their gorgeous wealth,
would as certainly evoke the criticism of the envious world, who, in
spite of them, would bring up the "old doctor" once more, and, by the
narrative of his life, humble them to the dust.
This desire to bring down to a level with himself those around him had
been the passion of his existence. For this he had toiled and labored,
and struggled through imaginary poverty when possessed of wealth; had
endured scoffs and taunts,--had borne everything,--and to this desire
could be traced his whole feeling towards the Darcys. It was no
happiness to him to be the owner of their princely estate if he did
not revel in the reflection that they were in poverty. And this envious
feeling he extended to his very son. If now and then a vague thought
of the object of his present journey crossed his mind, it was speedily
forgotten in the all-absorbing delight of seeing the proud Lady
Eleanor humbled before him, and the inevitable affliction the Knight
would experience when he learned the success of this last device. That
it would succeed he had little doubt; he had come too well prepared with
arguments to dread failure. Nay, he thought, he believed he could compel
compliance if such were to be needed.
It was in the very midst of these strangely confused musings that the
doctor's servant announced to him the arrival of Lady Eleanor Darey.
The old man looked around him on the miserable furniture, the damp,
discolored walls, the patched and mended window-panes, and for a moment
he could not imagine where he was; the repetition of the servant's
announcement, however, cleared away the cloud from his faculties, and
with a slight gesture of his hand he made a sign that she should be
admitted. A momentary pause ensued, and he could hear his servant
expressing a hope that her Ladyship might not catch cold, as the
snow-drift was falling heavily, and the storm very severe. A delay of a
few minutes was caused to remove her wet cloak. What a whole story did
these two or three seconds reveal to old Hickman as he thought of that
Lady Eleanor Darey of whose fastidious elegance the whole "West" was
full, whose expensive habits and luxurious tastes had invested her with
something like an Oriental reputation for magnificence,--of her coming
on foot and alone, through storm and snow, to wait upon him!
He listened eagerly; her footstep was on the stairs, and he heard a low
sigh she gave, as, reaching the landing-place, she stood for a moment to
recover breath.
"Say Lady Eleanor Darey," said she, unaware that her coming had been
already telegraphed to the sick man's chamber.
A faint complaining cry issued from the room as she spoke, and Lady
Eleanor said: "Stay! Perhaps Dr. Hickman is too ill; if so, at another
time. I 'll come this evening or to-morrow."
"My master is most impatient to see your Ladyship," said the man. "He
has talked of nothing else all the morning, and is always asking if it
is nigh twelve o'clock."
Lady Eleanor nodded as if to concede her permission, and the servant
entered the half-darkened room. A weak, murmuring sound of voices
followed; and the servant returned, saying, in a cautious whisper, "He
is awake, my Lady, and wishes to see your Ladyship now."
Lady Eleanor's heart beat loudly and painfully; many a sharp pang shot
through it, as, with a strong effort to seem calm, she entered.
CHAPTER XXV. A DARK CONSPIRACY
Dr. Hickman was so little prepared for the favorable change in Lady
Eleanor's appearance since he had last seen her, as almost to doubt that
she was the same, and it was with a slight tremor of voice he said,--
"Is it age with me, my Lady, or altered health, that makes the
difference, but you seem to me not what I remember you? You are fresher,
pardon an old man's freedom, and I should say far handsomer too!"
"Really, Mr. Hickman, you make me think my excursion well repaid by
such flatteries," said she, smiling pleasantly, and not sorry thus for a
moment to say something that might relieve the awkward solemnity of the
scene. "I hope sir, that this air, severe though it be, may prove as
serviceable to yourself. Have you slept well?"
"No, my Lady, I scarcely dozed the whole night; this place is a very
poor one. The rain comes in there,--where you see that green mark,--and
the wind whistles through these broken panes,-and rats, bother them!
they never ceased the night through. A poor, poor spot it is, sure
enough!"
It never chanced to cross his mind, while bewailing these signs of
indigence and discomfort, that she, to whom he addressed the
complaint, had been reduced to as bad, even worse, hardships by his own
contrivance. Perhaps, indeed, the memory of such had not occurred at
that moment to Lady Eleanor, had not the persistence with which he dwelt
on the theme somewhat ruffled her patience, and eventually reminded her
of her own changed lot. It was then with a slightly irritated tone she
remarked,--
"Such accommodation is a very unpleasant contrast to the comforts you
are accustomed to, sir; and these sudden lessons in adversity are, now
and then, very trying things."
"What does it signify?" sighed the old man, heavily; "a day sooner, a
few hours less of sunshine, and the world can make little difference to
one like me! Happy for me, if, in confronting them, I have done anything
towards my great purpose, the only object between me and the grave!"
Lady Eleanor never broke the silence which followed these words;
and though the old man looked as if he expected some observation or
rejoinder, she said not a word. At length he resumed, with a faint
moan,--"Ah, my Lady, you have much to forgive us for."
"I trust, sir, that our humble fortunes have not taught us to forget the
duties of Christianity," was the calm reply.
"Much, indeed, to pardon," continued he, "but far less, my Lady, than is
laid to our charge. Lawyers and attorneys make many a thing a cause of
bitterness that a few words of kindness would have settled. And what two
men of honest intentions could arrange amicably iu five minutes is often
worked up into a tedious lawsuit, or a ruinous inquiry in Chancery. So
it is!"
"I have no experience in these affairs, sir, but I conclude your remarks
are quite correct."
"Faith you may believe them, my Lady, like the Bible; and yet, knowing
these fellows so well, having dealings with them since--since--oh, God
knows how long--upon my life, they beat me entirely after all. 'T is
like taking a walk with a quarrelsome dog; devil a cur he sees but he
sets on him, and gets you into a scrape at every step you go! That 's
what an attorney does for you. Take out a writ against that fellow,
process this one, distrain the other, get an injunction here, apply
for a rule there. Oh dear! oh dear! I 'm weary of it for law! All
the bitterness it has given me in my life long, all the sorrow and
affliction it costs me now." He wiped his eyes as he concluded, and
seemed as if overcome by grief.
"It must needs be a sorry source of reparation, sir," rejoined Lady
Eleanor, with a calm, steady tone, "when even those so eminently
successful can see nothing but affliction in their triumphs."
"Don't call them triumphs, my Lady; that's not the name to give them. I
never thought them such."
"I 'm glad to hear it, sir,--glad to know that you have laid up such
store of pleasant memories for seasons like the present."
"There was that proceeding, for instance, in December last. Now would
you believe it, my Lady, Bob and I never knew a syllable about it till
it was all over. You don't know what I 'm speaking of; I mean the writ
against the Knight."
"Really, Dr. Hickman, I must interrupt you; however gratifying to me
to hear that you stand exculpated for any ungenerous conduct towards my
husband, the pleasure of knowing it is more than counterbalanced by the
great pain the topic inflicts upon me."
"But I want to clear myself, my Lady; I want you to think of us a little
more favorably than late events may have disposed you."
"There are few so humble, sir, as not to have opinions of more
consequence than mine."
"Ay, but it's yours I want,--yours, that I 'd rather have than the
king's on his throne. 'T is in that hope I 've come many a weary mile
far away from my home, maybe never to see it again! and all that I may
have your forgiveness, my Lady, and not only your forgiveness, but your
approbation."
"If you set store by any sentiments of mine, sir, I warn you not to ask
more than I have iu my power to bestow. I can forgive, I have forgiven,
much; but ask me not to concur in acts which have robbed me of the
companionship of my husband and my son."
"Wait a bit; don't be too hard, my Lady; I 'm on the verge of the grave,
a little more, and the dark sleep that never breaks will be on me,
and if in this troubled hour I take a wrong word, or say a thing too
strong,--forgive me for it. My thoughts are often before me, on the long
journey I'm so soon to go."
"It were far better, Dr. Hickman, that we should speak of something less
likely to be painful to us both, and if that cannot be, that you should
rest satisfied with knowing that however many are the sources of sorrow
an humble fortune has opened to us, the disposition to bear malice is
not among their number."
"You forgive me, then, my Lady,--you forgive me all?"
"If your own conscience can only do so as freely as I do, believe me,
sir, your heart will be tranquil."
The old man pressed his hands to his face, and appeared overcome by
emotion. A dead silence ensued, which at length was broken by old
Hickman muttering broken words to himself, at first indistinctly, and
then more clearly.
"Yes, yes,--I made--the offer--I begged--I supplicated. I did all--all.
But no, they refused me! There was no other way of restoring them to
their own house and home--but they would n't accept it. I would have
settled the whole estate--free of debt--every charge paid off, upon
them. There 's not a peer in the land could say he was at the head of
such a property."
"I must beg, sir, that I may be spared the unpleasantness of overhearing
what I doubt is only intended for your own reflection; and if you will
permit me, to take my leave--"
"Oh, don't go--don't leave me yet, my Lady. What was it I said,--where
was my poor brain rambling? Was I talking about Captain Darcy? Ah! that
was the most painful part of all."
"My God! what is it you mean?" said Lady Eleanor, as a sickness like
fainting crept over her. "Speak, sir,--tell me this instant!"
"The bills, my Lady,--the bills that he drew in Glee-son's name."
"In Gleeson's name! It is false, sir, a foul and infamous calumny;
my son never did this thing,--do not dare to assert it before me, his
mother."
"They are in that pocket-book, my Lady,-seven of them for a thousand
pounds each. There are two more somewhere among my papers, and it was to
meet the payment that the Captain did this." Here he took from beneath
his pillow a parchment document, and held it towards Lady Eleanor, who,
overwhelmed with terror and dismay, could not stretch her band to take
it.
"Here--my Lady--somewhere here," said he, moving his finger vaguely
along the lower margin of the document--"here you'll see Maurice Darcy
written--not by himself, indeed, but by his son. This deed of sale
includes part of Westport, and the town-lands of Cooldrennon and
Shoughnakelly. Faith, and, my Lady, I paid my hard cash down on the
nail for the same land, and have no better title than what you see!
The Knight has only to prove the forgery; of course he could n't do so
against his own son."
"Oh, sir, spare me,--I entreat of you to spare me!" sobbed Lady Eleanor,
as, convulsed with grief, she hid her face.
A knocking was heard at this moment at the door, and on its being
repeated louder, Hickman querulously demanded, "Who was there?"
"A note for Lady Eleanor Darcy," was the reply; "her Ladyship's
servant waits for an answer."
Lady Eleanor, without knowing wherefore, seemed to feel that the tidings
required prompt attention, and with an effort to subdue her emotion, she
broke the seal, and read:--
"Lady Eleanor,--Be on your guard,--there is a dark plot against you.
Take counsel in time,--and if you hear the words, 'T is eighty-six years
have crept to your feet, to die,' you can credit the friendship of this
warning."
"Who brought this note?" said she, in a voice that became full and
strong, under the emergency of danger.
"Your butler, my Lady."
"Where is he? Send him to me." And as she spoke, Tate mounted the
stairs.
"How came you by this note, Tate?"
"A fisherman, my Lady, left it this instant, with directions to be given
to you at once and without a moment's delay."
"'Tis nothing bad, I hope and trust, my Lady," whispered the old man.
"The darling young lady is not ill?"
"No, sir, she is perfectly well, nor are the tidings positively bad
ones. There is no answer, Tate." So saying, she once more opened the
paper and read it over.
Without seeing wherefore, Lady Eleanor felt a sudden sense of hardihood
take possession of her; the accusation by which, a moment previous, she
had been almost stunned, seemed already lighter to her eyes, and the
suspicion that the whole interview was part of some dark design dawned
suddenly on her mind. Nor was this feeling permanent; a glance at the
miserable old man, who, with head beut down and half-closed eyes, lay
before her, dispelling the doubts even more rapidly than they were
formed. Indeed, now that the momentary excitement of speaking had passed
away, he looked far more wan and wasted than before; his chest, too,
heaved with a fluttering, irregular action, that seemed to denote severe
and painful effort, while his fingers, with a restless and fidgety
motion, wandered here and there, pinching the bed-clothes, and seeming
to search for some stray object.
While the conflict continued in Lady Eleanor's mind, the old man's brain
once more began to wander, and his lips murmured half inarticulately
certain words. "I would give it all!" said he, with a sudden cry; "every
shilling of it for that--but it cannot be--no, it cannot be."
"I must leave you, sir," said Lady Eleanor, rising; "and although I have
heard much to agitate and afflict me, it is some comfort to my heart to
think that I have poured some balm into yours; you have my forgiveness
for everything."
"Wait a second, my Lady, wait one second!" gasped he, as with
outstretched hands he tried to detain her. "I 'll have strength for it
in a minute--I want--I want to ask you once more what you refused me
once--and it is n't--it is n't that times are changed, and that you are
in poverty now, makes me hope for better luck. It is because this is the
request of one on his death-bed,--one that cannot turn his thoughts away
from this world, till he has his mind at ease. There, my Lady, take that
pocket-book and that deed, throw them into the fire there. They 're the
only proofs against the Captain,--no eye but yours must ever see them.
If I could see my own beautiful Miss Helen once more in the old house of
her fathers--"
"I will not hear of this, sir," interposed Lady Eleanor, hastily. "No
time or circumstances can make any change in the feelings with which I
have already replied to this proposal."
"Heffernan tells me, my Lady, that the baronetcy is certain--don't
go--don't go! It's the voice of one you 'll never hear again calls on
you. 'Tis eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to die!"
A faint shriek burst from Lady Eleanor; she tottered, reeled, and fell
fainting to the ground.
[Illustration: 314]
Terrified by the sudden shock, the old man rung his bell with violence,
and screamed for help, in accents where there was no counterfeited
anxiety; and in another moment his servant rushed iu, followed by
Nalty, and in a few seconds later by O'Reilly himself, who, hearing the
cries, believed that the effort to feign a death-bed bad turned into a
dreadful reality.
"There--there--she is ill--she is dying! It was too much--the shock did
it!" cried the old man, now horror-struck at the ruin he had caused.
"She is better,--her pulse is coming back," whispered O'Reilly; "a
little water to her lips,-that will do."
"She is coming to--I see it now," said old Hickman; "leave the room,
Bob; quick, before she sees you."
As O'Reilly gently disengaged his arm, which, in placing the fainting
form on the sofa, was laid beneath her head, Lady Eleanor slowly opened
her eyes, and fixed them upon him. O'Reilly suddenly became motionless;
the calm and steady gaze seemed to have paralyzed him; he could not
stir, he could not turn away his own eyes, but stood like one fascinated
and spell-bound.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" muttered the old man; "she 'll know him now, and see
it all."
"Yes," exclaimed Lady Eleanor, pushing back from her the officious bands
that ministered about her. "Yes, sir, I do see it all! Oh, let me be
thankful for the gleam of reason that has guided me in this dark hour.
And you, too, do you be thankful that you have been spared from working
such deep iniquity!"
As she spoke she arose, not a vestige of illness remaining, but a deep
flush mantling in the cheek that, but a moment back, was deathly pale.
"Farewell, sir. You had a brief triumph over the fears of a poor weak
woman; but I forgive you, for you have armed her heart with a courage it
never knew before."
With these words she moved calmly towards the door, which O'Reilly in
respectful silence held open; and then, descending the stairs with a
firm step, left the house.
"Is she gone, Bob?" said the old man, faintly, as the door clapped
heavily. "Is she gone?"
O'Reilly made no reply, but leaned his head on the chimney, and seemed
lost in thought.
"I knew it would fail," said Nalty in a whisper to O'Reilly.
"What 's that he 's saying, Bob?--what 's Nalty saying?"
"That he knew it would fail, sir," rejoined O'Reilly, with a bitterness
that showed he was not sorry to say a disagreeable thing.
"Ay! but Nalty was frightened about his annuity; he thought, maybe, I 'd
die in earnest. Well, we 've something left yet."
"What's that?" asked O'Reilly, almost sternly.
"The indictment for forgery," said Hickman, with a savage energy.
"Then you must look out for another lawyer, sir," said Nalty. "That I
tell you frankly and fairly."
"What?--I didn't hear."
"He refuses to take the conduct of such a case," said O'Reilly; "and,
indeed, I think on very sufficient grounds."
"Ay!" muttered the old doctor. "Then I suppose there 's no help for it!
Here, Bob, put these papers in the fire."
So saying, he drew a thick roil of documents from beneath his pillow,
and placed it in his son's hands. "Put them in the blaze, and let me see
them burned."
O'Reilly did as he was told, stirring the red embers till the whole mass
was consumed.
"I am glad of that, with all my heart," said he, as the flame died out.
"That was a part of the matter I never felt easy about."
"Didn't you?" grunted the old man, with a leer of malice. "What was it
you burned, d'ye think?"
"The bills,--the bonds with young Darcy's signature," replied O'Reilly,
almost terrified by an unknown suspicion.
"Not a bit of it, Bob. The blaze you made was a costly fire to you, as
you 'll know one day. That was my will."
CHAPTER XXVI. THE LANDING AT ABOUKIR
We must now ask our reader to leave for a season this scene of plot and
intrigue, and turn with us to a very different picture. The same morning
which on the iron-bound coast of Ireland broke in storm and hurricane,
dawned fair and joyous over the shady shores of Egypt, and scarcely
ruffled the long rolling waves as they swept into the deep bay of
Aboukir. Here now a fleet of one hundred and seventy ships lay at
anchor, the expedition sent forth by England to arrest the devouring
ambition of Buonaparte, and rescue the land of the Pyramids from
bondage.
While our concern here is less with the great event than with the
fortune of one of its humble followers, we would fain linger a little
over the memory of this glorious achievement of our country's arms. For
above a week after the arrival of the fleet, the gale continued to
blow with unabated fury; a sea mountains high rolled into the bay,
accompanied by sudden squalls of such violence that the largest ships
of the fleet could barely hold on by their moorings, while many smaller
ones were compelled to slip their cables, and stand out to sea. If the
damage and injury were not important enough to risk the success of the
expedition, the casualties ever inseparable from such events threw a
gloom over the whole force, a feeling grievously increased by the first
tidings that met them,--the capture of one of the officers and a boat's
crew, who were taken while examining the shore, and seeking out the
fittest spot for a landing.
On the 7th of March the wind and sea subsided, the sky cleared, and a
glorious sunset gave promise of a calm, so soon to be converted into a
storm not less terrible than that of the elements.
As day closed, the outlying ships had all returned to their moorings,
the accidents of the late gale were repaired, and the soaked sails hung
flapping in the evening breeze to dry; while the decks swarmed with
moving figures, all eagerly engaged in preparation for that event which
each well knew could not now be distant. How many a heart throbbed
high with ecstasy and hope, that soon was to be cold; how many an eye
wandered over that strong line of defences along the shore, that never
was to gaze upon another sunset!
And yet, to mark the proud step, the flashing look the eager speech
of all around, the occasion might have been deemed one of triumphant
pleasure rather than the approach of an enterprise full of hazard and
danger. The disappointments which the storm had excited, by delaying the
landing, were forgotten altogether, or only thought of to heighten the
delight which now they felt.
The rapid exchange of signals between the line-of-battle ships showed
that preparations were on foot; and many were the guesses and surmises
current as to the meaning of this or that ensign, each reading the
mystery by the light of his inward hopes. On one object, however, every
eye was fixed with a most intense anxiety. This was an armed launch,
which, shooting out from beneath the shadow of a three-decker, swept
across the bay with muffled oars. Nothing louder than a whisper broke
the silence on board of her, as they stole along the still water, and
held on their course towards the shore. Through the gloom of the falling
night, they were seen to track each indenture of the coast,--now lying
on their oars to take soundings; now delaying, to note some spot of
more than ordinary strength. It was already midnight before "the
reconnoissance" was effected, and the party returned to the ship, well
acquainted with the formidable preparations of the enemy, and all the
hazard that awaited the hardy enterprise. The only part of the coast
approachable by boats was a low line of beach, stretching away to the
left, from the castle of Aboukir, and about a mile in extent; and this
was commanded by a semicircular range of sand-hills, on which the French
batteries were posted, and whose crest now glittered with the bivouac
fires of a numerous army. From the circumstances of the ground, the
guns were so placed as to be able to throw a cross-fire over the bay;
while a lower range of batteries protected the shore, the terrible
effect of whose practice might be seen on the torn and furrowed
sands,--sad presage of what a landing party might expect! Besides these
precautions, the whole breastwork bristled with cannon and mortars
of various calibre, embedded in the sand; nor was a single position
undefended, or one measure of resistance omitted, which might increase
the hazard of an attacking force.
Time was an important object with the English general; reinforcements
were daily looked for by the French; indeed it was rumored that tidings
had come of their having sailed from Toulon, for, with an unparalleled
audacity and fortune combined, a French frigate had sailed the preceding
day through the midst of our fleet, and, amid the triumphant cheerings
of the shore batteries, hoisted the tricolor in the face of our
assembled ships. Scarcely had the launch reached the admiral's ship,
when a signal ordered the presence of all officers in command to attend
a council of war. The proceedings were quickly terminated, and in
less than half an hour, the various boats were seen returning to their
respective ships, the resolution having been taken to attack that very
morning, or, in the words of the general order, "to bring the troops as
soon as possible before the enemy." Never were tidings more welcomed;
the delay, brief as it was, had stimulated the ardor of the men to the
highest degree, and they actually burned with impatience to be engaged.
The dispositions for attack were simple, and easily followed. A sloop of
war, anchored just beyond the reach of cannon-shot, was named as a point
of rendezvous. By a single blue light at her mizzen, the boats were to
move towards her; three lights at the maintop would announce that they
were all assembled; a single gun would then be the signal to make for
the shore.
Strict orders were given that no unusual lights should be seen from the
ships, nor any unwonted sight or sound betray extraordinary preparation.
The men were mustered by the half-light in use on board, the ammunition
distributed in silence, and every precaution taken that the attack
should have the character of a surprise. These orders were well and
closely followed; but so short was the interval, and so manifold
the arrangements, it was already daylight before the rendezvous was
accomplished.
If the plan of debarkation was easily comprehended, that of the attack
was not less so. Nelson once summed up a "general order," by saying,
"The captain will not make any mistake who lays his ship alongside of
an enemy of heavier metal." So Abercrombie's last instructions were,
"Whenever an officer may be in want of orders, let him assault an
enemy's battery." These were to be carried by the bayonet alone, and, of
the entire force, not one man landed with a loaded musket.
A few minutes after seven the signal was given, and the boats moved
off. The sun was high, a light breeze fanned the water, the flags and
streamers of the ships-of-war floated proudly out as the flotilla stood
for the shore; in glorious rivalry they pulled through the surf, each
eager to be first, and all the excitement of a race was imparted to this
enterprise of peril.
Conspicuous among the leading boats were two, whose party, equipped in a
brilliant uniform of blue and silver, formed part of the cavalry force.
The inferiority of the horses supplied was such that only two hundred
and fifty were mounted, and the remainder had asked and obtained
permission to serve on foot. A considerable portion of this corps was
made up of volunteers; and several young men of family and fortune were
said to serve in the ranks, and from the circumstance of being commanded
by the Knight of Gwynne, were called "Darcy's Volunteers." It was a
glorious sight to see the first boat of this party, in the stern of
which sat the old Knight himself, shoot out ahead, and amid the cheering
of the whole flotilla, lead the way in shore.
Returning the various salutes which greeted him, the old man sat
bare-headed, his silvery hair floating back in the breeze, and his manly
face beaming with high enthusiasm.
"A grand spectacle for an unconcerned eyewitness," said an officer to
his neighbor.
The words reached Darcy's ears, and he called out, "I differ with you,
Captain. To enjoy all the thrilling ecstasy of this scene a man must
have his stake on the venture. It is our personal hopes and fears are
necessary ingredients in the exalted feeling. I would not stand on
yonder cliff and look on, for millions; but such a moment as this is
glorious." As he spoke, a long line of flame ran along the heights,
and at the same instant the whole air trembled as the entire batteries
opened their fire. The sea hissed and glittered with round shot and
shell; while, in a perfect hurricane, they rained on every side.
The suddenness of the cannonade, and the confusion consequent on the
casualties that followed, seemed for a moment to retard the advance, or,
as it appeared to the French, to deter the invading force altogether;
for as they perceived some of the boats to lie on their oars, and others
withdrawn to the assistance of their comrades, a deafening cheer
of triumph rang out from the batteries, and was heard over the bay.
Scarcely had it been uttered when the British answered by another, whose
hoarse roar bespoke the coming vengeance.
The flotilla had now advanced within a line of buoys laid down to direct
the fire, and here grape and musketry mingled their clattering with
the deeper thunder of cannon. "This is sharp work, gentlemen," said the
Knight, as the spray twice splashed over the boat, from shot that fell
close by. "They 'll have our range soon. Do you mark how accurately the
shots fall over that line of surf?"
"That's a sand-bank, sir," said the coxswain who steered. "There 's
barely draught of water there for heavy launches."
"I perceive there is some shelter yonder beneath that large battery."
"They can trust that spot," cried the coxswain, smiling. "There 's a
heavy surf there, and no boat could live through it. But stay, there is
a boat about to try it." Every eye was now turned towards a yawl which,
with twelve oars, vigorously headed on through the very midst of a
broken and foam-covered tract of water, where jets of sea sprang up
from hidden rocks, and cross currents warred and contended against each
other.
The hazardous venture was not alone watched by those iu the boats,
but, from the crowning ridge of batteries, from every cliff and crag on
shore, wondering enemies gazed on the hardihood of the daring.
"They'll do it yet, sir,--they 'll do it yet," cried the coxswain, wild
with excitement. "There's deep water inside that reef."
The words were scarcely out, when a tremendous cannonade opened from the
large battery. The balls fell on every side of the boat, and at length
one struck her on the stem, rending her open from end to end, and
scattering her shivered planks over the surfy sea.
A shout, a cheer, a drowning cry from the sinking crew, and all was
over.
So sudden and so complete was this dreadful catastrophe, that they who
witnessed it almost doubted the evidence of their senses, nor were the
victors long to enjoy this triumph; the very discharge which sunk
the boat having burst a mortar, and ignited a mass of powder near, a
terrible explosion followed. A dense column of smoke and sand filled the
air; and when this cleared away, the face of the battery was perceived
to be rent in two.
"We can do it now, lads," cried Darcy. "They 'll never recover from the
confusion yonder in time to see us." A cheer met his words, and the
coxswain turned the boat's head in the direction of the reef.
Closely followed by their comrades in the second boat, they pulled along
through the surf like men whose lives were on the venture; four arms to
every oar, the craft bounded through the boiling tide; twice the keel
was felt to graze the rocky bed, but the strong impulse of the boat's
"way" carried her through, and soon they floated in the still water
within the reef.
"It shoals fast here," cried the coxswain.
"What's the depth?" asked Darcy.
"Scarcely above three feet. If we throw over our six-pounder--"
"No, no. It's but wading, after all. Keep your muskets dry, move
together, and we shall be the first to touch the shore."
As he said this, he sprang over the side of the boat into the sea, and
waving his hat above his head, began his progress towards the land.
"Come along, gentlemen, we 've often done as much when salmon-fishing
in our own rivers." Thus, lightly jesting, and encouraging his party, he
waded on, with all the seeming carelessness of one bent on some scheme
of pleasure.
The large batteries had no longer the range; but a dreadful fire of
musketry was poured in from the heights, and several brave fellows fell,
mortally wounded, ere the strand was reached. Cheered by the approving
shouts of thousands from the boats, they at length touched the beach;
and wild and disorderly as had been their advance when breasting the
waves, no sooner had they landed than discipline resumed its sway, and
the words, "Fall in, men!" were obeyed with the prompt precision of a
parade. A strong body of tirailleurs, scattered along the base of the
sand-hills and through the irregularities of the ground, galled them
with a dropping and destructive fire as they formed; nor was it till
an advanced party had driven these back, that the dispositions could be
well and properly taken. By this time several other boats had touched
the shore, and already detachments from the Fortieth, Twenty-eighth, and
Forty-second regiments were drawn up along the beach, and, from these,
frequent cries and shouts were heard, encouraging and cheering the
"Volunteers," who alone, of all the force, had yet come to close
quarters with the enemy.
A brief but most dangerous interval now followed; for the boats,
assailed by a murderous fire, had sustained severe losses, and a short
delay inevitably followed, assisting the wounded, or rescuing those who
had fallen into the sea. Had the French profited by this pause, to bear
down upon the small force now drawn up inactive on the beach, the fate
of that great achievement might have been perilled; as it happened,
however, nothing was further from their thought than coming into
immediate contact with the British, and they contented themselves with
a distant but still destructive cannonade. It is not impossible that the
audacity of those who first landed, and who--a mere handful--assumed the
offensive, might have been the reason of this conduct, certain it is,
the boats, for a time retarded, were permitted again to move forward and
disembark then; men, with no other resistance than the fire from the
batteries.
The three first regiments which gained the land were, strangely enough,
representatives of the three different nationalities of the Empire;
and scarcely were the words, "Forward! to the assault!" given, when an
emulative struggle began, which should first reach the top and cross
bayonets with the French. On the left, and nearest to the causeway
that led up the heights, stood the Highlanders. These formed under an
overwhelming shower of grape and musketry, and, with pibrochs playing,
marched steadily forward. The Fortieth made an effort to pass them,
which caused a momentary confusion, ending in an order for this regiment
to halt, and support the Forty-second; and while this was taking place,
the Twenty-eighth rushed to the ascent in broken parties, and, following
the direction the "Volunteers" had taken in pursuit of the tirailleurs,
they mounted the heights together.
So suddenly was the tirailleur force repelled, that they had scarcely
time to give the alarm, when the Twenty-eighth passed the crest of the
hill, and prepared to charge. The Irish regiment, glorying in being the
first to reach the top, cheered madly, and bore down. The French
poured in a single volley, and fell back; not to retreat, but to entice
pursuit. The stratagem succeeded. The Twenty-eighth pursued them hotly,
and almost at once found themselves engaged in a narrow gorge of
the sand-hills, and exposed to a terrific cross-fire. To retreat was
impossible; their own weight drove them on, and the deafening cheers
of their comrades drowned every word of command. Grape at half-musket
distance ploughed through their ranks, while one continuous crash of
small-arms showed the number and closeness of their foes.
It was at this moment that Darcy, whose party was advancing by a smaller
gorge, ascended a height, and beheld the perilous condition of his
countrymen. There was but one way to liberate them, and that involved
their own destruction: to throw themselves on the French flank, and
while devoting themselves to death, enable the Twenty-eighth to retire
or make head against the opposing force. While Darcy, in a few hurried
words, made known his plan to those around him, the opportunity for its
employment most strikingly presented itself. A momentary repulse of
the French had driven a part of their column to the highroad leading to
Alexandria, where already several baggage carts and ammunition wagons
were gathered. This movement seemed so like retreat that Darcy's
sanguine nature was deceived, and calling out, "Come along, lads,-they
are running already!" he dashed onward, followed by his gallant band.
His attack, if inefficient for want of numbers, was critical in point
of time. The same instant that the French were assailed by him in flank,
the Forty-second had gained the summit and attacked them in front: fresh
battalions each moment arrived, and now along the entire crest of the
ridge the fight raged fiercely. One after the other the batteries were
stormed, and carried by our infantry at the bayonet's point; and in less
than an hour from the time of landing, the British flag waved over seven
of the nine heavy batteries.
The battle, severe as it was on the heights, was main-tained with even
greater slaughter on the shore. The French, endeavoring too late to
repair the error of not resisting the actual landing, had now thrown an
immense force by a flank movement on the British battalions; and this
attack of horse, foot, and artillery combined, was, for its duration,
the great event of the day. For a brief space it appeared impossible for
the few regiments to sustain the shock of such an encounter; and had it
not been for the artillery of the gunboats stationed along the shore,
they must have yielded. Their fire, however, was terribly destructive,
sweeping through the columns as they came up, and actually cutting lanes
in the dense squadrons.
Reinforcements poured in, besides, at every instant; and after a bloody
and anxious struggle, the British were enabled to take the offensive,
and advance against their foes. The French, already weakened by loss and
dispirited by failure, did not await the conflict, but retired slowly,
it is true, and in perfect order, on one of the roads leading into the
great highway to Alexandria.
Victory had even more unequivocally pronounced for the British on the
heights. By this time every battery was in their possession. The enemy
were in full flight towards Alexandria, the tumultuous mass occasionally
assailed by our light infantry, to whom, from our deficiency in cavalry,
was assigned the duty of harassing the retreat. It was here that Darcy's
Volunteers, now reduced to one third of their original number, highly
distinguished themselves, not only attacking the flank of the retiring
enemy, but seizing every opportunity of ground to assail them in front
and retard their flight.
In one of these onslaughts, for such they were, the Volunteers became
inextricably entangled with the enemy, and although fighting with the
desperation of tigers, volley after volley tore through them; and the
French, maddened by the loss they had already suffered at their hands,
hastened to finish them by the bayonet. It was only by the intervention
of the French officers, a measure in itself not devoid of peril, that
any were spared; and those few, bleeding and mangled, were hurried
along as prisoners, the only triumph of that day's battle! The strange
spectacle of an affray in the very midst of a retiring column was seen
by the British in pursuit, and the memory of this scene is preserved
among the incidents of that day's achievements.
[Illustration: 328]
Many and desperate attempts were made to rescue the prisoners. The
French, however, received the charges with deadly volleys, and as their
flanks were now covered by a cloud of tirailleurs, they were enabled to
continue their retreat on Alexandria, protected by the circumstances of
the ground, every point of which they had favorably occupied. The battle
was now over; guns, ammunition and stores were all landed; on the
heights the English ensign waved triumphantly; and, far as the eye could
reach, the French masses were seen in flight, to seek shelter within the
lines of Alexandria.
It was a glorious moment as the last column ascended the cliffs, to
find their gallant comrades masters of the French position in its entire
extent. Here, now, two brigades reposed with piled arms, guns, mortars,
camp equipage, and military chests strewed on every side, all attesting
the completeness of a victory which even a French bulletin could hardly
venture to disavow. It is perhaps fortunate that, at times like this,
the feeling of high excitement subdues all sense of the regret so
natural to scenes of suffering; and thus, amid many a sight and sound of
woe, glad shouts of triumph were raised, and heartfelt bursts of joyous
recognition broke forth as friends met, and clasped each other's hands.
Incidents of the battle, traits of individual heroism, were recorded on
every side: anecdotes then told for the first time, to be remembered,
many a year after, among the annals of regimental glory!
It is but seldom, at such moments, that men can turn from the theme of
triumph to think of the more disastrous events of the day; and yet
a general feeling of sorrow prevailed on the subject of the brave
Volunteers, of whose fate none could bring any tidings; some asserting
that they had all fallen to a man on the road leading to Alexandria,
others affirming that they were carried off prisoners by the French
cavalry.
A party of light infantry, who had closely followed the enemy till
nightfall, had despatched some of their wounded to the rear; and by
these the news came, that in an open space beside the high-road the
ground was covered with bodies in the well-known blue and silver of the
Volunteers. One only of these exhibited signs of life; and him they
had placed among the wounded in one of the carts, and brought back with
them. As will often happen, single instances of suffering excite more of
compassionate pity than wide-spread affliction; and so here. When death
and agony were on every hand,--whole wagons filled with maimed and dying
comrades,--a closely wedged group gathered around the dying Volunteer,
their saddened faces betraying emotions that all the terrible scenes of
the day had never evoked.
"It 's no use, sir," said the surgeon, to the field-officer who had
called him to the spot. "There is internal bleeding, besides this
ghastly sabre-cut."
"Who knows him?" said the officer, looking around; but none made answer.
"Can no one tell his name?"
There was a silence for a few seconds; when the dying man lifted his
failing eyes upwards, and turned them slowly around on the group. A
slight tremor shook his lips, as if with an effort to speak; but no
sound issued. Yet in the terrible eagerness of his features might be
seen the working of a spirit fiercely struggling for utterance.
"Yes, my poor fellow," said the officer, stooping down beside him, and
taking his hand. "I was asking for your name."
A faint smile and a slight nod of the head seemed to acknowledge the
speech.
"He is speaking,--hush! I hear his voice," cried the officer.
An almost inaudible murmur moved his lips; then a shivering shook his
frame, and his head fell heavily back.
"What is this?" said the officer..
"Death," said the surgeon, with the solemn calm of one habituated to
such scenes. "His last words were strange-, did you hear them?"
"I thought he said 'Court-martial.'"
The surgeon nodded, and turned to move away.
"See here, sir," said a sergeant, as opening the dead man's coat he drew
forth a white handkerchief, "the poor fellow was evidently trying to
write his name with his own blood; here are some letters clear enough.
L-e-o, and this is an n--or m--"
"I know him now," cried another. "This was the Volunteer who joined us
at Malta; but Colonel Darcy got him exchanged into his own corps. His
name was Leonard."
CHAPTER XXVII. THE FRENCH RETREAT
Let us now turn to the Knight of Gwynne, who, wounded and bleeding,
was carried along in the torrent of the retreat. Poor fellow, he had
witnessed the total slaughter or capture of the gallant band he had so
bravely led into action but a few hours before, and now, with one arm
powerless, and a sabre-cut in the side, could barely keep up with the
hurried steps of the flying army.
From the few survivors among his followers, not one of whom was
unwounded, he received every proof of affectionate devotion. If they
were proud of the gallant old officer as their leader, they actually
loved him like a father. The very last incident of their struggle was
an effort to cut through the closing ranks of the French, and secure his
escape; and although one of the Volunteers almost lifted him into the
saddle, from which he had torn the rider, Darcy would not leave his
comrades, but cried out, "What signifies a prisoner more or less, lads?
The victory is ours; let that console us." The brave fellow who had
perilled his life for his leader was cut down at the same instant. Darcy
saw him bleeding and disarmed, and had but time to throw him his last
pistol, when he was driven onward, and, in the mingled confusion of the
movement, beheld him no more.
The exasperation of a defeat so totally unlooked for had made the French
almost savage in their vindictiveness, and nothing but the greatest
efforts on the part of the officers could have saved the prisoners from
the cruel vengeance of the infuriated soldiery. As it was, insulting
epithets, oaths, and obnoxious threats met them at every moment of
the halt; and at each new success of the British their fury broke out
afresh, accompanied by menacing gestures that seemed to dare and defy
every fear of discipline.
Darcy, whom personal considerations were ever the last to influence,
smiled at these brutal demonstrations, delighted at heart to witness
such palpable evidence of insubordination in the enemy; nor could he, in
the very midst of outrages which perilled his life, avoid comparing to
his followers the French troops of former days with these soldiers of
the Republic. "I remember them at Quebec," said he, "under Montcalm.
It may be too much to say that the spirit of a monarchy had imparted a
sense of chivalry to its defenders, but certainly it is fair to think
that the bloody orgies of a revolutionary capital have made a ruffian
and ruthless soldiery."
Nor was this the only source of consolation open; for he beheld on every
side of him, in the disorder of the force, the moral discouragement
of the army, and the meagre preparations made for the defence of
Alexandria. Wounded and weary, he took full note of these various
circumstances, and made them the theme of encouragement to his
companions in captivity. "There is little here, lads," said he, "to
make us fear a long imprisonment. The gallant fellows, whose watch-fires
crown yonder hills, will soon bivouac here. All these preparations
denote haste and inefficiency. These stockades will offer faint
resistance, their guns seem in many instances unserviceable, and from
what we have seen of their infantry to-day, we need never fear the issue
of a struggle with them."
In the brief intervals of an occasional halt, he lost no opportunity
of remarking the appearance of the enemy's soldiery,--their bearing and
their equipment,--and openly communicated to his comrades his opinion
that the French army was no longer the formidable force it had been
represented to be, and that the first heavy reverse would be its
dismemberment. In all the confidence a foreign language suggests, he
spoke his mind freely and without reserve, not sparing the officers in
his criticisms, which now and then took a form of drollery that drew
laughter from the other prisoners. It was at the close of some remark of
this kind, and while the merriment had not yet subsided, that a French
major, who had more than once shown interest for the venerable old
soldier, rode close up to his side, and whispered a few words of
friendly caution in his ear, while by an almost imperceptible gesture he
pointed to a group of prisoners who accompanied the Knight's party, and
persisted in pressing close to where he walked. These were four dragoons
of Hompesch's regiment, then serving with the British army, but a
corps which had taken no part in the late action. Darcy could not help
wondering at their capture,--a feeling not devoid of distrust, as he
remarked that neither their dress nor accoutrements bore any trace
of the fierce struggle, while their manner exhibited a degree of rude
assurance and effrontery, rather than the regretful feelings of men
taken prisoners.
Darcy's attention was not permitted to dwell much more on the
circumstance, for at the same instant the column was halted, in order
that the wounded might pass on; and in the sad spectacle that now
presented itself, all memory of his own griefs was merged. The
procession was a long one, and seemed even more so than it was, from
the frequent halts in front, the road being choked up by tumbrels and
wagons, all confusedly mixed up in the hurry of retreat. Night was now
falling fast, but still there was light enough to descry the ghastly
looks of the poor fellows, suffering in every variety of agony. Some
sought vent to their tortures by shouts and cries of pain; others
preserved a silence that seemed from their agonized features an effort
as dreadful as the very wounds themselves; many were already mad with
suffering, and sang and blasphemed, with shrieks of mingled recklessness
and misery. What a terrible reverse to the glory of war, and how far
deeper into the heart do such scenes penetrate than all the triumphs the
most successful campaign has ever gathered! While Darcy still gazed on
this sad sight, he was gently touched on the arm by the same officer who
had addressed him before, saying, "There is an English soldier here among
the wounded, who wishes to speak with you; it is against my orders to
permit it, but be brief and cautious." With a motion to a litter some
paces in the rear, the officer moved on to his place in the column, nor
waited for any reply.
The Knight lost not a second in profiting by the kind suggestion, but in
the now thickening, gloom it was some time before he could discover
the object of his search. At length he caught sight of the well-known
uniform of his corps,--the blue jacket slashed with silver,--as it was
thrown loosely over the figure, and partly over the face of a wounded
soldier. Gently removing it, he gazed with steadfastness at the pale and
bloodless countenance of a young and handsome man, who with half-closed
eyelids lay scarcely breathing before him. "Do you know me, my poor
fellow?" whispered Darcy, bending down over him,--"do you know me? For I
feel as if we should know each other well, and had met before this." The
wounded man met his glance with a look of kind acknowledgment, but made
no effort to speak; a faint sigh broke from him, as with a tremulous
hand he pushed back the jacket and showed a terrible bayonet-stab in
the chest, from which at each respiration the blood welled out in florid
rivulets.
"Where is the surgeon?" said Darcy, to the soldier beside the litter.
"He is here, Monsieur," said a sharp-looking man, who, without coat and
with shirt-sleeves tucked up, came hastily forward.
"Can you look to this poor fellow for me?" whispered Darcy, while he
pressed into the not unwilling hand of the doctor a somewhat weighty
purse.
"We can do little more thau put a pad on a wounded vessel just now,"
said the surgeon, as with practised coolness he split up with a scissors
the portions of dress around the wound. "When we have them once housed
in the hospital--Parbleu!" cried he, interrupting himself, "this is a
severe affair."
Darcy turned away while the remorseless fingers of the surgeon probed
the gaping incision, and then whispered low, "Can he recover?"
"Ah! mon Dieu! who knows? There is enough mischief here to kill half
a squadron; but some fellows get through anything. If we had him in
a quiet chamber of the Faubourg, with a good nurse, and all still
and tranquil about him, there 's no saying; but here, with some seven
hundred others,--many as bad, some worse than himself,--the chances
are greatly against him. Come, however, we'll do our best for him." So
saying, he proceeded to pass ligatures on some bleeding arteries; and
although speaking rapidly all the while, his motions were even still
more quick and hurried. "How old is he?" asked the surgeon, suddenly, as
he gazed attentively at the youth.
"I can't tell you," said Darcy. "He belonged to my own corps, and by the
lace on his jacket, I see, must have been a Volunteer; but I shame to
say I don't remember even his name." "He knows you, then," replied
the doctor, who, with the shrewd perception of his craft, watched the
working of the sick man's features. "Is't not so?" said he, stooping
down and speaking with marked distinctness. "You know your colonel?"
A gesture, too faint to be called a nod of the head, and a slight motion
of the eyebrows, seemed to assent to this question; and Darcy, whose
laboring faculties struggled to bring up some clew to the memory of a
face he was convinced he had known before, was about to speak again,
when a mounted orderly, with a led horse beside him, rode up to the
spot, and looking round for a few seconds, as if in search of some one,
said,--
"The English colonel, I believe?" The Knight nodded. "You are to
mount this horse, sir," continued the orderly, "and proceed to the
head-quarters at once."
The doctor whispered a few hasty sentences, and while promising to
bestow his greatest care upon the sick man, assured Darcy that at the
head-quarters he would soon obtain admission of the wounded Volunteer
into the officers' hospital. Partly comforted by this, and partly
yielding to what he knew was the inevitable course of fortune, the
Knight took a farewell look of his follower, and mounted the horse
provided for him.
Darcy was too much engrossed by the interest of the wounded soldier's
case to think much on what might await himself; nor did he notice for
some time that they had left the high-road by which the troops were
marching for a narrower causeway, leading, as it seemed, not into, but
at one side of Alexandria. It mattered so little to him, however, which
way they followed, that he paid no further attention, nor was he aware
of their progress, till they entered a little mud-built village, which
swarmed with dogs, and miserable-looking half-clothed Arabs.
"How do they call this village?" said the Knight, speaking now for the
first time to his guide.
"El Etscher," replied the soldier; "and here we halt" At the same moment
he dismounted at the door of a low, mean-looking house; and having
ushered Darcy into a small room dimly lighted by a lamp, departed.
The Knight listened to the sharp tramp of the horses' feet as they moved
away; and when they had gone beyond hearing, the silence that followed
fell heavily and drearily on his spirits. After sitting for some time in
expectation of seeing some one sent after him, he arose and went to the
door, but there now stood a sentry posted. He returned at once within
the room, and partly overcome by fatigue, and partly from the confusion
of his own harassed thoughts, he leaned his head on the table and slept
soundly.
"Pardon, Monsieur le colonel," said a voice at his ear, as, some hours
later in the night, he was awakened from his slumbers. "You will be
pleased to follow me." Darcy looked up and beheld a young officer, who
stood respectfully before him; and though for a second or so he could
not remember where he was, the memory soon came back, and without a word
he followed his conductor.
The officer led the way across a dirty, ill-paved courtyard, and
entered a building beyond it of greater size, but apparently not less
dilapidated than that they had quitted. From the hall, which was lighted
with a large lamp, they could perceive through an open door a range of
stables filled with horses; at the opposite side a door corresponding
with this one, at which a dragoon stood with his carbine on his arm. At
a word from the officer the soldier moved aside and permitted them to
enter.
The room into which they proceeded was large, but almost destitute
of furniture. A common deal table stood in the middle, littered with
military cloaks, swords, and shakos. In one corner was a screen, from
behind which the only light proceeded; and, with a gesture towards this,
the officer motioned Darcy to advance, while with noiseless footsteps he
himself withdrew.
Darcy moved forward, and soon came within the space enclosed by the
screen, and in front of an officer in a plain uniform, who was busily
engaged in writing. Maps, returns, printed orders, and letters lay
strewed about him, and in the small brazier of burning wood beside him
might be seen the charred remains of a great heap of papers. Darcy had
full a minute to contemplate the figure before him ere he was noticed.
The Frenchman was short and muscular, with a thick, bushy head of hair,
bald in the centre of the head. His features were full of intelligence
and quickness, but more unmistakably denoted violence of temper, and
the coarse nature of one not born to his present rank, which seemed, at
least, that of a field officer. His hands were covered with rings, but
their shape and color scarcely denoted that such ornaments were native
to them.
"Ha,--the English colonel,--sit down, sir," said he to Darcy, pointing
to a chair without rising from his own. Darcy seated himself with the
easy composure of one who felt that in any situation his birth and
breeding made him unexceptionable company.
"I wished to see you, sir. I have received orders, that is," said
he, speaking with the greatest rapidity, and a certain thickness of
utterance very difficult to follow, "to send for you here, and make
certain inquiries, your answers to which will entirely decide the
conduct of the Commander-in-Chief in your behalf. You are not aware,
perhaps, how completely you have put this in our power?"
"I suppose," said Darcy, smiling, "my condition as a prisoner of war
makes me subject to the usual hardships of such a lot; but I am not
aware of anything, peculiar to my case, that would warrant you in
proposing even one question which a gentleman and a British officer
could refuse to answer."
"There is exactly such an exception," replied the Frenchman, hastily.
"The proofs are very easy, and nearer at hand than you think of."
"You have certainly excited my curiosity, sir," said the Knight, with
composure; "you will excuse my saying that the feeling is unalloyed by
any fear."
"We shall see that presently," said the French officer rising and
moving towards the door of an apartment which Darcy had not noticed.
"Auguste," cried he, "is that report ready?" The answer was not audible
to the Knight. But the officer resumed, "No matter; it is sufficient for
our purpose." And hastily taking a paper from the hands of a subaltern,
he returned to his place within the screen. "A gentleman so conversant
with our language, it would be absurd to suppose ignorant of our
institutions. Now, sir, to make a very brief affair of this, you have,
in contravention to a law passed in the second year of the Republic,
ventured to apply opprobrious epithets to the forces of France,
ridiculing the manner, bearing, and conduct of our troops, and
instituting comparison between the free citizens of a free state and
the miserable minions of a degraded monarchy. If a Frenchman,
your accusation, trial, and sentence would have probably been nigh
accomplished before this time. As a foreigner and a prisoner of war--"
"I conclude such remarks as I pleased to make were perfectly open to
me," added Darcy, finishing the sentence.
"Then you admit the charge," said the Frenchman eagerly, as if he had
succeeded in entrapping a confession.
"So far, sir, as the expressions of my poor judgment on the
effectiveness of your army, and its chances against such a force as
we have yonder, I am not only prepared to avow, but if you think the
remarks worth the trouble of hearing, to repeat them."
"As a prisoner of war, sir, according to the eighty-fourth article
of the Code Militaire, the offence must be tried by a court-martial,
one-half of whose members shall have the same rank as the accused."
"I ask nothing better, sir, nor will I ever believe that any man who has
carried a sword could deem the careless comments of a prisoner on what
he sees around him a question of crime and punishment."
"I would advise you to reflect a little, sir, ere you suffer matters to
proceed so far. The witnesses against you--"
"The witnesses!" exclaimed the Knight, in amazement.
"Yes, sir, four dragoons of a German regiment, thoroughly conversant
with your language and ours, have deposed to the words--"
"I avow everything I have spoken, and am ready to abide by it."
"Take care, sir,--take care."
"Pardon me, sir," said Darcy, with a look of quiet irony, "but it
strikes me that the exigencies of your army must be far greater than
I deemed them, or you had never had recourse to a system of attempted
intimidation."
"You are in error there," said the Frenchman. "It was the desire to
serve, not to injure you, suggested my present course. It remains with
yourself to show that my interest was not misplaced."
"Let me understand you more clearly. What is expected of me?"
"The answers to questions which doubtless every countryman of yours
and mine could reply to from the public papers, but which, to us here,
remote from intercourse and knowledge, are matters of slow acquirement."
While the French officer spoke, he continued to search among the papers
before him for some document, and at length, taking up a small slip of
paper, resumed: "For instance, the 'Moniteur' asserts that you meditate
sending a force from India to cross the Red Sea and the Desert, and
menace us by an attack in the rear as well as in the front. This reads
so like a fragment of an Oriental tale, that I can forgive the smile
with which you hear it."
"Nay, sir; you have misinterpreted my meaning," said the Knight, calmly.
"I am free to confess I thought this intelligence was no secret. The
form of our Government, the public discussions of our Houses, the
freedom of our press, are little favorable to mystery. If you have
nothing to ask of me more difficult to answer than this--"
"And the expedition of Acre,--is this also correct?"
"Perfectly so. A combined movement, which shall compel you to evacuate
the country, is in preparation."
"Parbleu, sir," said the Frenchman, stamping his foot with impatience,
"these are somewhat bold words for a man in your situation to one in
mine."
"I fancy, sir, that circumstance affects the issue I allude to very
slightly indeed; even though the officer to whom I address myself should
be General Menou, the Commander-in-Chief."
"And if I be, sir, and if you know it," said Menou,--for it was he,--his
face suffused with anger, "is it consistent with the respect due to my
position and to your own safety, to speak thus?"
"For the first, sir, although a mere surmise on my part, I humbly hope
I have made no transgression; for the last, I have very little reason to
feel any solicitude, knowing that if you hurt a hair of my head, a heavy
reprisal will await such of your own officers as may be taken, and the
events of yesterday may have told you that a contingency of this sort is
neither improbable nor remote."
Menou made no answer to this threatening speech, but with folded arms
paced the apartment for several minutes. At length he turned hastily
round, and fixing his eyes on the Knight, said, with a rude oath, "You
are a fortunate man, sir, that you did not hold this language to my
predecessor in the command. General Kleber would have had you in front
of a peloton of grenadiers within five minutes after you uttered it."
"I have heard as much," said the Knight, with a slight smile.
Menou rang a bell which stood beside him, and an aide-de-camp entered.
"Captain le Messurier," said he, in the ordinary tone of discipline,
"this officer is under arrest. You will take the necessary steps for
his safe keeping, and his due appearance when summoned before a military
tribunal."
He bowed to Darcy as he spoke, and, reseating himself at the table, took
up his pen to write.
"At the hazard of being thought very hardy, sir," said the Knight, as he
moved towards the door, "I would humbly solicit a favor."
"A favor!" exclaimed Menou, staring in surprise.
"Yes, sir; it is that the services of a surgeon should be promptly
rendered--"
"I have given orders on that score already. My own medical man shall
attend to you."
"I speak not of myself, sir. It is of a Volunteer of my corps, a
young man who now lies badly wounded; his case is not without hope, if
speedily looked to."
"He must take his chance with others," said the general, gruffly, while
he made a gesture of leave-taking; and Darcy, unable to prolong the
interview, retired.
"I am sorry, sir," said the aide-de-camp, as he went along, "that my
orders are peremptory, and you must, if the state of your health permit,
at once leave this."
"Is it thus your prisoners of war are treated, sir?" said Darcy,
scornfully, "or am I to hope--for hope I do--that the exception is
created especially for me?"
The officer was silent; and although the flush of shame was on his
cheek, the severe demands of duty overcame all personal feelings, and he
did not dare to answer.
The Knight was not one of those on whom misfortune can press, without
eliciting in return the force of resistance, and, if not forgetting,
at least combating, the indignities to which he had been subjected; he
resigned himself patiently to his destiny, and after a brief delay set
forth for his journey to Akrish, which he now learned was to be the
place of his confinement.
CHAPTER XXVIII. TIDINGS OF THE WOUNDED.
The interests of our story do not require us to dwell minutely on the
miserable system of intrigue by which the French authorities sought to
compromise the life and honor of a British officer. The Knight of Gwynne
was committed to the charge of a veteran officer of the Republic, who,
though dignified with the title of the Governor of Akrish, was, in
reality, invested with no higher functions than that of jailer over the
few unhappy prisoners whom evil destiny had thrown into French hands.
By an alternate system of cruelty and concession, efforts were daily
made to entrap Darcy either into some expression of violence or
impatience at this outrage on all the custom of war, or induce him
to join a plot for escape, submitted to him by those who, apparently
prisoners like himself, were in reality the spies of the Republic.
Sustained by a high sense of his own dignity, and not ignorant of the
character under which revolutionized France accomplished her triumphs,
the Knight resisted every temptation, and in all the gloom of this
remote fortress, ominously secluded from the world, denied access to
any knowledge of passing events, cut off from all communication with his
country and his comrades, he never even for a moment forgot himself, nor
became entangled in the perfidious schemes spread for his ruin. It was
no common aggravation of the miseries of imprisonment to know that each
day and hour had its own separate machinery of perfidy at work. At one
moment he would be offered liberty on the condition of revealing the
plans of the expedition; at another he would be suddenly summoned to
appear before a tribunal of military law, when it was hinted he would be
arraigned for having commanded a force of liberated felons,--for in this
way were the Volunteers once designated,--in the hope that the insult
would evoke some burst of passionate indignation. If the torment of
these unceasing annoyances preyed upon his health and spirits, already
harassed by sad thoughts of home, the length of time, to which the
intrigues were protracted showed Darcy that the wiles of his enemies had
not met success in their own eyes; and this gleam of hope, faint and
slender as it was, sustained him through many a gloomy hour of
captivity.
While the Knight continued thus to live in the long sleep of a
prisoner's existence, events were hastening to their accomplishment
by which his future liberty was to be secured. The victorious army of
Abercrombie had already advanced and driven the French back beneath the
lines of Alexandria. The action which ensued was terribly contested, but
ended in the complete triumph of the British, whose glory was, however,
dearly bought by the death of their gallant leader.
The Turkish forces now joined the English under General Hutchinson,
and a series of combined movements commenced, by which the French saw
themselves so closely hemmed in, that no course was open save a retreat
upon Cairo.
Whether from the changed fortune of their arms,--for the French had
now sustained one unbroken series of reverses,--or that the efforts to
entrap the Knight had shown so little prospect of success, the manner
of the governor had, for some time back, been altered much in his favor,
and several petty concessions were permitted, which in the earlier days
of his captivity were strictly denied. Occasionally, too, little hints
of the campaign would be dropped, and acknowledgments made "that fortune
had not been as uniformly favorable to the 'Great Nation' as was her
wont." These significant confessions received a striking confirmation,
when, at daybreak one morning, an order arrived for the garrison to
abandon the fort of Akrish, and for the prisoners, under a strong
escort, to fall back upon Damanhour.
The movements indicated haste and precipitancy; so much so, indeed,
that ere the small garrison had got clear of the town, the head of a
retreating column was seen entering it by the road from Alexandria; and
now no longer doubt remained that the British had compelled them to fall
back.
As the French retired, their forces continued to come up each day, and
in the long convoy of wounded, as well as in the shattered condition
of gun-carriages and wagons, it was easy to read the signs of a recent
defeat. Nor was the matter long doubtful to Darcy; for, by some strange
anomaly of human nature, the very men who would exaggerate the smallest
accident of advantage into a victory and triumph, were now just as loud
iu proclaiming that they had been dreadfully beaten. Perhaps the avowal
was compensated for by the license it suggested to inveigh against the
generals, and, in the true spirit of a republican army, to threaten them
openly with the speedy judgments of the Home Government.
Among those who occasionally halted to exchange a few-words of greeting
with the officer in conduct of the prisoners, the Knight recognized with
satisfaction the same officer who, in the retreat from Aboukir, had
so kindly suggested caution to him. At first he seemed half fearful
of addressing him, to speak his gratitude, lest even so much might
compromise the young captain in the eyes of his countrymen. The
hesitation was speedily overcome, however, as the young Frenchman gayly
saluted him, and said,--
"Ah, mon General, you had scarcely been here to-day if you had
but listened to my counsels. I told you that the Republic, one and
indivisible, did not admit criticism of its troops."
"I scarcely believed you could shrink from such an order," said the
Knight, smiling.
"Not in the 'Moniteur,' perhaps," rejoined the Frenchman, laughing.
"Yours, however, had an excess of candor, which, if only listened to at
your own head-quarters, might have induced grave errors.
"I comprehend," interrupted Darcy, gayly catching up the ironical humor
of the other,--"I comprehend, and you would spare an enemy such an
injurious illusion."
"Just so; I wish your army had been equally generous, with all my
heart," added he, as coolly as before; "here we are in full retreat on
Cairo."
"On Damanhour, you mean," said Darcy.
"Not a bit of it; on Cairo, General. There's no need of mincing the
matter; we need fear no eavesdropper here. Ah, by the by, your German
friends were retaken, and by a detachment of their own regiment too. We
saw the fellows shot the morning after the action."
"Now that you are kind enough to tell me what is going forward, perhaps
you could let me know something of my poor comrades whom you took
prisoners on the night of the 9th."
"Yes. They are with few exceptions dead of their wounds, two men
exchanged about a week since; and then, what strange fellows your
countrymen are! They sent us back a major of brigade in exchange for a
wounded soldier who, when he left our camp, did not seem to have life
enough to bring him across the lines!"
"Did you see him?" asked Darcy, eagerly.
"Yes; I commanded the escort. He was a young fellow of scarcely more
than four-and-twenty, and must have been good-looking too."
"Of course you could not tell his name," said the Knight, despondingly.
"No; I heard it, however, but it has escaped me. There was a curious
story brought back about him by our brigade-major, and one which,
I assure you, furnished many a hearty laugh at your land of noble
privileges and aristocratic forms'."
"Pray let me hear it."
"Oh, I cannot tell you one-half of it; the finale interested the major
most, because it concerned himself, and this he repeated to us at least
a dozen times. It would seem, then, that this youth--a rare thing, I
believe, in your service--was a man of birth, but, according to your
happy institutions, was a man of nothing more, for he was a younger son.
Is not that your law?"
Darcy nodded, and the other resumed.
"Well, in some fit of spleen at not being born a year or two earlier,
or for some love affair with one of your blond insensibles, or from
weariness of your gloomy climate, or from any other true British cause
of despair, our youth became a soldier. Parbleu! your English chivalry
has its own queer notions, when it regards the service as a last
resource of the desperate! No matter, he enlisted, came out here, fought
bravely, and was taken prisoner in the very same attack with yourself;
but while Fortune dealt heavily with one hand, she was caressing with
the other, for, the same week she condemned him to a French prison,
she made him a peer of England, having taken off the elder brother, an
ambassador at some court, I believe, by a fever. So goes the world;
good and ill luck battling against each, and one never getting uppermost
without the other recruiting strength for a victory in turn."
"These are strange tidings, indeed," said the Knight, musing, "and would
interest me deeply, if I knew the individual."
"That I am unfortunate enough to have forgotten," said the Frenchman,
carelessly; "but I conclude he must be a person of some importance, for
we heard that the vessel which was to sail with despatches was delayed
several hours in the bay, to take him back to England."
Although the whole recital contained many circumstances which the Knight
attributed to French misrepresentation of English habitudes, he was
profoundly struck by it, and dwelt fondly on the hope that if the young
peer should have served under his command, he would not neglect, on
arriving in England, to inform his friends of his safety.
These thoughts, mingling with others of his home and of his son Lionel,
far away in a distant quarter of the globe, filled his mind as he went,
and made him ponder deeply over the strange accidents of a life
that, opening with every promise, seemed about to close in sorrow and
uncertainty. Full of movement and interest as was the scene around, he
seldom bestowed on it even a passing glance; it was an hour of gloomy
reverie, and he neither marked the long train of wagons with their
wounded, the broken and shattered gun-carriages, or the miserable aspect
of the cavalry, whose starved and galled animals could scarcely crawl.
The Knight's momentary indifference was interpreted in a very different
sense by the officer who commanded the escort, and who seemed to suspect
that this apathy concealed a shrewd insight into the real condition of
the troops and the signs of distress and discomfiture so palpable on
every side. As, impressed with this conviction, he watched the old man
with prying curiosity, a smile, faint and fleeting enough, once crossed
Darcy's features. The Frenchman's face flushed as he beheld it, and he
quickly said,--
"They are the same troops that landed at the Arabs' Tower, and who carry
such inscriptions on their standards as these." He snatched a flag from
the sergeant beside him as he spoke, and pointed to the proud words
embroidered there: "Le Passage de la Scrivia," "Le Passage de Tisonzo,"
"Le Pont de Lodi." Then, in a low, muttering voice, he added, "But
Buonaparte was with us then."
Had he spoken for hours, the confession of their discontent with their
generals could not have been more manifest; and a sudden gleam of hope
shot through Darcy's breast, to think his captivity might soon be over.
There was every reason to indulge in this pleasing belief;
disorganization had extended to every branch of the service. An angry
correspondence, in which even personal chastisement was broadly hinted
at, passed between the two officers highest in command; and this not
secretly, but publicly known to the entire army. Peculation of the most
gross and open kind was practised by the commissaries; and as the
troops became distressed by want, they retaliated by daring breaches of
discipline, so that at every parade men stood out from the ranks, boldly
demanding their rations, and answering the orders of the officers by
insulting cries of "Bread! bread!"
All this while the British were advancing steadily, overcoming each
obstacle in turn, and with a force whose privations had made no inroad
upon the strictest discipline; they felt confident of success. The few
prisoners who occasionally fell into the hands of the French wore
all the assurance of men who felt that their misfortunes could not be
lasting, and in good-humored raillery bantered their captors on the
British beef and pudding they would receive, instead of horseflesh, so
soon as the capitulation was signed.
The French soldiers were, indeed, heartily tired of the war; they were
tired of the country, of the leaders, whose incompetency, whether real
or not, they believed; tired, above all, of absence from France, from
which they felt exiled. Each step they retired from the coast seemed
to them another day's journey from their native land, and they did not
hesitate to avow to their prisoners that they had no wish or care save
to return to their country.
Such was the spirit of the French army as it drew near Cairo, than which
no greater contrast could exist than that presented by the advancing
enemy. Let us now return to the more immediate interests of our story;
and while we beg to corroborate the brief narrative of the French
officer, we hope it is unnecessary to add that the individual whose
suddenly changed fortune had elevated him from the ranks of a simple
volunteer to that of a peer of England was our old acquaintance Dick
Forester.
From the moment when the tidings reached him, to that in which he lay,
still suffering from his wounds, in the richly furnished chamber of a
London hotel, the whole train of events through which he had so lately
passed seemed like the incoherent fancies of a dream. The excited frame
of mind in which he became a volunteer with the army had not time to
subside ere came the spirit-stirring hour of the landing at Aboukir. The
fight, in all its terrible but glorious vicissitudes; the struggle in
which he perilled his own life to save his leader's; the moments that
seemed those of ebbing life in which he lay upon a litter before Darcy's
eyes, and yet unable to speak his name; and then the sudden news of his
brother's death, overwhelming him at once with sorrow for his loss, and
all the thousand fleeting thoughts of his own future, should life be
spared him,--these were enough, and more than enough, to disturb and
overbalance a mind already weakened by severe illness.
Had Forester known more of his only brother, it is certain that the
predominance of the feeling of grief would have subdued the others, and
given at least the calm of affliction to his troubled senses. But they
were almost strangers to each other; the elder having passed his life
almost exclusively abroad, and the younger, separated by distance and a
long interval of years, being a complete stranger to his qualities and
temper.
Dick Forester's grief, therefore, was no more than that which ties of so
close kindred will ever call up, but unmixed with the tender attachment
of a brother's love. His altered fortunes had not thus the strong alloy
of heartfelt sorrow to make them distasteful; but still there was an
unreality in everything,--a vague uncertainty in all his endeavors at
close reasoning, which harassed and depressed him. And when he awoke
from each short disturbed sleep, it took several minutes before he could
bring back his memory to the last thought of his waking hours. The very
title "my Lord," so scrupulously repeated at each instant, startled him
afresh at each moment he heard it; and as he read over the names of the
high and titled personages whose anxieties for his recovery had made
them daily visitors at his hotel, his heart faltered between the
pleasure of flattery and a deeper feeling of almost scorn for the
sympathies of a world that could minister to the caprices of rank what
it withheld from the real sufferings of the same man in obscurity. His
mother he had not seen yet; for Lady Netherby, much attached to her
eldest son, and vain of abilities by which she reckoned on his future
distinction, was herself seriously indisposed. Lord Netherby, however,
had been a frequent visitor, and had already seen Forester several
times, although always very briefly, and only upon the terms of distant
politeness.
Although in a state that precluded everything like active exertion, and
which, indeed, made the slightest effort a matter of peril, Forester had
already exchanged more than one communication with the Horse Guards
on the subject of the Knight's safety, and received the most steady
assurances that his exchange was an object on which the authorities were
most anxious, and engaged at the very moment in negotiations for its
accomplishment. There were two difficulties: one, that no officer of
Darcy's precise rank was then a prisoner with the British; and secondly,
that any very pressing desire expressed for his liberation would serve
to weaken the force of that conviction they were so eager to impress,
that the campaign was nearly ended, and that nothing but capitulation
remained for the French.
Forester was not more gratified than surprised at the tone of obliging
and almost deferential politeness which pervaded each answer to his
applications. He had yet to learn how a vote in the "Lords" can make
secretaries civil, and Under-Secretaries most courteous; and while
his few uncertain lines were penned with diffidence and distrust, the
replies gradually inducted him into that sense of confidence which a few
months later he was to feel like a birthright.
How far these thoughts contributed to his recovery it would be difficult
to say, nor does it exactly lie in our province to inquire. The
likelihood is, that the inducements to live are strong aids to overcome
sickness; for, as a witty observer has remarked, "There is no such
manque dre savoir vivre as dying at four-and-twenty."
It is very probable Forester experienced all this, and that the dreams
of the future in which he indulged were not only his greatest but his
pleasantest aid to recovery. A brilliant position, invested with rank,
title, fortune, and a character for enterprise, are all flattering
adjuncts to youth; while in the hope of succeeding where his dearest
wishes were concerned, lay a source of far higher happiness. How to
approach this subject again most fittingly, was now the constant object
of his thoughts. He sometimes resolved to address Lady Eleanor; but so
long as he could convey no precise tidings of the Knight, this would be
an ungracious task. Then he thought of Miss Daly, but he did not know
her address; all these doubts and hesitations invariably ending in
the resolve that as soon as his strength permitted he would go over to
Ireland, and finding out Bicknell, obtain accurate information as to
Lady Eleanor's present residence, and also learn if, without being
discovered, he could in any way be made serviceable to the interests of
the family.
Perhaps we cannot better convey the gradually dawning conviction of his
altered fortune on his mind than by mentioning that while he canvassed
these various chances, and speculated on their course, he never dwelt on
the possibility of Lady Netherby's power to influence his determination.
In the brief note he received from her each morning, the tone of
affectionate solicitude for his health was always accompanied by some
allusive hint of the "duties" recovery would impose, and each inquiry
after his night's rest was linked with a not less anxious question as
to how soon he might feel able to appear in public. Constitutionally
susceptible of all attempts to control him, and from his childhood
disposed to rebel against dictation, he limited his replies to brief
accounts of his progress or inquiries after her own health, resolved
in his heart that now that fortune was his own, to use the blessings it
bestows according to the dictates of affection and a conscientious sense
of right, and be neither the toy of a faction nor the tool of a party.
In Darcy--could he but see him once more--he looked for a friend and
adviser; and whatever the fortune of his suit, he felt that the Knight's
counsels should be his guidance as to the future, reposing not even more
trust on unswerving rectitude than the vast range of his knowledge of
life, and the common-sense views he could take of the most complex as of
the very simplest questions.
It was now some seven weeks after his return, and Forester, for we
would still desire to call him by the name our reader has known him,
was sitting upon a sofa, weak and nervous, as the first day of a
convalescent's appearance in the drawing-room usually is, when his
servant, having deposited on the table several visiting-cards of
distinguished inquirers, mentioned that the Earl of Netherby wished to
pay his respects. Forester moved his head in token of assent, and his
Lordship soon after entered.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE DAWN OF CONVALESCENCE
Stepping noiselessly over the carpet, with an air at once animated and
regardful of the sick man, Lord Netherby was at Forester's side before
he could arise to receive him; and pressing him gently down with both
hands, said, in a voice of most silvery cadence,--
"My dear Lord--you must not stir for the world--Halford has only
permitted me to see you under the strict pledge of prudence; and now,
how are you? Ah! I see--weak and low. Come, you must let me speak for
you, or at least interpret your answers to my own liking. We have so
much to talk over, it is difficult where to begin."
"How is Lady Netherby?" said Forester, with a slight hesitation between
the words.
"Still very feeble and very nervous. The shock has been a dreadful one
to her. You know that poor Augustus was coming home on leave--when--when
this happened."
Here his Lordship sighed, but not too deeply, for he remembered that the
law of primogeniture is the sworn enemy to grief.
"There was some talk, too, of his being sent on a special embassy to
Paris,--a very high and important trust,--and so really the affliction
is aggravated by thinking what a career was opening to him. But, as the
Dean of Walworth beautifully expressed it, 'We are cut down like flowers
of the field.' Ah!"
A sigh and a slight wave with a handkerchief, diffusing an odor of
eau-de-Portugal through the chamber, closed this affecting sentiment.
"I trust in a day or two I shall be able to see my mother," said
Forester, whose thoughts were following a far more natural channel.
"I can walk a little to-day, and before the end of the week Halford
promises me that I shall drive out."
"That 's the very point we are most anxious about," said Lord Netherby,
eagerly: "we want you, if possible, to take your seat in 'the Lords'
next week. There is a special reason for it. Rumor runs that the
Egyptian expedition will be brought on for discussion on Thursday next.
Some malcontents are about to disparage the whole business, and, in
particular, the affair at Alexandria. Ministers are strong enough to
resist this attack, and even carry the war back into the enemy's camp;
but we all think it would be a most fortunate moment for you, when
making your first appearance in the House, to rise and say a few words
on the subject of the campaign. The circumstances under which you
joined--your very dangerous wound--have given you a kind of prerogative
to speak, and the occasion is most opportune. Come, what say you? Would
such an effort be too great?"
"Certainly not for my strength, my Lord, if not for my shame' sake; for
really I should feel it somewhat presumptuous in me, a man who carried
his musket in the ranks, to venture on a discussion, far more a defence,
of the great operations in which he was a mere unit; one of those rank
and file who figured, without other designation, in lists of killed and
wounded."
"This is very creditable to your modesty, my dear Lord," said the old
peer, smiling most blandly; "but pardon me if I say it displays a great
forgetfulness of your present position. Remember that you now belong to
the Upper House, and that the light of the peerage shines on the past as
on the future."
"By which I am to understand," replied Forester, laughing, "that the
events which would have met a merited oblivion in Dick Forester's life
are to be remembered with honor to the Earl of Wallincourt."
"Of course they are," cried Lord Netherby, joining in the laugh. "If
an unlikely scion of royalty ascends the throne, we look out for the
evidences of his princely tastes in the sports of his boyhood. Nay, if a
clever writer or painter wins distinction from the world, do we not 'try
back' for his triumphs at school, or his chalk sketches on coach-house
gates, to warrant the early development of genius?"
"Well, my Lord," said Forester, gayly, "I accept the augury; and as
nothing more nearly concerns a man's life than the fate of those who
have shown him friendship, let me inquire after some friends of mine,
and some relations of yours,-the Darcys."
"Ah, those poor Darcys!" said Lord Netherby, wiping his eyes, and
heaving a very profound sigh, as though to say that the theme was one
far too painful to dwell upon, "theirs is a sad story, a very sad story
indeed!"
"Anything more gloomy than the loss of fortune, my Lord?" asked
Forester, with a trembling lip, and a cheek pale as death. Lord Netherby
stared to see whether the patient's mind was not beginning to wander.
That there could be anything worse than loss of fortune he had yet
to learn; assuredly he had never heard of it. Forester repeated his
question.
"No, no, perhaps not, if you understand by that phrase what I do," said
Lord Netherby, almost pettishly. "If, like me, you take in all the long
train of ruin and decay such loss implies,--pecuniary distress, moneyed
difficulties, fallen condition in society, inferior association--"
"Nay, my Lord, in the present instance, I can venture to answer for
it, such consequences have not ensued. You do your relatives scarcely
justice to suppose it."
"It is very good and very graceful, both, in you," said Lord Netherby,
with an almost angelic smile, "to say so. Unfortunately, these are
not merely speculative opinions on my part. While I make this remark,
understand me as by no means imputing any blame to them. What could they
do?--that is the question,--what could they do?"
"I would rather ask of your Lordship, what have they done? When I know
that, I shall be, perhaps, better enabled to reply to your question."
In all likelihood it was more the manner than the substance of this
question which made Lord Netherby hesitate how to reply to it, and at
last he said,--
"To say in so many words what they have done, is not so easy. It would,
perhaps, give better insight into the circumstances were I to say what
they have not done."
"Even as you please, my Lord. The negative charge, then," said Forester,
impatiently.
"Lord Castlereagh, my Lord!" said a servant, throwing open the door; for
he had already received orders to admit him when he called, though, had
Forester guessed how inopportune the visit could have proved, he would
never have said so.
In the very different expressions of Lord Netherby and the sick man's
face, it might be seen how differently they welcomed the new arrival.
Lord Castlereagh saluted both with a courteous and cordial greeting,
and although he could not avoid seeing that he had dropped in somewhat
mal--propos, he resolved rather to shorten the limit of his stay
than render it awkward by any expressions of apology. The conversation,
therefore, took that easy, careless tone in which each could join with
freedom. It was after a brief pause, when none exactly liked to be the
first to speak, that Lord Netherby observed,--
"The very moment you were announced, my Lord, I was endeavoring to
persuade my young friend here to a line of conduct in which, if I have
your Lordship's co-operation, I feel I shall be successful."
"Pray let me hear it," said Lord Castlereagh, gayly, and half
interrupting what he feared was but the opening of an over-lengthy
exposition.
Lord Netherby was not to be defeated so easily, nor defrauded of a theme
whereupon to expend many loyal sentiments; and so he opened a whole
battery of arguments on the subject of the young peer's first appearance
in the House, and the splendid opportunity, as he called it, of a maiden
speech.
"I see but one objection," said Lord Castlereagh, with a well-affected
gravity.
"I see one hundred," broke in Forester, impatiently.
"Perhaps my one will do," rejoined Lord Castlereagh.
"Which is--if I may take the liberty--" lisped out Lord Netherby.
"That there will be no debate on the subject. The motion is withdrawn."
"Motion withdrawn!--since when?"
"I see you have not heard the news this morning," said Lord Castlereagh,
who really enjoyed the discomfiture of one very vain of possessing the
earliest intelligence.
"I have heard nothing," exclaimed he, with a sigh of despondency.
"Well, then, I may inform you, that the 'Pike' has brought us very
stirring intelligence. The war in Egypt is now over. The French have
surrendered under the terms of a convention, and a treaty has been
ratified that permits their return to France. Hostages for the guarantee
of the treaty have been already interchanged, and"--here he turned
towards Forester, and added--"it will doubtless interest you to hear
that your old friend the Knight of Gwynne is one of them,--an evidence
that he is not only alive, but in good health also."
"This is, indeed, good news you bring me," said Forester, with a
flashing eye and a heightened complexion. "Has any one written? Do
Colonel Darcy's friends know of this?"
"I have myself done so," said Lord Castlereagh. "Not that I may
attribute the thoughtful attention to myself, for I received his Royal
Highness's commands on the subject I need scarcely say that such a
communication must be gratifying to any one."
"Where are they at present?" said Forester, eagerly.
"That was a question of some difficulty to me, and I accordingly called
on my Lord Netherby to ascertain the point. I found he had left home,
and now have the good fortune to catch him here." So saying, Lord
Castlereagh took from the folds of a pocket-book a sealed but
un-addressed letter, and dipping a pen in the ink before him, prepared
to write.
There were, indeed, very few occurrences in life which made Lord
Netherby feel ashamed. He had never been obliged to blush for any
solecism in manner or any offence against high breeding, nor had the
even tenor of his days subjected him to any occasion of actual shame, so
that the confusion he now felt had the added poignancy of being a new as
well as a painful sensation.
"It may seem very strange to you, my Lord," said he, in a broken and
hesitating voice; "not but that, on a little reflection, the case will
be easily accounted for; but--so it is--I--really must own--I must
frankly acknowledge--that I am not at this moment aware of my dear
cousin's address."
If his Lordship had not been too much occupied in watching Lord
Castlereagh's countenance, he could not have failed to see, and be
struck by, the indignant expression of Forester's features.
"How are we to reach them, then, that's the point?" said Lord
Castlereagh, over whose handsome face not the slightest trace of passion
was visible. "If I mistake not, Gwynne Abbey they have left many a day
since."
"I think I can lay my hand on a letter. I am almost certain I had one
from a law-agent, called--called--"
"Bicknell, perhaps," interrupted Forester, blushing between shame and
impatience.
"Quite right,--you are quite right," replied Lord Netherby, with a
significant glance at Lord Castlereagh, cunningly intended to draw off
attention from himself. "Well, Mr. Bicknell wrote to me a very tiresome
and complicated epistle about law affairs,--motions, rules, and so
forth,--and mentioned at the end that Lady Eleanor and Helen were living
in some remote village on the northern coast."
"A cottage called 'The Corvy,'" broke in Forester, "kindly lent to them
by an old friend, Mr. Bagenal Daly."
"Will that address suffice," said Lord Castlereagh, "with the name of
the nearest post-town?"
"If you will make me the postman, I 'll vouch for the safe delivery,"
said Forester, with an animation that made him flushed and pale within
the same instant.
"My dear young friend, my dear Lord Wallincourt!" exclaimed Lord
Netherby, laying his hand upon his arm. He said no more; indeed
he firmly believed the enunciation of his new title must be quite
sufficient to recall him to a sense of due consideration for himself.
"You are scarcely strong enough, Dick," said Lord Castlereagh, coolly.
"It is a somewhat long journey for an invalid; and Halford, I 'm sure,
wouldn't agree to it."
"I 'm quite strong enough," said Forester, rising and pacing the
room with an attempted vigor that made his debility seem still more
remarkable: "if not to-day, I shall be to-morrow. The travelling,
besides, will serve me,--change of air and scene. More than all, I am
determined on doing it."
"Not if I refuse you the despatches, I suppose?" said Lord Castlereagh,
laughing.
"You can scarcely do that," said Forester, fixing his eyes steadfastly
on him. "Your memory is a bad one, or you must recollect sending me
down once upon a time to that family on an errand of a different nature.
Don't you think you owe an amende to them and to me?"
"Eh! what was that? I should like to know what you allude to," said Lord
Netherby, whose curiosity became most painfully eager.
"A little secret between Dick and myself," said Lord Castlereagh,
laughing. "To show I do not forget which, I 'll accede to his present
request, always provided that he is equal to it."
"Oh, as to that--"
"It must be 'Halfordo non obstante,' or not at all," said Lord
Castlereagh, rising. "Well," continued he, as he moved towards the
door, "I 'll see the doctor on my way homeward, and if he incline to the
safety of the exploit, you shall hear from me before four o'clock. I
'll send you some extracts, too, from the official papers, such as may
interest your friends, and you may add, bien des choses de ma part, in
the way of civil speeches and gratulation."
Lord Netherby had moved towards the window as Lord Castlereagh withdrew,
and seemed more interested by the objects in the street than anxious to
renew the interrupted conversation.
Forester--if one were to judge from his preoccupied expression--appeared
equally indifferent on the subject, and both were silent. Lord Netherby
at last looked at his watch, and, with an exclamation of astonishment at
the lateness of the hour, took up his hat. Forester did not notice the
gesture, for his mind had suddenly become awake to the indelicacy, to
say no worse, of leaving London for a long journey without one effort to
see his mother. A tingling feeling of shame burned in his cheek and
made his heart beat faster, as he said, "I think you have your carriage
below, my Lord?"
"Yes," replied Lord Netherby, not aware whether the question might
portend something agreeable or the reverse.
"If you 'll permit me, I 'll ask you to drive me to Berkeley Square. I
think the air and motion will benefit me; and perhaps Lady Netherby will
see me."
"Delighted--charmed to see you--my dear young friend," said Lord
Netherby, who having, in his own person, some experience of the sway and
influence her Ladyship was habituated to exercise, calculated largely on
the effect of an interview between her and her son. "I don't believe you
could possibly propose anything more gratifying nor more likely to serve
her. She is very weak and very nervous; but to see you will, I know, be
of immense service. I 'm sure you 'll not agitate her," added he, after
a pause. If the words had been "not contradict," they would have been
nearer his meaning.
"You may trust me, for both our sakes," said Forester, smiling. "By the
by, you mentioned a letter from a law-agent of the Darcys, Mr. Bicknell;
was it expressive of any hope of a favorable termination to the suit, or
did he opine that the case was a bad one?"
"If I remember aright, a very bad one,--bad, from the deficiency of
evidence; worse, from the want of funds to carry it on. Of course I only
speak from memory; and the epistle was so cramp, so complex, and with
such a profusion of detail intermixed, that I could make little out of
it, and retain even less. I must say that as it was written without my
cousin's knowledge or consent, I paid no attention to it. It was, so to
say, quite unauthorized."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Forester, in an accent whose scorn was mistaken by
the hearer, as he resumed.
"Just so; a mere lawyer's ruse, to carry on a suit. He proposed, I
own, a kind of security for any advance I should make, in the person
of Miss Daly, whose property, amounting to some three or four thousand
pounds, was to be given as security! There always is some person of this
kind on these occasions--some tame elephant--to attract the rest; but
I paid no attention to it. The only thing, indeed, I could learn of the
lady was, that she had a fire-eating brother who paid bond debts with a
pistol, and small ones with a horsewhip."
"I know Mr. Daly and his sister too. He is a most honorable and
high-minded gentleman; of her I only needed to hear the trait your
Lordship has just mentioned, to say that she is worthy to be his sister
in every respect."
"I was not aware that they were acquaintances of yours."
"Friends, my Lord, would better express the relationship between
us,--friends, firm and true, I sincerely believe them. Pray, if not
indiscreet, may I ask the date of this letter?"
"Some day of June last, I think. The case was to come on for trial next
November in Westport, and it was for funds to carry on the suit, it
would seem, they were pressed."
"You did n't hear a second time?"
"No, I 've told you that I never answered this letter. I was quite
willing, I am so at this hour, to be of any service to my dear cousin,
Lady Eleanor Darcy, and to aid her to the fullest extent; but to
prosecute a hopeless lawsuit, to throw away some thousands in an
interminable Equity investigation,--to measure purses, too, against one
of the richest men in Ireland, as I hear their antagonist is,--this, I
could never think of."
"But who has pronounced this claim hopeless?" said Forester,
impatiently.
A cold shrug of the shoulders was all Lord Netherby's reply.
"Not Miss Daly, certainly," rejoined Forester, "who was willing to peril
everything she possessed in the world upon the issue."
The sarcasm intended by this speech was deeply felt by Lord Netherby, as
with an unwonted concession to ill-humor, he replied,--
"There is nothing so courageous as indigence!"
"Better never be rich, then," cried Forester, "if cowardice be the first
lesson it teaches. But I think better of affluence than this. I saw
that same Knight of Gwynne when at the head of a princely fortune; and
I never, in any rank of life, under any circumstances, saw the qualities
which grace and adorn the humblest more eminently displayed."
"I quite agree with you; a more perfectly conducted household it is
impossible to conceive."
"I speak not of his retinue, nor of his graceful hospitalities, my Lord,
nor even of his generous munificence and benevolence; these are rich
men's gifts everywhere. I speak of his trusting, confiding temper; the
hopeful trust he entertained of something good in men's natures at
the moment he was smarting from their perfidy and ingratitude; the
forgiveness towards those that injured, the unvarying kindness towards
those that forgot him."
"I declare," said Lord Netherby, smiling, "I must interdict a
continuance of this panegyric, now that we have arrived, for you know
Colonel Darcy was a first love of Lady Netherby."
Nothing but a courtier of Lord Netherby's stamp could have made such a
speech; and while Forester became scarlet with shame and anger, a new
light suddenly broke upon him, and the rancor of his mother respecting
the Knight and his family was at once explained.
"Now to announce you," said Lord Netherby, gayly; "let that be my task."
And so saying, he lightly tripped up the stairs before Forester.
CHAPTER XXX. A BOUDOIR.
When, having passed through a suite of gorgeously furnished rooms,
Forester entered the dimly lighted boudoir where his lady-mother
reclined, his feelings were full of troubled emotion. The remembrance
of the last time he had been there was present to his mind, mingled
with anxious fears as to his approaching reception. Had he been more
conversant with the "world," he needed not to have suffered these
hesitations. There are few conditions in life between which so wide
a gulf yawns as that of the titled heir of a house and the younger
brother. He was, then, as little prepared for the affectionate
greeting that met him as for the absence of all trace of illness in her
Ladyship's appearance. Both were very grateful to his feelings as he
drew his chair beside her sofa, and a soft remembrance of former days of
happiness stole over his pleased senses. Lord Netherby, with a fitting
consideration, had left them to enjoy this interview alone, and thus
their emotions were unrestrained by the presence of the only one who had
witnessed their parting. Perhaps the most distinguishing trait of the
closest affection is that the interruptions to its course do not involve
the misery of reconciliation to enable us to return to our own place in
the heart; but that, the moment of grief or anger or doubt over, we
feel that we have a right to resume our influence in the breast whose
thoughts have so long mingled with our own. The close ties of filial and
parental love are certainly of this nature, and it must be a stubborn
heart whose instincts do not tend to that forgiveness which as much
blots out as it pardons past errors. Such was not Lady Netherby's.
Pride of station, the ambition of leadership in certain circles, had so
incorporated themselves with the better dictates of her mind that she
rarely, if ever, permitted mere feeling to influence her; but if for
a moment it did get the ascendancy, her heart could feel as acutely as
though it had been accustomed to such indulgence. In a word, she was as
affectionate as the requirements of her rank permitted. Oh, this Rank,
this Rank! how do its conventionalities twine and twist themselves round
our natures till love and friendship are actually subject to the cold
ordinance of a fashion! How many hide the dark spots of their heart
behind the false screen they call their "Rank"! The rich man, in the
Bible, clothed in his purple, and faring sumptuously, was but acting in
conformity with his "Rank;" nay, more, he was charitable as became his
"Rank," for the poor were fed with the crumbs from his table.
Forester was well calculated by natural advantages to attract a mother's
pride. He was handsome and well-bred; had even more than a fair share
of abilities, which gained credit for something higher from a
native quickness of apprehension; and even already the adventurous
circumstances of his first campaign had invested his character with a
degree of interest that promised well for his success in the world. If
her manner to him was then kind and affectionate, it was mingled also
with something of admiration, which her woman's heart yielded to the
romantic traits of the youth.
She listened with eager pleasure to the animated description he gave of
the morning at Aboukir, and the brilliant panorama of the attack; nor
was the enjoyment marred by the mention of the only name that could have
pained her, the last words of Lord Netherby having sealed Forester's
lips with respect to the Knight of Gwynne.
The changeful fortunes of his life as a prisoner were mingled with the
recital of the news by which his exchange was effected; and this brought
back once more the subject by which their interview was opened,--the
death of his elder brother. Lady Netherby perhaps felt she had done
enough for sorrow, for she dwelt but passingly on the theme, and rather
addressed herself to the future which was now about to open before her
remaining son, carefully avoiding, however, the slightest phrase
that should imply dictation, and only seeming to express the natural
expectation "the world" had formed of what his career should be. "Lord
Netherby tells me," said she, "that the Duke of York will, in all
likelihood, name you as an extra aide-decamp, in which case you probably
would remain in the service. It is an honor that could not well be
declined."
"I scarcely like to form fixed intentions which have no fixed
foundations," said Forester; "but if I might give way to my own wishes,
it would be to indulge in perfect liberty,--to have no master."
"Nor any mistress, either, to control you, for some time, I suppose,"
rejoined she, smiling, as if carelessly, but watching how her words were
taken. Forester affected to partake in the laugh, but could not conceal
a slight degree of confusion. Lady Netherby was too clever a tactician
to let even a momentary awkwardness interrupt the interview, and
resumed: "You will be dreadfully worried by all the 'lionizing' in store
for you, I'm certain; you are to be feasted and feted to any extent, and
will be fortunate if the gratulations on your recovery do not bring back
your illness."
"I shall get away from it all at once," said Forester, rising, and
walking up and down, as if the thought had suggested the impatient
movement.
"You cannot avoid presenting yourself at the levee," said Lady Netherby,
anxiously; for already a dread of her son's wilful temper came over her.
"His Royal Highness's inquiries after you do not leave an option on this
matter."
"What if I'm too ill?" said he, doggedly; "what if I should not be in
town?"
"But where else could you be, Richard?" said she, with a resumption of
her old imperiousness of tone and manner.
"In Ireland, madam," said Forester, coldly.
"In Ireland! And why, for any sake, in Ireland?"
Forester hesitated, and grew scarlet; he did not know whether to evade
inquiry by a vague reply, or at once avow his secret determination.
At length, with a faltering, uncertain voice, he said: "A matter of
business will bring me to that country; I have already conversed with
Lord Castlereagh on the subject. Lord Netherby was present."
"I'm sure he could never concur,-I'm certain." So far her Ladyship had
proceeded, when a sudden fear came over her that she had ventured too
far, and turning hastily, she rang the bell beside her. "Davenport,"
said she to the grave-looking groom of the chambers, who as
instantaneously appeared, "is my Lord at home?"
"His Lordship is in the library, my Lady."
"Alone?"
"No, my Lady, a gentleman from Ireland is with his Lordship."
"A gentleman from Ireland!" repeated she, half aloud, as though the very
mention of that country were destined to persecute her; then quickly
added, "Say I wish to speak with him here."
The servant bowed and withdrew; and now a perfect silence reigned in the
apartment. Forester felt that he had gone too far to retreat, even
were he so disposed, and although dreading nothing more than a "scene,"
awaited, without speaking, the course of events. As much yielding to an
involuntary impatience as to relieve the awkwardness of the interval,
he arose and walked into the adjoining drawing-room, carelessly tossing
over books and prints upon the tables, and trying to affect an ease he
was very far from experiencing.
It was while he was thus engaged that Lord Netherby entered the boudoir,
and seeing her Ladyship alone, was about to speak in his usual tone,
when, at a gesture from her, he was made aware of Forester's vicinity,
and hastily subdued his voice to a whisper. "Whatever the nature of the
tidings which in a hurried and eager tone his Lordship retailed, her
manner on hearing evinced a mingled astonishment and delight, if the
word dare be applied to an emotion whose source was in anything rather
than an amiable feeling.
"It seems too absurd, too monstrous in every way," exclaimed she, at the
end of an explanation which took several minutes to recount. "And why
address himself to you? That seems also inexplicable."
"This," rejoined Lord Netherby, aloud,---"this was his own inspiration.
He candidly acknowledges that no one either counselled or is even aware
of the step he has taken."
"Perhaps the  propos may do us good service," whispered she, with a
glance darted at the room where Forester was now endeavoring, by humming
an air, to give token of his vicinity as well as assume an air of
indifference.
"I thought of that," said Lord Netherby, in the same low voice. "Would
you see him? A few moments would be enough."
Lady Netherby made no answer, but with closed eyes and compressed lips
seemed to reflect deeply for several minutes. At last she said: "Yes,
let him come. I'll detain Richard in the drawing-room; he shall hear
everything that is said. If I know anything of him, the insult to his
pride will do far more than all our arguments and entreaties."
"Don't chill my little friend by any coldness of manner," said his
Lordship, smiling, as he moved towards the door; "I have only got him
properly thawed within the last few minutes."
"My dear Richard," said she, as the door closed after Lord Netherby, "I
must keep you prisoner in the drawing-room for a few minutes, while I
receive a visitor of Lord Netherby's. Don't close the doors; I can't
endure heat and this room becomes insupportable without a slight
current of air. Besides, there is no secret, I fancy, in the
communication. As well as I understand the matter, it does not concern
us; but Netherby is always doing some piece of silly good-nature, for
which no one thanks him!"
The last reflection was half soliloquy, but said so that Forester could
and did hear every word of it. While her Ladyship, therefore, patiently
awaited the arrival of her visitor in one room, Forester threw himself
into a chair, and taking up a book at hazard, endeavored to pass the
interval without further thought about the matter.
Sitting with his back towards the door of the boudoir. Forester
accidentally had placed himself in such a position that a large mirror
between the windows reflected to him a considerable portion of the scene
within. It was then with an amount of astonishment far above ordinary
that he beheld the strange-looking figure who followed Lord Netherby
into the apartment of his mother. He was a short, dumpy man, with a bald
head, over which the long hairs of either side were studiously combed
into an ingenious kind of network, and meeting at an angle above
the cranium, looked like the uncovered rafters of a new house. Two
fierce-looking gray eyes that seemed ready for fun or malice, rolled
and revolved unceasingly over the various decorations of the chamber,
while a large thick-lipped mouth, slightly opened at either end, vouched
for one who neglected no palpable occasion for self-indulgence or
enjoyment. There was, indeed, throughout his appearance, a look of racy
satisfaction and contentment, that consorted but ill with his costume,
which was a suit of deep mourning; his clothes having all the gloss
and shine of a recent domestic loss, and made, as seems something to be
expected on these occasions, considerably too large for him, as though
to imply that the defunct should not be defrauded in the full measure of
sorrow. Deep crape weepers encircled his arms to the elbows, and a very
banner of black hung mournfully from his hat.
[Illustration: 368]
"Mr.-------" Here Lord Netherby hesitated, forgetful of his name.
"Dempsey, Paul Dempsey, your Grace," said the little man, as, stepping
forward, he performed the salutation before Lady Netherby, by which he
was accustomed to precede an invitation to dance.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Dempsey. I have just briefly mentioned to her
Ladyship the circumstances of our interesting conversation, and with
your permission will proceed with my recital, begging that if I fall
into any error you will kindly set me right. This will enable Lady
Netherby, who is still an invalid, to support the fatigue of an
interview wherein her advice and counsel will be of great benefit to us
both."
Mr. Dempsey bowed several times, not sorry, perhaps, that in such an
awful presence he was spared the office of chief orator.
"I told you, my dear," said Lord Netherby, turning towards her
Ladyship, "that this gentleman had for a considerable time back enjoyed
the pleasure of intimacy with our worthy relative Lady Eleanor Darcy--"
The fall of a heavy book in the adjoining room interrupted his Lordship,
between whom and Lady Netherby a most significant interchange of glances
took place. He resumed, however, without a pause,--
"Lady Eleanor and her accomplished daughter. If the more urgent question
were uot now before us, it would gratify you to learn, as I have just
done, the admirable patience she has exhibited under the severe trials
she has met; the profound insight she obtained into the condition,
hopeless as it proves to be, of their unhappy circumstances; and the
resignation in which, submitting to changed fortune, she not only has at
once abandoned the modes of living she was habituated to, but actually
descended to what I can fancy must have been the hardest infliction of
all,--vulgar companionship, and the society of a boarding-house."
"A most respectable establishment, though," broke in Paul; "Fumbally's
is known all over Ulster--"
A very supercilious smile from Lady Netherby cut short a panegyric Mr.
Dempsey would gladly have extended.
"No doubt, sir, it was the best thing of the kind," resumed his
Lordship; "but remember who Lady Eleanor Darcy was,--ay, and is.
Think of the station she had always held, and then fancy her in daily
intercourse with those people--"
"Oh, it is very horrid, indeed!" broke in Lady Netherby, leaning back,
and looking overcome even at the bare conception of the enormity.
"The little miserable notorieties of a fishing-village--"
"Coleraine, my Lord,--Coleraine," cried Dempsey.
"Well, be it so. What is Coleraine?"
"A very thriving town on the river Bann, with a smart trade in yarn, two
breweries, three meeting-houses, a pound, and a Sunday-school," repeated
Paul, as rapidly as though reading from a volume of a topographical
dictionary.
"All very commendable and delightful institutions, on which I beg
heartily to offer my congratulations, but, you will allow me to remark,
scarcely enough to compensate for the accustomed appliances of a
residence at Gwynne Abbey. But I see we are trespassing on Lady
Netherby's strength. You seem faint, my dear."
"It's nothing,--it will pass over in a moment or so. This sad account of
these poor people has distressed me greatly."
"Well, then, we must hasten on. Mr. Dempsey became acquainted with our
poor friends in this their exile; and although from his delicacy and
good taste he will not dwell on the circumstance, it is quite clear to
me, has shown them many attentions; I might use a stronger word, and say
kindnesses."
"Oh! by Jove, I did nothing. I could do nothing--"
"Nay, sir, you are unjust to yourself; the very intentions by which
you set out on your present journey are the shortest answer to that
question. It would appear, my dear, that my fair relative, Miss
Darcy, has not forfeited the claim she possessed to great beauty and
attraction; for here, in the gentleman before us, is an evidence of
their existence. Mr. Dempsey, who 'never told his love,' as the poet
says, waited in submission himself for the hour of his changing fortune;
and until the death of his mother--"
"No, my Lord; my uncle, Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey's Grove."
"His uncle, I mean. Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole."
"Grove,-Dempsey's Grove," interpolated Paul, reddening.
"Grove, I should say," repeated Lord Netherby, unmoved. "By which he has
succeeded to a very comfortable independence, and is now in a position
to make an offer of his hand and fortune."
"Under the conditions, my Lord,--under the conditions," whispered Paul.
"I have not forgotten them," resumed Lord Netherby, aloud. "It would be
ungenerous not to remember them, even for your sake, Mr. Dempsey, seeing
how much my poor, dear relative, Lady Eleanor, is beut on prosecuting
this unhappy suit, void of all hope, as it seems to be, and not having
any money of her owu--"
"Ready money,--cash," interposed Paul.
"So I mean--ready money to make the advances necessary--Mr. Dempsey
wishes to raise a certain sum by loan, on the security of his property,
which may enable the Darcys to proceed with their claim; this deed to be
executed on his marriage with Miss Darcy. Am I correct, sir?"
"Quite correct, my Lord; you've only omitted that, to save expensive
searches, lawyers' fees, and other devilments of the like nature, that
your Lordship should advance the blunt yourself?"
"I was coming to that point. Mr. Dempsey opines that, taking the
interest it is natural we should do in our poor friends, he has a
kind of claim to make this proposition to us. He is aware of our
relationship--mine, I mean--to Lady Eleanor. She spoke to you, I
believe, on that subject, Mr. Dempsey?"
"Not exactly to me," said Paul, hesitating, and recalling the manner
in which he became cognizant of the circumstance; "but I heard her
say that your Lordship was under very deep obligation to her own
father,--that you were, so to say, a little out at elbows once, very
like myself before Bob died, and that then--"
"We all lived together like brothers and sisters," said his Lordship,
reddening. "I 'm sure I can't forget how happily the time went over."
"Then Lady Eleanor, I presume, sir, did not advert to those
circumstances as a reason for your addressing yourself to Lord
Netherby?" said her Ladyship, with a look of stern severity.
"Why, my Lady, she knows nothing about my coming here. Lord bless us! I
wouldn't have told her for a thousand pounds!"
"Nor Miss Darcy, either?"
"Not a bit of it! Oh, by Jove! if you think they 're not as proud as
ever they were, you are much mistaken; and, indeed, on this very same
subject I heard her say that nothing would induce her to accept a favor
from your Lordship, if even so very improbable an event should occur as
your offering one."
"So that we owe the honor of your visit to the most single-minded of
motives, sir," said Lady Netherby, whose manner had now assumed all its
stateliness.
"Yes, my Lady, I came as you see,--Dempsius cum Dempsio,--so that if I
succeed, I can say like that fellow in the play, 'Alone, I did it.'"
Lord Netherby, who probably felt that the interview had lasted
sufficiently long for the only purpose he had destined or endured it,
was now becoming somewhat desirous of terminating the audience; nor
was his impatience allayed by those sportive sallies of Mr. Dempsey in
allusion to his own former condition as a dependant.
At length he said, "You must be aware, Mr. Dempsey, that this is a
matter demanding much time and consideration. The Knight of Gwynne is
absent."
"That's the reason there is not an hour to lose," interposed Paul.
"I am at a loss for your meaning."
"I mean that if he comes home before it 's all settled, that the game is
up. He would never consent, I 'm certain."
"So you think that the ladies regard you with more favorable eyes?" said
her Ladyship, smiling a mixture of superciliousness and amusement.
"I have my own reasons to think so," said Paul, with great composure.
"Perhaps you take too hopeless a view of your case, sir," resumed Lord
Netherby, blandly. "I am, unhappily, very ignorant of Irish family rank;
but I feel assured that Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole--"
"Grove,--Dempsey's Grove," said Paul, with a look of anger.
"I ask your pardon, humbly,--I would say of Dempsey's Grove,-might be an
accepted suitor in the very highest quarters. At all events, from news
I have heard this morning it is more than likely that the Knight will
be in London before many weeks, and I dare not assume either the
responsibility of favoring your views, or incurring his displeasure by
an act of interference. I think her Ladyship coucurs with me."
"Perfectly. The case is really one which, however we may and do feel the
liveliest interest in, lies quite beyond our influence or control."
"Mr. Dempsey may rest assured that, even from so brief an acquaintance,
we have learned to appreciate some of his many excellent qualities of
head and heart."
Lady Netherby bowed an acquiescence cold and stately; and, his Lordship
rising at the same time, Paul saw that the audience drew to a close. He
arose then slowly, and with a faint sigh,--for he thought of his long
and dreary journey, made to so little profit.
"So I may jog back again as I came," muttered he, as he drew on
his gloves. "Well, well, Lady Eleanor knew him better than I did.
Good-morning, my Lady. I hope you are about to enjoy better health.
Good-bye, my Lord."
"Do you make any stay in town, Mr. Dempsey?" inquired his Lordship, in
that bland voice that best became him. "Till I pack my portmanteau, my
Lord, and pay my bill at the 'Tavistock,'--not an hour longer."
"I 'm sorry for that. I had hoped, and Lady Netherby also expected, we
should have the pleasure of seeing you again."
"Very grateful, my Lord; but I see how the land lies as well as if I was
here a month."
And with this significant speech Mr. Dempsey repeated his salutations
and withdrew.
"What presumption!" exclaimed Lady Netherby, as the door closed behind
him. "But how needlessly Lady Eleanor Darcy must have lowered herself to
incur such acquaintanceship!"
Lord Netherby made no reply, but gave a glance towards the still open
door of the drawing-room. Her Ladyship understood it at once, and
said,--
"Oh, let us release poor Richard from his bondage. Tell him to come in."
Lord Netherby walked forward; but scarcely had he entered the
drawing-room, when he called out, "He 's gone!"
"Gone! when?--how?" cried Lady Netherby, ringing the bell. "Did you
see Lord Wall incourt when he was going, Davenport?" asked she, at once
assuming her own calm deportment.
"Yes, my Lady."
"I hope he took the carriage."
"No, my Lady, his Lordship went on foot."
"That will do, Davenport. I don't receive to-day."
"I must hasten after him," said Lord Netherby, as the servant withdrew.
"We have, perhaps, incurred the very hazard we hoped to obviate."
"I half feared it," exclaimed Lady Netherby, gravely. "Lose no time,
however, and bring him to dinner; say that I feel very poorly, and that
his society will cheer me greatly. If he is unfit to leave the house,
stay with him; but above all things let him not be left alone."
Lord Netherby hastened from the room, and his carriage was soon heard at
a rapid pace proceeding down the square.
Lady Netherby sat with her eyes fixed on the carpet, and her hands
clasped closely, lost in thought. "Yes," said she, half aloud, "there is
a fate in it! This Lady Eleanor may have her vengeance yet!"
It was about an hour after this, and while she was still revolving her
own deep thoughts, that Lord Netherby re-entered the room.
"Well, is he here?" asked she, impatiently.
"No, he's off to Ireland; the very moment he reached the hotel he
ordered four horses to his carriage, and while his servant packed some
trunks he himself drove over to Lord Castlereagh's, but came back almost
immediately. They must have used immense despatch, for Long told me that
they would be nigh Barnet when I called."
"He 's a true Wallincourt," said her Ladyship, bitterly. "Their family
motto is 'Rash in danger,' and they have well deserved it."
CHAPTER XXXI. A LESSON FOR EAVES-DROPPING.
Forester--for so to the end we must call him--but exemplified the
old adage in his haste. The debility of long illness was successfully
combated for some hours by the fever of excitement; but as that wore
off, symptoms of severe malady again exhibited themselves, and when
on the second evening of his journey he arrived at Bangor, he was
dangerously ill. With a head throbbing, and a brain almost mad, he threw
himself upon a bed, perhaps the thought of his abortive effort to reach
Ireland the most agonizing feeling of his tortured mind. His first care
was to inquire after the sailing of the packet; and learning that the
vessel would leave within an hour, he avowed his resolve to go at every
hazard. As the time drew nigh, however, more decided evidences of fever
set in, and the medical man who had been called to his aid pronounced
that his life would pay the penalty were he to persist in his rash
resolve. His was not a temper to yield to persuasion on selfish grounds,
and nothing short of his actual inability to endure moving from where he
lay at last compelled him to cede; even then he ordered his only servant
to take the despatches which Lord Castlereagh had given him, and proceed
with them to Dublin, where he should seek out Mr. Bicknell, and place
them in his hands, with strict injunctions to have them forwarded to
Lady Eleanor Darcy at once. The burning anxiety of a mind weakened by
a tedious and severe malady, the fever of travelling, and the impatient
struggles be made to be clear and explicit in his directions, repeated
as they were full twenty times over, all conspired to exaggerate the
worst features of his case; and ere the packet sailed, his head was
wandering in wild delirium.
Linwood knew his master too well to venture on a contradiction; and
although with very grave doubts that he should ever see him again alive,
he set out, resolving to spare no exertions to be back soon again in
Bangor. The transit of the Channel forty-five years ago was, however,
very different from that at present, and it was already the evening of
the following day when he reached Dublin.
There was no difficulty in finding out Mr. Bicknell's residence; a very
showy brass-plate on a door in a fashionable street proclaimed the house
of the well-known man of law. He was not at home, however, nor would be
for some hours; he had gone out on a matter of urgent business, and left
orders that except for some most pressing reason, he was not to be sent
for. Linwood did not hesitate to pronounce his business such, and at
length obtained the guidance of a servant to the haunt in question.
It was in a street of a third or fourth-rate rank, called Stafford
Street, that Bicknell's servant now stopped, and having made more than
one inquiry as to name and number, at last knocked at the door of a
sombre-looking, ruinous old house, whose windows, broken or patched with
paper, bespoke an air of poverty and destitution. A child in a ragged
and neglected dress opened the door, and answering to the question "If
Mr. Bicknell were there," in the affirmative, led Linwood up stairs
creaking as they went with rottenness and decay.
"You 're to rap there, and he 'll come to you," said the child, as
they reached the landing, where two doors presented themselves; and so
saying, she slipped noiselessly and stealthily down the stairs, leaving
him alone in the gloomy lobby. Linwood was not without astonishment
at the place in which he found himself; but there was no time for the
indulgence of such a feeling, and he knocked, at first gently, and
then, as no answer came, more loudly, and at last when several minutes
elapsed, without any summons to enter, he tapped sharply at the panel
with his cane. Still there was no reply; the deep silence of the old
house seemed like that of a church at midnight; not a sound was heard
to break it. There was a sense of dreariness and gloom over the ruinous
spot and the fast-closing twilight that struck Linwood deeply; and it is
probable, had the mission with which he was intrusted been one of less
moment than his master seemed to think it, that Linwood would quietly
have descended the stairs, and deferred his interview with Mr. Bicknell
to a more suitable time and place. He had come, however, bent on
fulfilling his charge; and so, after waiting what he believed to be
half an hour, and which might possibly have been five or ten minutes, he
applied his hand to the lock, and entered the room.
It was a large, low-ceilinged apartment, whose moth-eaten furniture
seemed to rival with the building itself, and which, though once not
without some pretension to respectability, was now crumbling to decay,
or coarsely mended by some rude hand. A door, not quite shut, led into
an inner apartment; and from this room the sound of voices proceeded,
whose conversation in all probability had prevented Linwood's summons
from being heard.
Whether the secret instincts of his calling were the prompter,--for
Linwood was a valet,--or that the strange circumstances in which
he found himself had suggested a spirit of curiosity, but Linwood
approached the door and peeped in. The sin of eaves-dropping, like most
other sins, would seem only difficult at the first step; the subsequent
ones came easily, for, as the listener established himself in a position
to hear what went forward, he speedily became interested in what he
heard.
By the gray half-light three figures were seen. One was a lady; so at
least her position and attitude bespoke her, although her shawl was of
a coarse and humble stuff, and her straw bonnet showed signs of time and
season. She sat back in a deep leather chair, with hands folded, and her
head slightly thrown forward, as if intently listening to the person
who at a distance of half the room addressed lier. He was a thick-set,
powerful man, in a jockey-cut coat and top-boots; a white hat, somewhat
crushed and travel-stained, was at his feet, and across it a heavy
horsewhip; his collar was confined by a single fold of a spotted
handkerchief that thus displayed a brawny throat and a deep beard of
curly black hair that made the head appear unnaturally large. The third
figure was of a little, dapper, smart-looking personage, with a neatly
powdered head and a scrupulously white cravat, who, standing partly
behind the lady's chair, bestowed an equal attention on the speaker.
The green-coated man, it was clear to see, was of an order in life far
inferior to the others, and in the manner of his address, his attitude
as he sat, and his whole bearing, exhibited a species of rude deference
to the listeners.
"Well, Jack," cried the little man, in a sharp lively voice, "we knew
all these facts before; what we were desirous of was something like
proof,--something that might be brought out into open court and before a
jury."
"I'm afraid then, sir," replied the other, "I can't help you there. I
told Mr. Daly all I knew and all I suspected, when I was up in Newgate;
and if he had n't been in such a hurry that night to leave Dublin for
the north, I could have brought him to the very house this fellow Garret
was living in."
"Who is Garret?" broke in the lady, in a deep, full voice.
"The late Mr. Gleeson's butler, ma'am," said the little man; "a person
we have never been able to come at. To summon him as a witness would
avail us nothing; it is his private testimony that might be of such use
to us."
"Well, you see, sir," continued the green coat, or, as he was familiarly
named by the other, Jack, whom, perhaps, our reader has already
recognized as Freney, the others being Miss Daly and Bicknell,-"well,
you see, sir, Mr. Daly was angry at the way things was done that
night,--and sure enough he had good cause,-and sorra bit of a word he 'd
speak to me when I was standing with the tears in my eyes to thank him;
no, nor he wouldn't take the mare that was ready saddled and bridled in
Healey's stables waiting for him, but he turned on his heel with 'D----n
you for a common highwayman; it's what a man of blood and birth ever
gets by stretching a hand to save you.'"
"He should have thought of that before," remarked Miss Daly, solemnly.
"Faith, and if he did, ma'am, your humble servant would have had to
dance upon nothing!" rejoined Freney, with a laugh that was very far
from mirthful.
"And what was the circumstance which gave Mr. Daly so much displeasure,
Jack?" asked Bicknell. "I thought that everything went on exactly as he
had planned it."
"Quite the contrary, sir; nothing was the way it ought to be. The fire
was never thought of--"
"Never thought of! Do you mean to say it was an accident?"
"No, I don't, sir; I mean that all we wanted was to make believe that
the jail was on fire, which was easy enough with burning straw; the rest
was all planned safe and sure. And when we saw the real flames shooting
up, sorra one was more frightened than some of ourselves; each accusing
the other, cursing and shouting, and crying like mad! Ay, indeed! there
was an ould fellow in for sheep-stealing, and nothing would convince him
but that it was 'the devil took us at our word,' and sent his own fire
for us. Not one of them was more puzzled than myself. I turned it every
way in my mind, and could make nothing of it; for although I knew well
that Mr. Daly would burn down Dublin from Barrack Street to the North
Wall if he had a good reason for it, I knew also he 'd not do it out of
mere devilment. Besides, ma'am, the way matters was going, it was
likely none of us would escape. There was I--saving your presence--with
eight-pound fetters on my legs. Ay, faix! I went down the ladder with
them afterwards."
"But the fire."
"I 'm coming to it, sir. I was sitting this way, with my chin on my
hands, at the window of my cell, trying to get a taste of fresh air, for
the place was thick of smoke, when I seen the flames darting out of
the windows of a public-house at the corner, the sign of the 'Cracked
Padlock,' and at the same minute out came the fire through the roof, a
great red spike of flame higher than the chimney. 'That's no accident,'
says I to myself, 'whatever them that's doing it means;' and sure
enough, the blaze broke out in the other corner of the street just as
I said the words. Well, ma'am, of all the terrible yells and cries that
was ever heard, the prisoners set up then; for though there was eight
lying for execution on Saturday, and twice as many more very sure of the
same end after the sessions, none of us liked to face such a dreadful
thing as fire. Just then, ma'am, at that very minute, there came, as
it might be, under my window, a screech so loud and so piercing that
it went above all the other cries, just the way the yellow fire darted
through the middle of the thick lazy smoke. Sorra one could give such a
screech but a throat I knew well, and so I called out at the top of my
voice, 'Ah, ye limb of the devil, this is your work!' and as sure as
I 'm here, there came a laugh in my ears; and whether it was the devil
himself gave it or Jemmy, I often doubted since."
"And who is Jemmy?" asked Bicknell.
"A bit of a 'gossoon' I had to mind the horses, and meet me with a beast
here and there, as I wanted. The greatest villain for wickedness that
was ever pinioned!"
"And so he was really the cause of the fire?"
"Ay, was he! He not only hid the tinder and chips--"
Just as Freney had got thus far, he drew his legs up close beneath him,
sunk down his head as if into his neck, and with a spring, such as a
tiger might have given, cleared the space between himself and the door,
and rolled over on the floor, with the trembling figure of Linwood
under him. So terribly sudden was the leap, that Miss Daly and Bicknell
scarcely saw the bound ere they beheld him with one hand upon the
victim's throat, while with the other he drew forth a clasp-knife, and
opened the blade with his teeth.
"Keep back, keep back!" said Freney, as Bicknell drew nigh; and the
words came thick and guttural, like the deep growl of a mastiff.
"Who are you, and what brings you here?" said Freney, as, setting his
knee on the other's chest, he relinquished the grasp by which he had
almost choked him.
[Illustration: 382]
"I came to see Mr. Bicknell," muttered the nearly lifeless valet.
"What did you want with me?"
"Wait a bit," interposed Freney. "Who brought you here? How came you to
be standing by that door?"
"Mr. Bicknell's servant showed me the house, and a child brought me to
this room."
"There, sir," said Freney, turning his head towards
Bicknell, without releasing the strong pressure by which he pinned the
other down,--"there, sir, so much for your caution. You told me if I
came to this lady's lodgings here, that I was safe, and now here 's this
fellow has heard us and everything we 've said, maybe these two hours."
"I only heard about Newgate," muttered the miserable Linwood; "I was but
a few minutes at the door, and was going to knock. I came from Lord Wall
incourt with papers of great importance for Mr. Bicknell. I have them,
if you'll let me--"
"Let him get up," said Miss Daly, calmly.
Freney stood back, and retired between his victim and the door, where he
stood, with folded arms and bent brows, watching him.
"He has almost broke in my ribs," said Linwood, as he pressed his hands
to his side, with a grimace of true suffering.
"So much for eaves-dropping. You need expect no pity from me," said Miss
Daly, sternly. "Where are these papers?"
"My Lord told me," said the man, as he took them from his breast,
"that I was to give them into Mr. Bicknell's own hands, with strictest
directions to have them forwarded at the instant But for that," added
he, whining, "I had never come to this."
"Let it be a lesson to you about listening, sir," said Miss Daly. "Had
my brother been here--"
"Oh, by the powers!" broke in Freney, "he 'd have pitched you neck
and crop into the water-hogshead below, if your master was the
Lord-Lieutenant."
By this time Bicknell was busy reading the several addresses on the
packets, and the names inscribed in the corners of each.
"If I 'm not mistaken, madam," said he to Miss Daly, "this Lord
Wallincourt is the new peer, whose brother died at Lisbon. The name is
Forester."
"Yes, sir, you are right," muttered Linwood.
"The same Mr. Richard Forester my brother knew, the cousin of Lord
Castlereagh?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Linwood.
"Where is he? Is he here?"
"No, ma'am, he's lying dangerously ill, if he be yet alive, at Bangor.
He wanted to bring these papers over himself, but was only able to get
so far when the fever came on him again."
"Is he alone?"
"Quite alone, ma'am, no one knows even his name. He would not let me
say who he was."
Miss Daly turned towards Bicknell, and spoke for several minutes in a
quick and eager voice. Meanwhile Freney, now convinced that he had not
to deal with a spy or a thief-catcher, came near and addressed Linwood.
"I did n't mean to hurt ye till I was sure ye deserved it, but never
play that game any more."
Linwood appeared to receive both apology and precept with equal
discontent.
"Another thing," resumed Freney: "I 'm sure you are an agreeable young
man in the housekeeper's room and the butler's parlor, very pleasant
and conversable, with a great deal of anecdote and amusing stories;
but, mind me, let nothing tempt ye to talk about what ye heard me
say tonight. It's not that I care about myself,--it's worse than
jail-breaking they can tell of me,--but I won't have another name
mentioned. D 'ye mind me?"
As if to enforce the caution, he seized the listener between his finger
and thumb; and whether there was something magnetic in the touch, or
that it somehow conveyed a foretaste of what disobedience might cost,
but Linwood winced till the tears came, and stammered out,--
"You may depend on it, sir, I 'll never mention it."
"I believe you," said the robber, with a grin, and fell back to his
place.
"I will not lose a post, rely upon it, madam," said Bick-nell; "and am I
to suppose you have determined on this journey?"
"Yes," said Miss Daly, "the case admits of little hesitation; the young
man is alone, friendless, and unknown. I 'll hasten over at once,--I am
too old for slander, Mr. Bicknell. Besides, let me see who will dare to
utter it."
There was a sternness in her features as she spoke that made her
seem the actual image of her brother. Then, turning to Linwood, she
continued,--
"I 'll go over this evening to Bangor in the packet, let me find you
there."
"I 'll see him safe on board, ma'am," said Freney, with a leer, while,
slipping his arm within the valet's, he half led, half drew him from the
room.
CHAPTER XXXII. A LESSON IN POLITICS
In the deep bay-window of a long, gloomy-looking dinner-room of a Dublin
mansion, sat a party of four persons around a table plentifully covered
with decanters and bottles, and some stray remnants of a dessert which
seemed to have been taken from the great table in the middle of the
apartment. The night was falling fast, for it was past eight o'clock of
an evening in autumn, and there was barely sufficient light to descry
the few scrubby-looking ash and alder trees that studded the barren
grass-plot between the house and the stables. There was nothing to cheer
in the aspect without, nor, if one were to judge from the long pauses
that ensued after each effort at conversation, the few and monotonous
words of the speakers, were there any evidences of a more enlivening
spirit within doors. The party consisted of Dr. Hickman and his son Mr.
O'Reilly, Mr. Heffernan, and "Counsellor" O'Halloran.
At first, and by the dusky light in the chamber, it would seem as if
but three persons were assembled; for the old doctor, whose debility had
within the last few months made rapid strides, had sunk down into the
recess of the deep chair, and save by a low quavering respiration, gave
no token of his presence. As these sounds became louder and fuller,
the conversation gradually dropped into a whisper, for the old man was
asleep. In the subdued tone of the speakers, the noiseless gestures as
they passed the bottle from hand to hand, it was easy to mark that
they did not wish to disturb his slumbers. It is no part of our task
to detail how these individuals came to be thus associated. The assumed
object which at this moment drew them together was the approaching trial
at Galway of a record brought against the Hickmans by Darcy. It was
Bick-nell's last effort, and with it must end the long and wearisome
litigation between the houses.
The case for trial had nothing which could suggest any fears as to the
result. It was on a motion for a new trial that the cause was to come
on. The plea was misdirection and want of time, so that, in itself, the
matter was one of secondary importance. The great question was that a
general election now drew nigh, and it was necessary for O'Reilly to
determine on the line of political conduct he should adopt, and thus
give O'Halloran the opportunity of a declaration of his client's
sentiments in his address to the jury.
The conduct of the Hickmans since their accession to the estate of
Gwynne Abbey had given universal dissatisfaction to the county gentry.
Playing at first the game of popularity, they assembled at their
parties people of every class and condition; and while affronting the
better-bred by low association, dissatisfied the inferior order by
contact with those who made their inferiority more glaring. The
ancient hospitalities of the Abbey were remembered in contrast with the
ostentatious splendor of receptions in which display and not kindness
was intended. Vulgar presumption and purse-pride had usurped the place
once occupied by easy good breeding and cordiality; and even they who
had often smarted under the cold reserve of Lady Eleanor's manner, were
now ready to confess that she was born to the rank she assumed, and
not an upstart, affecting airs of superiority. The higher order of the
county gentry accordingly held aloof, and at last discontinued their
visits altogether; of the second-rate many who were flattered at first
by invitations, became dissatisfied at seeing the same favors extended
to others below them, and they, too, ceased to present themselves,
until, at last, the society consisted of a few sycophantic followers,
who swallowed the impertinence of the host with the aid of his claret,
and buried their own self-respect, if they were troubled with such a
quality, under the weight of good dinners.
Hickman O'Reilly for a length of time affected not to mark the change
in the rank and condition of his guests, but as one by one the more
respectable fell off, and the few left were of a station that the fine
servants of the house regarded as little above their own, he indignantly
declined to admit any company in future, reduced the establishment to
the few merely necessary for the modest requirements of the family,
and gave it to be known that the uncongenial tastes and habits of his
neighbors made him prefer isolation and solitude to such association.
For some time he had looked to England as the means of establishing for
himself and his son a social position. The refusal of the minister to
accord the baronetcy was a death-blow to this hope, while he discovered
that mere wealth, unassisted by the sponsorship of some one in repute,
could not suffice to introduce Beeeham into the world of fashion.
Although these things had preyed on him severely, there was no urgent
necessity to act in respect of them till the time came, as it now had
done, for a general election.
The strict retirement of his life must now give way before the
requirements of an election candidate, and he must consent to take
the field once more as a public man, or, by abandoning his seat in
Parliament, accept a condition of what he knew to be complete obscurity.
The old doctor was indeed favorable to the latter course,--the passion
for hoarding had gone on increasing with age. Money was, in his
estimation, the only species of power above the changes and caprice of
the world. Bank-notes were the only things he never knew to deceive; and
he took an almost fiendish delight in contrasting the success of his own
penurious practices with all the disappointments his son O'Reilly had
experienced in his attempts at what he called "high life." Every
slight shown him, each new instance of coldness or aversion of the
neighborhood, gave the old man a diabolical pleasure, and seemed to
revive his youth in the exercise of a malignant spirit.
O'Reilly's only hope of reconciling his father to the cost of a new
election was in the prospect held out that the seat might at last be
secured in perpetuity for Beeeham, and the chance of a rich marriage in
England thus provided. Even this view he was compelled to sustain by
the assurance that the expense would be a mere trifle, and that,
by the adoption of popular principles, he should come in almost for
nothing. To make the old doctor a convert to these notions, he had
called in Heffernau and O'Halloran, who both, during the dinner, had
exerted themselves with their natural tact, and now that the doctor had
dropped asleep, were reposing themselves, and recruiting the energies so
generously expended.
Hence the party seemed to have a certain gloom and weight over it,
as the shadow of coming night fell on the figures seated, almost in
silence, around the table. None spoke save an occasional word or two, as
they passed round the bottle. Each retreated into his own reflections,
and communed with himself. Men who have exhibited themselves to each
other, in a game of deceit and trick, seem to have a natural repugnance
to any recurrence to the theme when the occasion is once over. Even they
whose hearts have the least self-respect will avoid the topic if
possible.
"How is the bottle?--with you, I believe," said O'Reilly to Heffernan,
in the low tone to which they had all reduced the conversation.
"I have just filled my glass; it stands with the Counsellor."
O'Halloran poured out the wine and sipped it slowly. "A very remarkable
man," said he, sententiously, with a slight gesture of his head to the
chair where the old doctor lay coiled up asleep. "His faculties seem as
clear, and his judgment as acute, as if he were only five-and-forty, and
I suppose he must be nearly twice that age."
"Very nearly," replied O'Reilly; "he confesses commonly to eighty-six;
but when he is weak or querulous, he often says ninety-one or two."
"His memory is the most singular thing about him," said Heffernan. "Now,
the account of Swift's appearance in the pulpit with his gown thrust
back, and his hands stuck in the belt of his cassock, brow-beating the
lord mayor and aldermen for coming in late to church,--it came as fresh
as if he were talking of an event of last week."
"How good the imitation of voice was, too," added Heffernan: "'Giving
two hours to your dress, and twenty minutes to your devotions, you come
into God's house looking more like mountebanks than Christian men!'"
"I 've seldom seen him so much inclined to talk and chat away as this
evening," said O'Reilly; "but I think you chimed in so well with his
humor, it drew him on."
"There was something of dexterity," said Heffernan, "in the way he kept
bringing up these reminiscences and old stories, to avoid entering
upon the subject of the election. I saw that he would n't approach that
theme, no matter how skilfully you brought it forward."
"You ought not to have alluded to the Darcys, however," said O'Halloran.
"I remarked that the mention of their name gave him evident displeasure;
indeed, he soon after pushed his chair back from the table and became
silent."
"He always sleeps after dinner," observed O'Reilly, carelessly. "It was
about his usual time."
Another pause now succeeded, in which the only sounds heard were the
deep-drawn breathings of the sleeper.
"You saw Lord Castlereagh, I think you told me?" said O'Reilly, anxious
to lead Heffernan into something like a declaration of opinion.
"Oh, repeatedly; I dined either with him or in his company, three or
four times every week of my stay in town."
"Well, is he satisfied with the success of his measure?" asked
O'Halloran, caustically. "Is this Union working to his heart's content?"
"It is rather early to pass a judgment on that point, I think."
"I'm not of that mind," rejoined O'Halloran, hastily. "The fruits of the
measure are showing themselves already. The men of fortune are flying
the country; their town houses are to let; their horses are advertised
for sale at Dycer's. Dublin is, even now, beginning to feel what it may
become when the population has no other support than itself."
"Such will always be the fortune of a province. Influence will and must
converge to the capital," rejoined Heffernan.
"But what if the great element of a province be wanting? What if we have
not that inherent respect and reverence for the metropolis provincials
always should feel? What if we know that our interests are
misunderstood, our real wants unknown, our peculiar circumstances either
undervalued or despised?"
"If the case be as you represent it---"
"Can you deny it? Tell me that."
"I will not deny or admit it. I only say, if it be such, there is still
a remedy, if men are shrewd enough to adopt it."
"And what may that remedy be?" said O'Reilly, calmly.
"An Irish party!"
"Oh, the old story; the same plot over again we had this year at the
Rotunda?" said O'Reilly, contemptuously.
"Which only failed from our own faults," added Heffer-nan, angrily.
"Some of us were lukewarm and would do nothing; some waited for others
to come forward; and some again wanted to make their hard bargain with
the minister before they made him feel the necessity of the compact."
O'Reilly bit his lip in silence, for he well understood at whom this
reproof was levelled.
"The cause of failure was very different," said O'Hallo-ran,
authoritatively. "It was one which has dissolved many an association,
and rendered many a scheme abortive, and will continue to do so, as
often as it occurs. You failed for want of a 'Principle.' You had rank
and wealth, and influence more than enough to have made your weight
felt and acknowledged, but you had no definite object or end. You were a
party, and you had not a purpose."
"Come, come," said Heffernan, "you are evidently unaware of the nature
of our association, and seem not to have read the resolutions we
adopted."
"No,---on the contrary, I read them carefully; there was more than
sufficient in them to have made a dozen parties. Had you adopted one
steadfast line of action, set out with one brief intelligible
proposition,--I care not what,--Slave Emancipation, or Catholic
Emancipation, Repeal of Tests Acts, or Parliamentary Reform, any of
them,--taken your stand on that, and that alone, you must have
succeeded. Of course, to do this is a work of time and labor; some men
will grow weary and sink by the way, but others take up the burden, and
the goal is reached at last There must be years long of writing and
speaking, meeting, declaring, and plotting; you must consent to be
thought vulgar and low-minded,--ay, and to become so, for active
partisans are only to be found in low places. You will be laughed at and
jeered, abused, mocked, and derided at first; later on, you will be
assailed more powerfully and more coarsely; but, all this while, your
strength is developing, your agencies are spreading. Persuasion will
induce some, notoriety others, hopes of advantage many more, to join
you. You will then have a press as well as a party, and the very men
that sneered at your beginnings will have to respect the persistence and
duration of your efforts. I don't care how trumpery the arguments used;
I don't value one straw the fallacy of the statements put forward. Let
one great question, one great demand for anything, be made for some
five-and-twenty or thirty years,--let the Press discuss, and the
Parliament debate it,--you are sure of its being accorded in the end.
Now, it will be a party ambitious of power that will buy your alliance
at any price; now, a tottering Government anxious to survive the session
and reach the snug harbor of the long vacation. Now, it will be the high
'bid' of a popular administration; now, it will be the last hope of
second-rate capacities, ready to supply their own deficiencies by
incurring a hazard. However it come, you are equally certain of it."
There was a pause as O'Halloran concluded. Heffernan saw plainly to what
the Counsellor pointed, and that he was endeavoring to recruit for that
party of which he destined the future leadership for himself, and
Con had no fancy to serve in the ranks of such an army. O'Reilly, who
thought that the profession of a popular creed might be serviceable in
the emergency of an election, looked with more favor on the exposition,
and after a brief interval said,--
"Well, supposing I were to see this matter in your light, what support
could you promise me? I mean at the hustings."
"Most of the small freeholders, now,-all of them, in time; the priests
to a man, the best election agents that ever canvassed a constituency.
By degrees the forces will grow stronger, according to the length and
breadth of the principle you adopt,--make it emancipation, and I 'll
insure you a lease of the county." Heffernan smiled dubiously. "Ah,
never mind Mr. Heffernan's look; these notions don't suit him. He 's
one of the petty traders in politics, who like small sales and quick
returns."
"Such dealing makes fewest bankrupts," said Heffernan, coolly.
"I own to you," said O'Halloran, "the rewards are distant, but they 're
worth waiting for. It is not the miserable bribe of a situation, or a
title, both beneath what they would accord to some state apothecary; but
power, actual power, and real patronage are in the vista."
A heavy sigh and a rustling sound in the deep armchair announced that
the doctor was awaking, and after a few struggles to throw off the
drowsy influence, he sat upright, and made a gesture that he wished for
wine.
"We 've been talking about political matters, sir," said O'Reilly. "I
hope we didn't disturb your doze?"
"No; I was sleeping sound," croaked the old man, in a feeble whine, "and
I had a very singular dream! I dreamed I was sitting in a great kitchen
of a big house, and there was a very large, hairy turnspit sitting
opposite to me, in a nook beside the fire, turning a big spit with a
joint of meat on it. 'Who's the meat for?' says I to him. 'For my Lord
Castlereagh,' says he, 'devil a one else.' 'For himself alone?' says I.
'Just so,' says he; 'don't you know that's the Irish Parliament that we
're roasting and basting, and when it's done,' says he, 'we 'll sarve
it up to be carved.' 'And who are you?' says I to the turnspit. 'I'm Con
Heffernan,' says he; 'and the devil a bit of the same meat I 'm to get,
after cooking it till my teeth 's watering.'"
A loud roar of laughter from O'Halloran, in which Heffernan endeavored
to take a part, met this strange revelation of the doctor's sleep, nor
was it for a considerable time after that the conversation could be
resumed without some jesting allusion of the Counsellor to the turnspit
and his office.
"Your dream tallies but ill, sir, with the rumors through Dublin," said
O'Reilly, whose quick glance saw through the mask of indifference by
which Heffernan concealed his irritation.
"I did n't hear it. What was it, Bob?"
"That the ministry had offered our friend here the secretaryship for
Ireland."
"Sure, if they did--" He was about to add, "That he 'd have as certainly
accepted it," when a sense of the impropriety of such a speech arrested
the words.
"You are mistaken, sir," interposed Heffernan, answering the unspoken
sentence. "I did refuse. The conditions on which I accorded my humble
support to the bill of the Union have been shamefully violated, and I
could not, if I even wished it, accept office from a Government that
have been false to their pledges."
"You see my dream was right, after all," chuckled the old man. "I said
they kept him working away in the kitchen, and gave him none of the meat
afterwards."
"What if I had been stipulating for another, sir?" said Heffernan, with
a forced smile. "What if the breach of faith I allude to had reference
not to me, but to your son yonder, for whom, and no other, I asked--I
will not say a favor, but a fair and reasonable acknowledgment of the
station he occupies?"
"Ah, that weary title!" exclaimed the doctor, crankily. "What have we to
do with these things?"
"You are right, sir," chimed in O'Halloran. "Your present position,
self-acquired and independent, is a far prouder one than any to be
obtained by ministerial favor."
"I 'd rather he'd help us to crush these Darcys," said the old man, as
his eyes sparkled and glistened like the orbs of a serpent. "I 'd rather
my Lord Castlereagh would put his heel upon them than stretch out the
hand to us."
"What need to trouble your head about them?" said Heffernan,
conciliatingly; "they are low enough in all conscience now."
"My father means," said O'Reilly, "that he is tired and sick of the
incessant appeals to law this family persist in following; that these
trials irritate and annoy him."
"Come sir," cried O'Halloran, encouragingly, "you shall see the last of
them in a few weeks. I have reason to know that an old maiden sister
of Bagenal Daly's has supplied Bicknell with the means of the present
action. It's the last shot in the locker. We 'll take care to make the
gun recoil on the hand that fires it."
"Darcy and Daly are both out of the country," observed the old man,
cunningly.
"We 'll call them up for judgment, however," chimed in O'Halloran. "That
same Daly is one of those men who infested our country in times
past, and by the mere recklessness of their hold on life, bullied and
oppressed all who came before them. I am rejoiced to have an opportunity
of showing up such a character."
"I wish we had done with them all," sighed the doctor.
"So you shall, with this record. Will you pledge yourself not to object
to the election expenses if I gain you the verdict?"
"Come, that's a fair offer," said Heffernan, laughing.
"Maybe, they 'll come to ten thousand," said the doctor, cautiously.
"Not above one half the sum, if Mr. O'Reilly will consent to take my
advice."
"And why wouldn't he?" rejoined the old man, querulously. "What
signifies which side he takes, if it saves the money?"
"Is it a bargain, then?"
"Will you secure me against more trials at law? Will you pledge yourself
that I am not to be tormented by these anxieties and cares?"
"I can scarcely promise that much; but I feel so assured that your
annoyance will end here, that I am willing to pledge myself to give you
my own services without fee or reward in future, if any action follow
this one."
"I think that is most generous," said Heffernan.
"It is as much as saying, he 'll enter into recognizances for an
indefinite series of five-hundred-pound briefs," added O'Reilly.
"Done, then. I take you at your word," said the doctor; while stretching
forth his lean and trembling hand, he grasped the nervous fingers of the
Counsellor in token of ratification.
"And now woe to the Darcys!" muttered O'Halloran, as he arose to say
good-night, Heffernan arose at the same time, resolved to accompany
the Counsellor, and try what gentle persuasion could effect in
the modification of views which he saw were far too explicit to be
profitable.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE CHANCES OF TRAVEL.
Neither our space nor our inclination prompt us to dwell on Forester's
illness; enough when we say that his recovery, slow at first, made at
length good progress, and within a month after the commencement of the
attack, he was once more on the road, bent on reaching the North, and
presenting himself before Lady Eleanor and her daughter.
Miss Daly, who had been his kind and watchful nurse for many days and
nights ere his wandering faculties could recognize her, contributed more
than all else to his restoration. The impatient anxiety under which he
suffered was met by her mild but steady counsels; and although she never
ventured to bid him hope too sanguinely, she told him that his letter
had reached Helen's hand, and that he himself must plead the cause he
had opened.
"Your greatest difficulty," said she, in parting with him in Dublin,
"will be in the very circumstance which, in ordinary cases, would be
the guarantee of your success. Your own rise in fortune has widened the
interval between you. This, to your mind, presents but the natural means
of overcoming the obstacles I allude to; but remember there are others
whose feelings are to be as intimately consulted,--nay, more so than
your own. Think of those who never yet made an alliance without feeling
that they were on a footing of perfect equality; and reflect that even
if Helen's affections were all your own, Maurice Darcy's daughter can
enter into no family, however high and proud it may be, save as the
desired and sought-for by its chief members. Build upon anything lower
than this, and you fail. More still," added she, almost sternly, "your
failure will meet with no compassion from me. Think not, because I
have gone through life a lone, uncared-for thing, that I undervalue the
strength and power of deep affection, or that I could counsel you to
make it subservient to views of worldliness and advantage. You know
me little if you think so. But I would tell you this, that no love
deserving of the name ever existed without those high promptings of
the heart that made all difficulties easy to encounter,--ay, even those
worst of difficulties that spring from false pride and prejudice. It
is by no sudden outbreak of temper, no selfish threat of this or that
insensate folly, that your lady-mother's consent should be obtained.
It is by the manly dignity and consistency of a character that in the
highest interests of a higher station give a security for sound judgment
and honorable motives. Let it appear from your conduct that you are not
swayed by passion or caprice. You have already won men's admiration for
the gallantry of your daring. There is something better still than this,
the esteem and regard that are never withheld from a course of honorable
and independent action. With these on your side, rely upon it, a
mother's heart will not be the last in England to acknowledge and glory
in your fame. And now, good-bye; you have a better travelling-companion
than me,-you have hope with you."
She returned the cordial pressure of his hand, and was turning away,
when, after what had seemed a kind of struggle with her feelings, she
added,--
"One word more, even at the hazard of wearying you. Above all and
everything, be honest, be candid; not only with others, but with
yourself! Examine well your heart, and let no sense of false shame, let
no hopes of some chance or accident deceive you, by which your innermost
feelings are to be guessed at, and not avowed. This is the blackest of
calamities; this can even embitter every hour of a long life."
Her voice trembled at the last words; and as she concluded, she wrung
his hand once more affectionately, and moved hurriedly away. Forester
looked after her with a tender interest. For the first time in his life
he heard her sob. "Yes," thought he, as he lay back and covered his eyes
with his hand, "she, too, has loved, and loved unhappily."
There are few sympathies stronger, not even those of illness itself,
than connect those whose hearts have struggled under unrequited
affection; and so, for many an hour as he travelled, Forester's thoughts
recurred to Miss Daly, and the last troubled accents of her parting
speech. Perhaps he did not dwell the less on that theme because it
carried him away from his own immediate hopes and fears,--emotions that
rendered him almost irritable by their intensity.
While on the road, Forester travelled with all the speed he could
accomplish. His weakness did not permit of his being many hours in a
carriage, and he endeavored to compensate for this by rapid travelling
at the time. His impatience to get forward was, however, such that he
scarcely arrived at any halting-place without ordering horses to be at
once got ready, so that, when able, he resumed the road without losing a
moment.
In compliance with this custom, the carriage was standing all ready
with its four posters at the door of the inn of Castle Blayney; while
Forester, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, had thrown himself on
the bed and fallen asleep. The rattling crash of a mail-coach and its
deep-toned horn suddenly awoke him: he started, and looked at his watch.
Was it possible? It was nearly midnight; he must have slept more than
three hours! Half gratified by the unaccustomed rest, half angry at
the lapse of time, he arose to depart. The night was the reverse of
inviting; a long-threatened storm had at last burst forth, and the rain
was falling in torrents, while the wind, in short and fitful gusts,
shook the house to its foundation, and scattered tiles and slates over
the dreary street.
So terrible was the hurricane, many doubts were entertained that the
mail could proceed further; and when it did at length set forth, gloomy
prognostics of danger--dark pictures of precipices, swollen torrents,
and broken bridges--were rife in the bar and the landlord's room. These
arguments, if they could be so called, were all renewed when Forester
called for his bill, as a preparation to depart, and all the perils that
ever happened by land or by water recapitulated to deter him.
"The middle arch of the Slaney bridge was tottering when the up-mail
passed three hours before. A horse and cart were just fished out of
Mooney's pond, but no driver as yet discovered. The forge at the cross
roads was blown down, and the rafters were lying across the highway."
These, and a dozen other like calamities, were bandied about, and
pitched like shuttlecocks from side to side, as the impatient traveller
descended the stairs.
Had Forester cared for the amount of the reckoning, which he did not, he
might have entertained grave fears of its total, on the principle well
known to travellers, that the speed of its coming is always in the
inverse ratio of the sum, and that every second's delay is sure to swell
its proportions. Of this he never thought once; but he often reflected
on the tardiness of waiters, and the lingering tediousness of the
moments of parting.
"It's coming, sir; he 's just adding it up," said the head waiter, for
the sixth time within three minutes, while he moved to and fro, with the
official alacrity that counterfeits despatch. "I 'm afraid you 'll have
a bad night, sir. I 'm sure the horses won't be able to face the storm
over Grange Connel."
Forester made no reply, but walked up and down the hall in moody
silence.
"The gentleman that got off the mail thought so too," added the waiter;
"and now he 's pleasanter at his supper, iu the coffee-room, than
sitting out there, next to the guard, wet to the skin, and shivering
with cold."
Less to inspect the stranger thus alluded to than to escape the
impertinent loquacity of the waiter, Forester turned the handle of
the door, and entered the coffee-room. It was a large, dingy-looking
chamber, whose only bright spot seemed within the glow of a blazing
turf-fire, where at a little table a gentleman was seated at supper. His
back was turned to Forester; but even in the cursory glance the latter
gave, he could perceive that he was an elderly personage, and one who
had not abandoned the almost bygone custom of a queue.
The stranger, dividing his time between his meal and a newspaper,--which
he devoured more eagerly than the viands before him,--paid no attention
to Forester's entrance; nor did he once look round. As the waiter
approached, he asked hastily, "What chance there was of getting
forward?"
"Indeed, sir, to tell the truth," drawled out the man, "the storm seems
getting worse, instead of better. Miles Finerty's new house, at the end
of the street, is just blown down."
"Never mind Miles Finerty, my good friend, for the present," rejoined
the old gentleman, mildly, "but just tell me, are horses to be had?"
"Faith! and to tell your honor no lie, I 'm afraid of it." Here he
dropped to a whisper. "The sick-looking gentleman, yonder, has four
waiting for him, since nine o'clock; and we 've only a lame mare and a
pony in the stable."
"Am I never to get this bill?" cried out Forester, in a tone that
illness had rendered peculiarly querulous. "I have asked, begged for it,
for above an hour, and here I am still."
"He's bringing it now, sir," cried the waiter, stepping hastily out of
the room, to avoid further questioning. Forester, whose impatience had
now been carried beyond endurance, paced the room with hurried strides,
muttering, between his teeth, every possible malediction on the whole
race of innkeepers, barmaids, waiters,--even down to Boots himself.
These imprecating expressions had gradually assumed a louder and
more vehement tone, of which he was by no means aware, till the old
gentleman, at the pause of a somewhat wordy denunciation, gravely
added,--
"Insert a clause upon postboys, sir, and I 'll second the measure."
Forester wheeled abruptly round. He belonged to a class, a section of
society, whose cherished prestige is neither to address nor be addressed
by an unintroduced stranger; and had the speaker been younger, or of any
age more nearly his own, it is more than likely a very vague stare of
cool astonishment would have been his only acknowledgment of the speech.
The advanced age, and something in the very accent of the stranger,
were, however, guarantees against this conventional rudeness, and he
remarked, with a smile, "I have no objection to extend the provisions
of my bill in the way you propose, for perhaps half an hour's experience
may teach me how much they deserve it."
"You are fortunate, however, to have secured horses. I perceive that the
stables are empty."
"If you are pressed for time, sir," said Forester, on whom the quiet,
well-bred manners of the stranger produced a strong impression, "it
would be a very churlish thing of me to travel with four horses while I
can spare a pair of them."
"I am really very grateful," said the old gentleman, rising, and bowing
courteously; "if this be not a great inconvenience--"
"By no means; and if it were," rejoined Forester, "I have a debt to
acquit to my own heart on this subject. I remember once, when travelling
down to the west of Ireland, I reached a little miserable country town
at nightfall, and, just as here, save that then there was no storm--"
The entrance of the long-expected landlord, with his bill, here
interrupted Forester's story. As he took it, and thus afforded time for
the stranger to fix his eyes steadfastly upon him, unobserved, Forester
quickly resumed: "I was remarking that, just as here, there were only
four post-horses to be had, and that they had just been secured by
another traveller a few moments before my arrival. I forget the name of
the place--"
"Perhaps I can assist you," said the other, calmly. "It was Kilbeggan."
Had a miracle been performed before his eyes, Forester could not have
been more stunned; and stunned he really was, and unable to speak for
some seconds. At length, his surprise yielding to a vague glimmering of
belief, he called out, "Great heavens! it cannot be--it surely is not--"
"Maurice Darcy, you would say, sir," said the Knight, advancing with an
offered hand. "As surely as I believe you to be my son Lionel's brother
officer and friend, Captain Forester."
"Oh, Colonel Darcy! this is, indeed, happiness," exclaimed the young
man, as he grasped the Knight's hand in both of his, and shook it
affectionately.
"What a strange rencontre," said the Knight, laughing; "quite the
incident of a comedy! One would scarcely look for such meetings
twice,--so like in every respect. Our parts are changed, however; it is
your turn to be generous, if the generosity trench not too closely on
your convenience."
Forester could but stammer out assurances of delight and pleasure, and
so on, for his heart was too full to speak calmly or collectedly.
"And Lionel, sir, how is he,-when have you heard from him?" said the
young man, anxious, by even the most remote path, to speak of the
Knight's family.
"In excellent health. The boy has had the good fortune to be employed
in a healthy station, and, from a letter which I found awaiting me at my
army agent's, is as happy as can be. But to recur to our theme: will you
forgive my selfishness if I say that you will add indescribably to the
favor if you permit me to take these horses at once? I have not seen my
family for some time back, and my impatience is too strong to yield to
ceremony."
"Of course,--certainly; my carriage is, however, all ready, and at the
door. Take it as it is, you 'll travel faster and safer."
"But you yourself," said Darcy, laughing,--"you were about to move
forward when we met."
"It's no matter; I was merely travelling for the sake of change," said
Forester, confusedly.
"I could not think of such a thing," said Darcy. "If our way led
together, and you would accept of me as a travelling companion, I
should be but too happy; but to take the long-boat, and leave you on
the desolate rock, is not to be thought of." The Knight stopped; and
although he made an effort to continue, the words faltered on his lips,
and he was silent. At last, and with an exertion that brought a deep
blush to his cheek, he said: "I am really ashamed, Captain Forester, to
acknowledge a weakness which is as new to me as it is unmanly. The best
amends I can make for feeling is to confess it. Since we met that same
night, circumstances of fortune have considerably changed with me. I am
not, as you then knew me, the owner of a good house and a good estate.
Now, I really would wish to have been able to ask you to come and see
me; but, in good truth, I cannot tell where or how I should lodge you
if you said 'yes.' I believe my wife has a cabin on this northern shore,
but, however it may accommodate us, I need not say I could not ask a
friend to put up with it. There is my confession; and now that it is
told, I am only ashamed that I should hesitate about it."
Forester once more endeavored, in broken, disjointed phrases, to express
his acknowledgment, and was in the very midst of a mass of contradictory
explanations, hopes, and wishes, when Linwood entered with, "The
carriage is ready, my Lord."
The Knight heard the words with surprise, and as quickly remarked that
the young man was dressed in deep mourning. "I have been unwittingly
addressing you as Captain Forester," said he, gravely; "I believe I
should have said--"
"Lord Wallincourt," answered Forester, with a slight tremor in his
voice; "the death of my brother--" Here he hesitated, and at length was
silent.
The Knight, who read in his nervous manner and sickly appearance the
signs of broken health and spirits, resolved at once to sacrifice mere
personal feeling in a cause of kindness, and said: "I see, my Lord, you
are scarcely as strong as when I had the pleasure to meet you first, and
I doubt not that you require a little repose and quietness. Come along
with me then; and if even this cabin of ours be inhospitable enough not
to afford you a room, we 'll find something near us on the coast, and I
have no doubt we 'll set you on your legs again."
"It is a favor I would have asked, if I dared," said Forester, feebly.
He then added: "Indeed, sir, I will confess it, my journey had no
other object than to present myself to Lady Eleanor Darcy. Through the
kindness of my relative, Lord Castlereagh, I was enabled to send her
some tidings of yourself, of which my illness prevented my being the
bearer, and I was desirous of adding my own testimony, so far as it
could go." Here again he faltered.
"Pray continue," said the Knight, warmly; "I am never happier than when
grateful, and I see that I have reason for the feeling here."
"I perceive, sir, you do not recognize me," said the young man,
thoughtfully, while he fixed his deep, full eyes upon the Knight's
countenance.
Darcy stared at him in turn, and, passing his hand across his brow,
looked again. "There is some mystification here," said he, quickly, "but
I cannot see through it."
"Come, Colonel Darcy," said Forester, with more animation than before.
"I see that you forget me-, but perhaps you remember this." So saying,
he walked over to a table where a number of cloaks and travelling-gear
were lying, and taking up a pistol, placed it in Darcy's hand. "This you
certainly recognize?"
"It is my own!" exclaimed the Knight; "the fellow of it is yonder. I had
it with me the day we landed at Aboukir."
"And gave it to me when a French dragoon had his sabre at my throat,"
continued Forester.
"And is it to your gallantry that I owe my life, my brave boy?" cried
the old man, as he threw his arm around him.
"Not one half so much as I owe my recovery to your kindness," said
Forester. "Remember the wounded Volunteer you came to see on the march.
The surgeon you employed never left me till the very day I quitted the
camp; although I have had a struggle for life twice since then, I never
could have lived through the first attack but for his aid."
"Is this all a dream," said the Knight, as he leaned his head upon
his band, "or are these events real? Then you were the officer whose
exchange was managed, and of which I heard soon after the battle?"
"Yes, I was exchanged under a cartel, and sailed for England the day
after. And you, sir,--tell me of your fate."
"A slight wound and a somewhat tiresome imprisonment tells the whole
story,--the latter a good deal enlivened by seeing that our troops were
beating the French day after day, and the calculation that my durance
could scarcely last till winter. I proved right, for last month came
the capitulation, and here I am. But all these are topics for long
evenings to chat over. Come with me; you can't refuse me any longer.
Lady Eleanor has the right to speak her gratitude to you; I see you
won't listen to mine."
The Knight seized the young man's arm, and led him along as he spoke.
"Nay," said he, "there is another reason for it. If you suffered me to
go off alone, nothing would make me believe that what I have now heard
was not some strange trick of fancy. Here, with you beside me, feeling
your arm within my own, and hearing your voice, it is all that I can do
to believe it. Come, let me be convinced again. Where did you join us?"
Forester now went over the whole story of his late adventures, omitting
nothing from the moment he had joined the frigate at Portsmouth to the
last evening, when as a prisoner, he had sent for Darcy to speak to him
before he died. "I thought then," said he, "I could scarcely have more
than an hour or two to live; but when you came and stood beside me, I
was not able to utter a word, I believe, at the time. It was rather a
relief to me than otherwise that you did not know me."
"How strange is this all!" said the Knight, musing. "You have told me a
most singular story; only one point remains yet unelucidated. How came
you to volunteer,--you were in the Guards?"
"Yes," said Forester, blushing and faltering; "I had quitted the Guards,
intending to leave the army, some short time previous; but--but--"
"The thought of active service brought you back again. Out with it,
and never be ashamed. I remember now having heard from an old friend of
mine, Miss Daly, how you had left the service; and, to say truth, I
was sorry for it,--sorry for your sake, but sorrier because it always
grieves me when men of gentle blood are not to be found where hard
knocks are going. None ever distinguish themselves with more honor, and
it is a pity that they should lose the occasion to show the world that
birth and blood inherit higher privileges than stars and titles."
While the miles rolled over, they thus conversed; and as each became
more intimately acquainted and more nearly interested in the other, they
drew towards the journey's end. It was late on the following night when
they reached Port Ballintray; and as the darkness threatened more than
once to mislead them, the postilion halted at the door of a little cabin
to procure a light for his lamps.
While the travellers sat patiently awaiting the necessary preparation, a
voice from within the cottage struck Darcy's ear; he threw open the
door as he heard it, and sprang out, and rushing forward, the moment
afterwards pressed his wife and daughter in his arms.
Forester, who in a moment comprehended the discovery, hastened to
withdraw from a scene where his presence could only prove a constraint,
and leaving a message to say that he had gone to the little inn and
would wait on the Knight next morning, he hurried from the spot, his
heart bursting with many a conflicting emotion.
CHAPTER XXXIV. HOME
Perhaps in the course of a long and, till its very latter years, a most
prosperous life, the Knight of Gwynne had never known more real unbroken
happiness than now that he had laid his head beneath the lowly thatch of
a fisherman's cottage, and found a home beside the humble hearth where
daily toil had used to repose. It was not that he either felt, or
assumed to feel, indifferent to the great reverse of his fortune, and to
the loss of that station to which all his habits of life and thought
had been conformed. Nor had he the innate sense that his misfortunes had
been incurred without the culpability of, at least, neglect on his
own part. No; he neither deceived nor exonerated himself. His present
happiness sprang from discovering in those far dearer to him
than himself powers of patient submission, traits of affectionate
forbearance, signs of a hopeful, trusting spirit, that their trials
were not sent without an aim and object,--all gifts of heart and mind,
higher, nobler, and better than the palmiest days of prosperity had
brought forth.
It was that short and fleeting season, the late autumn, a time in which
the climate of Northern Ireland makes a brief but brilliant amende for
the long dreary months of the year. The sea, at last calm and tranquil,
rolled its long waves upon the shore in measured sweep, waking the
echoes in a thousand caves, and resounding with hollow voice beneath the
very cliffs. The wild and fanciful outlines of the Skerry Islands were
marked, sharp and distinct, against the dark blue sky, and reflected not
less so in the unruffled water at their base. The White Rocks, as they
are called, shone with a lustre like dulled silver; and above them the
ruined towers of old Dunluce hung balanced over the sea, and even in
decay seemed to defy dissolution.
The most striking feature of the picture was, however, the myriad of
small boats, amounting in some instances to several hundreds, which
filled the little bay at sunset. These were the fishermen from
Innisshowen, coming to gather the seaweed on the western shore their
eastern aspect denied them,--a hardy and a daring race, who braved the
terrible storms of that fearful coast without a thought of fear. Here
were they now, their little skiffs crowded with every sail they could
carry,--for it was a trial of speed who should be first up after the
turn of the ebb-tide,--their taper masts bending and springing like
whips, the white water curling at the bows and rustling over the
gunwales; while the fishermen themselves, with long harpoon spears,
contested for the prizes,--large masses of floating weed, which not
unfrequently were seized upon by three or four rival parties at the same
moment.
A more animated scene cannot be conceived than the bay thus presented:
the boats tacking and beating in every direction, crossing each other
so closely as to threaten collision,--sometimes, indeed, carrying off a
bowsprit or a rudder; while, from the restless motion of those on
board, the frail skiffs were at each instant endangered,--accidents that
occurred continually, but whose peril may be judged by the hearty cheers
and roars of laughter they excited. Here might be seen a wide-spreading
surface of tangled seaweed, vigorously towed in two different directions
by contending crews, whose exertions to secure it were accompanied by
the wildest shouts and cries. There a party were hauling in the prey,
while their comrades, with spars and spears, kept the enemy aloof; and
here, on the upturned keel of a capsized boat, were a dripping group,
whose heaviest penalty was the ridicule of their fellows.
Seated in front of the little cottage, the Darcys and Forester watched
this strange scene with all the interest its moving, stirring life could
excite; and while the ladies could enjoy the varying picture only for
itself, to the Knight and the youth it brought back the memory of a more
brilliant and a grander display, one to which heroism and danger had
lent the most exciting of all interests.
"I see," said Darcy, as he watched his companion's countenance,--"I see
whither your thoughts are wandering. They are off to the old castle of
Aboukir, and the tall cliffs at Marmorica." Forester slightly nodded an
assent, but never spoke, while the Knight resumed: "I told you it would
never do to give up the service. The very glance of your eye at yonder
picture tells me how the great original is before your miud. Come, a few
weeks more of rest and quiet, you will be yourself again. Then must you
present yourself before the gallant Duke, and ask for a restitution to
your old grade. There will be sharp work erelong. Buonaparte is not the
man to forgive Alexandria and Cairo. If I read you aright, you prefer
such a career to all the ambition of a political life."
Forester was still silent; but his changing color told that the Knight's
words had affected him deeply, but whether as they were intended, it
was not so plain to see. The Knight went on: "I am not disposed to vain
regrets; but if I were to give way to such, it would be that I am not
young enough to enter upon the career I now see opening to our arms. Our
insular position seems to have moulded our destiny in great part; but,
rely on it, we are as much a nation of soldiers as of sailors." Warming
with this theme, Darcy continued, while sketching out the possible turn
of events, to depict the noble path open to a young man who to natural
talents and acquirements added the high advantages of fortune, rank, and
family influence.
"I told you," said he, smiling, "that I blamed you once unjustly, as
it happened, because, as a Guardsman, you did not seize the occasion to
exchange guard-mounting for the field; but now I shall be sorely grieved
if you suffer yourself to be withdrawn from a path that has already
opened so brightly, by any of the seductions of your station, or the
fascinations of mere fashion."
"Are you certain," said Lady Eleanor, speaking in a voice shaken by
agitation,--"are you certain, my dear, that these same counsels of yours
would be in strict accordance with the wishes of Lord Wallincourt's
friends, or is it not possible that their ambitions may point very
differently for his future?"
"I can but give the advice I would offer to Lionel," said Darcy, "if my
son were placed in similarly fortunate circumstances. A year or two, at
least, of such training will be no bad discipline to a young man's mind,
and help to fit him to discuss those terms which, if I see aright, will
be rife in our assemblies for some years to come--" Darcy was about
to continue, when Tate advanced with a letter, whose address bespoke
Bicknell's hand. It was a long-expected communication, and, anxious
to peruse it carefully, the Knight arose, and making his excuses,
re-entered the cottage.
The party sat for some time in silence. Lady Eleanor's mind was in a
state of unusual conflict, since, for the first time in her life, had
she practised any concealment with her husband, having forborne to tell
him of Forester's former addresses to Helen. To this course she had
been impelled by various reasons, the most pressing among which were
the evident change in the young man's demeanor since he last appeared
amongst them, and, consequently, the possibility that he had outlived
the passion he then professed; and secondly, by observing that nothing
in Helen betrayed the slightest desire to encourage any renewal of those
professions, or any chagrin at the change in his conduct. As a mother
and as a woman, she hesitated to avow what should seem to represent
her daughter as being deserted, while she argued that if Helen were as
indifferent as she really seemed, there was no occasion whatever for
the disclosure. Now, however, that the Knight had spoken his counsels so
strongly, the thought occurred to her, that Forester might receive the
advice in the light of a rejection of his former proposal, and suppose
that these suggestions were only another mode of refusing his suit.
Hence a struggle of doubt and uncertainty arose within her, whether she
should at once make everything known to Darcy, or still keep silence,
and leave events to their own development. The former course seemed the
most fitting; and entirely forgetful of all else, she hastily arose, and
followed her husband into the cabin.
Forester was now alone with Helen, and for the first time since that
well-remembered night when he had offered his heart and been rejected.
The game of dissimulating feelings is almost easiest before a numerous
audience; it is rarely possible in a tte--tte. So Forester soon
felt; and although he made several efforts to induce a conversation,
they were all abrupt and disjointed, as were Helen's own replies to
them. At length came a pause; and what a thing is a pause at such a
moment! The long lingering seconds in which a duellist watches his
adversary's pistol, wavering over the region of his heart or brain, is
less torturing than such suspense. Forester arose twice, and again sat
down, his face pale and flushed alternately. At length, with a thick and
rapid utterance, he said,--
"I have been thinking over the Knight's counsels,--dare I ask if they
have Miss Darcy's concurrence?"
"It would be a great, a very great presumption in me," said Helen,
tremulously, "to offer an opinion on such a theme. I have neither the
knowledge to distinguish between the opposite careers, nor have I any
feeling for those sentiments which men alone understand in warfare."
"Nor, perhaps," added Forester, with a sudden irony, "sufficient
interest in the subject to give it a thought."
Helen was silent; her slightly compressed lips and heightened color
showed that she was offended at the speech, but she made no reply.
"I crave your pardon, Miss Darcy," said he, in a low, submissive accent,
that told how heartfelt it was. "I most humbly ask you to forgive my
rudeness. The very fact that I had no claim to that interest should
have protected you from such a speech. But see what comes of kindness
to those who are little used to it; they get soon spoiled, and forget
themselves."
"Lord Wall incourt will have to guard himself well against flattery, if
such humble attentions as ours disturb his judgment."
"I will get out of the region of it," said he, resolutely; "I will take
the Knight's advice. It is but a plunge, and all is over."
"If I dare to say so, my Lord," said Helen, archly, "this is scarcely
the spirit in which my father hoped his counsels would be accepted. His
chivalry on the score of a military life may be overstrained, but it has
no touch of that recklessness your Lordship seems to lend it."
"And why should not this be the spirit in which I join the army?" said
he, passionately; "the career has not for me those fascinations which
others feel. Danger I like, for its stimulus, as other men like it; but
I would rather confront it when and where and how I please, than at the
dictate of a colonel and by the ritual of a despatch."
"Rather be a letter of marque, in fact, than a ship-of-the-line,--more
credit to your Lordship's love of danger than discipline."
Forester smiled, but not without anger, at the quiet persiflage of her
manner. It took him some seconds ere he could resume.
"I perceive," said he, in a tone of deeper feeling, "that whatever my
resolves, to discuss them must be an impertinence, when they excite no
other emotion than ridicule--"
"Nay, my Lord," interposed Helen, eagerly; "I beg you to forgive my
levity. Nothing was further from my thoughts than to hurt one to whom
we owe our deepest debt of gratitude. I can never forget you saved
my father's life; pray do not let me seem so base, to my heart, as to
undervalue this."
"Oh, Miss Darcy," said he, passionately, "it is I who need
forgiveness,--I, whose temper, rendered irritable by illness, suspect
reproach and sarcasm in every word of those who are kindest to me."
"You are unjust to yourself," said Helen, gently,--"unjust, because you
expect the same powers of mind and judgment that you enjoyed in health.
Think how much better you are than when you came here. Think what a few
days more may do. How changed--"
"Has Miss Darcy changed since last I met her?" asked he, in a tone that
sank into the very depth of her heart.
Helen tried to smile; but emotions of a sadder shade spread over her
pale features, as she said,--
"I hope so, my Lord; I trust that altered fortunes have not lost their
teaching. I fervently hope that sorrow and suffering have left something
behind them better than unavailing regrets and heart-repinings."
"Oh, believe me," cried Forester, passionately, "it is not of this
change I would speak. I dared to ask with reference to another feeling."
"Be it so," said Helen, trembling, as if nerving herself for a strong
and long-looked-for effort,-"be it so, my Lord, and is not my answer
wide enough for both? Would not any change, short of a dishonorable one,
make the decision I once came to a thousand times more necessary now?"
"Oh, Helen, these are cold and cruel words. Will you tell me that my
rank and station are to be like a curse upon my happiness?"
"I spoke of our altered condition, my Lord. I spoke of the
impossibility of your Lordship recurring to a theme which the sight of
that thatched roof should have stifled. Nay, hear me out. It is not of
you or your motives that is here the question; it is of me and
my duties. They are there, my Lord,--they are with those whose hearts
have been twined round mine from infancy,--mine when the world went
well and proudly with us; doubly, trebly mine when affection can replace
fortune, and the sympathies' of the humblest home make up for all the
flatteries of the world. I have no reason to dwell longer on this to one
who knows those of whom I speak, and can value them too."
"But is there no place in your heart, Helen, for other affections than
these; or is that place already occupied?"
"My Lord, you have borne my frankness so well, I must even submit to
yours with a good grace. Still, this is a question you have no right to
ask, or I to answer. I have told you that whatever doubt there might
be as to your road in life, mine offered no alternative. That ought
surely to be enough."
"It shall be," said Forester, with a low sigh, as, trembling in every
limb, he arose from the seat. "And yet, Helen," said he, in a voice
barely above a whisper, "there might come a time when these duties, to
which you cling with such attachment, should be rendered less needful by
altered fortunes. I have heard that your father's prospects present more
of hope than heretofore, have I not? Think that if the Knight should be
restored to his own again, that then--"
"Nay,--it is scarcely worthy of your Lordship to exact a pledge which is
to hang upon a decision like this. A verdict may give back my father's
estate; it surely should not dispose of his daughter's hand?"
"I would exact nothing, Miss Darcy," said Forester, stung by the tone of
this reply. "But I see you cannot feel for the difficulties which
beset him who has staked his all upon a cast. I asked, what might your
feelings be, were the circumstances which now surround you altered?"
Helen was silent for a second or two; and then, as if having collected
all her energy, she said: "I would that you had spared me--had spared
yourself--the pain I now must give us both; but to be silent longer
would be to encourage deception." It was not till after another brief
interval that she could continue: "Soon after you left this, my Lord,
you wrote a letter to Miss Daly. This letter-I stop not now to ask with
what propriety towards either of us--she left in my hands. I read it
carefully; and if many of the sentiments it contained served to elevate
your character in my esteem, I saw enough to show me that your resolves
were scarcely less instigated by outraged pride than what you fancied
to be a tender feeling. This perhaps might have wounded me, had I felt
differently towards you. As it was, I thought it for the best; I deemed
it happier that your motives should be divided ones, even though you
knew it not. But as I read on, my Lord,--as I perused the account of
your interview with Lady Wallincourt,--then a new light broke suddenly
upon me; I found what, had I known more of life, should not have
surprised, but what in my ignorance did indeed astonish me, that my
father's station was regarded as one which could be alleged as a reason
against your feeling towards his daughter. Now, my Lord, we have our
pride too; and had your influence over me been all that ever you wished
it, I tell you freely that I never would permit my affection to be
gratified at the price of an insult to my father's house. If I were to
say that your sentiments towards me should not have suffered it, would
it be too much?"
"But, dearest Helen, remember that I am no longer dependent on my
mother's will,--remember that I stand in a position and a rank which
only needs you to share with me to make it all that my loftiest ambition
ever coveted."
"These are, forgive me if I tell you, very selfish reasonings, my
Lord. They may apply to you; they hardly address themselves to my
position. The pride which could not stoop to ally itself with our house
in our days of prosperity, should not assuredly be wounded by suing us
in our humbler fortunes."
"Your thoughts dwell on Lady Netherby, Miss Darcy," said Forester,
irritably; "she is scarcely the person most to be considered here."
"Enough for me, if I think so," said Helen, haughtily. "The lady your
Lordship's condescension would place in the position of a mother
should at least be able to regard me with other feelings than those of
compassionate endurance. In a word, sir, it cannot be. To discuss the
topic longer is but to distress us both. Leave me to my gratitude to
you, which is unbounded. Let me dwell upon the many traits of noble
heroism I can think of in your character with enthusiasm, ay, and with
pride,--pride that one so high and so gifted should have ever thought
of one so little worthy of him. But do not weaken my principle by hoping
that my affection can be won at the cost of my self-esteem."
Forester bowed with a deep, respectful reverence; and when he lifted
up his head, the sad expression of his features was that of one who had
heard an irrevocable doom pronounced upon his dearest, most cherished
hopes. Lady Eleanor at the same moment came forward from the door of the
cottage, so that he had barely time to utter a hasty good-bye ere she
joined her daughter.
"Your father wishes to see Lord Wallincourt, Helen. Has he gone?" But
before Helen could reply the Knight came up.
"I hope you have not forgotten to ask him to dinner, Eleanor?" said he.
"We did so yesterday, and he never made his appearance the whole
evening."
"Helen, did you?" But Helen was gone while they were speaking; so that
Darcy, to repair the omission, hastened after his young friend with all
the speed he could command.
"Have I found you?" cried Darcy, as, turning an angle of the rocky
shore, he came behind Forester, who, with folded arms and bent-down
head, stood like one sorrow-struck. "I just discovered that neither my
wife nor my daughter had asked you to stop to dinner; and as you are
punctilious, fully as much as they are forgetful, there was nothing for
it but to run after you."
"You are too kind, my dear Knight,--but not to-day; I'm poorly,--a
headache."
"Nay; a headache always means a mere excuse. Come back with me: you
shall be as stupid a convive as you wish, only be a good listener, for
I have got a great budget from my man of law, Mr. Bicknell, and am dying
for somebody to inflict it upon."
"With the best grace he could muster,--which was still very far from
a good one,--Forester suffered himself to be led back to the
cottage, endeavoring, as he went, to feel or feign an interest in the
intelligence the Knight was full of. It seemed that Bicknell was very
anxious not only for the Knight's counsel on many points, but for his
actual presence at the trial. He appeared to think that Darcy being
there, would be a great check upon the line of conduct he was apprised
O'Halloran would adopt. There was already a very strong reaction in the
West in favor of the old gentry of the land, and it would be at least
an evidence of willingness to confront the enemy, were the Knight to be
present.
"He tells me," continued the Knight, "that Daly regretted deeply not
having attended the former trial,--why, he does not exactly explain, but
he uses the argument to press me now to do so."
Forester might, perhaps, have enlightened him on this score, had he so
pleased, but he said nothing.
"Of course, I need not say, nothing like intimidation is meant by this
advice. The days for such are, thank God, gone by in Ireland; and it
was, besides, a game I never could have played at; but yet it might be
what many would expect of me, and at all events it can scarcely do harm.
What is your opinion?"
"I quite agree with Mr. Bicknell," said Forester, hastily; "there is
a certain license these gentlemen of wig and gown enjoy, that is more
protected by the bench than either good morals or good manners warrant."
"Nay, you are now making the very error I would guard against," said
Darcy, laughing. "This legal sparring is rather good fun, even though
they do not always keep the gloves on. Now, will you come with me?"
"Of course; I should have asked your leave to do so, had you not invited
me."
"You 'll hear the great O'Halloran, and I suspect that is as much as I
shall gain myself by this action. We have merely some points of law to
go upon; but, as I understand, nothing new or material in evidence to
adduce. You ask, then, why persist? I 'll own to you I cannot say; but
there seems the same punctilio in legal matters as in military; and it
is a point of honor to sustain the siege until the garrison have eaten
their boots. I am not so far from that contingency now, that I should be
impatient; but meanwhile I perceive the savor of something better, and
here comes Tate to say it is on the table."
CHAPTER XXXV. AN AWKWARD DINNER-PARTY
When the reader is informed that Lady Eleanor had not found a fitting
moment to communicate to the Knight respecting Forester, nor had Helen
summoned courage to reveal the circumstances of their late interview,
it may be imagined that the dinner itself was as awkward a thing as need
be. It was, throughout, a game of cross purposes, in which Darcy alone
was not a player, and therefore more puzzled than the rest, at the
constraint and reserve of his companions, whose efforts at conversation
were either mere unmeaning commonplaces, or half-concealed retorts to
inferred allusions.
However quick to perceive, Darcy was too well versed in the tactics of
society to seem conscious of this, and merely redoubled his efforts
to interest and amuse. Never had his entertaining qualities less of
success. He could scarcely obtain any acknowledgment from his hearers;
and stores of pleasantry, poured out in rich profusion, were listened to
with a coldness bordering upon apathy.
He tried to interest them by talking over the necessity of their speedy
removal to the capital, where, for the advantage of daily consultation,
Bicknell desired the Knight's presence. He spoke of the approaching
journey to the West, for the trial itself; he talked of Lionel, of Daly,
of their late campaigns; in fact, he touched on everything, hoping
by some passing gleam of interest to detect a clew to their secret
thoughts. To no avail. They listened with decorous attention, but no
signs of eagerness or pleasure marked their features; and when Forester
rose to take his leave, it was full an hour and a half before his usual
time of going.
"Now for it, Eleanor," said the Knight, as Helen soon after quitted the
room; "what's your secret, for all this mystery must mean something?
Nay, don't look so in-penetrable, my dear; you'll never persuade any
man who displayed all his agreeability to so little purpose, that his
hearers had not a hidden source of preoccupation to account for their
indifference. What is it, then?"
"I am really myself in the dark, without my conjectures have reason,
and that Lord Wallincourt may have renewed to Helen the proposal he once
made her, and with the same fortune."
"Renewed--proposal!"
"Yes, my dear Darcy, it was a secret I had intended to have told you
this very day, and went for the very purpose of doing so, when I found
you engaged with Bicknell's letters and advices, and scrupled to break
in upon your occupied thoughts. Captain Forester did seek Helen's
affections, and was refused; and I now suspect Lord Wallincourt may have
had a similar reverse."
"This last is, however, mere guess," said Darcy.
"No more. Of the former Helen herself told me; she frankly acknowledged
that her affections were disengaged, but that he had not touched them.
It would seem that he was deeper in love than she gave him credit for.
His whole adventure as a Volunteer sprang out of this rejected suit, and
higher fortunes have not changed his purpose."
"Then Helen did not care for him?"
"That she did not once, I am quite certain; that she does not now, is
not so sure. But I know that even if she were to do so, the disparity of
condition would be an insurmountable barrier to her assent."
Darcy walked up and down with a troubled and anxious air, and at length
said,--
"Thus is it that the pride we teach our children, as the defence
against low motives and mean actions, displays its false and treacherous
principles; and all our flimsy philosophy is based less on the
affections of the human heart than on certain conventional usages we
have invented for our own enslavement. There is but one code of right
and wrong, Eleanor, and that one neither recognizes the artificial
distinctions of grade, nor makes a virtue of the self-denial; that is a
mere offering to worldly pride."
"You would scarcely have our daughter accept an alliance with a house
that disdains our connection?" said Lady Eleanor, proudly.
"Not, certainly, when the consideration had been once brought before her
mind. It would then be but a compromise with principle. But why should
she have ever learned the lesson? Why need she have been taught to
mingle notions of worldly position and aggrandizement with the emotions
of her heart? It was enough--it should have been enough--that his
rank and position were nearly her own, not to trifle with feelings
immeasurably higher and holier than these distinctions suggest."
"But the world, my dear Darcy; the world would say--"
"The world would say, Eleanor, that her refusal was perfectly right;
and if the world's judgments were purer, they might be a source of
consolation against the year-long bitterness of a sinking heart. Well,
well!" said he, with a sigh, "I would hope that her heart is free: go
to her, Eleanor,--learn the truth, and if there be the least germ of
affection there, I will speak to Wallincourt to-morrow, and tell him to
leave us. These half-kindled embers are the slow poison of many a noble
nature, and need but daily intercourse to make them deadly."
While Lady Eleanor retired to communicate with her daughter, the Knight
paced the little chamber in moody reverie. As he passed and repassed
before the window, he suddenly perceived the shadow of a man's figure
as he stood beside a rock near the beach. Such an apparition was strange
enough to excite curiosity in a quiet, remote spot, where the few
inhabitants retired to rest at sunset. Darcy therefore opened the
window, and moved towards him; but ere he had gone many paces, he was
addressed by Forester's voice,--"I was about to pay you a visit, Knight,
and only waited till I saw you alone."
"Let us stroll along the sands, then," said Darcy; "the night is
delicious." And so saying, he drew his arm within Forester's, and walked
along at his side.
"I have been thinking," said Forester, in a low, sad accent,--"I have
been thinking over the advice you lately gave me; and although I own
at the time it scarcely chimed in with my own notions, now the more
I reflect upon it the more plausible does it seem. I have lived long
enough out of fashionable life to make the return to it anything but a
pleasure; for politics I have neither talent nor temper; and soldiering,
if it does not satisfy every condition of my ambition, offers more to my
capacity and my hopes than any other career."
"I would that you were more enthusiastic in the cause," said Darcy, who
was struck by the deep depression of his manner; "I would that I saw you
embrace the career more from a profound seuse of duty and devotion, than
as a 'pis aller.'"
"Such it is," sighed Forester; and his arm trembled within Darcy's as
he spoke. "I own it frankly, save in actual conflict itself, I have no
military ardor in my nature. I accept the road in life, because one must
take some path."
"Then, if this be so," said Darcy, "I recall my counsels. I love the
service, and you also, too well to wish for such a msalliance; no,
campaigning will never do with a spirit that is merely not averse.
Return to London, consult your relative, Lord Castlereagh,--I see
you smile at my recommendation of him, but I have learned to read his
character very differently from what I once did. I can see now, that
however the tortuous course of a difficult policy may have condemned him
to stratagems wherein he was an agent,--often an unwilling one,--that
his nature is eminently chivalrous and noble. His education and his
prejudices have made him less rash than we, in our nationality, like
to pardon, but the honor of the empire lies next his heart Political
profligacy, like any other, may be leniently dealt with while it is
fashionable; but there are minds that never permit themselves to be
enslaved by fashion, when once they have gained a consciousness of their
own power: such is his. He is already beyond it; and ere many years
roll over, he will be equally beyond his competitors too. And now to
yourself. Let him be your guide. Once launched in public life, its
interests will soon make themselves felt, and you are young enough to be
plastic. I know that every man's early years, particularly those who
are the most favored by fortune, have their clouds and dark shadows. You
must not seek an exemption from the common lot; remember how much you
have to be grateful for; think of the advantages for which others strive
a life long, and never reach,-all yours, at the very outset; and then,
if there be some sore spots, some secret sorrows under all, take my
advice and keep them for your own heart. Confessions are admirable
things for old ladies, who like the petty martyrdom of small sufferings,
but men should be made of sterner stuff. There is a high pride in
bearing one's load alone; don't forget that."
Forester felt that if the Knight had read his inmost feelings, his
counsel could not have been more directly addressed to his condition; he
had, indeed, a secret sorrow, and one which threw its gloom over all his
prosperity. He listened attentively to Darcy's reasonings, and followed
him, as in the full sincerity of his nature he opened up the history of
his own life, now commenting on the circumstances of good fortune, now
adverting to the mischances which had befallen him. Never had the genial
kindness of the old man appeared more amiable. The just judgments,
the high and honorable sentiments, not shaken by what he had seen of
ingratitude and wrong, but hopefully maintained and upheld, the singular
modesty of his character, were all charms that won more and more upon
Forester; and when, after a tte--tte prolonged till late in the
night, they parted, Forester's muttered ejaculation was, "Would that I
were his son!"
"It is as I guessed," said Lady Eleanor, when the Knight re-entered the
chamber; "Helen has refused him. I could not press her on the reasons,
nor ask whether her heart approved all that her head determined. But she
seemed calm and tranquil; and if I were to pronounce from appearance, I
should say that the rejection has not cost her deeply."
"How happy you have made me, Eleanor!" exclaimed Darcy, joyfully; "for
while, perhaps, there is nothing in this world I should like better than
to see such a man my son-in-law, there is no misery I would not prefer
to witnessing my child's affections engaged where any sense of duty or
pride rendered the engagement hopeless. Now, the case is this: Helen can
afford to be frank and sisterly towards the poor fellow, who really did
love her, and after a few days he leaves us."
"I thought he would go to-morrow," said Lady Eleanor, somewhat
anxiously.
"No; I half hinted to him something of the kind, but he seemed bent on
accompanying me to the West, and really I did not know how to say nay."
Lady Eleanor appeared not quite satisfied with an arrangement that
promised a continuation of restraint, if not of positive difficulty,
but made no remark about it, and turned the conversation on their
approaching removal to Dublin.
CHAPTER XXXVI. AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL
Our time is now brief with our reader, and we would not trespass on him
longer by dwelling on the mere details of those struggles to which Helen
and Forester were reduced by daily association and companionship.
One hears much of Platonism, and, occasionally, of those brother and
sisterly affections which are adopted to compensate for dearer and
tenderer ties. Do they ever really exist? Has the world ever presented
one single successful instance of the compact? We are far, very far,
from doubting that friendship, the truest and closest, can subsist
between individuals of opposite sex. We only hazard the conjecture that
such friendships must not spring out of "Unhappy Love." They must not
be built out of the ruins of wrecked affection. No, no; when Cupid is
bankrupt, there is no use in attempting to patch up his affairs by any
composition with the creditors.
We are not quite so sure that this is exactly the illustration Forester
would have used to convey his sense of our proposition; but that he was
thoroughly of our opinion, there is no doubt. Whether Helen was one
of the same mind or not, she performed her task more easily and more
gracefully. We desire too sincerely to part with our fair readers
on good terms, to venture on the inquiry whether there is not more
frankness and candor in the character of men than women? There is
certainly a greater difficulty in the exercise of this quality in the
gentler sex, from the many restraints imposed by delicacy and womanly
feeling; and the very habit of keeping within this artificial barrier
of reserve gives an ease and tranquillity to female manner under
circumstances where men would expose their troubled and warring
emotions. So much, perhaps, for the reason that Miss Darcy displayed
an equanimity of temper very different from the miserable Forester, and
exerted powers of pleasing and fascination which, to him at least, had
the singular effect of producing even more suffering than enjoyment.
The intimacy hitherto subsisting between them was rather increased than
otherwise. It seemed as if their relations to each other had been fixed
by a treaty, and now that transgression or change was impossible. If
this was slavery in its worst form to Forester, to Helen it was liberty
unbounded. No longer restrained by any fear of misconception, absolved,
in her own heart, of any designs upon his, she scrupled not to display
her capacity for thinking and reflecting with all the openness she would
have done to her brother Lionel; while, to relieve the deep melancholy
that preyed upon him, she exerted herself by a thousand little stratagems
of caprice or fancy, that, however successful at the time, were sure to
increase his gloom when he quitted her presence. Such, then, with its
varying vicissitudes of pleasure and pain, was the condition of their
mutual feeling for the remainder of their stay on the northern coast
Many a time had Forester resolved on leaving her forever, rather than
perpetuate the lingering torture of an affection that increased with
every hour; but the effort was more than his strength could compass, and
he yielded, as it were, to a fate, until at last her companionship had
become the whole aim and object of his existence.
As winter closed in, they removed to Dublin, and established themselves
temporarily in an old-fashioned family hotel, selected by Bicknell, in
a quiet, unpretending street. Neither their means nor inclination would
have prompted them to select a more fashionable resting-place, while the
object of strict seclusion was here secured. The ponderous gloom of
the staid old house, where, from the heavy sideboard of almost black
mahogany to the wrinkled visage of the grim waiter, all seemed of a
bygone century, were rather made matters of mutual pleasantry among the
party than sources of dissatisfaction; while the Knight assured them
that this was in his younger days the noisy resort of the gay and
fashionable of the capital.
"Indeed," added he, "I am not quite sure that this is not where the
'Townsends,' as the club was then called, used to meet in Swift's time.
Bicknell will tell us all about it, for he's coming to dine with us."
Forester was the first to appear in the drawing-room before dinner. It
is possible that he hurried his toilet in the hope of speaking a few
words to Helen, who not un-frequently came down before her mother.
If so, he was doomed to disappointment, as the room was empty when he
entered; and there was nothing for it but to wait, impatiently indeed,
and starting at every footstep on the stairs and every door that shut or
opened.
At last he heard the sound of approaching steps, softened by the deep
old carpet. They came,--he listened,--the door opened, and the waiter
announced a name, what and whose Forester paid no attention to, in his
annoyance that it was not hers he expected. The stranger-a very plump,
joyous little personage in deep black--did not appear quite unknown to
Forester; but as the recognition interested him very little, he merely
returned a formal bow to the other's more cordial salute, and turned to
the window where he was standing.
"The Knight, I believe, is dressing?" said the new arrival, advancing
towards Forester.
"Yes; but I have no doubt he will be down in a few moments."
"Time enough,--no hurry in life. They told me below stairs that you were
here, and so I came up at once. I thought that I might introduce myself.
Paul Dempsey,--Dempsey's Grove. You've heard of me before, eh?"
"I have had that pleasure," said Forester, with more animation of
manner; for now he remembered the face and figure of the worthy Paul, as
he had seen both in the large mirror of his mother's drawing-room.
"Ha! I guessed as much," rejoined Paul, with a chuckling laugh; "the
ladies are here, too, ain't they?"
Forester assented, and Paul went on.
"Only heard of it from Bicknell half an hour ago. Took a car, and came
off at once. And when did you come?"
Forester stared with amazement at a question whose precise meaning he
could not guess at, and to which he could only reply by a half-smile,
expressive of his difficulty.
"You were away, weren't you?" asked Dempsey.
"Yes; I have been out of England," replied Forester, more than ever
puzzled how this fact could or ought to have any interest for the other.
"Never be ashamed of it. Soldiering 's very well in its way, though I 'd
never any taste for it myself,--none of that martial spirit that stirred
the bumpkin as he sang,--
Perhaps a recruit
Might chance to shoot
Great General Buonaparte.
Well, well! it seems you soon got tired of glory, of which, from all
I hear, a little goes very far with any man's stomach; and no wonder.
Except a French bayonet, there 's nothing more indigestible than
commissary bread."
"The service is not without some hardships," said Forester, blandly,
and preferring to shelter himself under generality than invite further
inquisitiveness.
"Cruelties you might call them," rejoined Dempsey, with energy. "The
frightful stories we read in the papers!--and I suppose they are all
true. Were you ever touched up a bit yourself?" This Paul said in
his most insinuating manner; and as Forester's stare showed a total
ignorance of his meaning, he added, "A little four-and-twenty, I mean,"
mimicking, as he spoke, the action of flogging.
"Sir!" exclaimed Forester, with an energy almost ferocious; and Dempsey
made a spring backwards, and intrenched himself behind a sofa-table.
"Blood alive!" he exclaimed, "don't be angry. I wouldn't offend you for
the world; but I thought--"
"Never mind, sir,-your apology is quite sufficient," said Forester, who
had no small difficulty to repress laughing at the terrified face before
him. "I am quite convinced there was no intention to give offence."
"Spoke like a man," said Dempsey, coming out from his ambush with an
outstretched hand; and Forester, not usually very unbending in such
cases, could not help accepting the salutation so heartily proffered.
"Ah, my excellent friend, Mr. Dempsey!" said the Knight, entering at the
same moment, and gayly tapping him on the shoulder. "A man I have long
wished to see, and thank for many kind offices in my absence.--I 'm glad
to see you are acquainted with Mr. Dempsey.--Well, and how fares the
world with you?"
"Better, rather better, Knight," said Paul, who had scarcely recovered
the fright Forester had given him. "You've heard that old Bob's off?
Didn't go till he could n't help it, though; and now your humble servant
is the head of the house."
While the Knight expressed his warm congratulations, Lady Eleanor and
Helen came in; and by their united invitation Paul was persuaded to
remain for dinner,--an event which, it must be owned, Forester could not
possibly comprehend.
Bicknell's arrival soon after completed the party, which, however
discordant in some respects, soon exhibited signs of perfect accordance
and mutual satisfaction. Mr. Dempsey's presence having banished all
business topics for discussion, he was permitted to launch out into
his own favorite themes, not the least amusing feature of which was the
perfect amazement of Forester at the man and his intimacy.
As the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, Paul became more moody
and thoughtful, now and then interchanging glances with Bicknell, and
seeming as if on the verge of something, and yet half doubting how to
approach it. Two or three hastily swallowed bumpers, and a look, which
he believed of encouragement, from Bicknell, at length rallied Mr.
Dempsey, and after a slight hesitation, he said,--
"I believe, Knight, we are all friends here; it is, strictly speaking, a
cabinet council?"
If Darcy did not fathom the meaning of the speech, he had that knowledge
of the speaker which made his assent to it almost a matter of course.
"That's what I thought," resumed Paul; "and it is a moment I have been
anxiously looking for. Has our friend here said anything?" added he,
with a gesture towards Bicknell.
"I, sir? I said nothing, I protest!" exclaimed the man of law, with an
air of deprecation. "I told you, Mr. Dempsey, that I would inform the
Knight of the generous proposition you made about the loan; but, till
the present moment, I have not had the opportunity."
"Pooh, pooh! a mere trifle," interrupted Paul. "It is not of that I
was thinking: it is of a very different subject I would speak. Has
Lady Eleanor or Miss Darcy--has she told you nothing of me?" said he,
addressing the Knight.
"Indeed they have, Mr. Dempsey, both spoken of you repeatedly, and
always in the same terms of grateful remembrance."
"It isn't that, either," said Paul, with a half-sigh of disappointment.
"You are unjust to yourself, Mr. Dempsey," said Darcy, good-humoredly,
"to rest a claim to our gratitude on any single instance of kindness;
trust me that we recognize the whole debt."
"But it's not that," rejoined Paul, with a shake of the head. "Lord
bless us! how close women are about these things," muttered he to
himself. "There is nothing for it but candor, I suppose, eh?"
This being put in the form of a direct question, and the Knight having
as freely assented, Paul resumed,--"Well, here it is. Being now at the
head of an ancient name, and very pretty independence,--Bicknell has
seen the papers,--I have been thinking of that next step a man takes who
would wish to--wish to-hand down a little race of Dempseys. You
understand?" Darcy smiled approvingly, and Paul continued: "And as
conformity of temper, taste, and habits are the surest pledges of such
felicity, I have set the eyes of my affections upon--Miss Darcy."
So little prepared was the Knight for what was coming, that up to that
moment he had been listening with a smile of easy enjoyment; but when
the last word was spoken, he started as if he had been stung by a
reptile, nor could all his habitual self-control master the momentary
flush of irritation that covered his face.
"I know," said Paul, with a dim consciousness that his proposition was
but half acceptable, "that we are not exactly, so to say, the same rank
and class; but the Dempseys are looking up, and--"
"'The Darcys looking down,' you would add," said the Knight, with a
gleam of his habitual humor in his eye.
"And, like the buckets in a well, the full and empty ones meet
half-way," added Dempsey, laughing. "I know well, as I said before, we
are not the same kind of people, and perhaps this would have deterred me
from indulging any thoughts on the subject, but for a chance, a bit of
an accident, as a body may call it, that gave me courage."
"This is the very temple of candor, Mr. Dempsey," said the
Knight, smiling. "Pray proceed, and let us hear the source of your
encouragement; what was it?"
"Say, who was it, rather," interposed Paul.
"Be it so, then. Who was it? You have only made my curiosity stronger."
"Lady Eleanor,--ay, and Miss Helen herself."
A start of anger and a half-spoken exclamation were as quickly
interrupted by a fit of laughing; and the Knight leaned back in his
chair, and shook with the emotion.
"You doubt it; you think it absurd," said Dempsey, himself laughing,
and not exhibiting the slightest irritation. "What if they say it's
true,--will that content you?"
"I'm afraid it would not," said Darcy, equivocally; "there's nothing
less likely to do so. Still, I assure you, Mr. Dempsey, if the ladies
are of the mind you attribute to them, I shall find it very difficult to
disbelieve anything I ever hear hereafter."
"I'm satisfied to stand or fall by their verdict," said Paul,
resolutely. "I'm not a fool, exactly; and do you think if I had not
something stronger than mere suspicion to guide me, that I'd have gone
that same journey to London? Oh, I forgot--I did not tell you about my
going to Lord Netherby."
"You went to Lord Netherby, and on this subject?" said Darcy, whose face
became suffused with shame, an emotion doubly painful from Forester's
presence.
"That I did," rejoined the unabashed Paul, "and a long conversation we
had over the matter. He introduced me to his wife too. Lord bless us,
but that is a bit of pride!"
"You are aware that the lady is Lord Wallincourt's mother," interposed
Darcy, sternly.
"Faith, so that she is n't mine," said the inexorable Paul, "I don't
care! There she was, lying in state, with a greyhound with silver bells
on his neck at her feet; and when I came into the room, she lifts up
her head and gives me a look, as much as to say, 'Oh, that's him.'--'Mr.
Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole,'--for hole he would call it, in spite of
me,--'Mr. Dempsey, my love,' said my Lord, bowing as ceremoniously as
if he never saw her before; and so, taking the hint, I began a little
course of salutations, when she called out, 'Tell him not to do that,
Netherby,--tell him not to do that-'"
This was too much for Mr. Dempsey's hearers, who, however differently
minded as to the narrative, now concurred in one outbreak of hearty
laughter.
"Well, my Lord," said Darcy, turning to Forester, "you certainly have
shown evidence of a most enviable good temper. Had your Lordship--"
"His Lordship!" exclaimed Paul, in amazement. "Is n't that your
son,--Captain Darcy?"
"No, indeed, Mr. Dempsey," said the Knight; "I thought, as I came into
the drawing-room, that you were acquainted, or I should have presented
you to the Earl of Wallincourt."
"Oh, ain't I in for it now!" cried Paul, in an accent of grief most
ludicrously natural. "Oh! by the powers, I 'm up to the knees in
trouble! And that was your mother! oh dear! oh dear!"
"You see, my worthy friend," said Darcy, smiling, "how easy a thing
deception is. Is it not possible that your misconceptions do not end
here?"
"I 'll never get over it, I know I'll not!" exclaimed Paul, wringing
his hands as he arose from the table. "Bad luck to it for grandeur!"
muttered he between his teeth; "I never had a minute's happiness since I
got the taste for it." And with this honest avowal he rushed out of the
room.
It was some time before the party in the dining-room adjourned upstairs;
but when they did, they found Mr. Dempsey seated at the fire, recounting
to the ladies his late unhappy discomfiture,--a narrative which even
Lady Eleanor's gravity was not enabled to withstand. A kind audience
was always a boon of the first water to honest Paul; and very little
pressing was needed to induce him to continue his revelations, for the
Knight wisely felt that such pretensions as his could not be buried so
satisfactorily as beneath the load of ridicule.
Mr. Dempsey's scruples soon vanished and thawed under the warmth of
encouraging voices and smiles, and he began the narrative of his night
at "The Corvy," his painful durance in the canoe, his escape, the
burning of the law papers, and each step of his progress to the very
moment that he stood a listener at Lady Eleanor's door. Then he halted
abruptly and said, "Now I'm dumb! racks and thumbscrews wouldn't get
more out of me."
"You cannot mean, sir," said Lady Eleanor, calmly but haughtily, "that
you overheard the conversation that passed between my daughter and
myself?"
"Every word of it!" replied Paul, bluntly.
"Oh, really, sir, I can scarcely compliment you on the spirit of your
curiosity; for although the theme we talked on, if I remember aright,
was the speedy necessity of removing,--the urgency of seeking some place
of refuge--"
"If I had n't heard which, I could not have assisted you in your
departure," rejoined the unabashed Paul: "the old Loyola maxim, 'Evil,
that Good may come of it.'"
Helen sat pale and terrified all this time; for although Lady Eleanor
had forgotten the discussion of any other topic on that night save that
of their legal difficulties, she well remembered a theme nearer and
dearer to her heart. Whether from the distress of these thoughts, or in
the hope of propitiating Mr. Dempsey to silence, so it was, she fixed
her eyes upon him with an expression Paul thought he could read, and
he gave a look of such conscious intelligence in return as brought the
blush to her cheek. "I 'm not going to say one word about it," said he,
in a stage whisper that even the Knight himself overheard.
"Then I must myself insist upon Mr. Dempsey's revelations," said Darcy,
not at all satisfied with the air of mystery Dempsey threw around his
intercourse.
Another look from Helen here met Paul's, and he stood uncertain how to
act.
"Really, sir," said Lady Eleanor, "however little the subject we
discussed was intended for other ears than our own, I must beg of you
now to repeat what you remember of it."
"Well, what can I do?" exclaimed Paul, looking at Helen with an
expression of the most helpless misery; "I know you are angry, and I
know that when you like it, you can blaze up like a Congreve rocket.
Oh, faith! I don't forget the day I showed you the newspaper about the
English officer thrashing O'Halloran!"
Helen grew scarlet, and turned away, but not before Forester had caught
her eyes, and read in them more of hope than his heart had known for
many a day before.
"These are more mysteries, Mr. Dempsey; and if you continue to scatter
riddles as you go, we shall never get to the end of this affair."
"Perhaps," interposed Bicknell, hoping to close the unpleasant
discussion,--"perhaps Mr. Dempsey, feeling that he had personally no
interest in the conversation between Lady Eleanor and Miss Darcy--"
"Had n't he, then?" exclaimed Paul,--"maybe not. If I hadn't, then, who
had?--tell me that. Wasn't it then and there I first heard of the kind
intentions towards me?"
"Towards you, sir! Of what are you speaking?"
"Blood alive! will you tell me that I 'm not Paul Dempsey, of Dempsey's
Grove?" exclaimed he, driven beyond all patience by what he deemed
equivocation. "Will you tell me that your Ladyship didn't allude to the
day I brought the letter from Coleraine, and say that you actually
began to like me from that hour? Did n't you tell Miss Helen not to lie
down-hearted, because there were better days in store for us? Miss Darcy
remembers it, I see,--ay, and your Ladyship does now. Did n't you call
me rash and headstrong and ambitious? I forgive it all; I believe it is
true. And was n't I your bond-slave from that hour? Oh, mercy on me! the
pleasant time I had of it at Mother Fum's! Then came the days and nights
I was watching over you at Ballintray. Ay, faith, and money was very
scarce with me when I gave old Denny Nolan five shillings for the loan
of his nankeen jacket to perform the part of waiter at the little inn.
Do you remember a little note, in the shape of a friendly warning? Eh,
now, my Lady, I think your memory is something fresher."
If the confusion of Lady Eleanor and her daughter was extreme at this
outpouring of Mr. Dempsey's confessions, the amazement of Darcy and the
utter stupefaction of Forester were even greater; to throw discredit
upon him would be to acknowledge the real bearing of the circumstances,
which would be far worse than all his imputations; so there was no
alternative but to lie under every suspicion his narrative might
suggest.
Forester felt annoyed as much that such a person should have obtained
this assumed intimacy as by the pretensions he well knew were only
absurd, and took an early leave under the pretence of fatigue. Bicknell
soon followed; and now the Knight, arresting Dempsey's preparations for
departure, led him back towards the fire, and placing a chair for him
between Lady Eleanor and himself, obliged him to recount his scattered
reminiscences once more, and, what was a far less pleasing duty to him,
to listen to Lady Eleanor while she circumstantially unravelled the web
of his delusion, and, in order, explained on what unsubstantial grounds
he had built the edifice of his hope. Perhaps honest Paul was not more
afflicted at any portion of the disentanglement than that which, in
disavowing his pretensions, yet confessed that some other held the
favorable place, while that other's name was guarded as a secret. This
was, indeed, a sore blow, and he could n't rally from it; and willingly
would he have bartered all the gratitude they expressed for his many
friendly offices to know his rival's name.
"Well," exclaimed he, as Lady Eleanor concluded, "it's clear I was n't
the man. Only think of my precious journey to London, and the interview
with that terrible old Countess,--all for nothing! No matter,--it's all
past and over. As for the loan, I 've arranged it all; you shall have
the money when you like."
"I must decline your generous offer, not without feeling your debtor for
it; but I have determined to abandon these proceedings. The Government
have promised me some staff appointment, quite sufficient for my wishes
and wants; and I will neither burden my friends nor wear out myself by
tiresome litigation."
[Illustration: 435]
"That's the worst of all," exclaimed Dempsey; "I thought you would not
refuse me this."
"Nor would I, my dear Dempsey, but that I have no occasion for the sum.
To-morrow I set out to witness the last suit I shall ever engage in;
and as I believe there is little doubt of the issue, I have nothing of
sanguine feeling to suffer by disappointment."
"Well, then, to-morrow I 'll start for Dempsey's Grove," said Paul,
sorrowfully. "With very different expectations I quitted it a few days
ago. Good-bye, Lady Eleanor; good-bye, Miss Helen. I suppose there 's no
use in guessing?"
Mr. Dempsey's leave-taking was far more rueful than his wont, and woe
seemed to have absorbed all other feeling; but when he reached the door,
he turned round and said,--
"Now I am going,--never like to see him again; do tell me the name."
A shake of the head, and a merry burst of laughter, was all the answer;
and Paul departed.
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE LAST STRUGGLE
That the age of chivalry is gone, we are reminded some twenty times
in each day of our commonplace existence, Perhaps the changed tone of
society exhibits nowhere a more practical but less picturesque advantage
than in the fact that the "joust" of ancient times is now replaced by
the combat of the law court. Some may regret--we will not say if we are
not of the number--that the wigged Baron of the Exchequer is scarcely so
pleasing an arbiter as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Others may deem
the knotted subtleties of black-letter a sorry recompense for the "wild
crash and tumult of the fray." The crier of the Common Pleas would
figure to little advantage beside the gorgeously clad Herald of the
Lists; nor are the artificial distinctions of service so imposing that
a patent of precedency could vie with the white cross on the shield of
a Crusader. Still, there are certain counterbalancing interests to be
considered; and it is possible that the veriest dcrier of the law's
uncertainty "would rather stake life and fortune on the issue of a
'trial of law,' than on the thews and sinews of the doughtiest champion
that ever figured in an 'ordeal of battle.'"
In one respect there is a strong similarity between the two
institutions. Each, in its separate age, possessed the same sway and
influence over men's minds, investing with the deepest interest events
of which they were hitherto ignorant, and enlisting partisans of opinion
in cases where, individually, there was nothing at stake.
An important trial has all the high interest of a most exciting
narrative, whose catastrophe is yet to come, and where so many
influential agencies are in operation to mould it. The proofs
themselves, the veracity of witnesses, their self-possession and courage
under the racking torture of cross-examination, the ability and skill
of the advocate, the temper of the judge, his character of rashness
or patience, of doubt or decisiveness; and then, more vague than all
besides, the verdict of twelve perhaps rightly minded but as certainly
very ordinarily endowed men, on questions sometimes of the greatest
subtlety and obscurity. The sum of such conflicting currents makes up a
"cross sea," where everything is possible, from the favoring tide that
leads to safety, to the swell and storm of utter shipwreck.
At the winter assizes of Galway, in the year 1802, all the deep
sympathies of a law-loving population were destined to be most heartily
engaged by the record of Darcy versus Hickman, now removed by a change
of venue for trial to that city. It needed not the unusual compliment
of Galway being selected as a likely spot for the due administration of
justice, to make the plaintiff somewhat popular on this occasion. The
reaction which for some time back had taken place in favor of the "real
gentry" had gone on gaining in strength, so that public opinion
was already inclining to the side of those who had earned a sort of
prescriptive right to public confidence. The claptraps of patriotism,
associated as they were often found to be with cruel treatment of
tenants and dependants, were contrasted with the independent bearing of
men who, rejecting dictation and spurning mob popularity, devoted the
best energies of mind and fortune to the interests of all belonging
to them. All the vindictiveness and rancor of a party press could not
obliterate these traits, and character sufficed to put down calumny.
Hickman O'Reilly, accompanied by the old doctor, had arrived in
Galway the evening before the trial, in all the pomp of a splendid
travelling-carriage, drawn by four posters. The whole of "Nolan's" Head
Inn had been already engaged for them and their party, who formed a
tolerably numerous suite of lawyers, solicitors, and clerks, together
with some private friends, curious to witness the proceedings.
In a very quiet but comfortable old inn called the "Devil and the Bag
of Nails,"--a corruption of the ancient Satyr and the Bacchanals,--Mr.
Bicknell had pitched his camp, having taken rooms for the Knight and
Forester, who were to arrive soon after him, but whose presence in
Ireland was not even suspected by the enemy.
There was a third individual who repaired to the West on this occasion,
but who studiously screened himself from observation, waiting patiently
for the issue of the combat to see on which side he should carry his
congratulation: need we say his name was Con Heffernan?
Bicknell had heard of certain threats of the opposite party, which,
while he did not communicate them to Darcy, were sufficient to give him
deep uneasiness, as they went so far as to menace a very severe reprisal
for these continued proceedings by a criminal action against Lionel
Darcy. Of what nature, and on what grounds sustained, he knew not; but
he was given to understand that if his principal would even now
submit to some final adjustment out of court, the Hickmans would treat
liberally with him, and, while abandoning these threatened proceedings
against young Darcy, show Bicknell all the grounds for such a procedure.
It was past midnight when Darcy and Forester arrived; but before
the Knight retired to rest he had learned all Bicknell's doubts and
scruples, and unhesitatingly decided on proceeding with his suit. He
felt that a compromise would now involve the honor of his son, of which
he had not the slightest dread of any investigation; and, however small
the prospect of success, the trial must take place to evidence his utter
disregard, his open defiance of this menace.
Morning came; and long before the judges took their seat, the court was
crowded in every part. The town was thronged with the equipages of the
neighboring gentry, all eager to witness the trial; while the country
people, always desirous of an exciting scene, thronged every avenue and
passage of the building, and even the wide area in front of it. Nothing
short of that passion for law and its interests, so inherent in an Irish
heart, could have held that vast multitude thus enchained; for the day
was one of terrific storm, the rain beating, the wind howling, and the
sea roaring as it swept into the bay and broke in showers of foam upon
the rocky shore. Each moment ran the rumor of some new disaster in the
town,--now it was a chimney fallen, now a roof blown in, now an entire
house, with all its inmates destroyed; fires, too, the invariable
accompaniment of hurricane, had broken out in various quarters, and
cries for help and screams of wretchedness were mingled with the wilder
uproar of the elements. Yet of that dense mob, few if any quitted their
places for these sights and sounds of woe. The whole interest lay within
that sombre building, and on the issue of an event of whose particulars
they knew absolutely nothing, and the details of which it was impossible
they could follow did they even hear them.
The ordinary precursors to the interest of these scenes are the chance
appearances of those who are to figure prominently in them; and such,
indeed, attracted far more of attention on this occasion than all the
startling accidents by fire and storm then happening on every side. Each
lawyer of celebrity on the circuit was speedily recognized, and greeted
by tokens of welcome or expressions of disfavor, as politics or party
inclined. The attorneys were treated with even greater familiarity,
themselves not disdaining to exchange a repartee as they passed, in
which combats, be it said, they were not always the victors. At last
came old Dr. Hickman, feebly crawling along, leaning one arm on his
son's, and the other on the stalwart support of Counsellor O'Halloran.
The already begun cheer for the popular "Counsellor" was checked by the
arrival of the sheriff, preceding and making way for the judges, whose
presence ever imposed a respectful demeanor. The buzz and hum of voices,
subdued for a moment, had again resumed its sway, when once more the
police exerted themselves to make a passage through the throng, calling
out, "Make way for the Attorney-General!" and a jovial, burly personage,
with a face redolent of convivial humor and rough merriment, came up,
rather dragging than linked with the thin, slight figure of Bicknell,
who with unwonted eagerness was whispering something in his ear.
"I'll do it with pleasure, Bicknell," rejoined the full, mellow voice,
loud enough to be heard by those on either side; "I know the sheriff
very well, and he will take care to let him have a seat on the bench.
What's the name?"
"The Earl of Wallincourt," whispered Bicknell, a little louder.
"That's enough; I'll not forget it" So saying, he released his grasp of
the little man, and pursued his vigorous course. In a few moments after,
Bicknell was seen accompanied by Forester alone; "the Knight" having
determined not to present himself till towards the close of the
proceedings, if even then.
The buzz and din incident to a tumultuous assembly had just subsided to
the decorous quietude of a Court of Justice, by the judges entering and
taking their seats, when, after a few words interchanged between the
Attorney-General and the sheriff, the latter courteously addressed Lord
Wallincourt, and made way for him to ascend the steps leading to
the bench. The incident was in itself too slight and unimportant for
mention, save that it speedily attracted the attention of O'Halloran,
whose quick glance at once recognized his ancient enemy. So sudden was
the shock, and so poignant did it seem, that he actually desisted from
the occupation he was engaged in of turning over his brief, and sat down
pale and trembling with passion.
"You are not ill?" asked O'Reilly, eagerly, for he had not remarked the
incident.
"Not ill," rejoined O'Halloran, in a low, deep whisper; "but do you see
who is sitting next Judge Wallace, on the left of the bench?"
"Forester, I really believe," exclaimed O'Reilly; for so separated were
the two "United" countries at that period that his accession to rank and
title was a circumstance of which neither O'Reilly nor his lawyer had
ever heard.
"We 'll change the venue for him, too, before the day is over," said
O'Halloran, with a savage leer. "Do not let him see that we notice him."
While these brief words were interchanged, the business of the court
was opened, and, some routine matters over, the record of Darcy versus
Hickman called on. After this, the names of the special jury list were
recited, and the invariable scene of dispute and wrangling incident
to their choice followed. In law, as in war, the combat opens by a
skirmish; a single cannon-shot, or a leading question, if thrown out, is
meant rather to ascertain "the range" than with any positive intention
of damage; but gradually the light troops fall back, forces concentrate,
and a mighty movement is made. In the present instance the preliminaries
were unusually long, the plaintiff's counsel not only stating all the
grounds of the present suit, but recapitulating, with painful accuracy,
the reasons for the change of venue, and reviewing and of course
rebutting by anticipation every possible or impossible objection
that might be made by his learned friend on "the other side." For our
purpose, it is enough if we condense the matter into a single statement,
that the action was to show that Hickman, in purchasing portions of the
Darcy estate, was and must have been aware that the Knight of Gwynne's
signature appended to the deed of sale was a forgery, and that he
never had concurred in, nor was even cognizant of, this disposal of his
property. A single case was selected to establish this fact, on which,
if proved, further proceedings in Equity would be founded.
The plaintiff's case opened by an examination of a number of witnesses,
old tenants of the Darcy property. These were not only called to prove
the value of their holdings, as being very far above the price alleged
to have been paid by Hickman, but also that they themselves were in
total ignorance that the estate had been conveyed away to another
proprietor, and never knew till the flight and death of Gleeson took
place, that for many years previous they had ceased to be tenants of
Maurice Darcy, to become those of Dr. Hickman.
The examination and cross-examination of these witnesses presented all
the varying and changeful fortunes ever observable in such scenes.
At one moment some obdurate old farmer resisting, with ludicrous
pertinacity, all the efforts of the examining counsel to elicit the very
testimony he himself wished to give; at another, the native humor of
the peasant was seen baffling and foiling all the trained skill and
practised dexterity of the pleader. Many a merry burst of laughter, many
a jest that set the court in a roar, were exchanged. It was in Ireland,
remember; but still the business of the day advanced, and a great
weight of evidence was adduced, which, however suggestive to common
intelligence, went legally only so far as to show that the tenantry
were, almost to a man, of an opinion which, whether well founded or not
in reason, turned out to be incorrect.
Darcy's counsel, a man of quickness and intelligence, made a very able
speech, summing up the evidence, and commenting on every leading portion
of it. He dwelt powerfully on the fact that at the time of this alleged
sale the Knight, so far from being a distressed and embarrassed man, and
consequently likely to effect a sale at a great loss, was, in reality,
in possession of a princely fortune, his debts few and insignificant,
and his income far above any possible expenditure. If he studiously
avoided adverting to Gleeson's perfidy, as solely in fault, he assumed
to himself credit for the forbearance, alleging that less scrupulous
advisers might have gone perhaps further, and inferred connivance in a
case so dubious and dark. "My client, however," said he, "gave me but
one instruction in this cause, and it was this: 'If the law of the land,
justly administered, as I believe it will be, restores to me my own, I
shall be grateful; but if the pursuit of what I feel my right involve
the risk of reflecting on one honest man's fame, or imputing falsely
aught of dishonor to an unblemished reputation, I tell you frankly, I
don't think a verdict so obtained can carry with it anything but shame
and disgrace."
With these words he sat down, amid a murmur of approving voices;
for there were many there who knew the Knight by reputation, if not
personally, and were aware how well such a speech accorded with every
feature of his character.
There was a brief delay as he resumed his seat. It was already late, the
court had been obliged to be lighted up a considerable time previous,
and the question of an adjournmeut was now discussed. The probable
length of O'Halloran's reply would best guide the decision, and the
Chief Baron asked if the learned counsel's statement were likely to be
long.
"Yes, my Lord," replied he; "it is not a case to be dismissed briefly,
and I have many witnesses to call."
Another brief discussion took place on the bench, and the Chief Baron
announced that as there were many important causes still standing over
for trial, they should best consult public convenience by proceeding,
and that, after a few moments devoted to refreshment, the case should go
on.
The judges retired, and many of the leading counsel took the same
opportunity to recruit strength exhausted by several hours of severe
toil. The Hickmans and O'Halloran never quitted their places; a decanter
of sherry and a sandwich from the hotel were served where they sat,
but the old man took nothing. The interest of the scene appeared too
absorbing to admit of even a sense of hunger or weariness, and he sat
with his hands folded, and his eyes mechanically fixed upon the now
empty jury-box; for there, the whole day, were his looks riveted, to
read, if he might, the varying emotions in the faces of those who held
so much of his fortune in their keeping.
While the noise and hubbub which characterize a court at such intervals
was at its highest, a report was circulated that increased in no small
degree the excitement of the scene, and gave a character of intense
anxiety to an assemblage so lately broken up by varied and dissimilar
passions. It was this: a large vessel had struck on a reef in the bay,
and the sea was now breaking over her. She had been seen from an early
hour endeavoring to beat to the southward; but the wind had drawn more
to the westward as the storm increased, and a strong shore current had
also drawn her on land. In a last endeavor to clear the headlands of
Clare, she missed stays, and being struck by a heavy sea, her rudder was
carried away. Totally unmanageable now, she was drifted along, till
she struck on a most dangerous reef about a mile from shore. Signals of
distress were seen at her masthead, but no boat could venture out.
The storm was already a hurricane, and even in the very harbor two
fishing-boats had sunk.
As the dreadful tidings flew from mouth to mouth, a terrible
confirmation was heard in the booming of guns of distress, which at
brief intervals sounded amid the crashing of the storm.
It was at this moment of intense excitement that the crier proclaimed
silence for the approaching entry of the judges. If the din of human
voices became hushed and low, the deafening thunder of the elements
seemed to increase, and the roaring of the enraged sea appeared to fill
the very atmosphere.
As the judges resumed their seats, and the vast crowd ceased to stir or
speak, O'Halloran arose. His voice was singularly low and quiet; but yet
every word he uttered was distinctly heard through all the clamor of the
storm.
"My Lords," said he, "before entering upon my client's case, I would
bespeak the kind indulgence of the court in respect to a matter purely
personal to myself. Your Lordships are too well aware that I should
insist upon it, that in a cause where the weightiest interests of
property are engaged, the mind of the advocate should be disembarrassed
and free,--not only free as regards the exercise of whatever knowledge
and skill he may possess, not merely free from the supposition of any
individual hazard the honest discharge of his duty might incur, but
free from the greater thraldom of disturbed and irritated emotions,
originating in the deepest sense of wounded honor.
"Far be it from me, my Lords, long used in the practice of these courts,
and long intimate with the righteous principle on which the laws are
administered in them, to utter a syllable that in the remotest degree
might seem to impugn the justice of the bench; but, a mere frail and
erring creature, with feelings common to all around me, I wish to
protest against continuing my client's case while your Lordships' bench
is occupied by one who, in my person, has grossly outraged the sanctity
of the law. Yes, my Lords," said he, raising his voice, till the
deep tones swelled and floated through the vast space, "as the humble
advocate of a cause, I now proclaim that in addressing that bench, I
am incapable to render justice to the case before me, so long as I see
associated with your Lordships a man more worthy to figure in the dock
than to take his seat among the ermined judges of the land. A moment
more, my Lords. I am ready to make oath that the individual on your
Lordships' left is Richard Forester, commonly called the Honorable
Richard Forester;--how suitable the designation, your Lordships shall
soon hear--"
"I beg to interrupt my learned friend," interposed the Attorney-General,
rising. "He is totally in error; and I would wish to save him from the
embarrassment of misdescription. The gentleman he alludes to is the Earl
of Wallincourt, a peer of the realm."
"Proceed with your client's case, Mr. O'Halloran," said the Chief
Baron, who saw that to discuss the question further was now irrelevant.
O'Halloran sat down, overwhelmed with rage; a whispered communication
from behind told him that the Attorney-General was correct, and that
Forester was removed beyond the reach of his vengeance. After a few
moments he rallied, and again rose. Turning slowly over the pages of a
voluminous brief, he stood waiting, with practised art, till expectancy
had hushed each murmur around, when suddenly the crier called, "Way,
there,--make way for the High Sheriff!" and that functionary, with a
manner of excessive agitation, leaned over the bar, and addressed the
bench. "My Lords, I most humbly entreat your Lordships' forgiveness for
thus interrupting the business of the court; but the extreme emergency
will, I hope, pardon the indecorum. A large vessel has struck on the
rocks in the bay: each moment it is expected she must go to pieces. A
panic seems to prevail among even our hardy fishermen; and my humble
request is, that if there be any individual in this crowded assembly
possessing naval knowledge, or any experience in calamities of this
nature, he will aid us by his advice and co-operation."
The senior judge warmly approved the humane suggestion of the sheriff;
and several persons were seen now forcing their way through the dense
mass,--the far greater part, be it owned, more excited by curiosity than
stimulated by any hope of rendering efficient service. Notwithstanding
Bicknell's repeated entreaties, and remembrances of his late severe
illness, Forester also quitted the court, and accompanied the sheriff
to the beach. And now O'Halloran, whose impatience during this interval
displayed little sympathy with the sad occasion of the interruption,
asked, in a manner almost querulous, if their Lordships were ready to
hear him? The court assented, and he began. Without once adverting to
the subject on which he so lately addressed them, he opened his case by
a species of narrative of the whole legal contest which for some time
back had been maintained between the opposite parties in the present
suit. Nothing could be more calm or more dispassionate than the estimate
he formed of such struggles; neither inclining the balance to one party
nor the other, but weighing with impartiality all the reasons that might
prompt men on one side to continue a course of legal investigations,
and the painful necessity on the other to provide a series of defences,
costly, onerous, and harassing. "I have only to point out to the court
the defendant in this action, to show how severe such a duty may become.
Here, my Lords, beside me, site the gentleman, bowed down with more
years than are allotted to humanity generally. Look upon him, and say if
it be not difficult to determine what course to follow,--the abandonment
of a just right, or its maintenance, at the cost of rendering the
few last years--why do I say years?--days, hours, of a life careworn,
distracted, and miserable!"
Dwelling long enough on this theme to interest without wearying the
jury, he adroitly addressed himself to the case of those who, by a
system of litigious persecution, would seek to obtain by menace what
they must despair of by law. Beginning by vague and wide generalities,
he gradually accumulated a mass of allegations and inferences, which
concentrating to a point, he suddenly checked himself, and said: "Now,
my Lords, it may be supposed that I will imitate the delicate reserve of
my learned friend opposite, and while filling your minds with dark and
mysterious suspicions, profess a perfect ignorance of all intention to
apply them. But I will not do this: I will be candid and free-spoken;
nay, more, my Lords, I will finish what my learned friend has left
incomplete; and I will proclaim to the court, and this jury, what he
wished, but did not dare, to say,--that we, the defendants in this
action, were not only cognizant of a forgery, but were associated in the
act! There it is, my Lords; and I accept my learned friend's bland smile
as the warm acknowledgment of the truth of my assertion. My learned
friend is obliged to me. I see that he cannot conceal his joy at the
inaptitude of my avowal. But we have a case, my Lords, that can happily
dispense with the dexterity of an advocate, and make its truth felt,
even through means as unskilful as mine. They disclaimed, it is
true,--they disclaimed in words the wish to make this inference; but
even take their disclaimer as such, and what is it? An avowal of their
weakness, an open expression of the poverty of their proofs. Yes, my
Lords, their disclaimers were like the ominous sounds which break from
time to time upon our ear,--but signal-guns of distress. Like that fated
vessel, whose sad destiny is perhaps this moment accomplishing, they
have been storm-tossed and cast away,--their proud ensign torn, and
their rudder gone, but, unlike her, they cannot brave their fate without
seeking to involve others in the calamity."
A terrible gust of wind, so sudden and violent as to be like a
thunderclap, now struck the building; and with one tremendous crash
the great window of the court-house was driven in, and scattered in
fragments of glass and timber throughout the court. A scene of the
wildest confusion ensued, for almost immediately the lights became
extinguished, and from the dark abyss arose a terrible chaos of voices
in every agony of fear and suffering. Some announced that the roof
was giving way and was about to crush them; others, in all the bodily
torture of severe wounds, cried for help.
It was nearly an hour before the court could resume its sitting, which
at length was done in one of the adjoining courts, the usual scene
of the criminal trials. Here, now, lights were procured, and after a
considerable delay the cause proceeded. If the various events of the
night, added to the fatigue of the day, had impressed both the bench
and the jury with signs of greatest exhaustion, O'Halloran showed no
evidence of abated vigor. On the contrary, like one whose vengeance had
been thwarted by opposing accident, he exhibited a species of impatient
ardor to resume his work of defamation. With a brief apology for any
want of due coherence in an argument so frequently interrupted, he
launched out into the most ferocious attack upon the plaintiff in
the suit; and while repudiating the affected reserve of the opposite
counsel, boldly proclaimed that they would not imitate it; nay, further,
that they were only awaiting the sure verdict in their favor, to
commence a criminal action against the parties for the very crime they
dared to insinuate against them.
"I shall now call my witnesses, my Lord; and if the Grand Cross of
the Bath, which this day's paper tells me is to be conferred upon the
plaintiff, be not meant, like the brand which foreign justice impresses
on its felons, as a mark of ignominy, I am at a loss to understand how
it has descended on this man. Call Nathaniel Leery."
The examination of the witnesses was in perfect keeping with the
infamous scurrility of the speech, and the testimony elicited went
to prove everything the advocate desired. Though exposed by
cross-examination, and their perjury proved, O'Halloran kept a perpetual
recapitulation of their assertions before the jury, and so artfully
that few, save the practised minds of a legal auditory, could have
distinguished in that confused web of truth and falsehood.
The business proceeded with difficulty; for, added to the uproar of the
storm, was a continued tumult of voices in the outer hall of the court,
and where now several sailors, saved from the wreck, had been brought
for shelter. By frequent loud cries from this quarter the court
was interrupted, and more than once its proceedings completely
arrested,--inconveniences which the judges submitted to with the most
tolerant patience,--when at length a loud murmur arose, which gradually
swelling louder and louder, all respect for the sacred precincts of the
judgment-seat seemed lost in the wild tumult. In a tone of sharp reproof
the Chief Baron called on the sheriff to allay the uproar, and if
necessary, to clear the hall. The order was scarcely given, when one
deafening shout was raised from the street, and, soon caught up, echoed
by a thousand voices, while shrill cries of "He has saved them! he has
saved them!" rent the air.
"What means this, Mr. Sheriff?"
"It is my Lord Wallincourt, my Lord, who has just rescued from the wreck
three men who persisted in being lost together rather than separate.
Hitherto only one man was taken at each trip of the boat; but this young
nobleman offered a thousand pounds to the crew who would accompany him,
and it appears they have succeeded."
"Really, my Lords," said O'Halloran, who had heard the honorable mention
of a hated name, "I must abandon my client's cause. These interruptions,
which I conclude your influence is powerless to remove, have so
interfered with the line of defence I had laid down for adoption, and
have so confused the order of the proofs I had prepared, that I
should but injure, and not serve, my respected client by continuing to
represent his interests."
A bland assurance from the court that order should be rigidly enforced,
and a pressing remonstrance from O'Reilly, overcame a resolve scarcely
maturely taken, and he consented to go on.
"We will now, my Lords," said he, "call a very material witness,--a
respectable tenant on the property,--who will prove that on a day in
November, antecedent to Gleeson's death, he had a conversation with the
Knight of Gwynne--Really, my Lords, I cannot proceed; this is no longer
a court of justice."
The remainder of his words were lost in an uproar like that of the sea
itself; and, like that element, the great mass swelled forward, and a
rush of people from the outer hall bore into the court, till seats and
barriers gave way before that overwhelming throng.
For some minutes the scene was one of almost personal conflict. The mob,
driven forward by those behind, were obliged to endure a buffeting by
the more recognized possessors of the place; nor was it till police and
military had lent their aid that the court was again restored to quiet,
while several of the rioters were led off in custody.
"Who are these men, and to what purpose are they here?" said the Chief
Baron, as Bicknell officiously exerted himself to make way for some
persons behind.
"I come to tender my evidence in this cause," said a deep, solemn
voice, as a man advanced to the witness-table, displaying to the amazed
assembly a bold, intrepid countenance, on which streaks of blue and
yellow color were fantastically mingled, like the war-paint of a savage.
"Who are you, sir?" rejoined O'Halloran, with his habitual scowl.
"My name is Bagenal Daly. I believe their Lordships are not ignorant
of my rank and station; and this gentleman at my side is also here to
afford his testimony. This, my Lords, is Thomas Gleeson!"
One cry of amazement rang through the assembly, through which a wild
shriek pierced with a clear and terrible distinctness; and now the
attention was suddenly turned towards old Hickman, who had fallen
forward senseless on the table.
"My client is very ill,--he is dangerously ill. My Lord, I beg to
suggest an adjournment of the cause," said O'Halloran; while O'Reilly,
with a face like death, continued to whisper eagerly in his ear. "I
appeal to the plaintiff himself, if he be here, and is not devoid of the
feelings attributed to him, and I ask that the cause may be adjourned."
"It is not a case in which the defendant's illness can be made use of
to press such a demand," said one of the judges, mildly; "but if the
opposite party consent--"
"He is worse, my Lord."
"I say, if the opposite party--"
"He is dead!" said O'Halloran, solemnly; and letting go the lifeless
hand, it fell with a heavy bang upon the table.
"Take your verdict," said O'Halloran, with the look of a demon; and,
bursting his way through the crowd, disappeared.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONCLUSION
When Forester entered the Knight's room in the inn, where, in calm
quietude, he sat awaiting the verdict, he hesitated for a moment how he
should break the joyful tidings of Daly's arrival.
"Speak out," said Darcy. "If not exactly without hope, I am well
prepared for the worst."
"Can you say you are equally ready to hear the best?" asked Forester,
eagerly.
"The best is a very strong word, my young friend," said Darcy, gravely.
"And yet, I speak advisedly,--the best."
"If so, perhaps I am not so prepared. My heart has dwelt so long on
these troubles, recognizing them as I felt they must be, that I would,
perhaps, ask a little time to think how I should hear tidings so remote
from all expectation. Of course, I do not speak of the mere verdict
here."
"Nor I," interposed Forester, impatiently. "I speak of what restores you
to your ancient house and rank, your station and your fortune."
"Can this be true?"
"Ay, Maurice, every word of it," broke in Daly, who, having listened so
far, could no longer restrain himself. The two old men fell into each
other's arms with all the cordial affection with which they had embraced
as schoolfellows sixty years before.
Great as was Darcy's amazement at seeing his oldest friend thus suddenly
restored, it was nothing in comparison to what he felt as Daly narrated
the event of the shipwreck, and his rescue from the sinking vessel by
Forester.
"And your companions, who were they?" asked Darcy, eagerly.
"You shall hear."
"I guess one of them already," interposed the Knight "The trusty Sandy.
Is it not so?"
"The other you will never hit upon," said Daly, nodding an assent.
"I 'm thinking over all our friends, and yet none seem likely."
"Come, Maurice, prepare yourself for surprise. What think you, if he to
whose fate I had linked myself, resolving that, live or die, we should
not separate,--if this man was--Gleeson--honest Tom Gleeson?"
The words seemed stunning in their effect; for Darey leaned back,
and passing his hands over his closed lids, murmured, "I hope my poor
faculties are not wandering,--I trust this may be no delusion."
"He is yonder," said Daly, taking the Knight's hand in his strong grasp;
"Sandy mounts guard over him. Not that the poor devil thinks of or
desires escape; he was too weary of a life of deception and sin when
we caught him, to wish to prolong it. Now rouse yourself, and listen to
me."
It would doubtless be a heavy tax on our kind reader's patience were
we to relate, circumstantially, the conversation, that, now commencing,
lasted during the entire night and till late in the following morning.
Enough if we say that Daly, having, through Freney's instrumentality,
discovered that Gleeson had not committed suicide, but only spread this
rumor for concealment's sake, resolved to pursue him to America. Fearing
that any suspicion of his object might escape, he did not even
trust Bicknell with the secret; but by suffering him to continue
law proceedings as before, totally blinded the Hickmans as to the
possibility of the event.
It would in itself be a tale of marvel to recount the strange adventures
which Daly encountered in his search and pursuit of Gleeson, who had
originally taken up his residence in the States, was recognized there,
and fled into Canada, where he wandered about from place to place,
conscience-stricken and miserable. He was wretchedly poor, besides;
for on the bills and securities he carried away, many being on eminent
houses in America, payment was stopped, and being unable to risk
proceedings, he was reduced to beggary.
It now appeared that at a very early period of life, when a clerk in the
office of old Hickman's agent, he had committed a forgery. It was for
a small sum, and only done in anticipation of meeting the bill by his
salary due a few weeks later. So far the fraud was palliated by the
intention. By some mischance the document fell into the possession of
Dr. Hickman, whose name it falsely bore. He immediately took steps to
trace its origin, and having succeeded, he sent for Gleeson. When the
youth, pale and terror-stricken by suspicion, made his appearance, he
was amazed that, instead of finding a prosecutor ready prepared for his
ruin, he discovered a benevolent patron, who, having long watched the
zeal and assiduity with which he discharged his duties, desired to be
of use to him in life. Hickman told him that if he were disposed to make
the venture on his own account, he would use his influence to procure
him some small agencies, and even assist him with funds, to make
advances to those landlords who might employ him. The interview lasted
long. There was much excellent advice and wise admonition on one side,
profuse expression of gratitude and lasting fidelity on the other.
"Very well, very well," said old Hickman, at the close of a very devoted
speech, in which Gleeson professed the most attached and the most
honorable motives,--for he was not at all aware that his bill was known
of,--"I am not ignorant of mankind; they are rarely, if ever, very bad
or very good; they can be occasionally faithful to their friends;
but there is one thing they are always--careful of themselves. See
this,"--here he took from his pocket-book the forged paper, and held it
before the almost sinking youth,--"there is what can bring you to the
gallows any day! Is this the first time?"
"It is, so help me--" cried he, falling on his knees.
"Never mind swearing. I believe you. And the last also?"
"And the last!"
"I see it must be, by the date," rejoined Hickman.
"I can pay it, sir; I have the money ready--on Tuesday--"
"Never mind that," replied Hickman, folding it up, and replacing it in
the pocket-book. "You shall pay me in something better than money,--in
gratitude. Come and dine with me alone to-day, and we 'll talk over the
future."
It has never been our taste to present pictures of depravity to our
readers; we would more willingly turn from them, or, where that is
impossible, make them as sketchy as may be. It will be sufficient,
then, if we say that Gleeson's whole career was the plan and creation
of Hickman. The rigid and scrupulous honor, the spotless decorum, the
unshaken probity, were all devices to win public confidence and
esteem. That they were eminently successful, the epithet of "honest Tom
Gleeson," by which he was universally known, is the guarantee. The union
of such qualities with consummate skill and the most unwearied zeal soon
made him the most distinguished man in his walk, and made his services
not only an evidence of success, but of a rectitude in obtaining success
that men of character prized still more highly.
Possessed of the titles of immense estates, invested with unbounded
confidence by the owners, cognizant of every legal flaw that
could excite uneasiness, aware of every hitch and strait of their
circumstances, he was less the servant than the master of those who
employed him.
It was a period when habits of extravagance prevailed to the widest
extent. The proprietors of estates deemed spending their incomes their
only duty, and left its cares to the agents. The only reproach, then,
ever laid to Gleeson's door was that when a question of a sale or a
loan was agitated, honest Tom's scruples were often a most troublesome
impediment to his less scrupulous employer. In fact, Gleeson stood
before the public as a kind of guardian of estated property,--the
providence of dowagers, widows, and younger children!
Such a man, with his neck in a halter, at any moment at the mercy of
old Dr. Hickman, was an agent for ruin almost inconceivable. Through his
instrumentality the old usurer laid out his immense stores of wealth
at enormous interest, obtained possession of vast estates at a mere
fraction of their worth, till at length, grown hardy by long impunity,
and daring by the recognition of the world, bolder expedients were
ventured on. Darcy's ruin was long the cherished dream of Hickman; and
when, after many a wily scheme and long negotiation, he saw Gleeson
engaged as his agent, he felt certain of victory. His first scheme was
to make Gleeson encourage young Lionel in every project of extravagance,
by putting his name to bills, assuring him that his father permitted him
an almost unlimited expenditure. This course once entered upon, and well
aware that the young man kept no record of such transactions, his name
was forged to several acceptances of large amount, and, subsequently, to
sales of property to meet them.
Meanwhile great loans were raised by Darcy to pay off incumbrances,
and never so employed; till, at length, the Knight decided upon the
negotiation which was to clear off Hickman's mortgage,--the debt, of all
others, he hated most to think of. So quietly was this carried on, that
Hickman heard nothing of it; for Gleeson, long wearied by a life of
treachery and perfidy, and never knowing the day or the hour when
disclosure might come, had resolved on escaping to America with this
large sum of money, leaving his colleague in crime to carry on business
alone.
"The Doctor" was not, however, to be thus duped. Secret and silent as
the arrangements for flight were, he heard of them all; and hastening
out to Gleeson's house, coolly told him that any attempt at escape would
bring him to the gallows. Gleeson attempted a denial. He alleged that
his intended going over to England was merely on account of this sum,
which Darcy was negotiating for, to pay off the mortgage.
A new light broke on Hickman. He saw that his terrified confederate
could not much longer be relied upon, and it was agreed between them
that Gleeson should pay the money to redeem the mortgage, and, having
obtained the release, show it to the Knight of Gwynne. This done, he was
to carry it back to Hickman, and, for the sum of 10,000, replace it in
his hands, thus enabling the doctor to deny the payment and foreclose
the mortgage, while honest Tom, weary of perfidy, and seeking repose,
should follow his original plan, and escape to America.
The money was paid, as Freney surmised and Daly believed; but Gleeson,
still dreading some act of treachery, instead of returning the release
and claiming the price, started a day earlier than he promised. The rest
is known to the reader. Whether the Hickmans credited the story of
the suicide or not, they were never quite free of the terror of a
disclosure; and, in pressing the matrimonial arrangement, hoped forever
to set at rest the disputed possession.
It would probably not interest our readers were we to dwell longer on
Gleeson or his motives. That some vague intention existed of one day
restoring to Darcy the release of his mortgage, is perhaps not unlikely.
A latent spark of honor, long buried beneath the ashes of crime, often
shines out brightly in the last hour of existence. There might be,
too, a cherished project of vengeance against the man that tempted and
destroyed him. Be it as it may, he guarded the document as though it had
been his last hope; and when tracked, pursued, and overtaken near
Fort Erie by a party of the Delawares, of whom the Howling Wind, alias
Bagenal Daly, was chief, it was found stitched up in the breast of his
waistcoat.
Our space does not permit us to dwell upon Bagenal Daly's adventures,
though we may assure our readers that they were both wild and wonderful.
One only regret darkened the happiness of his exploit. It was that he
was compelled so soon to leave the pleasant society of the Red
Skins, and the intellectual companionship of "Blue Fox" and "Hissing
Lightning;" while Sandy, discovering himself to be a widower, would
gladly have contracted new ties, to cement the alliance of the ancient
house of M'Grane with that of the Royal Family of Hickinbooke, or
the "Slimy Whip Snake," a fair princess of which had bid high for his
affections. Indeed, the worthy Sandy had become romantic on the subject,
and suggested that if the lady would condescend to adopt certain
articles of attire, he would have no objection to take her back to "The
Corvy." These were sacrifices, however, that not even love was called
upon to make, and the project was abortive.
[Illustration: 458]
So far have we condensed Bagenal Daly's narrative, which, orally
delivered, lasted till the sun was high and the morning fine and bright.
He had only concluded, when a servant in O'Reilly's livery brought
a letter, which he said was to be given to the Knight of Gwynne, but
required no answer. Its contents were the following:--
Sir,--The melancholy catastrophe of yesterday evening might excuse me
in your eyes from any attention to the claims of mere business. But the
discovery of certain documents lately in the possession of my father
demand at my hands the most prompt and complete reparation. I now know,
sir, that we were unjustly possessed of an estate and property that
were yours. I also know that severe wrongs have been inflicted upon you
through the instrumentality of my family. I have only to make the
best amende in my power, by immediately restoring the one, and asking
forgiveness for the other. If you can and will accord me the pardon I
seek, I shall, as soon as the sad duties which devolve upon me here are
completed, leave this country for the Continent, never to return. I have
already given directions to my legal adviser to confer with Mr Bicknell;
and no step will be omitted to secure a safe and speedy restoration
of your house and estate to its rightful owner. In deep humiliation, I
remain
Your obedient servant,
H. O'Reilly.
"Poor fellow!" said Darcy, throwing down the letter before Daly; "he
seems to have been no party to the fraud, and yet all the penalty falls
upon him."
"Have no pity for the upstart rascal, Maurice; I 'll wager a
hundred--thank Heaven, Mr. Gleeson has put me in possession of a
few--that he was as deep as his father. Give me this paper, and I 'll
ask honest Tom the question."
"Not so, Bagenal; I should be sorry to think worse of any man than I
must do. Let him have at least the benefit of a doubt; and as to honest
Tom, set him at liberty: we no longer want him; the papers he has given
are quite sufficient,--more than we are ever like to need."
Daly had no fancy for relinquishing his hold of the game that cost him
so much trouble to take; but the Knight's words were usually a law to
him, and with a muttering remark of "I 'll do it because I 'll have my
eye on him," he left the room to liberate his captive.
"There he goes," exclaimed Daly, as, re-entering the room, he saw a
chaise rapidly drive from the door,--"there he goes, Maurice; and I own
to you I have an easier conscience for having let loose Freney on the
world than for liberating honest Tom Gleeson; but who have we here, with
four smoking posters?--ladies too!"
A travelling-carriage drew up at the door of the little inn, and
immediately three ladies descended. "That 's Maria," cried Daly, rushing
from the room, and at once returned with his sister, Lady Eleanor, and
Miss Darcy.
Miss Daly had, three days before, received a letter from
Bagenal, detailing his capture of Gleeson, and informing her that he
hoped to be back in Ireland almost as soon as his letter. With these
tidings she hastened to Lady Eleanor, and concerted the journey which
now brought them all together.
Story-tellers have but scant privilege to linger where all is happiness,
unbroken and perfect. Like Mother Cary's chickens, their province is
rather with menacing storm than the signs of fair weather. We have,
then, but space to say that a more delighted party never met than those
who now assembled in that little inn; but one face showed any signs of
passing sorrow,--that was poor Forester's. The general joy, to which he
had so much contributed by his exertions, rather threw a gloomier shade
over his own unhappiness; and in secret he resolved to say "Good-bye"
that same evening.
Amid a thousand plans for the future, all tinged with their own bright
color, they sat round the fire at evening, when Miss Daly, whose
affection for the youth was strengthened by what she had seen during
his illness, remarked that he alone seemed exempt from the general
happiness.
"To whom we owe so much," said Lady Eleanor, kindly. "My husband is
indebted to him for his life."
"I can say as much, too," said Daly; "not to speak of Gleeson's
gratitude."
"Nay!" exclaimed the young man, blushing, "I did not know the service I
was rendering. I little guessed how grateful I should myself have reason
to be for being its instrument."
"All this is very well," said Miss Daly, abruptly; "but it is not
honest,--no, it is not honest. There are other feelings concerned here
than such amiable generalities as Joy, Pity, and Gratitude. Don't frown,
Helen,--that is better, love,--a smile becomes you to perfection."
"I must stop you," said Forester, blushing deeply. "It will be enough
if I say that any observation you can make must give me the deepest
pain,--not for myself--"
"But for Helen? I don't believe it. You may be a very sharp politician
and a very brave soldier, but you know very little about young ladies.
Yes, there 'a no denying it,-their game is all deceit."
"Oh! Colonel Darcy--Lady Eleanor, will you not speak a word?" exclaimed
Forester, pale and agitated.
"A hundred, my dear boy," cried the Knight, "if they would serve you;
but Helen's one is worth them all."
"Miss Darcy, dare I hope? Helen, dearest!" added he, in a whisper, as,
taking her hand, he led her towards a window.
"My Lord, the carriage is ready," said his servant, throwing wide the
door.
"You may order the horses back again," said Daly, dryly; "my Lord is not
going this evening."
Has our reader ever made a long voyage? Has he ever experienced in
himself the strange but most complete alteration in all his sentiments
and feelings when far away from land,--on the wild, bleak waters,--and
that same "himself," when in sight of shore, with seaweed around the
prow, and land-breezes on his cheek? But a few hours back and that
ship was his world; he knew her from "bow to taffrail;" he greeted the
cook's galley as though it were the "restaurant" his heart delighted in;
he even felt a kind of friendship for the pistons as they jerked up and
down into a bowing acquaintance. But now how changed are his sentiments,
how fixedly are his eyes turned to the pier of the harbor, and how
impatient is he at those tacking zigzag approaches by which nautical
skill and care approximate the goal!
Already landed in imagination, the cautious manouvres of the crew are
an actual martyrdom; he has no bowels for anything save his own
enfranchisement, and he cannot comprehend the tiresome detail of
preparations, which, after all, perhaps, are scarcely five minutes
in endurance. At last, the gangway launched, see him, how he
elbows forward, fighting his way, carpet-bag in hand, regardless of
passport-people, police, and porters; he'll scarce take time to mutter a
"Good-bye, Captain," in the haste to leave a scene all whose interest is
over, whose adventure is past.
Such is the end of a voyage; and such, or very nearly such, the end of
a novel! You, most amiable reader, are the passenger, we the skipper.
A few weeks ago you deemed us tolerable company, faute de mieux,
perhaps. We 'll not ask why, at all events. We had you out on the wide,
wild waters of uncertainty, free to sail where'er our fancy listed.
In our very waywardness there was a mock semblance of power, for the
creatures we presented to you were our own, their lives and fortunes in
our hands. Now all that is over,--we have neared the shore, and all our
hold on you is bygone.
How can we hope to excite interest in events already accomplished? Why
linger over details which you have already filled up? Of course, say
you, all ends happily now. Virtue is rewarded--as novelists understand
rewarding--by matrimony, and vice punished in single blessedness. The
hero marries the heroine; and if they don't live happy, etc.
But what became of Bagenal Daly? says some one who would compliment us
by expressing so much of interest. Bagenal, then, only waited to see the
Knight restored to his own, to retire with his sister to "The Corvy,"
where, attended by Sandy, he passed the remainder of his days in peace
and quietude; his greatest enjoyment being to seize on a chance tourist
to the Causeway, and make him listen to narratives of his early life,
but which age had now so far commingled that the merely strange became
actually marvellous.
Paul Dempsey grieved for a week, but consoled himself on hearing
that his rival had been a "lord;" and subsequently, in a "moment of
enthusiasm," he married Mrs. Fumbally. The Hickmans left Ireland for the
Continent, where they are still to be found, rambling about from city
to city, and expressing the utmost sympathy with their country's
misfortunes, but, to avoid any admixture of meaner feeling, suffering no
taint of lucre to mingle with their compassion.
As for Lionel Darcy, his name is to be found in the despatches from the
East, and with a mention that shows that he has derogated in nothing
from the proud character of his race.
Of all those who figured before our reader, but one remains on the stage
where they all performed; and he, perhaps, has no claim to be especially
remembered. There is always, however, somewhat of respectability
attached to the oldest inhabitant, that chronicler of cold winters and
warm summers, of rainy springs and stormy Octobers. Con Heffernan,
then, lives, and still wields no inconsiderable share of his ancient
influence. Each party has discovered his treachery, but neither can
dispense with his services. He is the last link remaining between the
men of Ireland's "great day" and the very different race who now usurp
the direction of her destiny.
Of the period of which we have endeavored to picture some meagre
resemblance, unhappily the few traces remaining are those most to be
deplored. The poverty, the misery, and the anarchy survive; the genial
hospitality, the warm attachment to country, the cordial generosity of
Irish feeling, have sadly declined. Let us hope that from the depth
of our present sufferings better days are about to dawn, and a period
approaching when Ireland shall be "great" in the happiness of her
people, "glorious" in the development of her inexhaustible resources,
and "free" by that best of freedom,--free from the trammels of an
unmeaning party warfare, which has ever subjected the welfare of the
country to the miserable intrigues of a few adventurers.
THE END.