“Leave the room, sir,” said the Knight, with a motion of his hand to the

bailiff; and the ruffian, whose office had familiarized him long with

scenes of outrage and violence, shrank back ashamed and abashed, and

slipped from the room without a word.

“I believe, Mr. O'Reilly,” continued Darcy, with an accent calm and

unmoved,--“I believe our conference is now concluded. I will not insult

your own acuteness by saying how unnecessary I feel any reply to your

demand.”

“In that case,” said O'Reilly, “may I presume that there is no objection

to proceed with those legal formalities which, although begun without my

knowledge, may be effected now as well as at any other period?”

“Darcy, there is but one way of dealing with that gentleman--”

“Bagenal, I must insist upon your leaving this matter solely with me.”

“Depend upon it, sir, your interests will not gain by your friend's

counsels,” said O'Reilly, with an insolent sneer.

“Such another remark from your lips,” said Darcy, sternly, “would make

me follow them, if they went so far as--”

“Throwing him neck and heels out of that window,” broke in Daly; “for I

own to you it's the course I 'd have taken half an hour ago.”

“I wish you good morning, Mr. Darcy,” said O'Reilly, addressing him

for the first time by the name of his family instead of his usual

designation; and without vouchsafing a word to Daly, he retired from the

room.

It was not until O'Reilly's carriage drove past the window that either

Darcy or his friend uttered a syllable; they stood apparently lost in

thought up to that moment, when the noise of wheels and the tramp of

horses aroused them.

“We must lose no time, Bagenal,” said the Knight, hastily; “I cannot

count very far on that gentleman's delicacy or forbearance. Lady Eleanor

must not be exposed to the indignities the law will permit him to

practise towards us; we must, if possible, leave this to-night;” and

so saying, he left the room to make arrangements in accordance with his

resolve.

Bagenal Daly looked after him for a moment. “Poor fellow!” muttered he,

“how manfully he bears it!” When a sudden flush that covered his cheek

bespoke a rapid change of sentiment, and at the same instant he left the

room, and, crossing the hall and the courtyard, walked hastily towards

the stables.

“Saddle a horse for me, Carney, and as fast as may be.”

“Here's a mare ready this minute, sir; she was going out to take her

gallop.”

“I'll give it, then,” said Daly, as he buttoned up his coat; and then,

breaking off a branch of the old willow that hung over the fountain,

sprang in the saddle with an alertness that would not have disgraced a

youth of twenty.

“There he goes,” muttered the old huntsman, as he looked after him, “and

there is n't the man between this and Killy-begs can take as much out

of a baste as himself. 'T is quiet enough the mare will be when he turns

her head into this yard again.”

Whatever Daly's purpose, it seemed one which brooked little delay, for

no sooner was he on the sward than he pushed the mare to a fast gallop,

and was seen sweeping along the lawn at a tremendous pace. In less than

ten minutes he saw O'Reilly's carriage, as, in a rapid trot, the horses

advanced along the level avenue, and almost the moment after, he

had stationed himself in the road, so as to prevent their proceeding

further. The coachman, who knew him well, came to a stop at his signal,

and before his master could ask the reason, Daly was beside the window

of the chariot.

“I would wish a word with you, Mr. O'Reilly,” said he, in a low, subdued

voice, so as to be inaudible to the sub-sheriff, who was seated beside

him. “You made use of an expression a few moments ago, which, if I

understood aright, convinces me I have unwittingly done you great

injustice.”

O'Reilly, whose ashy cheek and affrighted air bespoke a heart but ill at

ease, made no reply, and Daly went on,--

“You said, sir, that neither the time nor the place suited the notice

you felt called upon to take of my remarks on your conduct. May I ask,

as a very great favor, what time and what place will be more convenient

to you? And I cannot better express my own sense of regret for a hasty

expression than by assuring you that I shall hold myself bound to be at

your service in both respects.”

“A hostile meeting, sir, is that your proposition?” said O'Reilly,

aloud.

“How admirably you read a riddle!” said Daly, laughing.

“There, Mr. Jones!” cried O'Reilly, turning to his companion, “I call

on you to witness the words,--a provocation to a duel offered by this

gentleman.”

“Not at all,” rejoined Daly; “the provocation came from yourself,--at

least, you used a phrase which men with blood in their veins understand

but one way. My error--and I 'll not forgive myself in haste for it--was

the belief that an upstart need not of necessity be a poltroon.--Drive

on,” cried he to the coachman, with a sneering laugh; “your master is

looking pale.” And, with these words, he turned his horse's head, and

cantered slowly back towards the abbey.

CHAPTER XXXIII. TATE SULLIVAN'S FAREWELL

The sorrows and sufferings of noble minds are melancholy themes to dwell

upon; they may “point a moral,” but they scarcely “adorn a tale,” least

of all such a tale as ours is intended to be. While, therefore, we would

spare our readers and ourselves the pain of this narration, we cannot

leave that old abbey, which we remember so full of happiness, without

one parting look at it, in company with those about to quit it forever.

From the time of Mr. O'Reilly's leave-taking, the day, notwithstanding

its gloomy presage, went over rapidly. The Knight busied himself

with internal arrangements, while Lionel took into his charge all the

preparations for their departure on the morrow, Bagenal Daly

assisting each in turn, and displaying an amount of calm foresight and

circumspection in details which few would have given him credit for.

Meanwhile, Lady Eleanor slept long and heavily, and awoke, not

only refreshed in body, but with an appearance of quiet energy and

determination she had not shown for years past. Great indeed was the

Knight's astonishment on hearing that she intended joining them at

dinner; in her usual habit she dined early, and with Helen alone for her

companion, so that her present resolve created the more surprise.

Dinner was ordered in the library, and poor old Tate, by some strange

motive of sympathy, took a more than common pains in all the decorations

of the table. The flowers which Lady Eleanor was fondest of decked the

centre--alas, there was no need to husband them now! on the morrow who

was to care for them?--a little bouquet of fresh violets marked her

place at the table, and more than a dozen times did the old man hesitate

how the light should fall through the large window, and whether it

would be more soothing to his mistress to look abroad upon that fair

and swelling landscape so dear to her, or more painful to gaze upon the

scenes she should never see more.

“If it was myself,” muttered old Tate, “I'd like to be looking at it

as long as I could, and make it follow me in my dhrames after; but sure

there 's no knowing how great people feels! they say they never has the

same kind of thought as us!”

Poor fellow, he little knew how levelling is misfortune, and that the

calamities of life evoke the same sufferings in the breast of the king

and the peasant. With a delicacy one more highly born might have been

proud of, the old butler alone waited at dinner, well judging that his

familiar face would be less irksome to them than the prying looks of the

other servants.

If there are people who can expend much eloquent indignation on those

social usages which exact a certain amount of decorous observance in

all the trials and crosses of life, there is a great deal to be said

in favor of that system of conventional good-breeding whose aim is to

repress selfish indulgence, and make the individual feel that, whatever

his own griefs, the claims of the world demand a fortitude and a bearing

that shall not obtrude his sorrows on his neighbors. That the code

may be abused, and become occasionally hypocritical in practice, is no

argument against it; we would merely speak in praise of that well-bred

forbearance which always merges private afflictions in the desire to

make others happy. To instance our meaning, we would speak of those who

now met at dinner in the old library of Gwynne Abbey.

It would be greatly to mistake us to suppose that we uphold any show

or counterfeit of kindliness where there is no substance of the feeling

behind it; we merely maintain that the very highest and most acute

sympathy is not inconsistent with a bearing of easy, nay, almost

cheerful character. So truly was it the case here that old Tate Sullivan

more than once stood still in amazement at the tranquil faces and

familiar quietude of those who, in his own condition of life, could have

found no accents loud or piercing enough to bewail their sorrow, and

whom, even with his long knowledge of them, he could scarcely acquit of

insensibility.

There is a contagion in an effort of this kind most remarkable. The

light and gentle attempts made by Lady Eleanor to sustain the spirits of

the party were met by sallies of manly good-humor by the Knight himself,

in which Lionel and Helen were not slow to join, while Bagenal Daly

could scarcely repress his enthusiastic delight at the noble and

high-souled courage that sustained them one and all.

While by a tacit understanding they avoided any allusion to the painful

circumstances of their late misfortune, the Knight adroitly turned the

conversation to their approaching journey northwards, and drew from Daly

a description of “the Corvy” that actually evoked a burst of downright

laughter. From this he passed on to speak of the peasantry, so unlike in

every trait those of the South and West; the calm, reflective character

of their minds, uninfluenced by passion and unmarked by enthusiasm, were

a strong contrast to the headlong impulse and ardent temperament of the

“real Irish.”

“You 'll scarcely like them at first, my dear Helen--”

“Still less on a longer acquaintance,” broke in Helen. “I 'll not

quarrel with the caution and reserve of the Scotchman,--the very mists

of his native mountains may teach him doubt and uncertainty of purpose;

but here at home, what have such frames of mind and thought in common

with our less calculating natures?”

“It were far better had they met oftener,” said the Knight,

thoughtfully; “impulse is only noble when well directed; the passionate

pilots are more frequently the cause of shipwreck than of safety.”

“Nothing so wearisome as the trade-winds,” said Helen, with a saucy toss

of the head; “eh, Lionel, you are of my mind?”

“They do push one's temper very hard now and then,” said Daly, with a

stern frown; “that impassive habit they have of taking everything as in

the common order of events is, I own, somewhat difficult to bear with.

I remember being run away with on a blood mare from a little village

called Ballintray. The beast was in high condition, and I turned her,

without knowing the country, at the first hill I could see; she breasted

it boldly, and, though full a quarter of a mile in length, never

shortened stride to the very summit. What was my surprise, when I gained

the top, to see that we were exactly over the sea. It was a cliff which,

projecting for some distance out, was fissured by an immense chasm,

through which the waves passed; not very wide, but deep enough to make

it a very awful leap. Over it she went, and then, when I expected her to

dash onwards, and was already preparing to fling myself from the saddle,

she stood stock still, trembling all over, and snorting with fear at

the danger around her. At the same instant, a hard-featured old fellow

popped his head up from amid the tall fern which he had been cutting

for thatch for his cabin, and looked at me, not the slightest sign of

astonishment in his cold, rigid countenance.

“'Ye 'll no get back so easy, my bonnie mon,' said he, with the

slightest possible approach to a smile.

“'Get back! no, faith, I 'll not try it,' said I, looking at the yawning

gulf, through which the wild waves boiled, and the opposite bank several

feet higher than the ground I stood upon.

“'I thought sae,' was the rejoinder; when, rising slowly, he leisurely

walked round the mare, as she stood riveted by fear to the one spot.

'I 'll gie ye sax shilling for the hide o' her forbye the shoes,' added

he, with a voice as imperturbable as though he were pricing the

commonest commodity of a market.

“I confess it was fortunate that the ludicrous was stronger in me at the

moment than indignation, for if I had not laughed at him I might have

done worse.”

“I could not endure such a peasantry,” said Helen, as soon as the mirth

the anecdote called forth had subsided.

“It's quite true,” said Daly, “they have burlesqued Scotch prudence

in the same way that the Anglo-Hibernian has travestied the Irish

temperament. It is the danger of all imitators, they always transgress

the limits of their model.”

“It is fortunate,” broke in the Knight, “that traits which conciliate so

little the stranger should win their way on nearer intimacy; and such I

believe to be the case with the Ulster peasant.”

“You are right,” said Daly; “no man can detest more cordially than I

do the rudeness that is assumed to heighten a contrast with any good

quality behind it. In most instances the kernel is not worth the trouble

of breaking off the husk; but with the Northerner this is not the case:

in his independence he neither apes the equality of the Frenchman nor

the license of the Yankee. That he suffices for himself, and seeks

neither patron nor protector, is the source of honest pride, and if

this sometimes takes the guise of stubbornness, let us remember that the

virtue was reared in poverty, without encouragement or example.”

“And the gentry,” said Lady Eleanor, “have they any trace of these

peculiarities observable among the people?”

“Gentry!” said Daly, impetuously, “I know of none. There are some

thrifty families, who, by some generations of hard saving, have risen

to affluence and wealth. They are keen fellows, given to

money-getting,--millers some of them, bleachers most, with a tenantry

of weavers, and estates like the grass-plot of a laundry. They are as

crafty and as calculating as the peasant, shrewd as stockbrokers at a

bargain, and as pretentious as a Prince Palatine with a territory

the size of Merrion Square. Gentry! they have neither ancestry nor

tradition; they hold their estates from certain Guilds, whose

very titles are a parody upon gentle breeding,--fishmongers and

clothworkers!”

“I will not be their champion against you, Bagenal, but I cannot help

feeling how heavily they might retort upon us. These same prudent and

prosaic landlords have not spent their fortunes in wasteful extravagance

and absurd display; they have not rackrented their tenantry that they

might rival a neighbor.”

“I am sincerely rejoiced,” interposed Lady Eleanor, smiling, “that my

English relative, Lord Netherby, was not a witness to this discussion,

lest he should fancy that, between the wastefulness of the South and

the thrift of the North, this poor island was but ill provided with a

gentry. Pray, Mr. Daly, how does your sister like the North? She is our

neighbor, is she not?”

“Yes,--that is to say, a few miles distant,” said Daly, confusedly;

for he had never acknowledged that “the Corvy” had been Miss Daly's

residence. “Of the neighborhood she knows nothing; she is not free from

my own prejudices, and lives a very secluded life.”

The conversation now became broken and unconnected, and the party soon

after retired to the drawing-room, where, while Lady Eleanor and Helen

sat together, the Knight, Daly, and Lionel gathered in a little knot,

and discussed, in a low tone, the various steps for the coming journey,

and the probable events of the morrow.

It was agreed upon that Daly should accompany the Darcys to the North,

whither Sandy was already despatched, but that Lionel should remain at

the abbey for some days longer, to complete the arrangements necessary

for the removal of certain family papers and the due surrender of the

property to its new owner; after which he should repair to London, and

procure his exchange into some regiment of the line, and, if

possible, one on some foreign station,--the meeting with friends and

acquaintances, under his now altered fortunes, being judged as a trial

too painful and too difficult to undergo.

Again they all met around the tea-table, and once more they talked in

the same vein of mutual confidence; each conscious of the effort by

which he sustained his part, and wondering how the others summoned

courage to do what cost himself so much. They chatted away till near

midnight, and when they shook hands at separating, it was with feelings

of affection to which sorrow had only added fresh and stronger ties.

Daly stood for some time alone in the library, wondering within himself

at the noble fortitude with which they severally sustained their

dreadful reverse. It is only the man of stout heart can truly estimate

the higher attributes of courage; but even to him these efforts seemed

surprising. “Ay,” muttered he, “each nobly upholds the other; it is

opposing a hollow square to fortune: so long as they stand firm and

together, well! let but one quail and falter, let the line be broken,

and they would be swept away at once and forever.” Taking a caudle from

the table, he left the room, and ascended the wide staircase towards his

chamber. All was still and noiseless, and to prevent his footsteps being

heard, he entered the little corridor which opened on the gallery of the

refectory, the same from which Forester first caught sight of the party

at the dinner-table.

He had scarcely, with careful hand, closed the door behind him, when,

looking over the balustrades of the gallery, he beheld a figure moving

slowly along in the great apartment beneath, guided by a small lamp,

which threw its uncertain light rather on the wall than on the form of

him who carried it. Suddenly stopping before one of the large portraits

which in a long succession graced the chamber, the light was turned

fully round, so as to display the broad and massive features of old Tate

Sullivan. Curious to ascertain what the old man might be about in such

a place at such an hour, Daly extinguished the candle to watch him

unobserved. Tate was dressed in his most accurate costume: his long

cravat, edged with deep lace, descended in front of his capacious white

waistcoat; silver buckles, of a size that showed there was no parsimony

of the precious metal, shone in his shoes; and his newly powdered wig

displayed an almost snowy lustre. His gestures were in accordance with

the careful observances of his toilet; he moved along the floor with a

slow, sliding step, bowing deeply and reverentially as he went, and with

all the courtesy he would have displayed if ushering a goodly company

into the state drawing-room.

Bagenal Daly was not left long to speculate on honest Tate's intentions;

and although to a stranger's eyes the motives might have seemed strange

and dubious, the mystery was easily solved to him, who knew the old man

well and thoroughly. He was there to take a last look, and bid farewell

to those venerable portraits, who for more than half a century were

enshrined in his memory like saints. Around them were associated all the

little incidents of his peaceful life; they were the chroniclers of his

impressions in boyhood, in manhood, and in age; he could call to mind

the first moments he gazed on them in awe-struck veneration; he could

remember the proud period when the duty first devolved upon him of

describing them to the strangers who came to see the abbey; in the

history of all and each of them he was well read, versed in their noble

achievements, their triumphs in camp or cabinet. To his eyes they formed

a long line of heroic characters, of which the world had produced no

equal; they realized in his conception the proud eulogy of the Bayards,

“where all the men were brave, and all the women virtuous;” and it is

not improbable that his devotion to his master was in a great measure

ascribable to that awe-struck admiration with which he regarded his

glorious ancestors.

The old man stood, and, holding the lamp above his head, gazed in

respectful admiration at the grim figure of a Knight in armor. There

might have been little to charm the lover of painting in the execution

of the picture, and the mere castle-builder could scarcely have indulged

his fancy in weaving a story from the countenance of the portrait, for

the vizor was down, and he stood in all the unmoved sternness of his

iron prison, with his glaived hands elapsed upon the cross of a long

straight sword. Tate gazed on him for some moments. Heaven knows with

what qualities of mind or person the old man had endowed him, for while

to others he was only Sir Gavin Darcy, first Knight of Gwynne, Tate in

all likelihood had invested him with traits of character and appearance,

of which that external shell was the mere envelope.

“We're going, Sir Gavin,” muttered the old man, as if addressing the

portrait; “'tis the ould stock is laving the place, never to see it

more; 't is your own proud heart will be sorry to-day to look down upon

us. Ah, ah!” muttered he, “the world is changed; there was times when a

Darcy would n't quit the house of his fathers without a blow for it--aud

they say we are better now!” With a heavy sigh he passed on, and stood

before the next picture. “Yes, my Lady,” said he, “ye may well cry that

lost the two beautiful boys the same morning, fighting side by side; but

there's heavier grief here now: the brave youths sleep in peace and in

honor; but we have no home to shelter us!”

With a slow step and bent-down head, he tottered on, and, placing the

lamp upon the floor, crossed his arms upon his breast. “'Tis you that

can help us now,” said he as he cast a timid and imploring glance at the

goodly countenance and rotund figure of Bernhard Emmeric, fourth Abbot

of Gwynne; “'tis your reverence can offer a prayer for your own blood

that's in sore trouble and distress. Do it, my Lord; do it in the name

of the Vargin. Smiling and happy you look, but it 's sorrowful your

heart is in you to see what's going on here. Them, them was the happy

days, when it was n't the cry of grief was heard beneath this roof, but

the heavenly chants of holy men, and the prayers of the blessed mass.”

He knelt down as he said this, and with trembling lips and tearful eyes

recited some verses from his breviary.

This done, he arose, and, as if with renovated courage, proceeded on his

way.

“Reginald Herbert de Guyon! ah! second Baron of Gwynne, Lord Protector

of Munster, Knight of Malta, Chevalier of St. John of Jerusalem,

Standard-Bearer to the Queen! and well you desarve it all! 'T is

yourself sits your horse like a proud nobleman!” He stood with eyes

riveted upon the picture, while his face glowed with intense enthusiasm,

and at last, as a bitter sneer passed across his lips, he added, “Ay,

faith! and them that comes after us won't like the look of you. 'T is

you that 'll never disguise from them your real mind, and every day they

'll dine in the hall, that same frown will darken, and that same hand

will threaten them.”

He moved on now, and passed several portraits without stopping,

muttering as he went, “'T is more English than Irish blood is in your

veins, and you won't feel as much for us as the rest;” then, halting

suddenly, he stood before a tall figure, dressed in black velvet, with a

deep collar of point lace. A connoisseur of higher pretensions than poor

Tate might have gazed with even greater rapture at that splendid canvas,

for it was from the hand of Vandyke, and in his very best manner. The

picture represented the person of Sir Everard Darcy, Lord Privy Seal to

Charles I. It was a specimen of manly beauty and high blood such as the

great Fleming loved to paint; and even yet the proud and lofty forehead,

the deep-set brown eyes, the thin compressed lip, the long and somewhat

projecting chin, seemed to address themselves to the beholder with

traits of character more than mere painting is able to convey. Tate

approached the spot with an almost trembling veneration, and bowed

deeply before the haughty figure. “There was a time, Sir Everard, when

your word could make a duke or a marquis,--when your whisper in the

king's ear could bring grief or joy to any heart in the empire. Could

you do nothing for us now? They say you never were at a loss, no matter

what came to pass--that you were always ready-witted to save your master

from trouble--and oh! if the power hasn't left you, stand by us now. It

is not because your eyes are so bright, and that quiet smile is on your

lips, that your heart does not feel, for I know well that the day you

were beheaded you had the same look on you as you have now. I think I

see you this minute, as you lifted your head off the block to settle the

lace collar that the villain, the executioner, rumpled with his bloody

fingers,--I think I hear the words you spoke: 'Honest Martin, for all

your practice, you are but a clumsy valet.' Weil, well! 't is a

happier and a prouder day that same than to-morrow's dawn will bring to

ourselves. Yes, yes, my darlings,” said Tate, with a benevolent smile,

as he waved his hand towards a picture where two beautiful children were

represented, sitting on the grass, and playing with flowers, “be happy

and amuse yourselves, in God's name; 'tis the only time for happiness

your lives ever gave you. Ah! and here 's your father, with a smile on

his face and a cheerful brow, for he had both till the day misfortune

robbed him of his children;” and he stood in front of a portrait of an

officer in an admiral's uniform. He was a distinguished member of

the Darcy family; but from the nature of his services, which were all

maritime, and the great number of years he had spent away from Ireland,

possessed less of Tate's sympathy than most of the others.

“They say you didn't like Ireland; but I don't believe them. There never

was a Darcy did n't love the ould island; but I know well whose fault

it was if you did n't,--it was that dark villain that's standing at your

side, ould Harry Inchiquin, the renegade, that turned many a man against

his country. Ye may frown and scowl at me; but if you were alive this

minute, I 'd say it to your face. It was you that first brought gambling

and dicing under this blessed roof; it was you that sent the ould acres

to the hammer; 'twas you that loved rioting, and duelling, and every

wickedness, just like old Bagenal Daly himself, that never could sleep

in his bed if he had n't a fight on hand.”

[Illustration: 408]

“What ho! you old reprobate!” called out Daly, in a voice which, echoing

under the arched roof, seemed rather to float through the atmosphere

than issue from any particular quarter.

“Oh! marciful Father!” cried Tate, as, falling on his knees, the lamp

dropped from his fingers, and became extinguished,--“oh! marciful

Father! sure I did n't mane it; 't is what the lying books said of

you,--bad luck to the villains that wrote them! O God! pardon me; I

never thought you 'd hear me; and if it 's in trouble you are, I 'll say

a mass for you every day till Aaster, and one every Friday as long as I

live.”

A hoarse burst of laughter broke from Daly, while, pacing the gallery

with heavy tread, he went forth, banging the door behind him. The terror

was too great for poor Tate's endurance, and, with a faint cry for

mercy, he rolled down upon the floor almost insensible.

When morning broke, he was found seated in the refectory, pale and

careworn; but no entreaty, nor no pressing, could elicit from him one

word of a secret in which he believed were equally involved the honor of

the dead and the safety of himself.

CHAPTER XXXIV. A GLANCE AT PUBLIC OPINION IN THE YEAR 1800.

Among the arrangements for the departure of the family from the abbey,

all of which were confided to Bagenal Daly, was one which he pressed

with a more than ordinary zeal and anxiety; this was, that they should

set out at a very early hour of the morning,--at dawn of day, if

possible. Lady Eleanor's habits made such a plan objectionable, and

it was only by representing the great sacrifice of feeling a later

departure would exact, when crowds of country people would assemble to

take their farewells of them forever, that she consented. While Daly

depicted the unnecessary sorrow to which they would expose themselves by

the sight of their old and attached tenantry, he strenuously preserved

silence on the real reason which actuated him, and to explain which a

brief glance at the state of public feeling at the period is necessary.

To such a pitch of acrimony and animosity were parties borne by the

agitation which preceded the carrying of the “Union,” that all previous

character and conduct of those who voted on the question were deemed as

nothing in comparison with the line they adopted on the one absorbing

subject. If none who advocated the Ministerial plan escaped the foulest

animadversions, all who espoused the opposite side were exalted to the

dignity of patriots; argument and reason went for little, principle for

still less: a vote was deemed the touchstone of honesty. Such rash and

hasty judgments suited the temper of the times, and, it may be said in

extenuation, were not altogether without some show of reason. Each day

revealed some desertion from the popular party of men who, up to that

moment, had rejected all the seductions of the Crown; country gentlemen,

hitherto supposed inaccessible to all the temptations of bribery, were

found suddenly addressing speculative letters to their constituencies,

wherein they ingeniously discussed all the contingencies of a measure

they had once opposed without qualification. Noblemen of high rank and

fortune were seen to pay long visits at the Castle, and, by a strange

fatality, were found to have modified their opinions exactly at the

period selected by the Crown to bestow on them designations of honor or

situations of trust and dignity. Lawyers in high practice at the bar,

men esteemed by their profession, and held in honor by the public,

were seen to abandon their position of proud independence, and accept

Government appointments, in many cases inferior both in profit and rank

to what they had surrendered.

There seemed a kind of panic abroad. Men feared to walk without the

protective mantle of the Crown being extended over them; the barriers of

shame were broken down by the extent to which corruption had spread.

The examples of infamy were many, and several were reconciled to the

ignominy of their degradation by their associates in disgrace. That in

such general corruption the judgments of the public should have been

equally wholesale, is little to be wondered at; the regret is rather

that they were so rarely unjust and ill-bestowed.

Public confidence was utterly uprooted; there was a national bankruptcy

of honor, and none were trusted; all the guarantees for high principle

and rectitude a lifetime had given, all the hostages to good faith years

of unimpeached honor bestowed, were forgotten in a moment, and such as

opposed the Government measure with less of acrimony or activity than

their neighbors, were set down “as waiting for or soliciting the bribery

of the Crown.”

To this indiscriminating censure the Knight of Gwynne was a victim. It

may be remarked that in times of popular excitement, when passions are

rife and the rude enthusiasm of the mass has beaten down the more calmly

weighed opinion of the few, that there is a strange pleasure felt in the

detection of any real or supposed lapse of one once esteemed. It were

well if this malignant delight were limited to the mere mob, but it is

not so; men of education and position are not exempt from its taint.

It would seem as if society were so thoroughly disorganized that every

feeling was perverted, and all the esteem for what is good and great had

degenerated into a general cry of exultation over each new instance of

tarnished honor.

Accustomed as we now are to the most free and unfettered criticisms

of all public men and their acts, it would yet astonish any one not

conversant with that period, to look back to the newspapers of the time,

and see the amount of violence and personality with which every man

obnoxious to a party was visited; coarse invective stood in the place

of argument, a species of low humor had replaced the light brilliancy

of wit. The public mind, fed on grosser materials, had lost all appetite

for the piquancy of more highly flavored food, and the purveyors were

not sorry to find a market for a commodity which cost them so little

to procure. In this spirit was it that one of the most popular of the

Opposition journals announced for the amusement of its readers a series

of sketches under the title of “The Gallery of Traitors,”--a supposed

collection of portraits to be painted for the Viceroy, and destined to

decorate one of the chambers of the Castle.

Not satisfied with aspersing the reputation, and mistaking the views of

any who sided with the Minister, the attack went further, and actually

ascribed the casualties which occurred to such persons or their families

as instances of divine vengeance. In this diabolical temper the Knight

of Gwynne was held up to reprobation; it was a bold thought to venture

on calumniating a man every action of whose life had placed him above

even slander, but its boldness was the warranty of success. The whole

story of his arrival in Dublin, his dinner with the Secretary, his

intimacy with Heffernan, was related circumstantially. The night on

which Heffernan entrapped him by the trick already mentioned, was quoted

as the eventful moment of his change. Then came the history of his

appearance in the House on the evening of the second reading: his

hesitation to enter, his doubts and waverings were all described, ending

with a minute detail of his compact with Lord Castlereagh, by which

his voting was dispensed with, and his absence from the division deemed

enough.

Gleeson's flight and its consequences were soon known. The ruin of

Darcy's large fortune was a circumstance not likely to lose by public

discussion, particularly when the daily columns of a newspaper devoted

a considerable space to the most minute details of that catastrophe. It

was asserted that the Knight had sold himself for a Marqui-sate and a

seat in the English peerage; that his vote was deemed so great a prize

by the Minister that he might have made even higher terms, but in the

confidence of possessing a large fortune he had only bargained for rank,

and rejected every offer of mere emolument; and now came the dreadful

retribution on his treachery, the downfall of his fortune by the villany

of his agent. To assume a title when the very expense of the patent

could not be borne, was an absurdity, and this explained why Maurice

Darcy remained ungazetted. Such was the plausible calumny generally

circulated, and, alas for the sake of charity! scarcely less generally

believed.

There are epidemics of credulity as of infidelity, and such a plague

raged at this period. Anything was believed, were it only bad enough.

While men, therefore, went about deploring, with all the sanctity of

self-esteem, the fall of Maurice Darcy, public favor, by one of those

caprices all its own, adopted the cause of his colleague, Hickman

O'Reilly. His noble refusal of every offer (and what a catalogue of

seductions did they not enumerate!) was given in the largest type.

They recounted, with all the eloquence of their calling, the glittering

coronets rejected, the places of honor and profit declined, the

dignities proffered in vain, preferring as he did the untitled rank of

a country gentleman, and the unpurchasable station of a true friend to

Ireland.

He was eulogized in capital letters, and canonized among the martyrs

of patriotism; public orators belabored him with praises, and

ballad-singers chanted his virtues through the streets. Nor was this

turn of feeling a thing to be neglected by one so shrewd in worldly

matters. His sudden accession to increased fortune and the position

attendant on it, would, he well knew, draw down upon him many a sneer

upon his origin, and some unpleasant allusions to the means by which the

wealth was amassed. To anticipate such an ungrateful inquiry, he seized

the lucky accident of his popularity, and turned it to the best account.

Whole “leaders” were devoted to the laudation of his character: the

provincial journals, less scrupulous than the metropolitan, boldly

asserted their knowledge of the various bribes tendered to him, and

threw out dark hints of certain disclosures which, although at

present refrained from out of motives of delicacy, should Mr. O'Reilly

ultimately be persuaded to make, the public would be horrified at the

extent to which corruption had been carried.

The O'Reilly liveries, hitherto a modest snuff color, were now changed

to an emerald green; an Irish motto ornamented the garter of the family

crest; while the very first act of his return to the West was a splendid

donation to the chapel of Ballyraggan, or, as it was subsequently and

more politely named, the Church of St. Barnabas of Treves: all measures

dictated by a high-spirited independence, and a mind above the vulgar

bigotry of party.

Had O'Reilly stopped here; had he contented himself with the preliminary

arrangements for being a patriot, it is probable that Bagenal Daly had

never noticed them, or done so merely with some passing sarcasm; but

the fact was otherwise. Daly discovered, in the course of his journey

westward, that the rumors of the Knight's betrayal of his party were

generally disseminated in exact proportion with the new-born popularity

of O'Reilly; that the very town of Westport, where Darcy's name was once

adored, was actually placarded with insulting notices of the Knight's

conduct, and scandalous aspersions on his character: jeering allusions

to his altered fortunes were sung in the villages as he passed along,

and it was plain that the whole current of popular opinion had set

strong against him.

To spare his friend Darcy a mortification which Daly well knew would be

one of the greatest to his feelings, the early departure was planned and

decided on. It must not be inferred that because the Knight would have

felt deeply the unjust censure of the masses, he was a man to care or

bend beneath the angry menace of a mob; far from it. The ingratitude

towards himself would have called forth the least of his regrets; it was

rather a heartfelt sorrow at the hopeless ignorance and degradation

of those who could be so easily deceived,--at that populace whose

fickleness preferred the tinsel and trappings of patriotism to the acts

and opinions of one they had known and respected for years.

Long before day broke, Daly was stirring and busied with all the

preparations of the journey; the travelling carriage, covered with its

various boxes and imperials, stood before the door in the courtyard;

the horses were harnessed and bridled in the stables; everything was

in readiness for a start; and yet, save himself and the stablemen, all

within the abbey seemed buried in slumber.

Although it was scarcely more than five o'clock, Daly's impatience at

the continued quietude around him began to manifest itself; he walked

hastily to and fro, endeavoring to occupy his thoughts by a hundred

little details, till at last he found himself returning to the same

places and with the self-same objects again and again, while he muttered

broken sentences of angry comments on people who could sleep so soundly

at such a time.

It was in one of those fretful moods he had approached the little

flower-garden of the sub-prior's house, when the twinkling of a light

attracted him: it came from the window of Lady Eleanor's favorite

drawing-room, and glittered like a star in the gloom of the morning.

Curious to see who was stirring in that part of the house, he drew near,

and, opening the wicket, noiselessly approached the window. He there

beheld Lady Eleanor, who, supported by Helen's arm, moved slowly along

the room, stopping at intervals, and again proceeding; she seemed to be

taking a last farewell of the various well-known objects endeared to her

by years of companionship; her handkerchief was often raised to her eyes

as she went, but neither uttered a syllable. Ashamed to have obtruded

even thus upon a scene of private sorrow, Daly turned back again to the

courtyard, where now the loud voice of the Knight was heard giving his

orders to the servants.

The first greetings over, the Knight took Daly's arm and walked beside

him.

“I have been thinking over the matter in the night, Bagenal,” said he,

“and am convinced it were far better that you should remain with

Lionel; we can easily make our journey alone,--the road is open, and

no difficulty in following it; but that poor boy will need advice and

counsel. You will probably receive letters from Dublin by the post, with

some instructions how to act; in any case my heart fails me at leaving

Lionel to himself.”

“I 'll remain, then,” replied Daly; “I'll see you the first stage out of

Westport, and then return here. It is, perhaps, better as you say.”

“There is another point,” said Darcy, after a pause, and with evident

hesitation in his manner; “it is perfectly impossible for me to walk

through this labyrinth without your guidance, Bagenal,--I have neither

head nor heart for it,--you must be the pilot, and if you quit the helm

for a moment--”

“Trust me, Maurice, I'll not do it,” said Daly, grasping his hand with a

firm grip.

“I know that well,” said the Knight, as his voice trembled with

agitation; “I never doubted the will, Bagenal, it was the power only I

suspected. I see you will not understand me. Confound it! why should old

friends, such as we are, keep beating about the bush, or fencing like a

pair of diplomatists? I wanted to speak to you about that bond of yours:

there is something like seven thousand pounds lying to my credit

at Henshaw's; take what is necessary, and get rid of that scoundrel

Hickman's claim. If they should arrest you--”

“I wish he had done so yesterday,--my infernal temper, that never will

let matters take due course, stopped the fellow; you can't see why, but

I'll tell you. I paid the money to Hickman's law-agent, in Dublin, the

morning I started from town, and they had not time to stop the execution

of the writ down here. Yes, Darcy, there was one drop more in the stoup,

and I drained it! The last few acres I possessed in the world, the old

estate of Hardress Daly, is now in the ownership of one Samuel Kerney,

grocer of Bride Street. I paid off Hickman, however, and found something

like one hundred and twenty-eight pounds afterwards in my pocket--but

let us talk of something else: you must not yield to these people

without a struggle; Bicknell says there are abundant grounds for a trial

at bar in the affair. If collusion between Hickman and Gleeson should

be proved, that many of the leases were granted with false signatures

annexed--”

“I 'll do whatever men of credit and character counsel me,” said the

Knight; “if there be any question of right, I 'll neither compromise nor

surrender it: I can promise no more. But here comes Lionel,--to announce

breakfast, perhaps.”

And so it was; the young man came towards them with an easy smile,

presenting a hand to each. If sorrow had sunk deeply into his heart, few

traces of grief were apparent in his manly, handsome countenance.

Notwithstanding the efforts of the party, the breakfast did not pass

over as lightly as the dinner of the previous day; the eventful moment

of parting was now too near not to exclude every other subject, and even

when by an exertion some allusion to a different topic would be made, a

chance question, the entrance of a servant for orders, or the tramp of

horses in the courtyard, would suddenly bring back the errant thoughts,

and place the sad reality in all its force before them.

Breakfast was over, and yet no one stirred; a heavy, dreary revery

seemed to have settled on all except Daly,--and he, from delicacy,

restrained the impatience that was working within him. In vain he sought

to catch Darcy's eye, and then Lionel's,--both were bent downward. Lady

Eleanor at last looked up, and at once seemed to read what was passing

in his mind.

“I am ready,” said she, in a low, gentle voice, “and I see Mr. Daly is

not sorry at it. Helen, dearest, fetch me my gloves.”

She arose, and the others with her. The calmness in which she spoke on

the theme that none dared approach, seemed also to electrify them,

when suddenly a low sob was heard, and the mother fell, in a burst of

anguish, into the arms of her son.

“Eleanor, my dearest Eleanor!” said Darcy, as his pale cheek shook and

his lip trembled. As if recalled to herself by the words, she raised her

head, and, with a smile of deep-meaning sorrow, said,--

“It's the first tear I have yet shed; it shall be the last.” Then,

taking Daly's arm, she walked steadily forward.

“I have often wondered,” said she, “at the prayer of a condemned felon

for a few hours longer of life; but I can understand it now. I feel as

if I could give life itself for another day within these walls, where

often I have pined with _ennui_. You will watch over Lionel for me, Mr.

Daly. When the world went fairly with us, calamities came softened,--as

the summer rain falls lighter in sunshine; but now, now that we have

lost so much, we cannot afford more.”

Daly's stern features grew sterner and darker; his lips were compressed

more firmly; he tried to say a few words, but a low, indistinct

muttering was all that came.

The next moment the carriage door was closed on the party--they were

gone.

Lionel stood gazing after them till they disappeared, and then, with a

slow step, re-entered the abbey.

CHAPTER XXXV. BAGENAL DALY'S RETURN

Lionel Darcy bore up manfully against his altered fortunes so long as

others were around him, and that the necessity for exertion existed; but

once more alone within that silent and deserted house, all his courage

failed him at once, and he threw himself upon a seat and gave way to

grief. Never were the brighter prospects of opening life more cruelly

dashed, and yet his sorrow was for others. Every object about brought up

thoughts of that dear mother and sister, to whom the refinements of

life were less luxuries than wants. How were they to engage in the

stern conflict with daily poverty,--to see themselves bereft of all

the appliances which filled up the hours of each day? Could his mother,

frail and delicate as she was, much longer sustain the effort by which

she first met the stroke of fortune? Would not the reaction, whenever it

came, be too terrible to be borne? And Helen, too,--his sweet and lovely

sister,--she whom he had loved to think of as the admired of a splendid

Court; on whose appearance in the world he had so often speculated,

castle-building over the sensations her beauty and her gracefulness

would excite,--what was to be her lot? Deep and heartfelt as his sorrow

was for them, it was only when he thought of his father that Lionel's

anguish burst its bounds, and he broke into a torrent of tears. From

very boyhood he had loved and admired him; but never had the high

features of his character so impressed Lionel Darcy as when the reverse

of fortune called up that noble spirit whose courage displayed itself

in manly submission and the generous effort to support the hearts of

others. How cruel did the decrees of fate seem to him, that such a man

should be visited so heavily, while vice and meanness prospered on every

side. He knew not that virtue has no nobler attribute than its power of

sustaining unmerited affliction, and that the destiny of the good man is

never more nobly carried out than when he points the example of patience

in suffering.

Immersed in such gloomy thoughts, he wandered on from room to room,

feeding, as it were, the appetite for sorrow, by the sight of every

object that could remind him of past happiness; nor were they few. There

was the window-seat he loved to sit in as a boy, when all the charm

of some high-wrought story could not keep his eyes from wandering at

intervals over the green hills where the lambs were playing, or adown

by that dark stream where circling eddies marked the leaping trout. Here

was Helen's favorite room, a little octagon boudoir, from every window

of which a different prospect opened; it seemed to breathe of her sweet

presence even yet; the open desk, from which she had taken some letter,

lay there upon the table, the pen she had last touched, the chair she

sat upon, all, even to the little nosegay of scarce-faded flowers,

the last she had plucked, teemed with her memory. He walked on with

bent-down head and tardy step, and entered the little room which,

opening on the lawn, was used by the Knight to receive such of the

tenantry as came to him for assistance or advice; many an hour had

he sat there beside his father, and, while listening with the eager

curiosity of youth to the little stories of the poor man's life, his

trials and his difficulties, imbibed lessons of charity and benevolence

never to be forgotten.

The great square volume in which the Knight used to record his notes of

the neighboring poor, lay on the table; his chair was placed near it;

all was in readiness for his coming who was to come there no more! As

Lionel stood in silent sorrow, surveying these objects, the shadow of a

man darkened the window. He turned suddenly, and saw the tall, scarecrow

figure of Flury the madman. A large placard decorated the front of his

hat, on which the words “Down with the Darcys!” were written in capital

letters, and he carried in his hand a bundle of papers, like handbills,

which he shook with a menacing air at Lionel.

“What is this, Flury?” said the youth, opening the window, and at the

same time snatching one of the papers from his hand.

“It's the full account of the grand auction of Government hacks,” said

Flury, with the sing-song intonation of a street-crier, “no longer

needed for the services of the Crown, and to be sowld without resarve.”

“And who sent you here with this?” said the young man, moderating his

tone, to avoid startling the other.

“Connor Egan, Hickman's man, gave me a pint and a noggin of spirits to

cry the auction, and tould me to come up here and maybe you'd like to

hear of it ye'selves.”

Lionel threw his eyes over the offensive lines, where in coarse ribaldry

names the most venerable were held up to scorn and derision. If it was

some satisfaction to find that his father was linked in the ruffianly

attack with men of honor as unblemished as his own, he was not less

outraged at the vindictive cowardice that had suggested this insult.

“There'll be a fine sight of people there, by all accounts,” said Flury,

gravely, “for the auction-bills is far and near over the country, and

the Castlebar coach has one on each door.”

“Is popular feeling always as corrupt a thing as this?” muttered Lionel,

with a bitter sneer, while at the same time the door of the room was

opened, and Daly entered. His face was marked by a severe cut on one

cheek, from which the blood had flowed freely; a dark blue stain, as

of a blow, was on his chin, and one hand he carried enveloped in his

handkerchief; his clothes were torn besides in many places, and bore

traces of a severe personal conflict.

“What has happened?” said Lionel, as he looked in alarm at the swollen

and blood-stained features. “Did you fall?”

“Fall! no such thing, boy,” replied Daly, sternly; “but some worthy folk

in Castlebar planned a little surprise for me this morning. They heard,

it seems, that we passed through the town by daybreak, but that I was to

return before noon; and so they placed some cars and turf creels in the

main street, opposite the inn, in such a way that, while seeming merely

accident, would effectually stop a horseman from proceeding. When I

arrived at the spot, I halted, and called out to the fellows to move

on, and let me pass. They took no heed of my words, and then I saw in a

moment what was intended. I had no arms; I had purposely left my

pistols behind me, for I feared something might provoke me, though not

anticipating such as this. So I got down and drew this wattle from the

side of a turf creel,--you see it is a strong blackthorn, and good

stuff too. Before I was in the saddle the word was passed, and the

whole street was full of people, and I now perceived that, by the same

manouvre as they employed in front, they had also closed the rear upon

me, and cut off my retreat. 'Now for it! now for it!' they shouted.

'Where's Bully Dodd?--Where's the Bully?' I suppose you know the

fellow?”

“The man that was transported?”

“The same. The greatest ruffian the country was cursed with. He came at

the call, without coat or waistcoat, his shirt-sleeves tucked up to his

shoulders, and a handkerchief round his waist ready for a fight. There

was an old quarrel between us, for it was I captured the fellow the day

after he burnt down Dawson's house. He came towards me, the mob opening

a way for him, with a pewter pot of porter in his hand.

“'We want you to dhrink a toast for us, Mr. Daly,' said he, with a

marked courtesy, and a grin that amused the fellows around him. 'You

were always a patriot, and won't make any objections to it.'

“'What is the liquor?' said I.

“'Good porter,--divil a less,' cried the mob; 'Mol Heavyside's best.'

And so I took the vessel in my hands, and before they could say a

syllable, drained it to the bottom; for I was very thirsty with the

ride, and in want of something to refresh myself.

“'But you did n't dhrink the toast,' said Dodd savagely.

“'Where was the toast? He didn't say the words,' shouted the mob.

“'Off with his hat, and make him drink it,' cried out several others

from a distance. They saved me one part of the trouble, for they knocked

off my hat with a stone.

“'Here's health and long life to Hickman O'Reilly!' cried out

Dodd,--'that's the toast.'

“'And what have I to wish him either?' said I, while at the same time I

tore open the pewter measure, and then with one strong dash of my band

drove it down on the ruffian's head, down to the very brows. I lost no

time afterwards, but, striking right and left, plunged forwards; the mob

fled as I followed, and by good luck the carthorses, getting frightened,

sprang forward also, and so I rode on with a few slight cuts; a stone

or two struck me, nothing more; but they 'll need a plumber to rid my

friend Dodd of his helmet.”

[Illustration: 424]

“And we used to call this town our own,” said Lionel, bitterly.

“Nothing is a man's own but his honor, sir. That base cowardice yonder

believes itself honest and independent, as if a single right feeling, a

single good or virtuous thought, could consort with habits like

theirs; but they are less base than those who instigate them. The real

scoundrels are the Hickmans of this world, the men who compensate for

low birth and plebeian origin by calumniating the wellborn and the

noble.--What is Flury wanting here?” said he, as, attracted by Daly's

narrative, the poor fellow had drawn near to listen.

“'I 'm glad you put the pewter pot on the Bully's head, he 's a disgrace

to the town,” said Flury, with a laugh; and he turned away, as if

enjoying the downfall of an enemy.

“Oh! I see,” said Daly, taking up one of the papers that had fallen to

the ground, “this is the first act of the drama. Come along, Lionel, let

us talk of matters nearer to our hearts.”

They walked along together to the library, each silently following

his own train of thought, and for some time neither seemed disposed to

speak. Lionel at length broke silence, as he said,--

“I have been thinking over it, and am convinced my father will never be

able to endure this life of inactivity before him.”

“That is exactly the fear I entertain myself for him; altered fortunes

will impress themselves more in the diminished sphere to which his

influence and utility will be reduced, than in anything else: but how to

remedy this?”

“I have been considering that also; but you must advise me if the plan

be a likely one. He held the rank of colonel once--”

“To be sure he did, and with good right,--he raised the regiment

himself. Darcy's Light Horse were as handsome a set of fellows as the

service could boast of.”

“Well, then, my notion is, that although the Government did not buy his

vote on the Union, there would be no just reason why they should not

appoint him to some one of those hundred situations which the service

includes. His former rank, his connection and position, his unmerited

misfortunes, are, in some sense, claims. I can scarcely suppose his

opposition in Parliament would be remembered against him at such a

moment.”

“I hardly think it would,” said Daly, musingly; “there is much in what

you propose. Would Lord Netherby support such a request if it were

made?”

“He could not well decline it; almost the last thing he said at parting

was, that whatever favor he enjoyed should be gladly employed in our

behalf. Besides, we really seek nothing to which we may not lay fair and

honest claim. My intention would be to write at once to Lord Netherby.

acquainting him briefly with our altered fortunes.”

“The more briefly on that topic the better,” said Daly, dryly.

“To mention my father's military rank and services, to state that,

having raised and equipped a company at his own expense, without

accepting the slightest aid from the Government, now, in his present

change of condition, he would be proud of any recognition of those

services which once he was but too happy to render unrewarded by the

Crown. There are many positions, more or less lucrative, which would

well become him, and which no right-minded gentleman could say were

ill-bestowed on such a man.”

“All true,” said Daly, whose eye brightened as he gazed on the youth,

whose character seemed already about to develop itself under the

pressure of misfortune with traits of more thoughtful meaning than yet

appeared iu him.

“Then I will write to Lord Netherby at once,” resumed Lionel; “there

can be no indelicacy in making such a request: he is our relative, the

nearest my mother has.”

“He is far better, he 's a Lord in Waiting, and a very subtle courtier,”

said Daly. “Write this day, and, if you like it, I 'll dictate the

letter.”

Lionel accepted the offer with all the pleasure possible. He had been

from boyhood a firm believer in the resources and skill of Daly in every

possible contingency of life, and looked on him as one of those persons

who invariably succeed when everybody else fails.

There is a species of promptitude in action, the fruit generally of a

strong will and a quick imagination, which young men mistake for a much

higher gift, and estimate at a price very far above its value. Bagenal

Daly had, however, other qualities than these; but truth compels us to

own that, in Lionel's eyes, his supremacy on such grounds was no small

merit. He had ever found him ready for every emergency, prompt to

decide, no less quick to act, and, without stopping to inquire how far

success followed such rapid resolves, this very energy charmed him. It

was, then, in perfect confidence in the skill and address of his adviser

that Lionel sat down, pen in hand, to write at his dictation.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAW AND ITS CHANCES.

We left Mr. Daly at the conclusion of our last chapter in the exercise

of--what to him was always a critical matter--the functions of a polite

letter-writer. His faults, it is but justice to say, were much less

those of style than of the individual himself; for if he rarely failed

to convey a clear notion of his views and intentions, he still more

rarely omitted to impart considerable insight into his own character.

His abrupt and broken sentences, his sudden outbreaks of intelligence

or passion, were not inaptly conveyed by the character of a handwriting

which was bold, careless, and hurried. Indifferent to everything like

neatness or accuracy, generally blotted, and never very legible, these

defects, if they did not palliate, they might, in a measure, explain

something of his habits of thought and action; but now, when about to

dictate to another, the case was different, and those interruptions

which Daly would have set down by a dash of his pen, were to be conveyed

by the less significant medium of mere blanks.

“I 'm ready,” said Lionel, at length, as he sat for some time in silent

expectation of Daly's commencement. But that gentleman was walking up

and down the room with his hands behind his back, occasionally stopping

to look out upon the lawn.

“Very well, begin--'My dear Lord Netherby,' or 'My dear Lord,'--it does

n't signify which, though I suppose he would be of another mind, and

find a whole world of difference between the two. Have you that?--very

well. Then go on to mention, in such terms as you like yourself, the

sudden change of fortune that has befallen your family,--briefly, but

decisively.”

“Dictate it, I'll follow you,” said Lionel, somewhat put out by this

mode of composition.

“Oh! it doesn't matter exactly what the words are,--say, that a d----d

scoundrel, Gleeson--Honest Tom we always called him--has cut and

run with something like a hundred thousand pounds, after forging and

falsifying every signature to our leases for the last ten or fifteen

years; we are, in consequence, ruined--obliged to leave the abbey, take

to a cottage--a devilish poor one, too.”

“Don't go so fast--'we are in consequence--'”

“Utterly smashed--broken up--no home, and devilish little to live

upon,--my mother's jointure being barely sufficient for herself and

Helen. I want, therefore, to remind you--your Lordship, that is--to

remind your Lordship of the kind pledge which you so lately made us, at

a time when we little anticipated the early necessity we should have

to recall it. My father, some forty-five or six years back, raised the

Darcy Light Horse, equipped, armed, and mounted six hundred men, at his

own expense. This regiment, of which he took the head, did good service

in the Low Countries, and although distinguished in many actions, he

received nothing but thanks,--happily not wanting more, if so much.

Times are changed now with him, and it would be a seasonable act of

kindness and a suitable reward to an old officer--highly esteemed as

he is and has been through life--to make up for past neglect by some

appointment--the service has many such--Confound them! the pension-list

shows what fellows there are--'governors and deputy-governors,' 'acting

adjutants' of this, and 'deputy assistant commissaries' of that.”

“I 'm not to write that, I suppose?”

“No, you needn't,--it would do no harm, though, to give them a hint

on the subject; but never mind it now. 'As for myself, I 'll leave the

Guards, and take service in the Line. I am only anxious for a regiment

on a foreign station, and if in India, so much the better.' Is that

down? Well--eh! that will do, I think. You may just say, that the

matter ought to be arranged without any communication with your father,

inasmuch as, from motives of delicacy, he might feel bound to decline

what was tendered as an offer, though he would hold himself pledged to

accept what was called by the name of duty. Yes, Lionel, that's the

way to put the case; active service, by all means active service,--no

guard-mounting at Windsor or Carlton House; no Hounslow Heath

engagements.”

Lionel followed, as well as he was able, the suggestions, to which

sundry short interjections and broken “hems!” and “ha's!” gave no small

confusion, and at last finished a letter, which, if it conveyed some

part of the intention, was even a stronger exponent of the character, of

him who dictated it.

“Shall I read it over to you?”

“Heaven forbid! If you did, I 'd alter every word of it. I never

reconsidered a note that I did not change my mind about it, and I don't

believe I ever counted a sum of money over more than once without making

the tot vary each time. Send it off as it is--' Yours truly, Lionel

Darcy.'”

It was about ten days after the events we have just related that Bagenal

Daly sat in consultation with Darcy's lawyer in the back parlor of the

Knight's Dublin residence. Lionel, who had been in conclave with them

for several hours, had just left the room, and they now remained in

thoughtful silence, pondering over their late discussion.

“That young man,” said Bicknell, at length, “is very far from being

deficient in ability, but he is wayward and reckless as the rest of the

family; he seems to have signed his name everywhere they told him,

and to anything. Here are leases forever at nominal rents--no fines

in renewal--rights of fishery disposed of--oak timber--marble

quarries--property of every kind--made away with. Never was there such

wasteful, ruinous expenditure coupled with peculation and actual robbery

at the same time.”

“What's to be done?” said Daly, interrupting a catalogue of disasters he

could scarcely listen to with patience; “have you anything to propose?”

“We must move in Equity for an inquiry into the validity of these

documents; many of the signatures are probably false; we can lay a case

for a jury--”

“Well, I don't want to hear the details,--you mean to go to law; now,

has Darcy wherewithal to sustain a suit? These Hickmans are rich.”

“Very wealthy people indeed,” said Bicknell, dryly. “The Knight cannot

engage in a legal contest with them without adequate means. I am not

sufficiently in possession of Mr. Darcy's resources to pronounce on the

safety of such a step.”

“I can tell you, then: they have nothing left to live upon save his

wife's jointure. Lady Eleanor has something like a thousand a year in

settlement,--certainly not more.”

“If they can contrive to live on half this sum,” said the lawyer,

cautiously, “we may, perhaps, find the remainder enough for our

purposes. The first expenses will be, of course, very heavy: drafts to

prepare, searches to make, witnesses to examine, with opinion of high

counsel, will all demand considerable outlay.”

“This is a point I can give no opinion upon,” said Daly; “they have been

accustomed to live surrounded with luxuries of every kind: whether they

can at once descend to actual poverty, or would rather cling to the

remnant of their former comforts, is not in my power to tell.”

“The very bond under which they have foreclosed,” said Bicknell, “admits

of great question. Unfortunately, that fellow Gleeson destroyed all

the papers before his suicide, or we could ascertain if a clause of

redemption were not inserted; there was no registry of the judgment, and

we are consequently in the hands of the enemy.”

“I cannot help saying,” said Daly, sternly, “that if it were not for

the confounded subtleties of your craft, roguery would have a less

profitable sphere of employment: so many hitches, so many small

crotchety conjunctures influence the mere question of right and wrong

that a man is led at last to think less of justice itself than of the

petty artifices to secure a superiority.”

“I must assure you that you are in a great error,” said Bicknell,

calmly; “the complication of a suit is the necessary security the law

has recourse to against the wiles and stratagems of designing men. What

you call its hitches and subtleties are the provisions against craft by

which mere honesty is protected: that they are sometimes employed to

defeat justice, is saying no more than that they are only human

contrivances; for what good institution cannot be so perverted?”

“So much the better, if you can think so. Now, what are Darcy's chances

of success?--never mind recapitulating details, which remind me a

great deal too much of my own misfortunes, but say, in one word, is the

prospect good or bad, or has it a tinge of both?”

“It may be any of the three, according to the way in which the claim is

prosecuted; if there be sufficient means--”

“Is that the great question?”

“Undoubtedly; large fees to the leading counsel, retainers, if a record

be kept for trial at the Assizes, and payment to special juries: all are

expensive, and all necessary.”

“I 'll write to Darcy to-night, then,--or, better still, I 'll write to

Lady Eleanor, repeating what you have told me, and asking her advice and

opinion; meanwhile, lose no time in consulting Mr. Boyle,--you prefer

him?”

“Certainly, in a case like this he cannot be surpassed; besides, he is

already well acquainted with all the leading facts, and has taken a deep

interest in the affair. There are classes and gradations of ability at

the bar, irrespective of degrees of actual capacity; we have the heavy

artillery of the Equity Court, the light field-pieces of the King's

Bench, and the Congreve rockets of Assize display: to misplace or

confound them would be a grave error.”

“I know where I 'd put them all, if _my_ pleasure were to be consulted,”

muttered Daly, in an undergrowl.

“Now, if we have a case for a jury, we must secure Mr. O'Halloran--”

“He who made a speech to the mob in Smithfield the other day?”

“The same. I perceive you scarcely approve of my suggestion; but his

success at the bar is very considerable: he knows a good deal of law,

and a great deal more about mankind. A rising man, sir, I assure you.”

“It must be in a falling state of society, then,” said Daly, bitterly.

“Time was when the first requisite of a barrister was to be a gentleman.

An habitual respect for the decorous observances of polite life was

deemed an essential in one whose opinions were as often to be listened

to in questions of right feeling as of right doing. His birth, his

social position, and his acquirements were the guarantees he gave the

world that, while discussing subtleties, he would not be seduced into

anything low or unworthy. I am sorry that notion has become antiquated.”

“You would not surely exclude men of high talents from a career because

their origin was humble?” said Bicknell.

“And why not, sir? Upon what principle was the bodyguard of noble

persons selected to surround the person of the sovereign, save that

blood was deemed the best security for allegiance? And why should not

the law, only second in sacred respect to the person of the monarch,

be as rigidly protected? The Church excludes from her ministry all who,

even by physical defect, may suggest matter of ridicule or sarcasm to

the laity; for the same reason I would reject from all concern with the

administration of justice those coarser minds whose habits familiarize

them with vulgar tastes and low standards of opinion.”

“I confess this seems to me very questionable doctrine, not to speak of

the instances which the law exhibits of her brightest ornaments derived

from the very humblest walks in life.”

“Such cases are probably esteemed the more because of that very reason,”

said Daly, haughtily; “they are like the pearl in the oyster-shell, not

very remarkable in itself, but one must go so low down to seek for it.

I have an excuse for warmth; I have lost the greater part of a large

fortune in contesting a right pronounced by high authority to be

incontrovertible. Besides,” added he, with a courteous smile, “if Mr.

Bicknell may oppose my opinion, he has the undoubted superiority that

attaches to liberality, his own family claiming alliance with the best

in the land.”

This happy turn seemed to divert the course of a conversation which half

threatened angrily. Again the business topic was resumed, and after a

short discussion, Bicknell took his leave, while Daly prepared to write

his letter to Lady Eleanor.

He had not proceeded far in his task when Lionel entered with a

newspaper in his hand.

“Have you heard the news of the notorious robber being taken?” said he.

“Who do you mean? Barrington, is it?”

“No; Freney.”

“Freney! taken?--when--how--where?”

“It's curious enough,” said Lionel, coolly, seating himself to read the

paragraph, without noticing the eagerness of Daly's manner; “the fellow

seems to have had a taste for sporting matters which no personal fear

could eradicate. His capture took place this wise. He went over to

Doncaster, to be present at the Spring Meeting, where he betted freely,

and won largely. There happened, however, to come a reverse to his

fortune, and on the last day of the running he lost everything, and was

obliged to apply for assistance to a former companion, who, it would

seem, was some hundred pounds in his debt; this worthy, having no desire

to refund, threatened the police; Freney became exasperated, knocked him

down on the spot, and then, turning smartly round, chucked one of the

jockeys from his saddle, sprang on the horse's back, and made off like

lightning. The other, only stunned for a moment, was soon on his legs

again, and the cry of 'Freney! it was Freney the robber!' resounded

throughout the race-course. The scene must then have been a most

exciting one, for the whole mounted population, with one accord,

gave chase. Noblemen and country gentlemen, fox-hunters, farmers, and

blacklegs, away they went, Freney about a quarter of a mile in front,

and riding splendidly.”

“That I 'm sure of,” said Daly, earnestly. “Go on!”

“Mellington took the lead of every one, mounted on that great

steeplechase horse he is so proud of,--no fences too large for him, they

say; but the robber--and what a good judge of country the fellow must

be--left the heavy ground and preferred even breasting a long hill of

grass-land, with several high rails, to the open country below,

where the clay soil distressed his horse. By this manoeuvre, says the

newspaper, he was obliged to make a circuit which again brought the

great body of his pursuers close up with him; and now his dexterity as

a horseman became apparent, for while riding at top speed, and handling

his horse with the most perfect judgment, he actually contrived to

divest himself of his heavy greatcoat. He had but just accomplished this

very difficult task, when Lord Mellington once more came up. There was

a heavy dike in front, with a double post and rail, and at this they

rushed desperately, each, apparently, calculating on the other being

thrown, or at least checked.

“Freney, now only a dozen strides in advance, turned in his saddle, and

drawing a pistol from his breast, took an aim,--as steadily, too, as

if firing at a mark. Lord Mellington saw the dreadful purpose of the

robber; he shouted aloud, and, pulling up with all his might, he bent

down to the very mane of his horse. Freney pulled the trigger, and with

one mad plunge Lord Mellington's horse came headforemost to the ground,

with his rider under him. Freney was not long the victor; the racer he

bestrode breasted the high rail, and, unable to clear it, fell heavily

forward, smashing the frail timbers before him, and pitching the rider

on his head. He was up in a second and away; for about twenty yards

his speed was immense, then, reeling, he staggered forwards and fell

senseless; before he rallied he was taken, and in handcuffs. There is a

description of the fellow,” said Lionel, “and, by Jove! one would think

they were describing some wild denizen of the woods, or some strange

animal of savage life, so eloquent is the paragraph about his appearance

and personal strength.”

“A well-knit fellow, no doubt, and more than a match for most in single

combat,” said Daly, musing.

“You have seen him, then?”

“Ay, that I have, and must see him again. Where is he confined?”

“In Newgate.”

“That is so far fortunate, because the jailer is an old acquaintance of

mine.”

“I have a great curiosity to see this Freney.”

“Come along with me, then,” said Daly, as he arose and rang the bell to

order a carriage; “you shall gratify your curiosity; but I must ask you

to leave us alone together afterwards, for, strange as it may seem, we

have a little affair of confidence between us.”

It did, indeed, appear not a little strange that any secret negotiation

or understanding should exist between two such men; but Lionel did not

venture to ask any explanation of the difficulty, but silently prepared

to accompany him. As they went along towards Newgate, Daly related

several anecdotes of Freney, all of which tended to show that the fellow

had all his life felt that strange passion for danger so attractive to

certain minds, and that his lawless career was more probably adopted

from this tendency than any mere desire of money-getting. Many of his

robberies resembled feats of daring rather than cautious schemes to

obtain property. “Society,” added Daly, “is truly not much benefited

because the highwayman is capricious; but still, one cannot divest

oneself of a certain interest for a rascal who has always shown himself

ready to risk his neck, and who has never been charged with any distinct

act of cruelty. When I say this much, I must caution you against

indulging a sympathy for a law-breaker because he is not a perfect

monster of iniquity; such fellows are very rare, and we are always too

well inclined to admire the few good qualities of a bad man, just as we

are astonished at a few words spoken plain by a parrot.

“'The things themselves are neither strange nor rare;

We wonder how the devil they came there.'”

While Daly wisely cautioned his young companion against the indulgence

of a false and mawkish sympathy for the criminal, he in his own heart

could not help feeling the strongest interest for any misfortune of a

spirit so wild and so reckless.

Daly's card, passed through the iron grating of the strong door, soon

procured them admission, and they were conducted into a small and

neatly furnished room, where a mild-looking middle-aged man was seated,

reading. He rose as they entered, and saluted them respectfully.

“Good evening, Dunn; I hope I see you well. My friend Captain Darcy--Mr.

Dunn. We have just heard that the noted Freney has taken up his lodgings

here, and are curious to see him.”

“I 'm afraid I must refuse your request, Mr. Daly; my orders are most

positive about the admission of any one to the prisoner: there have been

I can't say how many people here on the same errand since four o'clock,

when he arrived.”

“I think I ought to be free of the house,” said Daly, laughing; “I

matriculated here at least, if I didn't take out a high degree.”

“So you did, sir,” said Dunn, joining in the laugh. “Freney is in the

very same cell you occupied for four months.”

“Come, come, then, you can't refuse me paying a visit to my old

quarters.”

“There is another objection, and a stronger one,--. Freney himself

declines seeing any one, and asked a special leave of the sheriff to

refuse all comers admission to him.”

“This surprises me,” said Daly. “Why, the fellow has a prodigious deal

of personal vanity, and I cannot conceive his having adopted such a

resolution.”

“Perhaps I can guess his meaning,” said the jailer, shrewdly; “the

greater number of those who came here, and also who tried to see him in

Liverpool, were artists of one kind or other, wanting to take busts

or profiles of him. Now, my surmise is, Freney would not dislike the

notoriety, if it were not that it might be inconvenient one of these

days. To be plain, sir, though he is doubly ironed, and in the strongest

part of the strongest jail in Ireland, he is at this moment meditating

on an escape, in the event of which he calculates all the trouble and

annoyance it would give him to have his picture or his cast stuck up in

every town and village of the kingdom. This, at least, is my reading of

the mystery; but I think it is not without some show of probability.”

“Well, the objection could scarcely apply to me,” said Daly; “if his

portrait be not taken by a more skilful artist than I am, he may be very

easy on the score of recognition. Pray let me send in my name to him,

and if he refuses to see me, I 'll not press the matter further.”

Partly from an old feeling of kindness towards Daly, Dunn gave no

further opposition, but in reality he was certain that Freney's refusal

would set the matter at rest. His surprise was consequently great when

the turnkey returned with a civil message from Freney that he would be

very glad to see Mr. Daly.

“Your friend can remain here,” said Dunn, in a voice that plainly showed

he was not quite easy in his mind as to the propriety of the

interview; and Daly, to alleviate suspicions natural enough in one so

circumstanced, assented, and walked on after the turnkey, alone.

“That's the way he spends his time; listen to him now,” whispered the

turnkey, as they stopped at the door of the cell, from within which the

deep tones of a man's voice were heard singing to himself, as he slowly

paced the narrow chamber, his heavy fetters keeping a melancholy time to

the melody:--

“'T was afther two when he quitted Naas,

But he gave the spar, and he went the pace,

'As many an like may now give chase,'

Says he, 'I give you warning.

You may raise the country far and near,

From Malin Head down to Cape Clear,

But the divil a man of ye all I fear,

I 'll be far away before morning.'

“By break of day he reach'd Kildare,

The black horse never turn'd a hair;

Says Freney, 'We 've some time to spare,

This stage we 've rather hasten'd.'

So he eat four eggs and a penny rowl,

And he mix'd of whiskey such a bowl!

The drink he shared with the beast, by my sowl,

For Jack was always dacent.

“'You might tighten the girths,' Jack Freney cried,

'For I 've soon a heavy road to ride.'

'Twas the truth he tould, for he never lied;

The way was dark and rainy.

'Good-by,' says he, 'I 'll soon be far,

And many a mile from Mullingar.'

So he kiss'd the girl behind the bar,

'T is the divil you wor, Jack Freney!”

“Sorra lie in that, any way,” said the robber, as he repeated the last

line over once more, with evident self-satisfaction.

“Who comes there?” cried he, sternly, as the heavy bolts were shot back,

and the massive door opened.

“Why don't you say, 'Stand and deliver'?” said the turnkey, with a laugh

as harsh and grating as the creak of the rusty hinges.

“And many a time I did to a better man,” said Freney.

“You may leave us now,” said Daly, to the turnkey.

“Mr. Daly, your sarvant,” said the robber, saluting him; “you 're the

only man in Ireland I wanted to see.”

“I wish our meeting had been anywhere else,” said Daly, sorrowfully, as

he took his seat on a stool opposite the bed where Freney sat.

“Well, well, so it is, sir; it's just what every one prophesied this

many a day,--as if there was much cunning in saying that I 'd be hanged

some time or other; why, if they wanted to surprise me, they 'd have

tould me I 'd never be taken. You heard how it was, I suppose?”

Daly nodded, and Freney went on:--

“The English horse wouldn't rise to the rail; if I was on the chestnut

mare or Black Billy, I would n't be where I am now.”

“I have several things to ask you about, Freney; but first, how I can

serve you? You must have counsel in this business.”

“No, sir, I thank you; it's only throwing good money after bad. I'll

plead guilty,--it will save time with us all.”

“But you give yourself no chance, man.”

“Faix, I spoiled my chance long ago, Mr. Daly. Do you know, sir,”--here

he spoke in a low, determined tone,--“there's not a mail in Ireland I

did n't stop at one time or other. There's few country gentlemen I have

n't lightened of their guineas; the court wouldn't hold the witnesses

against me if I were to stand my trial.”

“With all that, you must still employ a lawyer; these fellows are as

crafty in _their_ walk as ever you were in _yours_. Who will you have?

Name the man, and leave the rest to me.”

Freney seemed to deliberate for a few moments, and he threw his

eyes down at the heavy irons on his legs, and he gazed at the strong

stanchions of the windows, and then said, in a low voice,--

“There's a chap called Hosey M'Garry, in a cellar in Charles Street:

he's an ould man with one eye, and not a tooth in his head; but he's the

only man that could sarve me now.”

“Hosey M'Garry,” repeated Daly, “Charles Street,” as he wrote down the

address with his pencil: “a strange name and residence for a lawyer.”

“I did n't say he was, sir,” said Freney, laughing.

“And who and what is he, then?”

“The only man, now alive, that can make a cowld chisel to cut iron

without noise.”

[Illustration: 440]

“Ah! that's what you're thinking of; you'd rather trust to the flaws of

the iron than of the indictment. Perhaps you are not far wrong, after

all.”

“If I was in the court below without the fetters,” said Freney, eagerly,

“I could climb the wall with a holdfast and a chisel, and get down the

same way on the other side; once there, Mr. Daly, I 'd sing the ould

ballad,--

“For the divil a man of ye all I fear,

I 'll be far away before morning.”

“And how are these tools to reach you here? If they admit any of your

friends, won't they search them first?”

“So they will, barrin' it was a gentleman,” replied Freney, while his

eyes twinkled with a peculiarly cunning lustre.

“So, then, you rely on _me_ for this piece of service?” said Daly, after

a pause.

“Troth, you're the only gentleman of my acquaintance,” said Freney,

quaintly.

“Well, I suppose I must not give you a bad impression of the order; I

'll do it.”

“I knew you would,” rejoined Freney, calmly. “You might bring two files

at the same time, and a phial of sweet oil to keep down the noise. Hush!

here's Gavin coming to turn you out,--he said ten minutes.”

“Well, then, you shall see me to-morrow, Freney, and I 'll endeavor to

see your friend in the mean time.” This was said as the turnkey stood at

the open door.

“This gentleman wants to have a look at you, Freney,” said the

jailer,--“as if he could n't see you for nothing, some Saturday morning

soon.”

“Maybe he 'd not know me in a nightcap,” replied Freney, laughing, while

he turned the lamplight full on Lionel Darcy's features.

“The very fellow that rode off with the horse!” exclaimed Lionel as he

saw him.

“Young O'Reilly!” said Freney. “What signifies that charge now? Won't it

satisfy you if they hang me for something else?”

“That's Captain Darcy, man,” broke in Daly. “Is all your knowledge of

mankind of so little use to you that you cannot distinguish between a

born gentleman and an upstart?”

“By my oath,” said the robber, aloud, “I 'm as glad as a ten-pound note

to know that it wasn't a half-bred one that showed the spirit you did!

Hurrah! there's hopes for ould Ireland yet, when the blood and bone is

still left in her! And wasn't it real luck that I saw you this night? If

I did n't, I 'd have done you a bad turn. One word, Mr. Daly, one word

in your ear.”

The robber drew Daly towards him, and whispered eagerly for some

seconds.

A violent exclamation burst from Daly as he listened, and then he cried

out, “What! are you sure of this? Don't deceive me, man!”

“May I never, but it's true.”

“Why, then, not have told it before?”

“Because”--here he faltered--“because--faix, I 'll tell the truth--I

thought that young gentleman was Hickman's grandson, and I could n't

bring myself to do him a spite after what I had seen.”

“The time is up, gentlemen,” said the turnkey, who, out of the delicacy

of his official feeling, was slowly pacing the corridor up and down

while they talked together.

“If this be but true,” muttered Daly to himself, “there's another cast

of the dice for it yet.”

“I am sorry for that fellow,” said Lionel, aloud; “he did me a good turn

once: I might have gone down the torrent, were it not for his aid.”

“So you might, man,” said Daly, speaking in a half-soliloquy; “he gives

the only chance of victory I've seen yet.”

These words, so evidently inapplicable to Lionel's observations, were

a perfect enigma; but he did not dare to ask for any explanation, and

walked on in silence beside him.

CHAPTER XXXVII. A SCENE OF HOME.

If the climate of northern Ireland be habitually one of storm and

severity, it must be confessed that, in the rare but happy intervals of

better weather, the beauty of the coast scenery is unsurpassed. Indented

with little bays, whose sides are formed of immense cliffs of chalk,

or the more stately grandeur of that columnar basalt which extends for

miles on either side of the Causeway, the most vivid coloring unites

with forms the wildest and most fantastic; crag and precipice, sandy

beach and rocky shore, alternate in endless variety; while islands are

there, some, green and sheep-clad, others, dark and frowning, form the

home of nothing but the sea-gull.

It was on such an evening of calm as displayed the scene to its greatest

advantage, when a long column of burnished golden light floated over the

sea, tipping each crested wave, and darkened into deeper beauty between

them, that the Knight, Lady Eleanor, and Helen sat under the little

porch of their cottage and gazed upon the fair and gorgeous picture.

If the leafy grove or the dark wood seem sweeter to our senses when the

thrilling notes of the blackbird or the thrush sing in their solitude,

so the deepest silence, the most unbroken stillness, has a wonderful

effect of soothing to the mind beside the seashore we have so often seen

terrible in the fury of the storm. A gentle calm steals over us as

we listen to the long sweeping of the waves, heaving and breaking in

measured melody; and our thoughts, enticed by some dreaming ecstasy,

wander away over the boundless ocean, not to the far-off lands of other

climes alone, but into worlds of brighter and more beauteous mould.

They sat in silence, at first only occupied by the lovely scene that

stretched away before them, but at last each deeply immersed in his own

thoughts,--thoughts which, unconnected with the objects around, yet

by some strange mystery were tinctured by all their calm and tranquil

beauty. A fisherman was mending his net upon the little beach below,

and his children were playing around him, now running merrily along the

strand, now dabbling in the white foam left by the retreating waves;

the father looked up from time to time to watch them, but without

interrupting the low monotonous chant by which he lightened his labor.

Towards the little group at length their eyes were turned. “Yes,” said

the Knight, as if interpreting what was passing in the minds of those at

his side, “that is about as near to human happiness as life affords. I

believe there would be very few abortive ambitions if men were content

to see their children occupy the same station as themselves; and yet,

when the time of one's own reverses arrives, how very little of true

happiness is lost by the change of fortune.”

“My dearest father!” said Helen, as in a transport of delight she threw

her arms around him, “how happy your words make me! You are, then,

contented?”

“Do I not look so, my sweet Helen? And your mother, too, when have you

seen her so well?--when do you remember her walking, as she did to-day,

to the top of the great cliff of Dunluce?”

“With no other ill consequence,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “than a

most acute attack of vanity; for I begin to fancy myself quite young

again.”

“Well, Mamma, don't forget we have a visit to pay, some of these days,

to Ballintray,--that's the name of the place, I think, Miss Daly resides

at.”

“Yes, we really must not neglect it. There was a delicacy in her note of

welcome to us here, judging that we might not be prepared for a personal

visit, which prepossesses me in her favor. You promised to make our

acknowledgments, but I believe you forgot all about it.”

“No, not that,” said the Knight, hesitatingly; “but in the midst of so

many things to do and think about, I deferred it from day to day.”

“Shall we go to-morrow, then?” cried Helen, eagerly.

“I think it were better if your father went first, lest the way should

prove too long for us. I am so proud of my pedestrianism, Helen, I'll

not risk any failure.”

“Be it so,” said the Knight, quietly. “And now of this other matter

Bagenal presses so strongly upon us. I feel the greatest repugnance

to assume any name but that I have always borne, and, I hope, not

disgraced; he says we shall be objects of impertinent curiosity here to

the neighborhood.”

“Ruins to dispute the honors of lionship with Dunluce,” said Lady

Eleanor, smiling faintly.

“Just so; that might, however, be borne patiently; they will soon

leave off talking of us when we give them little matter for speculative

gossip. Besides, we are so far away from anything that could be called

neighborhood.”

“But he suggests some other reasons, if I mistake not,” said Lady

Eleanor.

“He does, but so darkly and mysteriously that I cannot even guess his

drift. Here is his letter.” And the Knight took several papers from

his pocket, from among which he selected one, whose large and blotted

writing unmistakably pronounced it Bagenal Daly's. “Yes, here it is:

'Bicknell says that Hickman's people are fully persuaded that you have

left Ireland with the intention of never returning; that this impression

should be maintained, because it will induce them to be less guarded

than if they believed you were still here, directing any legal

proceeding. The only case, therefore, he will prepare for trial will be

one respecting the leases falsely signed. The bond and its details must

be unravelled by time; here also your incognito is all-essential,--it

need only be for a short time, and on scruples of delicacy so easily got

over: your grandfather called himself Gwynne, and wrote it also.'

That is quite true, Eleanor, so he did; his letters are signed Matthew

Gwynne, Knight of--------. I remember the signature well.”

“I think, with Mr. Daly,” said Lady Eleanor, “it will save us a world of

observant impertinence; this place is tranquil and solitary enough just

now, but in summer the coast and the Causeway have many visitors, and

although 'the Corvy' is out of the common track, if our names be bruited

about, we shall not escape that least graceful of all attentions, the

tender commiseration of mere acquaintances.”

“Mamma is right,” said Helen; “we should be hunted out by every tourist

to report on how we bore our reverses, and tormented with anonymous

condolences in prose, and short stanzas on the beauty of resignation.”

“Well, and, my dear Helen, perhaps the lessons might not be so very

inapplicable,” said the Knight, smiling affectionately.

“But very inefficient, sir,” replied Helen, with a toss of her head;

“I'm not a bit resigned.”

“Helen, dearest,” interposed Lady Eleanor, rebukingly.

“Not a bit, Mamma; I am happy,--happier than I ever knew myself before,

if you like that phrase better,--because we are together, because this

life realizes to me all I ever dreamed of,--that quiet and tranquil

pleasure people might, but somehow never please to, taste of; but if you

ask me am I resigned to see you and my dear father in a station so much

beneath your expectations and your habits, I cannot say that I am.”

“Then, my dear girl, you accuse us of bearing our misfortunes badly,

if we cannot partake of your enjoyments on account of our own vain

regrets?”

“No, no, Papa, don't mistake me; if I grieve over the altered fortunes

that limit your sphere of usefulness as well as of pleasure, it is

because I know how well you understood the privileges and demands of

your high station, and how little a life so humble as this is can exact

of qualities that were not given to be wasted in obscurity.”

“My sweet child,” said the Knight, fondly, “it is a very dangerous

practice to blend up affection with principle; depend upon it, the

former will always coerce the latter, and bend it to its will; and as

for those good gifts you speak of, had I really as many of them as your

fond heart would endow me with, believe me there is no station so humble

as not to admit of their exercise. There never yet was a walk in life

without its sphere of duties; now I intend that not only are we to be

happy here, but that we should contribute to the well-being of those

about us.”

There was a pause after the Knight had done speaking, during which he

busied himself in turning over some letters, the seals of which were

still unbroken; he knew the handwriting on most of them, and yet

hesitated about inflicting on himself the pain of reading allusions to

that condition he had once occupied. “Yes,” muttered he to himself, “we

are always flattering ourselves of how essential we are to our friends,

our party, and so forth; and yet, when any events occur which despoil us

of our brief importance, we see the whole business of the world go on as

currently as ever. What a foretaste this gives one of death! So it is,

the stream of life flows on, whether the bubble on its surface float or

burst.”

“That's Lord Netherby's hand, is it not?” said Lady Eleanor, as she

lifted a letter which had fallen to the ground.

“Yes,” said Darcy, carelessly; “written probably soon after his return

to England. I have no doubt it contains a most courtly acknowledgment of

our poor hospitality, and an assurance of undying regard.”

“If it be of that tenor, I have no curiosity to read it,” said Lady

Eleanor, handing the letter to the Knight.

“Helen would like to study so great a master of epistolary flatteries,”

said the Knight, smiling; “and provided she will keep the whole for her

private reading, I am willing to indulge her.”

“I accept the favor with thanks,” said Helen, receiving the letter;

“you know I plead guilty to liking our noble relative. I 'm not skilled

enough to distinguish between an article trebly gilded and one of pure

gold, and his Lordship, to my eyes, looked as like the true metal as

possible: he said so many pretty things to Mamma, and so many fine

things of you and Lionel--”

“And paid so many compliments to the fair Helen herself,” interposed the

Knight.

“With so much of good tact--”

“And good taste, Helen,” added Lady Eleanor, smiling; “why not say

that?”

“Well, I see I shall have to defend myself as well as my champion, so I

'll even go and read my letter.”

And so saying, she arose, and sauntered down to the shore; under the

shelter of a tall rock, from whence the view extended for miles along,

she sat down. “What a contrast!” said she, as she broke the seal, “a

courtier's letter in such a scene as this!”

Lord Netherby's letter was, as the Knight suspected, written soon after

his return to England, expressing, in his own most courtly phrase,

the delightful memory he retained of his visit to Ireland. Gracefully

contrasting the brilliant excitement of that brief period with the more

staid quietude of the life to which he returned, he lightly suggested

that none other than one native to the soil could support an existence

so overflowing with pleasurable emotions. With all the artifice of

a courtier, he recalled certain little incidents, too small, as mere

matters of memory, to find a resting-place in the mind, but all of them

indicative of the deep impression made, upon him who remarked them.

He spoke also of the delight with which his Royal Highness the Prince

listened to his narrative of life in Ireland. “In truth,” wrote his

Lordship, “I do not believe that the exigencies of his station ever cost

him more than when he reflected on the impossibility of his witnessing

such perfection in the life of a country house as I feebly endeavored to

convey to him. Again and again has he asked me to repeat the tale of the

hunt--the brilliant ball the night of your arrival--and I have earned a

character for story-telling of which Kelly and Sheridan are beginning to

feel jealous, by the mere retail of your anecdotes. Lionel's return

is anxiously looked for by all here, and the Prince has more than once

expressed himself impatient to see him back again. My sweet favorite

Helen, too,--when is she to be presented? There will be a court in the

early part of next month, of which I shall not fail to apprise you, most

earnestly entreating that my cousin Eleanor will not think the journey

too far which shall bring her once again among those scenes she so

gracefully adorned, and where her triumphs will be renewed in the

admiration of her lovely daughter. I need not tell you that my house

in town is entirely at her disposal, either as _my_ guests, or, if you

prefer it, I shall be _theirs_, whenever I am not in waiting.”

Here the writer detailed, with an eloquence all his own, the advantage

to Helen of making her _entrée_ into life under circumstances so

favorable, remarking, with that conventional philosophy just then the

popular cant of the day, that the enthusiasm of the world was never

long-lived, and that even his beautiful cousin Helen should not be above

profiting by the favorable reception the kindly disposition of the court

was sure to procure for her. This was said in a tone of half-serious

banter, but at the same time the invitation was reiterated with an

evident desire for its acceptance.

As the letter drew near its conclusion, the lines became more closely

written, as though some circumstances hitherto forgotten had suddenly

occurred to the writer; and so it proved.

“I was about, my dear Knight, to write myself, with what truth I will

not say, your 'most affectionate friend, Netherby,' when I received a

letter which requires some mention at my hands. It is, indeed, one

of the most extraordinary documents I have ever perused; nothing

very wonderful in that, when I tell you from whom it comes,--your old

sweetheart, Julia Wallincourt, or, as you will better remember her,

Julia d'Esterre; she is still very beautiful, and just as capricious,

just as _maligne_, as when she endeavored, by every artifice of her

coquetry, to make you jilt my cousin Eleanor. There 's no doubt of

it, Darcy, this woman loved you! at least, as much as she could love

anything, except the pleasure of torturing her fellow-creatures. Well,

it would seem that a younger son of hers, popularly known as Dick

Forester, paid you a visit in Ireland, and, no very unnatural

occurrence, fell desperately in love with your daughter,--not so Helen

with him. She probably regarded him as one of that class upon which

London has so stamped its impress of habit and manner that all

individualism is lost in the quiet observance of certain proprieties.

He must have been a rare contrast to the high-souled enthusiasm and

waywardness of her own brother! Certain it is she refused him; and he,

taking the thing much more to heart than a young Guardsman usually does

a similar catastrophe, hastened home, and endeavored to interest his

mother in his suit. Lady Julia had an old vengeance to exact, and, like

a true woman, could not forego it; she not only positively refused all

intercession on her part, but went what you and I will probably feel

to be a very unnecessary length, and actually declared she never would

consent to such an alliance. We used to remember (some years ago), at

Eton, of a certain Dido who never forgave, and we are told how, for many

years after, the _lethalis arundo lateri adhosit_; but assuredly the

poet was speaking less of the woes of an individual than of the sorrows

of fine ladies in all ages. Unfortunately, the similitude between her

ladyship and Dido ends here; the classic fair one exhibited, as we are

told, the most delicate fondness for the son of her lover. But, to grow

serious, Lady Wallincourt's conduct must have been peremptory and harsh;

she actually went the length of writing to the Duke of York to request

an exchange for her son into a regiment serving in India: whether

Forester obtained some clew to this manouvre or not, he anticipated the

stroke by selling out and leaving the army altogether; whither he is

gone, or what has become of him since, no one can tell. Such, my dear

Knight, is the emergency in which Lady Wallincourt addresses her letter

to me,--a letter so peculiarly her own, so full of reproaches against

you, and vindication of herself, that I actually scruple to transmit to

you this palpable evidence of still enduring affection.

“Were you both thirty years younger, I should claim great credit to my

morality for the forbearance. Let that pass, however, and let me rather

ask you if you know, or have heard anything, of this wayward boy?

Personally, I am unacquainted with him; but his friends agree in saying

that he is high-spirited, honorable, and brave; and it would be a great

pity that his affection for a young lady, and his anger with an old one,

should mar all the prospects of his life. Could you, by any means, find

a clew to him? I do not, of course, ask you to interfere in person, lest

it might seem that you encouraged an attachment which you have far more

reason to discountenance for your daughter than has Lady Wallincourt for

her son; however, your doing so would go far to reconcile the young man

to his mother by showing that, if there was a difficulty on one side, a

still greater obstacle existed on the other.”

Requesting a speedy answer, and begging that the whole might be in

strict confidence between them, the letter concluded.

“I do not doubt, my dear Knight,” said the postscript, “that you

will see in all this a reason the more for coming up to town. Helen's

appearance at the Drawing-Room would be the best, if not the only,

rebuke Lady Wallin-court's insolence could receive. By all means, come.

“Another complication! Lady W., on first hearing of her son's duel, and

the kind treatment he met with after being wounded, wrote a letter of

grateful acknowledgments, which she enclosed to her son, neither knowing

nor caring for the address of his benefactor. When she did hear it at

length, she was excessively angry that she had been, as she terms it,

'the first to make advances.' Ainsi, telles sont les femmes du monde!”

Such was Lord Netherby's letter. With what a succession of emotions

Helen read it we confess ourselves unable to depict. If she sometimes

hesitated to read on, an influence, too powerful to control, impelled

her to continue, while a secret interest in Forester's fortunes--a

feeling she had never known till now--induced her to learn his fate.

More than once, in the alteration of her condition, had she recalled the

proffer of affection she had with such determination rejected, and with

what gratitude did she remember the firmness of her decision!

“Poor fellow!” thought she, “I deemed it the mere caprice of one whose

gratitude for kindness had outrun his calmer convictions. And so he

really loved me!”

We must avow the fact: Helen's indifference to Forester had, in the

main, proceeded from a false estimate of his character; she saw in him

nothing but a well-bred, good-looking youth, who, with high connections

and moderate abilities, had formed certain ambitious views, to be

realized rather by the adventitious aid of fortune than his own merits.

He was, in her eyes, a young politician, cautions and watchful, trained

up to regard Lord Castlereagh as the model of statesmen, and political

intrigue as the very climax of intellectual display. To know that she

had wronged him was to make a great revolution in her feelings towards

him, to see that this reserved and calmly minded youth should have

sacrificed everything--position, prospects, all--rather than resign his

hope, faint as it was, of one day winning her affection!

If these were her first thoughts on reading that letter, those that

followed were far less pleasurable. How should she ever be able to show

it to her father? The circumstances alluded to were of a nature he never

could be cognizant of without causing the greatest pain both to him and

herself. To ask Lady Eleanor's counsel would be even more difficult.

Helen witnessed the emotion the sight of Lady Wallincourt's name had

occasioned her mother the day Forester first visited them; the old

rivalry had, then, left its trace on her mind as well as on that of Lady

Julia! What embarrassment on every hand! Where could she seek counsel,

and in whom? Bagenal Daly, the only one she could have opened her

heart to, was away; and was it quite certain she would have ventured

to disclose, even to him, the story of that affection which already

appeared so different from at first? Forester was not now in her eyes

the fashionable guardsman, indulging a passing predilection, or whiling

away the tedious hours of a country-house by a flirtation, in which he

felt interested because repulsed; he was elevated in her esteem by his

misfortunes, and the very uncertainty of his fate augmented her concern.

And yet she must forego the hope of saving him, or else, by showing

the letter to her father, acknowledge her acquaintance with events she

should never have known, or, knowing, should never reveal.

There was no help for it, the letter could not be shown. In all

likelihood neither the Knight nor Lady Eleanor would ever think more

about it; and if they did, there was still enough to speak of in the

courteous sentiments of the writer, and the polite attention of his

invitation,--a civility which even Helen's knowledge of life informed

her was rather proffered in discharge of a debt than as emanating from

any real desire to play their host in London.

Thus satisfying herself that no better course offered for the present,

she turned homewards, but with a heavier heart and more troubled mind

than had ever been her fortune in life to have suffered.

END OF VOL. I.