The ball lasted till nigh daybreak; and while the greater number of the
guests departed, some few remained, by special invitation, at the abbey,
to join a hunting party on the following day. For this Lionel had made
every possible preparation, desiring to let his English friends witness
a favorable specimen of Irish sport and horsemanship. The stud and
kennel were both in high condition, the weather favorable, and, as the
old huntsman said, “'It would be hard if a fox would n't be agreeable
enough to give the strange gentlemen a run.”
In high anticipation of the coming morning, and with many a prayer
against a frost, they separated for the night. All within the abbey were
soon sound asleep,--all save the Knight himself, who, the restraint of
an assumed part withdrawn, threw himself on a sofa in his dressing-room,
worn out and exhausted by his struggle. Ruin was inevitable,--that he
well knew; but as yet the world knew it not, and for Lionel's sake he
resolved to keep his own secret a few days longer. The visit was to last
but eight days; two were already over; for the remaining six, then, he
determined--whatever it might cost him--to preserve all the appearances
of his former estate, to wear the garb and seeming of prosperity, and do
the princely honors of a house that was never again to be his home.
“Poor Lionel!” thought he; “'twould break the boy's heart if such a
disclosure should be made now; the high and daring promptings of his
bold spirit would not quail before misfortune, although his courage
might not sustain him in the very moment of the reverse. I will not risk
the whole fortune of his future happiness in such a trial; he shall know
nothing till they are gone; one week of triumphant pleasure he shall
have, and then let him brace himself to the struggle, and breast the
current manfully.”
While endeavoring to persuade himself that Lionel's lot was uppermost in
his mind, his heart would force the truth upon him that Lady Eleanor and
Helen's fate was, in reality, a heavier stroke of fortune. Lionel was
a soldier, ardent and daring, fond of his profession, and far more
ambitious of distinction than attached to the life of pleasure a court
and a great capital suggested; but they who had never known the want
of every luxury that can embellish life, whose whole existence had been
like some fairy dream of pleasure, how were they to bear up against
the dreadful shock? Lady Eleanor's health was frail and delicate in the
extreme; Helen's attachment to her mother such that any impression on
her would invariably recoil upon herself. What might be the consequences
of the disclosure to them Darcy could not, dared not, contemplate.
As he revolved all these things in his mind, and thought upon the
difficulties that beset him, he was at a loss whether to deplore the
necessity of wearing a false face of pleasure a few days longer, or
rejoice at the occasion of even this brief reprieve from ruin. Thus
passed the weary hours that preceded daybreak, and while others slept
soundly, or reviewed in their dreams the pleasures of the past night,
Darcy's gloomy thoughts were fixed upon the inevitable calamity of his
fate, and the years, few but sad, that in all likelihood were now before
him.
The stir and bustle of the servants preparing breakfast for the hunting
party broke in upon his dreary revery, and he suddenly bethought him of
the part he had assigned himself to play. He dreaded the possibility of
an interview with Lady Eleanor, in which she would inevitably advert to
Gleeson, and the circumstances of his flight; this could not be avoided,
however, were he to pass the day at home, and so he resolved to join the
hunting-field, where perhaps some lingering trace of his old enthusiasm
for the sport might lead him to hope for a momentary relief of mind.
“Lionel, too, will be glad to see me in the saddle--it's some years
since I crossed the sward at a gallop--and I am curious to know if a
man's nerve is stouter when the world looks fair before him, or when the
night of calamity is lowering above his head.” Muttering these words to
himself, he passed out into the hall, and crossing which, entered the
courtyard, and took his way towards the stables. It was still dark, but
many lights were moving to and fro, and the groom population were all
about and stirring. Darcy opened the door and looked down the long
range of stalls, where above twenty saddle-horses were now standing, the
greater number of them highly bred and valuable animals, and all in the
highest possible condition. Great was the astonishment of the stablemen
as the Knight moved along, throwing a glance as he went at each stall,
while a muttered “Welcome home to yer honor” ran from mouth to mouth.
“The bastes is looking finely, sir,” said Bob Carney, who, as stud-groom
and huntsman, had long presided over his department.
“So they are, Bob, but I don't know half of them; where did this strong
brown horse come from?”
“That's Clipper, yer honor; I knew you wouldn't know him. He took up
finely after his run last winter.”
“And the fore leg, is it strong again?”
“As stout as a bar of iron; one of the boys had him out two days ago,
and he took the yellow ditch flying: we measured nineteen feet between
the mark of his hoofs.”
“He ought to be strong enough to carry me, Bob.”
“Don't ride him, sir, he's an uncertain divil; and though he 'll go
straight over everything for maybe twenty minutes or half an hour, he
'll stop short at a drain not wider than a potato furrow, and the power
of man would n't get him over it.”
“That's a smart gray yonder,--what is she?”
“She's the one we tried as a leader one day; yer honor remembers you bid
me shoot her, or get rid of her, for she kicked the traces, and nearly
the wheel-horse, all to smash; and now she's the sweetest tiling to
ride, for eleven stone, in the whole country. There's an English colonel
to try her to-day; my only advice to him is, let her have her own way of
it, for, if he begins pulling at her, 't is maybe in Donegal he 'll be
before evening.”
“And what have you for me?” said the Knight; “for I scarcely know any of
my old friends here.”
“There's the mouse-colored cob----”
“No, no,” said the Knight, laughing; “I want to keep my place, Bob. You
must give me something better than that.”
“Faith, an' your honor might have worse; but if it's for riding you
are, take Black Peter, and you 'll never find the fence too big, or the
ground too heavy for him. I was going to give him to the English lord; I
suppose, after all, he 'll be better pleased with the cob.”
“Well, then, Peter for me. And now let's see what Mr. Lionel has to
ride.”
“There she is, and a beauty!” said Bob, as, with a dexterous jerk, he
chucked a sheet off her haunches, and displayed the shining flanks and
splendid proportions of a thoroughbred mare. “That's Cushleen,” said he,
as he fixed his eyes on the Knight's face to enjoy the reflection of his
own delight. “That's the darlin' can do it!--a child can hould her,
but it takes a man to sit on her back--racing speed over a flat, and a
jump!--'t is more like the bound of a football than anything else.”
“She has the eye of a hot one, Bob.”
“And why would n't she? But she knows when to be so. Let her take her
place at the head of the whole field, with a light finger to guide and a
stout heart to direct her, and she's a kitten; but the divil a tiger was
ever as fierce if another passes her, or a cowardly hand would try to
hold her back. And there 's a nate tool, that black horse,--that 's for
another of the English gentlemen. Master Lionel calls him Sir Harry.
They tell me he 's a fine rider, and has a pack of hounds himself in his
own place, and I am mistaken if he has the baste in his stable will
give him a betther day's sport. The chestnut here is for Miss Helen, for
she's coming to see them throw off, and it'll be a fine sight; we 'll
be thirty-six out of your honor's stables, Mr. Conolly is bringing nine
more, and all the Martins, and the Lynches, and Dalys, and Mr. Hickman
O'Reilly and his son,--though, to be sure, _they_ won't do much for the
honor of ould Ireland.”
The Knight turned away laughing, and re-entered the house.
Early as it yet was, the inmates of the abbey were stirring, and a great
breakfast, laid for above thirty, was prepared in the library, for
the supper-tables occupied the dining-rooms, and the débris of the
magnificent entertainment of the night before still lingered there. Two
cheerful fires blazed on the ample hearths, and threw a mellow lustre
over that spacious room, where old Tate now busied himself in those
little harmless duties he fancied indispensable to the Knight's comfort,
for the poor fellow, on hearing of his master's return, had once more
resumed his office.
The Knight's meeting with him was one of true friendship; difference
of station interposed no barrier to affection, and Darcy shook the old
man's hand as cordially as though they were brothers. Yet each was sad
with a secret sorrow, which all their efforts could scarce conceal
from the other. In vain the Knight endeavored to turn away old Tate's
attention by inquiries after his health, questions about home, or little
flatteries about his preparations, Tate's filmy eyes were fixed upon his
master with a keenness that age could not dim.
“'T is maybe tired your honor is,” said he, in a voice half meant as
inquiry, half insinuation; “the Parliament, they tell me, destroys the
health entirely.”
“Very true, Tate; late hours, heated rooms, and some fatigue will not
serve a man of my age; but I am tolerably well for all that.”
“God be praised for it!” said Tate, piously, but in a voice that showed
it was rather a wish he expressed than a conviction, when, suspecting
that he had suffered some portion of his fears to escape, he added more
cheerfully, “And is n't Master Lionel grown an iligant, fine young man!
When I seen him comin' up the stairs, it was just as if the forty-eight
years that's gone over was only a dhrame, and I was looking at your
honor the day you came home from college; he has the same way with bis
arms, and carries his head like you, and the same light step. Musha!”
muttered he, below his breath, “the ould families never die out, but
keep their looks to the last.”
“He's a fine fellow, Tate!” said the Knight, turning towards the window,
for, while flattered by the old man's praises of his son, a deep pang
shot through his heart at the wide disparity of fortune with which life
opened for both of them. At the instant an arm was drawn round him, and
Helen stood at his side: she was in her riding-habit, and looking in
perfect beauty. Darcy gazed at her for a few seconds, and with such
evident admiration that she, as if accepting the compliment, drew
herself up, and, smiling, said, “Yes, nothing short of conquest. Lionel
told his friends to expect a very unformed country girl; they shall see
at least she can ride.”
“No harebrained risks, Helen, dearest. I'm to take the field to-day,
and you must n't shake my nerve; for I want to bring no disgrace on my
county.”
“I was but jesting, my own dear papa,” said she, drawing closer to
him; “but I really felt so curious to see these English horsemen's
performance that I asked Lionel to train Alice for me.”
“And Lionel, of course, but too happy to show his pretty sister--”
“Nay, nay, if you will quiz, I must only confess that my head is quite
turned already; our noble cousin overwhelms me with flatteries which,
upon the principle the Indian accepts glass beads and spangles as gems,
and gold, I take as real value. But here he comes.”
And Lord Netherby, attired for the field in all the accuracy of
costume, slipped towards them. After came Colonel Crofton, a well-known
fashionable of the clubs and a hanger-on of the peer; then Sir Harry
Beauclerk, a young baronet of vast fortune, gay, good-tempered, and
extravagant; while several others of lesser note, brother officers of
Lionel's and men about town, brought up the rear, one only deserving
remark, a certain Captain, or, as he was better known, Tom Nolan,--a
strange, ambiguous kind of fellow, always seen in the world, constantly
met at the best houses, and yet nobody being able to explain why he was
asked, nor--as it very often happened--who asked him.
Lady Eleanor never appeared early in the day, but there was a sprinkling
of lady-visitors through the room, guests at the abbey: a very pretty,
but not over-afflicted widow, a Mrs. Somerville, with several Mrs.
and Miss Lynches, Brownes, and Martins, comprising the beauties of
the neighborhood. Lionel was the last to make his appearance, so many
directions had he to give about earth-stoppers and cover-hacks, drags,
phaetons, fresh horses, and all the contingent requirements of a day's
sport. Besides, he had pledged himself most faithfully to give Mrs.
Somerville's horse, a very magnificent barb, a training canter himself,
with a horse-sheet round his legs, for she was a timid rider,--on some
occasions,--though certain calumnious people averred that, when alone,
she would take any fence in the whole barony.
At length they were seated, and such a merry, happy party! There was but
one sad heart in the company, and that none could guess at. And what a
running fire of pleasant raillery rattled round the table! How brimful
of wit and good-humor were they all! How ready each to take the jest
against himself, and even heighten its flavor by some new touch of
drollery. Harmless wagers respecting the places they would occupy at the
finish, gentle quiz-zings about safe riding through the gaps, and joking
counsels as to the peculiar difficulties of an Irish country, were heard
on all sides; while the Knight recounted the Galway anecdote of Dick
Perse taking an immense leap and disappearing afterwards. “'Call the
ground, Dick!' cried Lord Clanricarde, who was charging up at top
speed--'call the ground! What's at the other side?'
“'I _am_, thank God!' was the short reply, and the words came from the
depth of a gravel-pit.”
At last, venison pasties and steaks, rolls and coffee, with their due
accompaniment of liqueurs, came to an end, and a very sufficient uproar
without, of men, dogs, and horses commingled, bespoke the activity of
preparation there, while old Bob Carney's voice topped every other, as
he swore at or commended men and beasts indiscriminately.
“What a glorious morning for our sport!” said the Knight, as he threw
open the sash, and let into the room the heavy perfume of the earth,
borne on a southerly wind. The sea was calm as an inland lake, and the
dark clouds over it were equally motionless. “We shall be unlucky, my
Lord, if we do not show you some sport on such a day. Ah, there go the
dogs!” And, as he spoke, the hounds issued from beneath the deep arch of
the gateway, and with Bob and the whipper-in at their head, took their
way across the lawn.
“To horse! to horse!” shouted Lionel, gayly, from the courtyard, for
the riding party were not to proceed to the cover by the short path the
hounds were gone, but to follow by a more picturesque and circuitous
route.
“I hope sincerely that beast is not intended for me,” said Lord
Netherby, as a powerful black horse crossed the courtyard, in a series
of bounds, and finished by landing the groom over his head.
“Never fear, my Lord,” said Lionel, laughing; “Billy Pitt is meant for
Beauclerk.”
“You surely never named that animal after the minister, Knight?” said
his Lordship.
“Yes, my Lord,” said Darcy, with a smile; “it's just as unsafe to
back one as the other. But here comes the heavy brigade. Which is your
choice,--Black Peter, or Mouse?”
“If I may choose, I will confess this is more to my liking than anything
I have seen yet. You know that I don't mean to take any part in the
debate, so I may as well secure a quiet seat under the gallery. But, my
dear Miss Darcy, what a mettlesome thing you 've got there!”
“She's only fidgety; if I can hold her when they throw off, I 'll have
no trouble afterwards.” And the graceful girl sat back easily in her
saddle as the animal bounded and swerved with every stroke of her long
riding-habit.
“There goes Beauclerk!” cried Lionel, as the young baronet shot like an
arrow through the archway on the back of Billy Pitt; for no sooner had
he touched the saddle than the unmanageable animal broke away from the
groom's hands, and set off at full speed down the lawn.
“I say, Darcy,” cried Colonel Crofton, “is n't Beauclerk a step over
you in the 'Army List'?”
But Lionel never heard the question, for he was most busily occupied
about Mrs. Somerville and her horse.
“Who drives the phaeton?--where's a safe whip to be found for Mrs.
Martin?” said the Knight; and, seizing on a young Guardsman, he promoted
him to the box, with a very pretty girl beside him. A drag, with four
grays, was filling at the same instant, with a mixed population of
horsemen and spectators, among whom Captain Nolan seemed the presiding
spirit, as, seated beside a brother officer of Lionel's on the box, he
introduced the several parties to each other, and did “the honors” of
the conveyance.
Troops of horses, sheeted and hooded, now passed out with a number of
grooms and stable-boys, on their way to cover; and at last the great
cavalcade moved forward, the Knight, his daughter, and Lord Netherby
gayly cantering on the grass, to permit the carriages to take the road.
The drag came last; and although but newly met, the company were already
in the full enjoyment of that intimacy which high spirits and pleasure
beget, while Tom Nolan contributed his utmost to the merriment by jests
which lost nothing of their poignancy from any scruples of their maker.
“There they go at last,” said he, as Lionel and Mrs. Somerville cantered
forth, followed by two grooms. “I never heard of a stirrup so hard to
arrange as that, in all my life!”
CHAPTER XXIX. THE HUNT
The cover lay in a small valley, almost deep enough to be called a
glen, watered by a stream which in winter and summer took the alternate
character of torrent or rivulet; gently sloping hills rose on either
side, their banks clad with low furze and fern, and behind them a wide
plain extended to the foot of the great mountains of Connemara.
Both sides of the little glen were now occupied by groups on foot or
horseback, as each calculated on the likelihood of the fox taking this
direction or that. On the narrow road which led along the crest of the
lower hill were many equipages to be seen, some of which were filled
with ladies, whose waving feathers and gay colors served to heighten
the effect of the landscape. The horsemen were dotted about, some on the
ridge of the rising ground, some lower down on the sloping sides, and
others walked their horses through the dense cover, watching as the dogs
sprang and bounded from copse to copse, and made the air vibrate with
their deep voices.
The arrival of the Knight's party created no slight sensation as
carriages and horsemen came dashing up the hill, and took their station
on an eminence, from whence all who were not mounted might have a view
of the field. No sooner was he recognized, than such as had the honor
of personal acquaintance moved forward to pay their respects and welcome
him home again; among whom Beecham O'Reilly appeared, but with such
evident diffidence of manner and reserve that Darcy, from motives of
delicacy, was forced to take a more than ordinary notice of him.
“We were sorry not to have your company at the abbey last night; you 've
had a cold, I hear,” said the Knight.
“Yes, sir; this is the first day I've ventured out.”
“Let me introduce you to Lord Netherby. One of our foremost riders, my
Lord, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly. You may see that the merit is not altogether
his own,--splendid horse you have there.”
“He's very powerful,” said the young man, accepting the praise with an
air of easy indifference.
“In my country,” interposed Lord Netherby, “we should value him at three
hundred guineas, if his performance equal his appearance.”
“I say, Lionel, come here a moment,” cried the Knight. “What do you
think of that horse?--but don't you know your old playfellow, Beecham?
Have you both forgotten each other?”
“How are you, Beecham? I'd never have guessed you. To be sure, it is
six years since we met. You were in Dublin, I think, when I was over on
leave last?”
“No, at Oxford,” said Beecham, with a slight flush as he spoke; for
although he accepted the warm shake-hands Lionel proffered, his manner
was one of constraint all through. Young Darcy was, however, too much
occupied in admiring the horse to bestow much attention on the rider.
“He 'd carry you well,” said Beecham, as if interpreting what was
passing in his mind, “and as I have no fancy for him,--a worse horse
will carry my weight as well,--I 'd sell him.”
“At what price?”
“Lord Netherby has valued him at three hundred,” said the young man. “I
gave nearly as much myself.”
The Knight, who heard this conversation, without being able to interrupt
it, was in perfect misery. The full measure of his ruin rushed suddenly
on his mind, and the thought that, at the very moment his son was
meditating this piece of extravagance, he was himself actually a beggar,
sickened him to the heart. Meanwhile, Lionel walked his horse slowly
round, the better to observe the animal he coveted, and then cantered
back to his place at Mrs. Somerville's side.
Beecham seemed to hesitate for a second or two, then, riding forward,
he approached Lionel: “Perhaps you would try him to-day, Captain Darcy?”
The words came hesitatingly and with difficulty.
“Oh, no! he 's beyond my reach,” said Lionel, laughing.
“I'd really take it as a favor if you would ride him; I 'm not strong
enough to hold him, consequently cannot do him justice.”
“Take the offer, Darcy,” said Lord Netherby, in a whisper, as he rode up
to his side; “I have a great liking for that horse myself, and will buy
him if you report favorably.”
“In that case, my Lord, I'll do it with pleasure. I accept your kind
proposal, and will change nags if you agree.”
Beecham at once dismounted, and, beckoning to his servant, ordered him
to change the saddles.
While this little scene was enacting, old Conolly rode up to the Knight,
with a warning to keep the ladies in the road. “The fox will take the
country towards Burnadarig,” said he; “the start's with the wind; and as
the fences are large and the ground heavy, they had better not attempt
to follow the run.”
“We will take your advice, Tom,” said the Knight. “Come here,
Helen--Colonel Crofton, will you kindly bring Mrs. Somerville up here,
and tell Lord Netherby to join us--the day will be for the fast ones
only. There they go,--are they off?”
“Not yet, not yet,” said Conolly, as, standing in his stirrups, he
looked down into the glen; “they're hunting him through the furze cover
this half hour. I know that fox well; he never breaks till the dogs are
actually on him.”
By this time the scene in the valley was becoming highly exciting; the
hounds, yelping and barking, bounded hither and thither; some, with
uplifted throats, bayed deeply a long, protracted note; others, with
noses to the earth, ran swiftly along, and then, stopping, burst into a
sharp cry, as if of pain, while old Bob Carney's voice, encouraging this
one, and cursing that, was high above the tumult.
“Tiresome work, this is,” said Sir Harry Beauclerk; for his horse, mad
with impatience, was white with sweat, and trembled in every limb.
“You'll have it very soon, sir,” said old Conolly; “the dogs are
together now. I wish that young gentleman there would move a little up
the hill.” This was said of a young officer who took his station at the
exit of the cover. “There they go, now! Tally-ho!” cried he, in ecstasy,
and the shout re-echoed from a hundred voices, as the hounds, in full
cry, burst from the cover, and were seen, in one compact mass, rising
the opposite hill.
In a second every horse was away, save that little group around the
Knight, and which, notwithstanding all the efforts of the servants,
bounded and plunged in mad impatience. Beauclerk was the first down the
hill, and over the brook, which he cleared gallantly. Conolly followed
close; and then came Crofton in a group of others, among whom rode
O'Reilly, all riding well and safely; and last of all was Lionel,
mounted on the brown thoroughbred, and holding him together, in spite of
all his eagerness to get on.
The Knight forgot everything that lay heavily on his heart as he watched
his son nearing the brook, which he took flying. “He knows his horse;
now! see!” cried Darcy, as his whole face beamed with enthusiastic
delight; “look a little this way, my dear Mrs. Somerville, Lionel's
gaining on them!”
Mrs. Somerville scarcely needed the direction, for, notwithstanding her
horse's plunging, she had never taken her glass from her eye.
“Is that a wall on the side of the hill? I really believe it is!” said
Lord Netherby, with an accent of amazement and horror.
“A stone wall, and a stout one. I know it well,” said Darcy. “There goes
Sir Harry Beauclerk at it. Too fast, sir! too fast!” screamed out the
Knight, as if his advice could be heard and followed at that distance.
“He's down! he's down!” cried several voices together, as horse and
rider balanced for a second on the top, and rolled headlong on the
opposite side, while Helen grasped her father's arm, but never uttered a
word.
“His horse is away--there he goes!--but the young man is on his
legs again!” called out the Knight; “see how the rest are scattering
now--they 've no fancy for it;” for so it was, Beauclerk's catastrophe,
mounted, as they knew him to be, on one of the most perfect of hunters,
had terrified the field, and they broke up into different groups,
searching an exit where they could.
“There he goes,--that's the way to take it!” cried Darcy, as Lionel,
emerging from the little valley, was seen ascending the hill in a sharp
canter; “see, my Lord! Do you mark how he holds his horse together? The
hind legs are well forward--beautifully done!”
“Oh, beautifully done!” re-echoed Mrs. Somerville, as the young man,
with one cut of his whip, rose the horse to the wall, topped, poised for
an instant on its summit, and bounded down with the seeming lightness of
a bird.
“They're all together again,” said Helen. “Mr. Conolly has found a gap,
and there they go.”
For a few moments the whole field were in sight, as they rode in a
waving line, only a few stragglers in their rear; but the gradual dip
of the ground soon hid them from view, and nothing remained save the
occasional glance of a red coat as some rider, “thrown out” for a
moment, sought to recover his place by an adroit “cast.”
“I suppose we are not destined to see much more of the day's sport?”
said Mrs. Somerville, with a pouting look; for she would infinitely
rather have braved all the hazards of the field than have remained
behind with the spectators.
“I trust we shall have another peep at them,” said the Knight. “By
following this by-road to Burris Hill, the chances are that we see them
winding along at our feet; the fox generally runs from this cover to
the scrub beneath Nephin. We may go slowly, for if I be right in my
calculation, they have a wide circuit to make yet.”
The Knight, after a few words to the parties in the carriage, took the
lead with Lord Netherby, while Mrs. Somerville and Helen followed, an
indiscriminate crowd of carriages and horsemen bringing up the rear.
This was an arrangement artfully accomplished by the Earl, who had been
most impatiently awaiting some opportunity of conferring with the Knight
on the question of politics, and ascertaining how far he himself might
adventure on claiming the merit of converting him, when he returned to
England. He had already remarked that Darcy's name did not appear in the
division on the second reading of the Bill of Union, and the fact seemed
so far indicative of a disposition not to oppose the Government. The
subject was one to be approached with skill, and it was at last by an
adroit congratulation on the pleasant contrast of a country life with
the fatigues of Parliament, that he opened the discussion.
“I believe, my Lord,” said the Knight, laughing, “that Irish gentlemen
are very likely to enjoy in future a fair proportion of that agreeable
retirement you have so justly lauded. The wisdom of our rulers
has thought fit to relieve us of the burden of self-government in
Parliament, and left us, if we can succeed in effecting it, to govern
ourselves at home.”
“That will be unquestionably the lot of many, Knight. I am quite aware
that men of second-rate importance will no longer possess any at all;
but estated gentlemen, of high position and liberal fortunes, like
yourself, for instance, will not lose their influence by the greater
extent of the field in which it is exercised.”
Darcy sighed, but made no reply; the thought of his utter ruin came too
painfully across him to permit of an answer. Lord Netherby interpreted
his silence as doubt, and continued: “You are unjust, not only to
yourself, but to us, by any discredit of this point. Men of real
knowledge about Ireland and her interests will have a greater position
than ever they enjoyed before; no longer buried and lost among the
impracticable horde of theorists and false patriots of a Dublin
Parliament, they will be known and appreciated by a deliberative
assembly where the greatest men of the empire hold council.”
“I am forced to differ with you on every point, my Lord,” said the
Knight, calmly; “we are united to England, not that we may make an
integral portion of your empire, but simply that we may be more easily
governed. Up to this hour, you have ruled this country through the
instrumentality of certain deputed individuals here amongst us; your
system has had but indifferent success. You are now about to try another
method, and govern us through the means of Party. Into the subdivisions
of these parties Irishmen will fall,--with such success, personally, as
their abilities and weight may obtain for them; but Party, I assert,
will now rule Ireland, not with any regard to Irish interests or
objects, but simply to put this man into power, and to put that man out.
Now I, my Lord, humble as my station is, have no fancy for such contests
as these,--contests in which the advantages of my country will always be
subordinate to some Cabinet intrigue or Ministerial stratagem. To-day,
the Government may find it suit their views to administer the affairs of
Ireland ably, justly, and fearlessly; to-morrow, a powerful faction may
spring up here, who, by intimidation without, and by votes within the
House, shall be able to thwart the administration in their Home
measures. What will happen then? This faction will be bought off. By
concessions to them _in Ireland_, they will obtain all their demands,
for the sake of pliancy about interests of which they care little, and
know nothing. This will succeed for a time; the 'King's Government' will
go well and flippantly on; you may tax the people, promote your
followers, and bully your opponents to your heart's content: but,
meanwhile, Ireland will be gaining on you; your allies, grown exacting
by triumph, will ask more than you dare, or even have, to give; and the
question will then arise, that the party who aspires to power must bid
for it by further concession; and who is to vouch for the moderation of
such demands, or what limit will there be to them? I see a train of such
evils in the vista; and although I neither pretend to think our domestic
legislature safe nor faultless, I think the dangers we have before us
are even greater than such as would spring from an Irish Parliament.”
Lord Netherby listened with great impatience--as perhaps the reader may
have done also--to this declaration of the Knight's views, and was about
to reply, when suddenly a cheer from some country people, stationed on
a rocky height at a short distance, drew all eyes towards the valley,
where now the hounds were seen in full cry, three horsemen alone
following. One of these was the huntsman; Lionel another; the third was
in plain clothes, and not known to any of the party. He was mounted on a
powerful horse, and even at that distance could be seen to manage him
with the address of a perfect rider. The rest of the field were far
behind, some still standing on the verge of a mountain torrent, which
appeared to have formed the obstacle to the run, and into which more
than one seemed to have fallen.
Groups were gathered here and there along the bank, and dismounted
horses galloped wildly to and fro, showing that the catastrophes had
been numerous. While Lord Netherby looked with some alarm at the fearful
chasm which had arrested all but three out of the entire field, the
Knight followed Lionel with anxious eyes, as he led over the most
desperate line of country in the West.
“I never knew a fox take that line but once,” said Darcy, pointing to a
wide expanse of bleak country, which stretched away to the base of the
great mountain of Nephin. “I was a child at the time, but I remember
the occurrence well; horse, men, and hounds tailed off one by one, some
sorely injured, others dead beat, for the fellow was a most powerful
dog-fox, and ran straight ahead for thirty-four miles of a desperate
country. The following morning, at a little after daybreak, the fox was
seen in a half trot near Ballycroy, still followed by two of the dogs,
and he lived many years afterwards as a pensioner at the abbey; the dogs
were never worth anything from that day.”
While the Knight related this anecdote, the hounds and the hunters were
gradually receding from view; and although at intervals some thought
they could catch glimpses of them, at last they disappeared altogether.
“I am sorry, Helen,” said the Knight, “that our visitors should have
been so unfortunate in their sport.”
“I am more grieved to think that Lionel should follow over such a
country,” said Lord Netherby.
“He's well mounted, my Lord; and though many would call him a reckless
rider, he has as much judgment as he has daring. I am tolerably easy
about him.”
Helen did not seem so confident as her father; and as for Mrs.
Somerville, she was considerably paler than usual, and managed her
mettlesome horse with far less than her customary address.
As well to meet their friends who were thrown out, as to show some of
the scenery of the coast, the Knight proposed they should retrace their
steps for a short distance, and take a view of the bay on their way back
to the abbey. Leaving them, therefore, to follow their route, and
not delaying our reader by an account of the various excuses of the
discomfited, or the banterings of Tom Nolan, we will turn to the wide
plain, where, still in full cry, the dogs pursued their game.
The Knight had not exaggerated when calling it a dreadful country to
ride over; yawning trenches, deep enough to engulf horse and rider, were
cut in the bog, and frequently so close together that, in clearing one,
a few strides more presented another; the ground itself, only in part
reclaimed, was deep and heavy, demanding great strength both of horse
and horseman. Through this dangerous and intricate track the fox
serpentined and wound his way with practised cunning, while at every
turning some unlucky hound would miss his spring, or lose his footing in
the slippery soil, and their cries could be heard far over the plain, as
they struggled in vain to escape from a deep trench. It was in such an
endeavor that a hound was catching at the bank with his fore-legs, as
the huntsman dashed forward to take the leap; the horse, suddenly taking
fright, swerved, and, before he could recover, the frail ground gave
way, and the animal plunged headlong down, fortunately flinging bis
rider over the head on the opposite bank.
“All safe, Bob?” cried Lionel, as he turned in his saddle. But he had
no time for more, for the strange rider was fast nearing on him, and the
chase had now become a trial of speed and skill. By degrees they emerged
from this unsafe tract and gained the grass country, where high ditches
and stone walls presented a more fair, but scarcely less dangerous, kind
of fencing. Here the stranger made an effort to pass Lionel and take the
lead, and more than once they took their leaps exactly side by side.
As they rode along close to each other, Lionel from time to time
caught glimpses of his companion, who was a strong-built man of
five-and-thirty, frank and fresh-looking, but clearly not of the rank of
gentleman. His horse was a powerful thoroughbred, with more bone than is
usually found in Irish breeding, and trained to perfection.
“Now, sir,” said the stranger, “we're coming near the Crumpawn river;
that line of mist yonder is over the torrent. I warn you, the leap is a
big one.”
Lionel turned a haughty glance towards the man, for there was a tone
of assumed superiority in the words he could ill brook. That instant,
however, his eyes were directed to the front, where the roaring of
a mountain stream mingled with the sharp cry of the hounds as they
struggled in the torrent, or fell back in their efforts to climb the
steep bank.
“Ride him fairly at it,--no flinching; and d----me if I care what your
father was, I'll say you're a gentleman.”
Lionel bit his lip almost through with passion; and, had the occasion
permitted, the heavy stroke of his whip had fallen on a very different
quarter from his horse's flank; but he never uttered a word.
“Badly done! Never punish your horse at the stride!” said the fellow,
who seemed bent on provoking him.
Lionel bounded in his saddle at this taunt on his riding; but there was
no time for bandying words of anger; the roar of rushing water, and the
misty foam, proclaimed the torrent near.
“The best man is first over!” shouted the stranger, as he rushed at the
terrific chasm. Lionel dashed forward; so close were they, they could
have touched; when, with a wild cheer, the stranger gave his horse a
tremendous cut, and the animal bounded from the earth like a stag, and,
soaring over the mad torrent, descended lightly on the sward beyond.
Lionel had lifted his horse at the very same instant; but the
treacherous bank gave way beneath the animal's forelegs: he struggled
dreadfully to regain his footing, and, half rearing and half backing,
tried to retire; but the effort was in vain, the slippery earth carried
him with it, and down both horse and rider came into the stream.
“Keep his head to the current, and sit steady!” shouted the stranger,
who now watched the struggle with breathless eagerness. “Well done! well
done!--don't press him, he 'll do it himself.”
The counsel was wise, for the noble animal needed neither spur nor whip,
but breasted the white torrent with vigorous effort, sometimes plunging
madly above, and again sinking, all save the head, beneath the flood. At
last they reached the side, and the strong beast, with one bold spring,
placed his fore-legs on the high bank. This was the most dangerous
moment, for, unable to follow with his hind-legs, he stood opposed to
the whole force of the current, that threatened every instant to engulf
him. Lionel's efforts were tremendous; he lifted, he spurred, he
strained, he shouted, but all in vain: the animal, worn out by exertion,
faltered, and would have fallen back, when the stranger, springing from
his saddle, leaned over the bank, and, seizing Lionel by the collar,
jerked him from his horse. The beast, relieved of the weight, at once
rallied and bounded up the bank, where Lionel now found himself,
stunned, but not senseless.
“Let them say what they like,” muttered the stranger, as he stood over
him, “you 're a devilish fine young fellow! D----me if I'll ever think
so much about good blood again!”
Lionel was too weak and too much exhausted to reply, and even his
fingers could scarcely close upon the whip he tried to grasp; yet, for
all that, the stranger's insolence sickened him to the very heart. Pride
of race was the strongest feeling of his nature, and this fellow seemed
determined to outrage it at every turn.
“Here, take a pull at this; you 'll be all right presently,” said the
man, as he presented a little leather flask to the youth's lips. But
Lionel repulsed the offer rudely, and turned his head away. “The
more fool you!” said he, coarsely; “your grandfather mixed many a
worse-flavored one, and charged more for it;” and, so saying, he emptied
the measure at a draught.
Lionel pondered on the words for some seconds, and suddenly the thought
occurred to him that the stranger had mistaken him for another. “Ah! I
see it all now!” thought he, and he turned his head to undeceive him;
when, what was his surprise, as he looked up, to see that the fellow was
gone. Mounted on his own horse, he was leading Lionel's by the bridle,
and, at a smart trot, moving down the glen.
The young man sprang to his feet and shouted aloud; he even tried to
follow him; but both efforts were fruitless. At the turn of the road the
man halted, and, looking round, waved his hat as in sign of adieu; then,
moving forward, disappeared, while Lionel, his passion giving way to
his sense of the absurdity of the whole adventure, burst into a fit of
hearty laughter.
“I 'll be laughed at to the day of my death about this,” thought he, as
he turned his steps to seek the path homeward on foot.
It was late in the evening when Lionel reached the abbey. The guests had
for the most part left the dinner-room, and were dropping by twos and
threes into the drawing-room, when he made his appearance in the midst
of them, splashed and travel-stained from head to foot.
A burst of merry laughter rang out as they beheld his torn habiliments
and mud-colored dress, in which none joined more heartily than the
Knight himself, as he called aloud, “Well, Lionel, did you kill him,
boy, or run him to earth below Nephin?”
“By Jove, sir! if old Carney is safe, I think nobody has been killed
to-day.”
“Well, Bob is all right; he came back three hours ago. He has lamed
Scaltheen; but she 'll get over it.”
“But your own adventures,” interposed Lord Netherby; “for so they ought
to be, judging from the state of your toilet. Let us hear them.”
“Yes, by all means,” added Beauclerk; “the huntsman says that the last
he saw of you was riding by the side of some one in green, with three of
the pack in front, the rest tailed off, and himself in a bog-hole.”
“But there was no one in green in the field,” said Crofton; “at least I
did not see any one riding, except the red coats.”
“Let us not be too critical about the color of the dress,” said Lord
Netherby; “I am sure it would puzzle any of us to pronounce on the exact
hue of Lionel's at this moment.”
“Well, Lionel, will you decide it?” said the Knight; “is the green man
apocryphal, or not?”
“I 'll decide nothing,” said Lionel, “till I get something to eat. Any
one that wishes to hear my exploits must come into the dinner-room;”
and, so saying, he arose, and walked into the parlor, where, under
Tate's superintendence, a little table was already spread for him beside
the fire. To the tempting fare before him the young man devoted all the
energy of a hunter's appetite, regardless of the crowd who had followed
him from the drawing-room, and stood in a circle around him.
Many were the jests, and sharp the raillery, on his singular appearance,
and certainly it presented a most ludicrous contrast with the massive
decorations of the table at which he sat, and the full dress of the
party around him.
“I remember,” said Lord Netherby, “seeing the King of France--when
such a functionary existed--eat his dinner in public on the terrace of
Versailles; but I confess, great as was my admiration of the monarch's
powers, I think Lionel exceeds them.”
“Another leg?” said Beauclerk, who, with knife and fork in hand,
performed the duty of carver.
“Why don't you say another turkey?” said Nolan; then, turning to Mrs.
Somerville, he added, “I am sure that negus is perfect.”
The pretty widow, who had been contributing, as she thought unobserved,
to Lionel's comfort, blushed deeply; and Lionel, at last roused from
his apathy, said, “I am ready now, ladies and gentlemen all, to satisfy
every reasonable demand upon your curiosity. But first, where is Mr.
Beecham O'Reilly?”
“He went home,” said the Knight; “he resisted all my efforts to detain
him to dinner.”
“Perhaps he only came over to sell that horse,” said Nolan, in a half
whisper.
“I wish I had bought him, with all my heart,” said Lionel.
“Do you like him so much,” said the Knight, with a meaning smile.
“I sincerely hope you do,” said Lord Netherby, “for he is yours
already,--at least, if you will do me the honor to accept him; I often
hoped to have mounted you one day--”
“I accept him, my Lord,” interposed Lionel, “most willingly and most
gratefully. You have, literally speaking, mounted me 'one day,' and I
very much doubt if I ever mount the same animal another.”
“What! is he lame?--or staked?--did he break down?--is he a devil to
ride?” broke from several of the party.
“Not one of all these; but if you'll bestow five minutes' patience on me
I 'll perhaps inform you of a mode of being unhorsed, novel at least to
most fox-hunters.” With this, Lionel narrated the conclusion of the
run, the leap of the Crumpawn river, and the singular departure of his
companion at the end.
“Is this a practical joke, Knight?” said Lord Netherby.
“I think so, my Lord; one of those admirable jests which the statutes
record among their own Joe Millers.”
“Then you suspect he was a robber?”
“I confess it looks very like it.”
“I read the riddle otherwise,” said Lionel; “the fellow, whoever he was,
mistook me for somebody else, and there was evidently something more
like a reprisal than a theft in the whole transaction.”
“But you have really lost him?” said Beanclerk.
“When I assure you that I came home on foot, I hope that question is
answered.”
“By Jove! you have most singular ways of doing matters in this country,”
cried the colonel; “but I suppose when a man is used to Ireland, he gets
pretty much accustomed to hear of his horse being stolen away as well as
the fox.”
“Oh! we'll chance upon him one of these days yet,” said the Knight; “I
am half of Lionel's mind myself now,--the thing does not look like a
robbery.”
“There's no end of the eccentricity of these people,” muttered Lord
Netherby to himself; “they can get into a towering passion and become
half mad about trifles, but they take a serious loss as coolly as
possible.” And with this reflection on national character he moved into
the drawing-room, where soon afterwards the party repaired to talk over
Lionel's adventure, with every turn that fancy or raillery could give
it.
CHAPTER XXX. BAGENAL DALY'S VISITORS
It was at a late hour of a night, some days after this event occurred,
that Bagenal Daly sat closeted with Darcy's lawyer, endeavoring, by deep
and long thought, to rescue him from some at least of the perils that
threatened him. Each day, since the Knight's departure, had added to the
evil tidings of his fortune. While Gleeson had employed his powers of
attorney to withdraw large sums from the banker's hands, no information
could be had concerning the great loan he had raised from the London
company, nor was there to be found among the papers left behind him the
bond passed to Hickman, and which he should have received had the money
been paid. That such was the case, Bagenal Daly firmly believed; the
memorandum given him by Freney was corroborated by the testimony of the
clerks in two separate banking-houses, who both declared that Gleeson
drew these sums on the morning before he started for Kildare, and to one
of Daly's rapid habits of judgment such evidence was quite conclusive.
This view of the subject was, unhappily, not destined to continue
undisturbed, for, on the very morning after the Knight's departure from
Dublin, came a formal letter from Hickman's solicitor, demanding payment
of the interest on the sum of seventy-four thousand eight hundred and
twenty pounds, odd shillings, at five per cent, owing by seven weeks,
and accompanying which was a notice of foreclosure of the mortgage on
the ensuing 17th of March, in case the full sum aforesaid were not duly
paid.
To meet these demands Daly well knew Darcy had no disposable property;
the large sums raised by Gleeson, at a lower rate of interest, were
intended for that purpose; and although he persisted in believing that
this debt, at least, was satisfied, the lawyer's opinion was strongly
opposed to that notion.
Mr. Bicknell was a shrewd man, deep not only in the lore of his
professional knowledge, but a keen scrutinizer of motives, and a
far-seeing observer of the world. He argued thus: Gleeson would never
have parted with such a sum on the eve of his own flight; a day was of
no consequence, he could easily have put off the payment to Hickman to
the time of the American ship's sailing--why, then, hand over so large
an amount, all in his possession? It was strange, of course, what had
become of the money; but then they heard that his servant had made his
escape. Why might not he have possessed himself of it after his master's
suicide? Who was to interfere or prevent it? Besides, if he had paid
Hickman, the bond would, in all likelihood, be forthcoming; to retain
possession of it could have been no object with Gleeson; he had met with
nothing but kind and friendly treatment from Darcy, and was not likely
to repay him by an act of useless, gratuitous cruelty.
As to the testimony of the bank clerks, it was as applicable to one view
of the case as the other. Gleeson would, of course, draw out everything
at his disposal; and although the sums tallied with those in the
memorandum, that signified little, as they were the full amount in each
banker's hands to the Knight's credit. Lastly, as to the memorandum, it
was the only real difficulty in the case; but that paper might have been
in Gleeson's possession, and in the course of business discussion either
might have been dropped inadvertently, or have been given to Hickman as
explaining the moneys already prepared for his acceptance.
Mr. Bicknell's reasonings were confirmed by the application of Hickman's
solicitors, who were men of considerable skill and great reputed
caution. “Harris and Long make no such mistakes as this, depend upon
that, sir; they see their case very clearly, or would never adventure on
such an application.”
“D----n their caution! The question is not of their shrewdness.”
“Yes, but it is, though; we are weighing probabilities: let us see to
which side the balance inclines. Would they serve notice of foreclosure,
not knowing whether or not we had the receipt in our possession? That is
the whole matter.”
“I don't pretend to say what they would do, but I know well what I
should.”
“And pray what may that be?”
“Hold possession of the abbey, stand fast by the old walls, call in the
tenantry,--and they are ready to answer such a call at a moment, if need
be,--and while I proclaimed to the wide world by what right I resisted,
I 'd keep the place against any force they dared to bring. These
are ticklish times, Bicknell; the Government have just cheated this
country,--they 'd scarcely risk the hazard of a civil war for an old
usurer,--old Hickman would be left to his remedies in Banco or Equity;
and who knows what might turn up one day or other to strengthen the
honest cause?”
“I scarcely concur in your suggestion, sir.”
“How the devil should you? There are neither declarations to draw,
nor affidavits to swear, no motions, nor rules, nor replies, no
declarations, no special juries! No, Bicknell, I never suspected your
approval of my plan. It would not cost a single skin of parchment.”
Though Daly spoke this sarcasm bitterly, it produced no semblance of
irritation in the man of law, who was composedly occupied in perusing a
document before him.
“I have made memoranda,” said Bicknell, “of certain points for counsel's
opinion, and as soon as we can obtain some information as to the
authenticity of young Darcy's signature, we shall see our way more
clearly. The case is not only a complicated but a gloomy one; our
antagonists are acute and wealthy, and I own to you the prospect is far
from good.”
“The better counsel mine,” said Daly, sternly; “I have little faith in
the justice that hangs upon the intelligence of what you facetiously
call twelve honest men; methinks the world is scarcely so well supplied
with the commodity that they are sure to answer the call of
the sheriff. It is probable, however,--nay, it is more than
probable,--Darcy will be of your mind, and reject my advice; if so,
there is nothing for it but the judge and jury, and he will be despoiled
of his property by the law of the land.”
Bicknell knew too well the eccentric nature of Daly's character, in
which no feature was more prominent than his hatred of everything like
the recognized administration of the law, to offer him any opposition,
and merely repeating his previous determination to seek the advice of
able counsel, he took his leave.
“There is some deep mystery in this business,” said Daly to himself, as
he paced the room alone; “Bicknell is right in saying that Gleeson would
not have committed an act of unnecessary cruelty, nor, if he had paid
the money, would he have failed to leave the bond among his papers.
Every circumstance of this fellow's flight is enveloped in doubt, and
Freney, the only man who appears to have suspected his intention,
by some mischance is not now to be found; Sandy has not succeeded in
meeting with the boy, notwithstanding all his efforts. What can this be
owing to? What machinery is at work here? Have the Hick-mans their
share in this?” Such were the broken sentences he muttered, as, in turn,
suspicions tracked each other in his mind.
Daly was far too rash, and too impetuous in temper, to be well
qualified for an investigation of so much difficulty. Unable to weigh
probabilities with calmness, he was always the victim of his own
prejudices in favor of certain things and people; and to escape from the
chaotic trouble of his own harassed thoughts, he was ever ready to adopt
some headlong and desperate expedient, in preference to the quieter
policy of more patient minds.
“Yes, faith,” said he, “my plan is the best after all; and who knows but
by showing the bold front we may reduce old Hickman's pretensions, or
at least make a compromise with him. There are plenty of arms and
ammunition,--eight stout fellows would hold the inner gate tower against
a battalion,--we could raise the country from Mur-risk to Killery
Harbor; and one gun fired from the Boat Quay would bring the fishermen
from Clare Island and Achill to the rescue,--we 'd soon make a signal
they 'd recognize; old Hickman's house, with all its porticos and
verandas, would burn like tinder. If they are for law, let them begin,
then.”
The door opened as he spoke these words, and Sandy entered cautiously.
“There is a countryman without wha says he's come a long way to see your
honor, and maun see you this night.”
“Where from?”
“Fra' the West, I think, for he said the roads were heavy down in them
parts.”
“Let him come in,” said Daly; and, with his hands crossed behind his
back, he continued to walk the room. “Some poor fellow for a renewal of
his lease, or an abatement, or something of that kind,--they 'll never
learn that I 'm no longer the owner of that estate that still bears my
name, and they cling to me as though I had the power to assist them,
when I'm defenceless for myself. Well, what is it? Speak out, man,--what
do you want with me?”
The individual to whom this question was addressed stood with his
back to the door, which he had cautiously shut close on entering, but,
instead of returning an answer to the question, he cast a long and
searching glance around the room, as if to ascertain whether any other
person was in it. The apartment was large, and, being dimly lighted, it
took some time to assure him that they were alone; but when he had
so satisfied himself-, he walked slowly forward into the light, and,
throwing open his loose coat of gray frieze, exhibited the well-known
figure of Freney the robber.
“What, Freney!--the man of all Ireland I wish to see.”
“I thought so, sir,” said the other, wiping his forehead with his
hand, for he was flushed and heated, and seemed to have come off a
long journey. “I know you sent for me, but I was unable to meet your
messenger, and I can seldom venture to send that young villain Jemmy
into the capital,--the police are beginning to know him, and he 'll be
caught one of these days.”
“You were n't in Kildare, then?” said Daly.
“No, sir, I was in the far West,--down in Mayo. I had a little business
in Ballina a short time back, and some fellow who knew me, and thought
the game a safe one, stole my brown horse out of the inn-stable, in the
broad noon-day, and sold him at the fair green at Ballinasloe. When I
tell you that he was the best animal I ever crossed, I need n't say
what the loss was to me; the nags you saw were broken-down hackneys in
comparison. He was strong in bone and untiring, and I kept him for the
heavy country around Boyle and down by Longford. It is not once, nor
twice, but a dozen times, Matchlock has saved me from a loop and a
leap in the air; but the rascal that took him well knew the theft was
safe,--Freney, the highwayman, could scarcely lodge informations with a
magistrate.”
“And you never could hear traces of him?” “Yes, that I did, but it cost
me time and trouble too. I found that he was twice sold within one week.
Dean Harris bought him, and sold him the day after.” Here Freney gave a
low cunning laugh, while his eyes twinkled with malignant drollery.
“He did n't think as highly of him as you did, Freney?” “Perhaps he had
n't as good reason,” said the robber, laughing. “He was riding home from
an early dinner with the bishop, and as he was cantering along the side
of the road, a chaise with four horses came tearing past. Matchlock,
true to his old instinct, but not knowing who was on his back, broke
into a gallop, and in half a dozen strides brought the dean close up to
the chaise window, when the traveller inside sent a bullet past his ear
that very nearly made a vacancy in the best living of the diocese. As I
said, sir, the dean had had enough of him; he sold him the next morning,
and that day week he was bought by a young fellow in the West whom I
found out to be a grandson of old Hickman.”
“Was he able to ride a horse like this?” said Daly, doubtfully.
“Ride him?--ay; and never a man in the province brought a beast to a
leap with a lighter hand and a closer seat in the saddle. We were side
by side for three miles of a stiff country, and I don't believe I 'm
much of a coward,--at any rate, I set very little value on my neck; but,
I 'll tell you what, sir, he pushed me hard.”
“How was this, then? Had you a race together?” “It was something very
like it, sir,” said Freney, laughing; “for when I reached Westport, I
heard that young O'Reilly was to ride a new brown horse that day
with the hounds, and a great hunt was expected, to show some English
gentlemen who were staying at Gwynne Abbey. So I went off early to
Hooley's forge, near the cross-roads, to see the meet, and look out for
my man. I did n't want any one to tell me which he was, for I 'd know
Matchlock at half a mile distance. There he was, in splendid condition
too, and looking as I never saw him look before; by my conscience,
Mr. Daly, there's a wide difference between the life of a beast in the
stables of a county member, and one that has to stretch his bones in the
shealing of such as myself. My plan was to go down to the cover, and the
moment the fox broke away, to drive a bullet through my horse's head,
and be off as hard as I could; for, to tell you the truth, it was spite
more than the value of him was grieving me; so I took my own horse
by the bridle, and walked down to where they were all gathered. I was
scarcely there when the dogs gave tongue, and away they went,--a grand
sight it was, more than a hundred red-coats, and riding close every man
of them. Just then, up comes Matchlock, and takes the fence into the
field where I was standing, a stone wall and a ditch, his rider handling
him elegantly, and with an easy smile, sitting down in his saddle as if
it was child's play. Faith, I could n't bring myself to fire the shot,
partly for the sake of the horse, more too, maybe, for the sake of the
rider. 'I 'll go a bit beside him,' said I to myself; for it was a real
pleasure to me to watch the way how both knew their business well. I
'm making a long story of it, but the end of it was this: I took the
Crumpawn river just to dare him, and divil a bit but he fell in,--no
fault of his, but the bank was rotten, and down they went; the young
fellow had a narrow escape of it, but he got through it at last, and, as
he lay on the grass more dead than alive, I saw Matchlock grazing just
close to me. Temptations are bad things, Mr. Daly, particularly when a
man has never trained himself off them; so I slipped the bridle over his
head, and rode away with him beside me.”
[Illustration: 368]
“Carried him off?”
“Clean and clever; he's at the hall-door this minute: and, by the same
token, sixty-four miles he has covered this day.”
“There's only one part of the whole story surprises me; it is that this
fellow should have ridden so boldly and so well. I know such courage is
often no more than habit: yet even that lower quality of daring I never
should have given him credit for. Was he hurt by his fall?”
“Stunned, perhaps, but nothing the worse.”
“Well, well, enough of him. I wanted to see you, Freney, to learn
anything you may know of this fellow Gleeson's flight. It's a sad affair
for my friend the Knight of Gwynne.”
“So I've heard, sir. It's bad enough for myself, too.”
“For you! He was not your man of business, was he?” said Daly, with a
sly laugh.
“No, sir, I generally manage my money matters myself; but he happened to
have a butler, one Garrett by name, who betted smartly on the turf, and
played a little with the bones besides. He was a steady-going chap that
knew a thing or two, but honest enough in booking up when he lost; he
borrowed two hundred from me on the very day they started; he owed me
nearly three besides, and I never saw him since. They say that when his
master jumped overboard, Jack Garrett laid hands on all his property,
and sailed for America; but I don't believe it, sir.”
“Well, but, Freney, you may believe it, for I was the means of an
investigation at Liverpool in which the fact transpired, and the name
of John Garrett was entered in the ship-agent's books; I read it there
myself.”
“No matter for that, he dared not venture into the States. I know
something of Jack's doings among the Yankees, and depend upon it, Mr.
Daly, he's not gone; it's only a blind to stop pursuit.”
Daly shook his head dubiously, for, having satisfied himself of
Garrett's escape when at Liverpool, he felt annoyed at any discredit
attaching to what he deemed his own discovery.
“Take my word for it, Mr. Daly, I 'm right this time; you cannot think
what an advantage a man like me possesses in guessing at the way another
rogue would play his game. Why, sir, I know every turn and double such
a fellow as Garrett would make. Now, I 'd wager Matchlock against a
car-horse that he has not left England, and I 'd take an even bet he 'll
be at the Spring Meeting at Doncaster.”
“This may be all as you say, Freney,” said Daly, after a pause, “and yet
I see no reason to suppose it can interest me, or my friend either. He
might know something of Gleeson's affairs; he might, perhaps, be able to
tell something of the payment of that sum at Kildare; if so--”
“If so,” interrupted Freney, “money would buy the secret; at all events,
I'm determined he shall not escape me so easily. I 'll follow the fellow
to the very threshold of Newgate but I 'll have my own,--it is for
that purpose I 'm on my way now. A fishing-boat will sail from Howth by
to-morrow's tide, and land me somewhere on the Welsh coast, and, if I
can serve you, why, it's only doing two jobs at the same time. What are
the points you are anxious to discover?”
Daly reflected for a few moments, and then with distinctness detailed
the several matters on which he desired information, not only regarding
the reasons of Gleeson's embarrassments, but the nature of his intimacy
with old Hickman, of which he entertained deep suspicions.
“I see it all,” said Freney. “You think that Gleeson was in league with
the doctor?”
Daly nodded.
“That was my own notion, too. Ah, sir, if I 'd only the King's pardon in
my pocket this night, and the power of an honest man for one month, I
'd stake my head on it, but I would have the whole mystery as clear as
water.”
“You 'll want some money, Freney,” said Daly, as he turned to the table,
and, taking up a key, unlocked the writing-case. “I 'm not as rich just
now as a Member of Parliament might be after such a Bill as the Union,
but I hope this may be of some service;” and he took a fifty-pound note
from the desk to hand it to him, but Freney was gone. He had slipped
noiselessly from the room; the bang of the hall-door was heard at the
instant, and immediately after the tramp of a horse as he trotted down
the street.
“The world all over!” said Daly to himself. “If the man of honor and
integrity has his flaws and defects, even fellows like that have their
notions of principle and delicacy too. Confound it! mankind will never
let me love or hate them.”
CHAPTER XXXI. “A LEAVE-TAKING.”
At Gwynne Abbey, time sped fast and pleasantly; each day brought its own
enjoyments, and of the Knight's guests there was not one who did not in
his heart believe that Maurice Darcy was the very happiest man in the
kingdom.
Lord Netherby, the frigid courtier, felt, for the first time, perhaps,
in his life, how much cordiality can heighten the pleasures of social
intercourse, and how the courtesy of kind feeling can add to the
enjoyments of refined and cultivated tastes. Lady Eleanor had lost
nothing of the powers of fascination for which her youth had been
celebrated, and there was, in the very seclusion of her life, that
which gave the charm of novelty to her remarks on people and events. The
Knight himself, abounding in resources of every kind, was a companion
the most fastidious or exacting could not weary of; and as for Helen,
her captivations were acknowledged by those who, but a week before,
would not have admitted the possibility of any excellence that had not
received the stamp of London approval.
Crofton could never expatiate sufficiently on the delights of an
establishment which, with the best cook, the best cellar, and the best
stable, called not upon him for the exercise of the small talents and
petty attentions by which his invitations to great houses were usually
purchased; while the younger men of the party agreed in regarding their
friend Lionel as the most to be envied of all their acquaintance.
Happiness, perhaps, shines more brightly by reflected light; certainly
Lionel Darcy never felt more disposed to be content with the world,
and, although not devoid of a natural pride at exhibiting to his English
friends the style of his father's house and habits, yet was he far more
delighted at the praises he heard on every side of the Knight himself.
Maurice Darcy possessed that rarest of all gifts, the power of being
a delightful companion to younger men, without ever detracting in
the slightest degree from the most rigid tone of good taste and
good principle. The observation may seem an illiberal one, but it is
unhappily too true, that even among those who from right feeling would
be incapable of anything mean or sordid, there often prevails a laxity
in expression and a libertinism of sentiment very far remote from their
real opinions, and, consequently, such as flatter this tendency are
frequently the greatest favorites among them. The Knight, not less from
high principle than pride, rejected every such claim; his manly, joyous
temperament needed no aids to its powers of interesting and amusing;
his sympathies went with young men in all their enthusiasm for sport; he
gloried in the exuberance of their high spirits, and felt his own youth
come back in the eager pleasure with which he listened to their plans of
amusement.
It may well be believed with what sorrow to each the morning dawned that
was to be the last of their visit. These last times are sad things!
They are the deaths of our affections and attachments; for assuredly the
memory we retain of past pleasures is only the unreal spirit of a world
we are to know of no more,--not alone the records of friends lost or
dead, but of ourselves, such as we once were, and can never again be;
of a time when hope was fed by credulity, and could not be exhausted by
disappointment. They must have had but a brief experience of life who do
not see in every separation from friends the many chances against their
meeting again, least of all, of meeting unchanged, with all around them
as they parted.
These thoughts, and others like them, weighed heavily on the hearts of
those who now assembled for the last time beneath the roof of Gwynne
Abbey.
It was in vain that Lionel suggested various schemes of pleasure for the
day; the remembrance that it was the last was ever present, and while
every moment seemed precious, there was a fidgety impatience to be about
and stirring, mingled with a desire to loiter and linger over the spot
so associated with pleasant memories.
A boating party to Clare Island, long planned and talked over, could
find now no advocates. All Lionel's descriptions of the shooting along
the rocky shores of the bay were heard unheeded; every one clung to the
abbey, as if to enjoy to the very last the sense of home happiness
they had known there. Even those less likely to indulge feelings of
attachment were not free from the depressing influence of a last day.
Nor were these sentiments confined to the visitors only. Lady Eleanor
experienced a return of her former spirits in her intercourse with those
whose habits and opinions all reminded her of the past, and would gladly
have prolonged a visit so full of pleasant recollections. The request
was, however, in vain; the Earl was to be in waiting early in the
following week, Lionel's leave was only regimental, and equally limited,
and each of the others had engagements and projects no less fixed and
immutable.
In little knots of two and three they spent the day wandering about from
place to place, to take a last look of the great cliff, to visit for the
last time the little wood path, whose every turning presented some new
aspect of the bay and the shore. Lord Netherby attached himself to the
Knight, devoting himself with a most laudable martyrdom to a morning in
the farm-yard and the stable, where, notwithstanding all his efforts,
his blunders betrayed how ill-suited were his habits to country life and
its interests. He bore all, however, well and heroically, for he had an
object in view, and that, with him, was always sufficient to induce
any degree of endurance. Up to this moment he had scarcely enjoyed an
opportunity of conversing with the Knight on the subject of politics.
The few words they had exchanged at the cover side were all that passed
between them, and although they conveyed sentiments very remote from his
own, he did not entirely despair of gaining over one who evidently was
less actuated by party motives than impressed by the force of strong
personal convictions.
“Such a man will, of course,” thought the Earl, “be in the Imperial
Parliament, and carry with him great influence on every question
connected with Ireland; his support of the Ministry will be all the more
valuable that his reputation is intact from every stain of corruption.
To withdraw him from his own country by the seductions of London life
would not be easy, but he may be attached to England by ties still more
binding.” Such were some of the reasonings which the wily peer revolved
in his mind, and to whose aid a fortunate accident had in some measure
contributed.
“I believe I have never shown you our garden, my Lord,” said the Knight,
who, at last taking compassion on the suffering complaisance of the
Earl, proposed this change. “The season is scarcely the most flattering,
but we are early in this part of Ireland. What say you if we walk
thither?”
The plan was at once approved of, and after a short circuit through a
shrubbery, they crossed a large orchard, and, ascending a gentle slope,
they entered the garden, which rose in successive terraces behind the
abbey, and commanded a wide prospect over the bay and the sea beyond it.
Lord Netherby's admiration was not feigned, as he turned his eyes around
and beheld the extent and beauty of that cultivated scene, which, in the
brightness of a spring morning, glittered like a gem on the mountain's
side. The taste alone was not the engrossing thought of his mind, but
he reflected on the immense expenditure such a caprice must have cost,
terraced as the ground was into the very granite rock, and the earth all
supplied artificially. The very keeping these parterres in order was a
thing of no mean cost. Not all the terrors of his own approaching fate
could deprive Darcy of a sense of pride as he watched the expression of
the Earl's features, surprise and wonder depicted in every lineament.
“How extensive the park is,” said the courtier, at length, half ashamed,
as it seemed, of giving way to his amazement; “are those trees yonder
within your grounds?”
“Yes, my Lord: the wood at that point where you see the foam splashing
up is our limit in that direction; on this side we stretch away somewhat
further.”
“Whose property, then, have we yonder, where I see the village?”
“It is all the Gwynne estate,” said the Knight, with difficulty
repressing the sigh that rose as he spoke.
“And the town?”
“The town also. The worthy monks took a wide circuit, and, by all
accounts, did not misuse their wealth. I sadly fear, my Lord, their
successors were not as blameless.”
“A noble possession, indeed!” said the Earl, half aloud, and not
attending to Darcy's remark. “Are you certain, my dear Knight, that you
have made your political influence at all commensurate with the amount
of either your property or your talents? An English gentleman with an
estate like this, and ability such as yours, might command any position
he pleased.”
“In other words, my Lord, he might barter his independence for the
exercise of a precarious power, and, in ceasing to dispense the duties
of a landed proprietor, he might become a very considerable ingredient
in a party.”
“I hope you do not deem the devoir of a country gentleman incompatible
with the duties of a statesman?”
“By no means; but I greatly regret the gradual desertion of social
influence in the search after political ascendency. I am not for the
working of a system that spoils the gentry, and yet does not make them
statesmen.”
“And yet the very essence of our Constitution is to connect the power of
Government with the possession of landed property.”
“And justly so, too; none other offers so little in return as a mere
speculation. None is so little exposed to the casualties which affect
every other kind of wealth. The legitimate influence of the landed
gentry is the safeguard of the State; but if, by the attractions of
power, the flatteries of a Court, or the seductions of Party, you
withdraw them from the rightful sphere of its exercise, you reduce them
to the level of the Borough members, without, perhaps, their technical
knowledge or professional acquirements. I am for giving them a
higher position,--the heritage of the bold barons, from whom they are
descended: but to maintain this, they must live on their own estates,
dispense the influences of their wealth and their morals in their own
native districts, be the friend of the poor man, the counsellor of the
misguided, the encourager of the weak; know and be known to all around,
not as the corrupt dispensers of Government patronage, but the guardians
of those whose rights are in their keeping for defence and protection.
I would have them with their rightful influence in the Senate; an
influence which should preponderate in both Houses. Their rank and
education would be the best guarantee for the safety and wisdom of
their counsels, their property the best surety for the permanence of
the institutions of the State. Suddenly acquired wealth can scarcely be
intrusted with political power; it lacks the element of prudent caution,
by which property is maintained as well as accumulated; it wants also
the prestige of antiquity as a claim to respect; and, legislate as you
will, men will look back as well as forward.”
Lord Netherby made no reply; he thought the Knight, perhaps, was venting
his own regrets at the downfall of a political ascendency he wished to
see vested in men of his own station,--a position they had long enjoyed,
and which, in some respects, had placed them above the law.
“You lay more store by such ties, Knight,” said the Earl, in a low,
insinuating voice, “than we are accustomed to do. Blood and birth have
suffered less admixture with mere wealth here than with us.”
“Perhaps we do, my Lord,” said Darcy, smiling; “it is the compensation
for our poverty. Unmixed descent is the boast of many who have retained
nothing of their ancestors save the name.”
“But you yourself can scarcely be an advocate for the maintenance of
these opinions: this spirit of clan and chieftainship is opposed, not
only to progress, but to liberty.”
“I have given the best proof of the contrary,” said Darcy, laughing,
“by marrying an Englishwoman,--a dereliction, I assure you, that cost me
many a warm supporter in this very country.”
“Indeed! By the way, I am reminded of a subject I wished to speak of
to you, and which I have been hesitating whether I should open with my
cousin Eleanor or yourself; the moment seems, however, propitious,--may
I broach it?”
Darcy bowed courteously, and the other resumed:--
“I will be brief, then. Young Beauclerk, a friend of your son Lionel,
has been, as every one younger and older than himself must be, greatly
taken by the charms of Miss Darcy. Brief as the acquaintance here has
been, the poor fellow is desperately in love, and, while feeling how
such an acknowledgment might prejudice his chance of success on so short
an intimacy, he cannot leave this without the effort to secure for his
pretensions a favorable hearing hereafter. In fact, my dear Knight, he
has asked of me to be his intercessor with you,--not to receive him as a
son-in-law, but to permit him to pay such attentions as, in the event of
your daughter's acceptance, may enable him to make the offer of his hand
and fortune. I need not tell you that in point of position and means he
is unexceptionable; a very old Baronetcy,--not one of these yesterday
creations made up of State Physicians and Surgeons in Ordinary,--an
estate of above twelve thousand a year. Such are claims to look high
with; but I confess I think he could not lay them at the feet of one
more captivating than my fair Helen.”
Darcy made no reply for several minutes; he pressed his hand across his
eyes, and turned his head away, as if to escape observation; then, with
an effort that seemed to demand all his strength, he said,--
“This is impossible, my Lord. There are reasons--there are circumstances
why I cannot entertain this proposition. I am not able to explain them;
a few days more, and I need not trouble myself on that subject.”
The evident agitation of manner the Knight displayed astonished his
companion, who, while he forebore to ask more directly for its reason,
yet gently hinted that the obstacles alluded to might be less stringent
than Darcy deemed them.
Darcy shook his head mournfully, and Lord Netherby, though most anxious
to divine the secret of his thoughts, had too much breeding to continue
the subject.
Without any abruptness, which might have left an unpleasant impression
after it, the polished courtier once more adverted to Beauclerk, but
rather in a tone of regret for the youth's own sake than with any
reference to the Knight's refusal.
“There was a kind of selfishness in my advocacy, Knight,” said he,
smiling. “I was--I am--very much depressed at quitting a spot where I
have tasted more true happiness than it has been my fortune for many
years to know, and I wish to carry away with me the reflection that
I had left the germ of even greater happiness behind me; if Helen,
however--”
“Hush!” said Darcy; “here she comes, with her mother.”
“My dear Lady Eleanor,” said Lord Netherby, “you have come to see me
forget all the worldliness it has cost me a life to learn, and actually
confess that I cannot tear myself away from the abbey.”
“Well, my Lord,” interposed Tom Nolan, who had just come up with a
large walking party, “I suppose it's only ordering away the posters, and
staying another day.”
“No, no, by Jove!” cried Crofton; “my Lord is in waiting, and I'm on
duty.”
While the groups now gathered together from the different parts of the
garden, Lord Netherby joined Beauclerk, who awaited him in a distant
alley, and soon after the youth was seen returning alone to the abbey.
The time of bustle and leave-taking--that moment when many a false smile
and merry speech ill conceals the secret sorrow--was come, and each
after each spoke his farewell; and Lord Netherby, kindly pledging
himself to make Lionel's peace at the Horse Guards for an extended
absence of some days, thus conferred upon Lady Eleanor the very greatest
of favors.
“Our next meeting is to be in London, remember,” said the peer, in his
blandest accents. “I stand pledged to show my countrymen that I have
nothing extenuated in speaking of Irish beauty;--nay, Helen, it is my
last time, forgive it.”
“There they go,” said Darcy, as he looked after the retiring equipages.
“Now, Eleanor, and my dear children, come along with me into the
library. I have long been struggling against a secret sorrow; another
moment would be more than I could bear.”
They turned silently towards the abbey, none daring, even by a look, to
interrogate him whose sad accents foreboded so much evil; yet as they
walked they drew closer around him, and seemed even by that gesture to
show that, come what might, they would meet their fortune boldly.
Darcy moved on for some minutes sunk in thought; but as he ascended the
wide steps of the terrace, appearing to read the motives of those who
clung so closely to his side, he smiled sadly, and said, “Ay! I knew it
well,--in weal or woe--together!”
CHAPTER XXXII. “SAD DISCLOSURES.”
The vicissitudes of life are never more palpably displayed before us
than when the space of a few brief hours has converted the scene of
festivity and pleasure into one of gloom and sorrow, when the same
silent witnesses of our joy should be present at our affliction. Thus
was it now in the richly adorned chambers of Gwynne Abbey, so lately
filled with happy faces and resounding with pleasant voices,--all
was silent. Iu the courtyard, but a day before crowded with brilliant
equipages and gay horsemen, the long shadows lay dark and unbroken, and
the plash of the fountain was the only sound in the stillness. Over that
wide lawn no groups on foot or horseback were to be seen; the landscape
was fair and soft to look upon; the mild radiance of a spring morning
beamed on the water and the shore, the fresh budding trees, and the tall
towers; and the passing traveller who might have stopped to gaze upon
that princely dwelling and its swelling woods, might have thought it an
earthly paradise, and that they who owned it must needs be above worldly
cares and afflictions.
The scene within the walls was very unlike this impression. In a
darkened room, where the close-drawn curtains excluded every ray of
sunshine, sat Helen Darcy by the bedside of her mother. Lady Eleanor had
fallen asleep after a night of intense suffering, both of mind and
body, and her repose even yet exhibited, in short and fitful starts, the
terrible traces of an agony not yet subdued. Helen was pale as death;
two dark circles of almost purple hue surrounded her eyes, and her
cheeks seemed wasted: yet she had not wept. The overwhelming amount of
misfortune had stunned her for a moment or two, but, recalled to active
exertion by her mother's illness, she addressed herself to her task, and
seemed to have no thought or care save to watch and tend her. It was
only at last when, wearied out by suffering, Lady Eleanor fell into a
slumber that Helen's feelings found their vent, and the tears rolled
heavily along her cheek, and dropped one by one upon her neck.
Her sorrow was indeed great, for it was unalloyed by one selfish
feeling; her grief was for those a thousand times more dear to her than
herself, nor through all her affliction did a single thought intrude of
how this ruin was also her own.
The Knight was in the library, where he had passed the night, lying down
at short intervals to catch some moments' rest, and again rising to
walk the room and reflect upon the coming stroke of fortune. Lionel had
parted from him at a late hour, promising to go to bed; but, unable to
endure the gloom of his own thoughts in his chamber, he wandered out
into the woods, and strolled on without knowing or caring whither, till
day broke. The bodily exertion at length induced sleep, and after a few
hours' deep repose he joined his father, with few traces of weariness or
even sorrow.
It was not without a struggle on either side that they met on that
morning, and as Darcy grasped his son's hand in both his own, his lip
trembled, and his strong frame shook with agitation. Lionel's ruddy
cheek and clear blue eye seemed to reassure the old man's courage; and
after gazing on him steadfastly with a look where fatherly love and
pride were blended, he said, “I see, my boy, the old blood of a Darcy
has not degenerated--you are well to-day?”
“Never was better in my life,” said Lionel, boldly; “and if I could
only think that you, my mother, and Helen had no cause for sorrow, I 'd
almost say I never felt my spirits higher.”
“My own brave-hearted boy,” said Darcy, throwing his arms around the
youth's neck, while the tears gushed from his eyes and a choking stopped
his utterance.
“I see your letters have come,” said Lionel, gently disengaging himself,
and affecting a degree of calmness his heart was very far from feeling.
“Do they bring us any news?”
“Nothing to hope from,” said Darcy, sorrowfully. “Daly has seen
Hickman's solicitors, and the matter is as I expected: Gleeson did not
pay the bond debt; his journey to Kildare was, probably, undertaken to
gain time until the moment of the American ship's sailing. He must have
meditated this step for a considerable time, for it now appears that his
losses in South America occurred several years back, though carefully
screened from public knowledge. The man was a cold, calculating
scoundrel, who practised peculation systematically and slowly; his
resolve to escape was not a sudden notion,--these are Bagenal Daly's
impressions at least, and I begin to feel their force myself.”
“Does Daly offer any suggestion for our guidance, or say how we should
act?” said Lionel, far more eager to meet the present than speculate on
either the past or the future.
“Yes; he gives us a choice of counsels, honestly confessing that his own
advice meets little support or sympathy with the lawyers. It is to hold
forcible possession of the abbey, to leave Hickman to his remedy by
law, and to defy him when he has even got a verdict; he enumerates very
circumstantially all our means of defence, and exhibits a very hopeful
array of lawless probabilities in our favor. But this is a counsel
I would never follow; it would not become one who has in a long
life endeavored to set the example among the people of obedience and
observance to law, to obliterate by one act of rashness and folly the
whole force of his teaching. No, Lionel, we are cleanhanded on this
score, and if the lesson, be a heavy one for ourselves, let it not be
profitless for our poor neighbors. This is your own feeling too, my boy,
I'm certain.”
Lionel bit his lip, and his cheek grew scarlet; when, after a pause, he
said, “And the other plan, what is that?”
“The renewed offer of his cottage on the northern coast, a lonely
and secluded spot, where we can remain at least until we determine on
something better.”
“Perhaps that may be a wiser course,” muttered the youth, half aloud;
“my mother and Helen are to be thought of first. And yet, father, I.
cannot help thinking Daly's first counsel has something in it.”
“Something in it! ay, Lionel, that it has,--the whole story of our
country's misery and degradation. The owner of the soil has diffused
little else among the people than the licentious terror of his own
unbridled passion; he has taught lawless outrage, when he should have
inculcated obedience and submission. The corruption of our people has
come from above downwards; the heavy retribution will come one day; and
when the vices of the peasant shall ascend to the master, the social
ruin will be complete. To this dreadful consummation let us lend no aid.
No, no, Lionel, sorrow may be lessened by time; but remorse is undying
and eternal.”
“I must leave the Guards at once,” said the young man, pacing the room
slowly, and endeavoring to speak with an air of calm composure, while
every feature of his face betrayed the agitation he suffered; “an
exchange will not be difficult to manage.”
“You have some debts, too, in London: they must be cared for
immediately.”
“Nothing of any large amount; my horses and carriages when sold will
more than meet all I owe. Have you formed any guess as to what income
will be left you to live on?” said he, in a voice which anxiety made
weak and tremulous.
“Without Daly's assistance, I cannot answer that point; the extent of
this fellow Gleeson's iniquity seems but half explored. The likelihood
is, that your mother's jointure will be the utmost we can save from the
wreck. Even that, however, will be enough for all we need, although,
from motives of delicacy on her part, it was originally set down at a
very small sum,--not more than a thousand per annum.”
A long silence now ensued. The Knight, buried in thought, sat with his
arms crossed, and his eyes bent upon the ground. Lionel leaned on the
window-frame and looked out upon the lawn; nothing stirred, no sound was
heard save the sharp ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, which
marked with distinctness every second, as if reminding them of the
fleeting moments that were to be their last beneath that roof.
“This is the 24th, if I remember aright,” said Darcy, looking up at the
dial; “at noon, to-day, we are no longer masters here.”
“The Hickmans will scarcely venture to push matters to such extremities;
an assurance that we are willing to surrender peaceable possession will,
I trust, be sufficient to prevent the indecency of a rapid flight from
our own house and home.”
“There are legal forms of possession to be gone through, I believe,”
said the Knight, sorrowfully; “certain observances the law exacts, which
would be no less painful for us to witness than the actual presence of
our successors.”
“Who can this be? I saw a carriage disappear behind the copse yonder.
There it is again, coming along by the lake.”
“Daly--Bagenal Daly, I hope and trust!” exclaimed Darcy, as he stood
straining his eyes to catch the moving object.
“I think not; the horses do not look like posters. Heaven grant we have
no visitors at such a time as this!”
The carriage, although clearly visible the moment before, was now
concealed from view by an angle of the wood, nor would it again be in
sight before reaching the abbey.
“Your mother's indisposition is reason sufficient not to receive them,”
said Darcy, almost sternly. “I would not continue the part I have played
during the last week, no, not for an hour longer, to be assured of
rescue from every difficulty. The duplicity went nigh to break my heart;
ay, and it would have done so, or driven me mad, had the effort been
sustained any further.”
“You did not expect any one, did you?” asked Lionel, eagerly.
“Not one; there's a mass of letters, with invitations and civil
messages, there on the table, but no proffered visits among them.”
Lionel walked to the table and turned over the various notes which lay
along with newspapers and pamphlets scattered about.
“Ay,” muttered the Knight, in a low tone, “they read strangely now,
these plans of pleasure and festivity, when ruin is so near us; the kind
pressings to spend a week here, and a fortnight there. It reminds me,
Lionel,”--and here a smile of sad but sweet melancholy passed across his
features,--“it reminds me of the old story they tell of my grand-uncle
Robert. He commanded the 'Dreadnought,' under Drake, at Cape St.
Vincent, and at the close of a very sharp action was signalled to come
on board the admiral's vessel to dinner. The poor 'Dreadnought' was like
a sieve, the sea running in and out through her shot-holes, and her
sails hanging like rags around her, her deck covered with wounded, and
slippery with gore. Captain Darcy, however, hastened to obey the command
of his superior, changed his dress and ordered his boat to be manned;
but this was no easy matter, there was scarcely a boat's crew to be had
without taking away the men necessary to work the ship. The difficulty
soon became more pressing, for a plank had suddenly sprung from a
double-headed shot, and all the efforts of the pumps could not keep the
vessel afloat, with a heavy sea rolling at the same time.
“'The admiral's signal is repeated, sir,' said the lieutenant on duty.
“'Very well, Mr. Hay; keep her before the wind,' was the answer.
“'The ship is settling fast, sir,' said the master; 'no boat could live
in that sea; they 're all damaged by shot.'
“'Signal the flag-ship,' cried out Darcy; 'signal the admiral that I am
ready to obey him, but we 're sinking.'
“The bunting floated at the mast-head for a moment or two, but the waves
were soon many fathoms over it, and the 'Dreadnought' was never seen
more.”
“So it would seem,” said Lionel, with a half-bitter laugh, “we are not
the first of the family who went down head foremost. But I hear a voice
without. Surely old Tate is not fool enough to admit any one.”
“Is it possible--” But before the Knight could finish, the old butler
entered to announce Mr. Hickman O'Reilly. Advancing towards the Knight
with a most cordial air, he seemed bent on anticipating any possible
expression of displeasure at his unexpected appearance.
“I am aware, Knight,” said he, in an accent the most soft and
conciliating, “how indelicate a visit from me at such a moment may
seem; but if you accord me a few moments of private interview, I hope to
dispel the unpleasant impression.” He looked towards Lionel as he spoke,
and though he smiled his blandest of all smiles, evidently hinted at the
possibility of his leaving them alone together.
“I have no confidences apart from my son, sir,” said Darcy, coldly.
“Oh, of course not--perfectly natural at Captain Darcy's age--such a
thought would be absurd; still, there are circumstances which might
possibly excuse my request--I mean--”
Lionel did not suffer him to finish the sentence, but, turning abruptly
round, left the room, saying as he went, “I have some orders to give in
the stable, but I'll not go further away if you want me.”
“Now, sir,” said the Knight, haughtily, “we are alone, and not likely to
be interrupted; may I ask, as a great favor, that in any communication
you may have to make, you will be as brief as consists with your object;
for, to say truth, I have many things on my mind, and many important
calls to attend to.”
“In the first place, then,” said Hickman, assuming a manner intended to
convey the impression of perfect frankness and candor, “let me make
a confession, which, however humiliating to avow, would be still
more injurious to hold in reserve. I have neither act nor part in the
proceedings my father has lately taken respecting your mutual dealings.
Not only that he has not consulted me, but every attempt on my part to
ascertain the course of events, or mitigate their rigor, has been met
by a direct, not unfrequently a rude, repulse.” He waited at this
pause for the Knight to speak, but a cold and dignified bow was all the
acknowledgment returned. “This may appear strange and inexplicable in
your eyes,” said O'Reilly, who mistook the Knight's indifference for
incredulity, “but perhaps I can explain.”
“There is not the slightest necessity to do so, Mr. O'Reilly; I have no
reason to doubt one word you have stated; for not only am I ignorant of
what the nature and extent of the proceedings you allude to may be, but
I am equally indifferent as to the spirit that dictates or the number of
advisers that suggest them; pardon me if I seem rude or uncourteous, but
there are circumstances in life in which not to be selfish would be
to become insensible; my present condition is, perhaps, one of them. A
breach of trust on the part of one who possessed my fullest confidence
has involved all, or nearly all, I had in the world. The steps by which
I am to be deprived of what was once my own are, as regards myself,
matters of comparative indifference; with respect to others”--here he
almost faltered--“I hope they may be dictated by proper feeling and
consideration.”
“Be assured they shall, sir,” said Mr. O'Reilly; and then, as if
correcting a too hasty avowal, added, “but I have the strongest hopes
that the matters are not yet in such an extremity as you speak of. It is
true, sir, I will not conceal from you, my father is not free from the
faults of age; his passion for money-getting has absorbed his whole
heart, to the exclusion of many amiable and estimable traits; to enforce
a legal right with him seems a duty, and not an option; and I may
mention here that your friend, Mr. Daly, has not taken any particular
pains towards conciliating him; indeed, he has scarcely acted a prudent
part as regards you, by the unceasing rancor he has exhibited towards
our family.”
“I must interrupt you, sir,” said the Knight, “and assure you that,
while there are unfortunately but too many topics which could pain me
at this moment, there is not one more certain to offend me than any
reflection, even the slightest, on the oldest friend I have in the
world.”
Mr. O'Reilly denied the most remote intention of giving pain, and
proceeded. “I was speaking of my father,” said he, “and however
unpleasant the confession from a son's lips, I must say that the
legality of his acts is the extent to which they claim his observance.
When his solicitors informed him that the interest was unpaid on your
bond, he directed the steps to enforce the payment, and subsequently to
foreclose the deed. These are, after all, mere preliminary proceedings,
and in no way preclude an arrangement for a renewal.”
“Such a proposition--let me interrupt you--such a proposition is wholly
out of the question; the ruin that has cost us our house and home has
spared nothing. I have no means by which I could anticipate the payment
of so large a sum, nor is it either my intention or my wish to reside
longer beneath this roof.”
“I hope, sir, your determination is not unalterable; it would be the
greatest affliction of my life to think that the loss to this county of
its oldest family was even in the remotest degree ascribed to us. The
Darcys have been the boast and pride of western Ireland for centuries;
our county would be robbed of its fairest ornament by the departure of
those who hold a princely state and derive a more than princely devotion
among us.”
“If our claims had no other foundation, Mr. O'Reilly, our altered
circumstances would now obliterate them. To live here with diminished
fortune--But I ask pardon for being led away in this manner; may I beg
that you will now inform me to what peculiar circumstances I owe the
honor of your visit?”
“I thought,” said O'Reilly, insinuatingly, “that I had mentioned the
difference of feeling entertained by my father and myself respecting
certain proceedings at law.”
“You are quite correct, you did so; but I may observe, without
incivility, that however complimentary to your own sense of delicacy
such a difference is, for me the matter has no immediate interest.”
“Perhaps, with your kind permission, I can give it some,” replied
O'Reilly, drawing his chair close, and speaking in a low and
confidential voice; “but in order to let my communication have the value
I would wish it, may I bespeak for myself a favorable hearing and a kind
construction on what I shall say? If by an error of judgment--”
“Ah!” said Darcy, sighing, while a sad smile dimpled his mouth--“ah! no
man should be more lenient to such than myself.”
As if reassured by the kindly tone of these few words, O'Reilly
resumed:--
“Some weeks ago my father waited upon Lady Eleanor Darcy with a
proposition which, whether on its own merits, or from want of proper
tact in his advocacy of it, met with a most unfavorable reception. It is
not because circumstances have greatly altered in that brief
interval--which I deeply regret to say is the case--that I dare to augur
a more propitious hearing, but simply because I hope to show that in
making it we were actuated by a spirit of honorable, if not of laudable,
ambition. The rank and position my son will enjoy in this county, his
fortune and estate, are such as to make any alliance, save with your
family, a question of no possible pretension. I am well aware, sir, of
the great disparity between a new house and one ennobled by centuries of
descent. I have thought long and deeply on the interval that separates
the rank of the mere country gentleman from the position of him who
claims even higher station than nobility itself; but we live in
changeful times: the Peerage has its daily accessions of rank as humble
as my own; its new creations are the conscripts drawn from wealth as
well as distinction in arms or learning, and in every case the new
generation obliterates the memory of its immediate origin. I see you
agree with me; I rejoice to find it.”
“Your observations are quite just,” said Darcy, calmly, and O'Reilly
went on:--
“Now, sir, I would not only reiterate my father's proposal, but I would
add to it what I hope and trust will be deemed no ungenerous offer,
which is, that the young lady's fortune should be this estate of Gwynne
Abbey, not to be endowed by her future husband, but settled on her by
her father as her marriage portion. I see your meaning,--it is no longer
his to give: but we are ready to make it so; the bond we hold shall be
thrown into the fire the moment your consent is uttered. We prefer a
thousand times it should be thus, than that the ancient acres of this
noble heritage should even for a moment cease to be the property of your
house. Let me recapitulate a little--”
“I think that is unnecessary,” said Darcy, calmly; “I have bestowed
the most patient attention to your remarks, and have no difficulty in
comprehending them. Have you anything to add?”
“Nothing of much consequence,” said O'Reilly, not a little pleased by
the favorable tone of the Knight's manner; “what I should suggest in
addition is that my son should assume the name and arms of Darcy--”
The noise of footsteps and voices without at this moment interrupted
the speaker, the door suddenly opened, and Bagenal Daly entered. He
was splashed from head to foot, his high riding-boots stained with
the saddle and the road, and his appearance vouching for a long and
wearisome journey.
“Good morrow, Darcy,” said he, grasping the Knight's hand with the grip
of his iron fingers.--“Your servant, sir; I scarcely expected to see you
here _so soon_.”
The emphasis with which he spoke the last words brought the color to
O'Reilly's cheek, who seemed very miserable at the interruption.
“You came to take possession,” continued Daly, fixing his eyes on him
with a steadfast stare.
“You mistake, Bagenal,” said the Knight, gently; “Mr. O'Reilly is come
with a very different object,--one which I trust he will deem it no
breach of confidence or propriety in me if I mention it to you.”
“I regret to say, sir,” said O'Reilly, hastily, “that I cannot give my
permission in this instance. Whatever the fate of the proposal I
have made to you, I beg it to be understood as made under the seal of
honorable secrecy.”
Darcy bowed deeply, but made no reply.
“Confound me,” cried Daly, “if I understand any compact between two such
men as you to require all this privacy, unless you were hardy enough to
renew your old father's proposal for my friend's daughter, and now had
modesty enough to feel ashamed of your own impudence.”
“I am no stranger, sir, to the indecent liberties you permit your tongue
to take,” said Hickman, moving towards the door; “but this is neither
the time nor place to notice them.”
“So then I was right,” cried Daly; “I guessed well the game you would
play--”
“Bagenal,” interposed the Knight, “I must atop this. Mr. Hickman is now
beneath my roof--”
“Is he, faith?--not in his own estimation then. Why, his fellows are
taking an inventory of the furniture at this very moment.”
“Is this true, sir?” said Darcy, turning a fierce look towards O'Reilly,
whose face became suddenly of an ashy paleness.
“If so,” muttered he, “I can only assure you that it is without any
orders of mine.”
“How good!” said Daly, bursting into an insolent laugh; “why, Darcy,
when you meet with a fellow in your plantations with a gun in his hand
and a lurcher at his heels, are you disposed to regard him as one in
search of the picturesque, or a poacher? So, when a gentleman travels
about the country with a sub-sheriff in his carriage and two bailiffs in
the rumble, does it seem exactly the guise of one paying morning calls
to his neighbors?”
“Mr. O'Reilly, I ask you to explain this proceeding.”
“I confess, sir,” stammered out the other, “I came accompanied by
certain persons in authority, but who have acted in this matter entirely
without my permission. The proposal I have made this day was the cause
of my visit.”
“It is a subject on which I can no longer hold any secrecy,” said the
Knight, haughtily. “Bagenal, you were quite correct in your surmise. Mr.
O'Reilly not only intended us the honor of an alliance, but offered to
merge the ancient glories of his house by assuming the more humble name
and shield of Darcy.”
“What! eh! did I hear aright?” said Daly, with a broken voice; while,
walking to the window, he looked down into the lawn beneath, as if
calculating the height from the ground. “By Heaven, Darcy, you 're the
best-tempered fellow in Europe--that 's all,” he muttered, as he walked
away.
The door opened at this moment, and the shock bullet head of a bailiff
appeared.
“That's Mr. Daly! there he is!” cried out O'Reilly, who, pale with
passion and trembling all over, supported himself against the back of
a chair with one hand, while with the other he pointed to where Daly
stood.
“In that case,” said the fellow, entering, while he drew a slip of paper
from his breast, “I 'll take the opportunity of sarvin' him where he
stands.”
“One step nearer! one step!” said Daly, as he took a pistol from the
pocket of his coat.
The man hesitated and looked at O'Reilly, as if for advice or
encouragement; but terror and rage had now deprived him of all
self-possession, and he neither spoke nor signed to him.