Title: The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Author: Lever, Charles James
Language: English
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THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE

By Charles James Lever


A Tale of the Time of the Union

With Illustrations By Phiz.

In Two Volumes. Vol. II.

Boston: Little, Brown, And Company 1894.



THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE



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
Rivières.”

“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 _à 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 _protégé_ 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 levée, 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 levée 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 fêtes 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 galère?” 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 “où on dîne.” 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 “mésalliance,”
 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 TÊTE-À-TÊTE 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 _éclat_ 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 _éclat_ 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 _réchauffé_--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-à-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 _à 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 _tête-à-tête_. 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 _mésalliance_; 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 _tête-à-tête_ 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 décrier 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.





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