It was on a severe night, with frequent gusts of stormy wind shaking the
doors and window-frames, or carrying along the drifted flakes of snow
with which the air was charged, that Lady Eleanor, her daughter, and
Forester, were seated round the fire. All the appliances of indoor
comfort by which they were surrounded seemed insufficient to dispel a
sense of sadness that pervaded the little party. Conversation flowed
not as it was wont, in its pleasant current, diverging here and there as
fancy or caprice suggested; the sentences were few and brief, the pauses
between them long and frequent; a feeling of awkwardness, too, mingled
with the gloom, for, at intervals, each would make an endeavor to
relieve the weariness of time, and in the effort show a consciousness of
constraint.
Lady Eleanor lay back in her deep chair, and, with half-closed lids,
seemed lost in thought. Helen was working at her embroidery, and,
apparently, diligently too, although a shrewd observer might have
remarked on the slow progress the work was making, and how inevitably
her balls of colored worsted seemed bent on entanglement; while Forester
sat silently gazing on the wood fire, and watching the bright sparks as
they flitted and danced above the red flame; his brow was clouded, and
his look sorrowful; not without reason, perhaps: it was to be his last
evening at the abbey; the last of those hours of happiness which seemed
all the fairer when about to part with them forever.
Lady Eleanor seemed grieved at his approaching departure. From the habit
of his mind, and the nature of his education, he was more companionable
to her than Lionel.
She saw in him many qualities of high and sterling value, and even in
his prejudices she could trace back several of those traits which marked
her own youth, when, in the pride of her English breeding, she would
tolerate no deviation from the habits of her own country. It was true,
many of these notions had given way since his residence at the abbey;
many of his opinions had undergone modification or change, but still he
was distinctively English.
Helen, who possessed no standard by which to measure such prejudices,
was far less indulgent towards them; her joyous, happy nature--the
heirloom of her father's house--led her rather to jest than argue on
these topics, and she contrasted the less apt and ready apprehension
of Forester with the native quickness of her brother Lionel,
disadvantageous to the former. She was sorry, too, that he was going;
more so, because his society was so pleasing to her mother, and that
before him, Lady Eleanor exerted herself in a way which eventually
reacted favorably on her own health and spirits. Further than this, her
interest in him was weak.
Not so Forester: he was hopelessly, inextricably, in love, not the less
so that he would not acknowledge it to himself; far more so because he
had made no impression on the object of his passion. There is a period
in every story of affection when the flame grows the brighter because
unreflected, and seems the more concentrated because unreturned.
Forester was in this precise stage of the malady; he was as much piqued
by the indifference as fascinated by the charms of Helen Darcy. The very
exertions he made for victory stimulated his own passion; while, in her
efforts to interest or amuse him, he could not help feeling the evidence
of her indifference to him.
We have said that the conversation was broken and interrupted; at length
it almost ceased altogether, a stray remark of Lady Eleanor's, followed
by a short reply from Forester, alone breaking the silence. Nor
were these always very pertinent, inasmuch as the young aide-de-camp
occasionally answered his own reflections, and not the queries of his
hostess.
“An interesting time in Dublin, no doubt,” said Lady Eleanor, half
talking to herself; “for though the forces are unequal, and victory and
defeat predestined, there will be a struggle still.”
“Yes, madam, a brief one,” answered Forester, dreamily, comprehending
only a part of her remark.
“A brief and a vain one,” echoed Lady Eleanor.
“Say, rather, a glorious one,” interposed Helen; “the last cheer of a
sinking crew!”
Forester looked up, startled into attention by the energy of these few
words.
“I should say so too, Helen,” remarked her mother, “if they were not
accessory to their own misfortunes.”
“Nay, nay, Mamma, you must not remember their failings in their hour of
distress; there is a noble-hearted minority untainted yet.”
“There will be a majority of eighteen,” said Forester, whose thoughts
were wandering away, while he endeavored to address himself to what he
believed they were saying; nor was he aware of his error till aroused by
the laughter of Lady Eleanor and her daughter.
“Eighteen!” reiterated he, solemnly.
“How few!” remarked Lady Eleanor, almost scornfully.
“You should say, how costly, Mamma!” exclaimed Helen. “These gentlemen
are as precious from their price as their rarity!”
“That is scarcely fair, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, at once recalled to
himself by the tone of mockery she spoke in; “many adopted the views
of Government, after duly weighing every consideration of the measure:
some, to my own knowledge, resisted offers of great personal advantage,
and Lord Castlereagh was not aware of their adhesion--”
“Till he had them _en poche_, I suppose,” said Helen, sarcastically;
“just as you have been pleased to do with my ball of yellow worsted, and
for which I shall be thankful if you will restore it to me.”
Forester blushed deeply, as he drew from his coat-pocket the worsted,
which in a moment of abstraction he had lifted from the ground, and
thrust into his pocket, without knowing.
Had any moderately shrewd observer witnessed his confusion, and her
enjoyment of it, he would easily have understood the precise relation of
the two parties to each other. Forester's absence of mind betrayed
his engaged affection as palpably as Helen's laughter did her own
indifference.
Lady Eleanor did not remark either; her thoughts still rested on
the topic of which they had spoken, for it was a subject of no
inconsiderable difficulty to her. Whatever her sense of indignant
contempt for the bribed adherents of the Ministry, her convictions
always inclined to these measures, whose origin was from her native
country; her predilections were strongly English; not only her happiest
days had been passed there, but she was constantly contrasting the
position they would have occupied and sustained in that favored land,
against the wasteful and purposeless extravagance of their life in
Ireland.
Was it too late to amend? was the question ever rising to her mind, now
if even yet the Knight should be induced to adopt the more ambitious
course? Every accidental circumstance seemed favorable to the notion:
the Government craving his support; her own relatives, influential
as they were from rank and station, soliciting it; the Prince himself
according favors which could no more be rejected than acknowledged
ungraciously.
“What a career for Lionel! What a future for Helen!” such were
reflections that would press themselves upon her, but to whose
disentanglement her mind suggested no remedy.
“'Tis Mr. Daly, my Lady,” said Tate, for something like the fourth time,
without being attended to. “'T is Mr. Daly wants leave to visit you.”
“Mr. Bagenal Daly, Mamma, wishes to know if you'll receive him?”
“Mr. Daly is exactly the kind of person to suggest this impracticable
line of policy,” said Lady Eleanor, with half-closed eyes; for the name
alone had struck her, and she had not heard what was said.
“My dear Mamma,” said Helen, rising, and leaning over her chair, “it is
a visit he proposes; nothing so very impracticable in that, I hope!”
and then, at a gesture from her mother, continued to Tate, “Lady Eleanor
will be very happy to see Mr. Daly.”
Lady Eleanor had scarcely aroused herself from her revery when Bagenal
Daly entered. His manner was stately, perhaps somewhat colder than
usual, and he took his seat with an air of formal politeness.
“I have come, my Lady,” said he, slowly, “to learn if I can be of any
service in the capital; unexpected news has just reached me, requiring
my immediate departure for Dublin.”
“Not to-night, sir, I hope; it is very severe, and likely, I fear, to
continue so.”
“To-night, madam, within an hour, I expect to be on the road.”
“Could you defer a little longer, and we may be fellow-travellers,” said
Forester; “I was to start to-morrow morning, but my packing can soon be
made.”
“I should hope,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “that you will not leave us
unprotected, gentlemen, and that one, at least, will remain here.”
This speech, apparently addressed to both, was specially intended for
Forester, whose cheek tingled with a flush of pleasure as he heard it.
“I have no doubt, madam, that Captain Forester, whose age and profession
are more in accordance with gallantry, will respond to your desire.”
“If I could really fancy that I was not yielding to my own wishes only,”
stammered out Forester.
“Nay, I make it a request.”
“There, sir, how happy to be entreated to what one's wishes incline
them,” added Daly; “you may go through a deal of life without being
twice so fortunate. I should apologize for so brief a notice of my
departure, Lady Eleanor, but the intelligence I have received is
pressing.” Here he dropped his voice to a whisper. “The Ministers have
hurried forward their bill, and I shall scarcely be in time for the
second reading.”
“All accounts agree in saying that the Government majority is certain,”
observed Lady Eleanor, calmly.
“It is to be feared, madam, that such rumors are well founded, but the
party who form the forlorn hope have their devoirs also.”
“I am a very indifferent politician, Mr. Daly, but it strikes me that
a body so manifestly corrupt, give the strongest possible reasons for
their own destruction.”
“Were they all so, madam, I should join in the sentiment as freely as
you utter it,” replied Daly, proudly; “but it is a heavy sentence that
would condemn the whole crew because there was a mutiny in the steerage;
besides, these rights and privileges are held only in trust; no man can
in honor or justice vote away that of which he is only the temporary
occupant; forgive me, I beg, for daring to discuss the topic, but I
thought the Knight had made you a convert to his own opinions.”
“We have never spoken on the subject, Mr. Daly,” replied Lady Eleanor,
coldly; “the Knight dislikes the intrusion of a political matter within
the circle of his family, and for that reason, perhaps,” added she, with
a smile, “my daughter and myself feel for it all the temptation of a
forbidden pleasure.”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Helen, who heard the last few words of her mother's
speech, “I am as violent a partisan as Mr. Daly could ask for; indeed,
I am not certain if all my doctrines are not of his own teaching; I fear
the Premier, distrust the Cabinet, and put no faith in the Secretary for
Ireland; is not that the first article of our creed?--nay, nay, fear was
no part of your instruction.”
“And yet I have fears, my dear Helen, and very great fears just now,”
said Daly in a low whisper, only audible by herself, and she turned
her full and beaming eyes upon him for an explanation. As if anxious
to escape the interrogatory, Daly arose hastily. “I must crave
your indulgence for an abrupt leave-taking, Lady Eleanor,” said he,
approaching, as he kissed the hand held out to him; “I shall be able to
tell the Knight that I left you both well, and under safe protection.
Captain Forester, adieu; you need no admonition of mine respecting your
charge;” and, with a low and courtly salute, he departed.
“Rely upon it, Captain Forester, he's bent on mischief now. I never
saw him particularly mild and quiet in his manner that it was not the
prelude to some desperate ebullition,” said Lady Eleanor.
“He is the very strangest of all mortals.”
“Say, the most single-minded and straightforward,” interposed Helen,
“and I 'll agree with you.”
“When men of strong minds and ambitious views are curbed and held
in within the petty sphere of a small social circle, they are, to my
thinking, intolerable. It is making a drawing-room pet of a tiger; every
step he takes upsets a vase or smashes a jar. You smile at my simile.”
“I 'm sure it's a most happy one,” said Forester, continuing.
“I enter a dissent,” cried Helen, playfully. “He's a tiger, if you will,
with his foes, but in all the relations of private life, gentleness
itself; for my part, I can imagine no more pleasing contrast to the
modern code of manners than Mr. Bagenal Daly.”
“There, Captain Forester, if you would win Miss Darcy's favor, you have
now the model for your imitation.”
Forester's face flushed, and he appeared overwhelmed with confusion,
while Helen went on with her embroidery, tranquil as before.
“I believe,” resumed Lady Eleanor,--“I believe, after all, I am unjust
to him; but much may be forgiven me for being so; he has made my son a
wild, thoughtless boy, and my daughter--”
“No indiscretions, Mamma,” cried Helen, holding up her hand.
“Well, he has made my daughter _telle que vous la voyez_.”
Forester was too well bred to venture on a word of flattery or
compliment, but his glowing color and sparkling eyes spoke his
admiration.
Lady Eleanor's quick glance remarked this; and, as if the thought had
never occurred before, she seemed amazed, either at the fact or at her
own previous inattention.
“Let us finish that second volume you were reading, Captain Forester,”
said she, glad to cut short the discussion. And, without a word, he took
the book and began to read.