When Paul Kellett described Mr. Davenport Dunn's almost triumphal entry
into Dublin, he doubtless fancied in his mind the splendors that awaited
him at home; the troops of servants in smart liveries, the homage of
his household, and the costly entertainment which most certainly should
celebrate his arrival. Public rumor had given to the hospitalities
of that house a wide extended fame. The fashionable fishmonger of the
capital, his Excellency's “purveyor” of game, the celebrated Italian
warehouse, all proclaimed him their best customer. “Can't let you have
that turbot, sir, till I hear from Mr. Dunn.” “Only two pheasants to be
had, sir, and ordered for Mr. Dunn.” “The white truffles only taken
by one gentleman in town. None but Mr. Dunn would pay the price.” The
culinary traditions of his establishment threw the Castle into the
background, and Kellett revelled in the notion of the great festivity
that now welcomed his return. “Lords and earls--the biggest salmon in
the market--the first men of the land--and lobster sauce--ancient names
and good families--with grouse, and 'Sneyd's Twenty-one'--that 's
what you may call life! It is wonderful, wonderful!” Now, when Paul
enunciated the word “wonderful” in this sense, he meant it to imply that
it was shameful, distressing, and very melancholy for the prospects of
humanity generally. And then he amused himself by speculating whether
Dunn liked it all,--whether the unaccustomed elegance of these great
dinners did not distress and pain him rather than give pleasure, and
whether the very consciousness of his own low origin wasn't a poison
that mingled in every cup he tasted.
“It's no use talking,” muttered he to himself; “a man must be bred to
it, like everything else. The very servants behind his chair frighten
him; he's, maybe, eating with his knife, or he's putting salt where he
ought to put sugar, or he does n't take the right kind of wine with his
meat. Beecher says he 'd know any fellow just by that, and then it's
'all up' with him. Wonderful, wonderful!”
How would it have affected these speculations had Kellett known that,
while he was indulging them, Dunn had quietly issued by a back door
from his house, and, having engaged a car, set out towards Clontarf?
A drearier drive of a dreary evening none need wish for. Occasional
showers were borne on the gusty wind, swooping past as though hurrying
to some elemental congress far away, while along the shore the waves
beat with that irregular plash that betokens wild weather at sea. The
fitful moonlight rather heightened than diminished the dismal aspect of
the scenery. For miles the bleak strand stretched away, no headland nor
even a hillock marking the coast; the spectral gable of a ruined church
being the only object visible against the leaden sky. Little garlands of
paper, the poor tributes of the very poor, decorated the graves and
the head-stones, and, as they rustled in the night wind, sounded like
ghostly whisperings. The driver piously crossed himself as they passed
the “un-cannie” spot, but Dunn took no heed of it. To wrap his cloak
tighter about him, to shelter more closely beneath his umbrella, were
all that the dreary scene exacted from him; and except when a vivid
flash of lightning made the horse swerve from the road and dash down
into the rough shingle of the strand, he never adverted to the way or
the weather.
“What's this,--where are we going?” cried he, impatiently.
“'T is the flash that frightened the beast, yer honner,” said the man;
“and if it was plazin' to you, I 'd rather tarn back again.”
“Turn back--where to?”
“To town, yer honner.”
“Nothing of the kind; drive on, and quickly too. We have five miles yet
before us, and it will be midnight ere we get over them at this rate.”
Sulkily and unwillingly did he obey; and, turning from the shore, they
entered upon a low, sandy road that traversed a wide and dreary tract,
barely elevated a few feet above the sea. By degrees the little patches
of grass and fern disappeared, and nothing stretched on either side but
low sand hummocks, scantily covered with rushes. Sea-shells crackled
beneath the wheels as they went, and after a while the deep booming of
the sea thundering heavily along a sandy shore, apprised them that they
had crossed the narrow neck of land which divided two bays.
“Are you quite certain you I 've taken the right road, my man?” cried
Dunn, as he observed something like hesitation in the other's manner.
“It ought to be somewhere hereabout we turn off,” said the man, getting
down to examine more accurately from beneath. “There was a little cross
put up to show the way, but I don't see it.”
“But you have been here before. Ton told me you knew the place.”
“I was here onst, and, by the same token, I swore I 'd never come again.
I lamed the best mare I ever put a collar on, dragging through this
deep sand. Wirra, wirra! why the blazes would n't he live where other
Christians do! There it is now; I see a light. Ah! bother them, it's out
again.”
Pushing forward as well as he might in the direction he had seen the
light, he floundered heavily on, the wheels sinking nearly to the axles,
and the horse stumbling at every step.
“Your horse is worth nothing, my good fellow; he has n't strength to
keep his legs,” said Dunn, angrily.
“Good or bad, I 'll give you lave to broil me on a gridiron if ever ye
catch me coming the same road again. Ould Duun won't have much company
if he waits for me to bring them.”
“I 'll take good care not to tempt you!” said Dunn, angrily.
And now they plodded on in moody silence till they issued forth upon a
little flat space, bounded on three sides by the sea, in the midst of
which a small two-storied house stood, defended from the sea by a rough
stone breakwater that rose above the lower windows.
“There it is now, bad luck to it!” said the carman, savagely, for his
horse was so completely exhausted that he was obliged to walk at his
head and lift him at every step.
“You may remain here till I want you,” said Dunn, getting down and
plodding his way through the heavy sand. Flakes of frothy seadrift swept
past him as he went, and the wild wind carried the spray far inland
in heavy showers, beating against the walls and windows of the lonely
house, and making the slates rattle. A low wall of large stones across
the door showed that all entrance by that means was denied; and Dunn
turned towards the back of the house, where, sheltered by the low wall,
a small door was detectable. He knocked several times at this before
any answer was returned; when, at last, a harsh voice from within called
out,--
“Don't ye hear who it is? confound ye! Open the door at once!” and Dunn
was admitted into a large kitchen, where in a great straw chair beside
the fire was seated the remains of a once powerful man, and who,
although nearly ninety years of age, still preserved a keen eye, a
searching look, and a quick impatience of manner rarely observable at
his age.
“Well, father, how are you?” said Dunn, taking him affectionately by
both hands, and looking kindly in his face.
“Hearty,--stout and hearty,” said the old man. “When did you arrive?”
“A couple of hours ago. I did not wait for anything but a biscuit and a
glass of wine, when I set out here to see you. And you are well?”
“Just as you see: an odd pain or so across the back, and a swimming of
the head,--a kind of giddiness now and then, that's all. Put the light
over there till I have a look at you. You 're thinner, Davy,--a deal
thinner, than when you went away.”
“I have nothing the matter with me; a little tired or so, that's all,”
said Dunn, hastily. “And how are things doing here, father, since I
left?”
“There's little to speak of,” said the old man. “There never is much
doing at this season of the year. You heard, of course, that Gogarty has
lost his suit; they 're moving for a new trial, but they won't get it.
Lanty Moore can't pay up the rest of the purchase for Slanestown, and
I told Hankes to buy it in. Kelly's murderer was taken on Friday last,
near Kilbride, and offers to tell, God knows what, if they won't hang
him; and Sir Gilbert North is to be the new Secretary, if, as the
'Evening Mail' says, Mr. Davenport Dunn concurs in the appointment”--and
here the old man laughed till his eyes ran over. “That's all the news,
Davy, of the last week; and now tell me yours. The papers say you were
dining with kings and queens, and driving about in royal coaches all
over the Continent,--was it true, Davy?”
“You got my letters, of course, father?”
“Yes; and I could n't make out the names, they were all new and strange
to me. I want to have from yourself what like the people are,--are they
as hard-working, are they as 'cute as our own? There's just two things
now in the world,--coal and industry,--sorra more than that And so you
dined with the King of France?”
“With the Emperor, father. I dined twice; he took me over to
Fontainebleau and made me stay the day.”
“You could tell him many a thing he'd never hear from another, Davy; you
could explain to him what's doing here, and how he might imitate it
over there,--rooting out the old vermin and getting new stock in the
land,--eh, Davy?”
“He needs no counsels, at least from such as me,” said Dunn.
“Faith, he might have worse, far worse. An Encumbered Estate Court would
do all his work for him well, and the dirty word 'Confiscation' need
never be uttered!”
“He knows the road he wants to go,” said Dunn, curtly.
“So he may; but that does n't prove it 's the best way.”
“Whichever path he takes he'll tread it firmly, father, and that's more
than half the battle. If you only saw what a city he has made Paris--”
“That's just what I don't like. What's the good of beautifying and
gilding or ornamenting what you 're going to riddle with grape and
smash with round shot? It's like dressing a sweep in a field-marshal's
uniform, And we all know where it will be to-morrow or next day.”
“That we don't, sir. You 're not aware that these spacious
thoroughfares, these wide squares, these extended terraces, are so
contrived that columns may march and manoeuvre in them, squadrons
charge, and great artillery act through them. The proudest temples of
that splendid city serve as bastions; the great Louvre itself is less a
palace than a fortress.”
“Ay, ay, ay,” cackled the old man, to whom these revelations opened a
new vista of thought. “But what's the use of it, after all, Davy? He
must trust somebody; and when it comes to that with anybody in life,
where 's his security, tell me that? But let us talk about home. Is it
true the Ministry is going out?”
“They're safer than ever; take my word for it, father, that these
fellows know the trick of it better than all that went before them.
They 'll just do whatever the nation and the 'Times' dictate to them;
a little slower, mayhap, than they are ordered, but they 'll do it They
have no embarrassments of a policy of any kind; and the only pretence of
a principle they possess is to sit on the Treasury benches.”
“And they 're right, Davy,--they 're right,” said the old man,
energetically.
“I don't doubt but they are, sir; the duty of the pilot is to take
charge of the ship, but not to decide the port she sails for.”
“I wish you were one of them, Davy; they'd suit you, and you 'd suit
_them_.”
“So we should, sir; and who knows what may turn up? I'm not impatient”
“That's right, Davy; that's the lesson I always taught you;
wait,--wait!”
“When did you see Driscoll, father?” asked Dunn, after a pause.
“He was here last week; he's up to his ears about that claim to the
Beecher estate, Lord--Lord--What's his--”
“Lackington.”
“Yes, Lord Lackington. He says if you were once come home, you 'd get
him leave to search the papers in the Record Tower at the Castle, and
that it would be the making of himself if anything came out of it.”
“He's always mare's-nesting, sir,” said Dunn, carelessly.
“Faith, he has contrived to feather his own nest, anyhow,” said the old
man, laughing. “He lent Lord Glengariff five thousand pounds t' other
day at six per cent, and on as good security as the Bank.”
“Does he pretend to have discovered anything new with respect to that
claim?”
“He says there's just enough to frighten them, and that _your_ help--the
two of ye together--could work it well.”
“He has not, then, found out the claimant?”
“He has his name, and the regiment he's in, but that's all. He was
talking of writing to him.”
“If he's wise, he'll let it alone. What chance would a poor soldier
in the ranks have against a great lord, if he had all the right in the
world on his side?”
“So I told him; but he said we could make a fine thing out of it, for
all that; and, somehow, Davy, he's mighty seldom mistaken.”
“If he be, sir, it is because he has hitherto only meddled with what
lay within his power. He can scheme and plot and track out a clew in the
little world he has lived in; but let him be careful how he venture upon
that wider ocean of life where his craft would be only a cock-boat.”
“He hasn't _your_ stuff in him, Davy,” cried the old man, in ecstasy;
and a very slight flush rose to the other's cheek at the words, but
whether of pride, or shame, or pleasure, it were hard to say. “I 've
nothing to offer you, Davy, except a cut of cold pork; could you eat
it?” said the old man.
“I'm not hungry, father; I'm tired somewhat, but not hungry.”
“I'm tired, too,” said the old man, sighing; “but, to be sure, it's time
for me,--I 'll be eighty-nine if I live till the fourth of next month.
That's a long life, Davy.”
“And it has been an active one, sir.”
“I 've seen great changes in my time, Davy,” continued he, following out
his own thoughts. “I was in the Volunteers when we bullied the English,
and they 've paid us off for it since, that they have! I was one of the
jury when Jackson died in the dock, and if he was alive now, maybe it's
a lord of the Treasury he 'd be. Everything is changed, and everybody
too. Do you remember Kellett, of Kellett's Court, that used to drive on
the Circular Road with six horses?”
Dunn nodded an assent.
“His liveries were light-blue and silver, and Lord Castletown's was the
same; and Kellett said to him one day, 'My Lord,' says he, 'we're always
mistaken for each other; could n't we hit on a way to prevent it?' 'I'm
willing,' says my Lord, 'if I only knew how.' 'Then I 'll tell you,'
says Kellett; 'make your people follow your own example and turn their
coats,--that'll do it,' says he.” And the old man laughed till his eyes
swam. “What's become of them Kelletts?” added he, sharply.
“Ruined,--sold out”
“To be sure, I remember all about it; and the young fellow,--Paul was
his name,--where's he?”
“He's not so very young now,” said Dunn, smiling; “he has a clerkship in
the Customs,--a poor place it is.”
“I'm glad of it,” said he, fiercely; “there was an old score between
us,--that's his father and me,--and I knew I would n't die till it was
settled.”
“These are not kindly feelings, father,” said Dunn, mildly.
“No; but they 're natural ones, and that's as good,” said the old man,
with an energy that seemed to defy his age. “Where would I be now, where
would you, if it was only kindness we thought of? There wasn't a man
in all Ireland I wanted to be quite with so much as old Kellett of
Kellett's Court; and you'd not wonder if you knew why; but I won't
tell.”
Davenport Dunn's cheek grew crimson and then deadly pale, but he never
uttered a word.
“And what's more,” continued the old man, energetically, “I'd pay the
debt off to his children and his children's children with interest, if I
could.”
Still was the other silent; and the old man looked angry that he had
not succeeded in stimulating the curiosity he had declared he would not
gratify.
“Fate has done the work already, sir,” said Dunn, gravely. “Look where
_we_ are, and where _they!_”
“That 's true,--that's true; we have a receipt in full for it all; but
I 'd like to show it to him. I 'd like to say to him, 'Mr. Kellett, once
upon a time, when my son there was a child--'”
“Father, father, these memories can neither make us wiser nor happier,”
broke in Dunn, in a voice of deep emotion. “Had I taken upon me to carry
through life the burden of resentments, my back had been broken long
ago; and from your own prudent counsels I learned that this could never
lead to success. The men whom destiny has crushed are like bankrupt
debtors, and to pursue them is but to squander your own resources.”
The old man sat moodily, muttering indistinctly to himself, and
evidently little moved by the words he had listened to.
“Are you going away already?” cried he, suddenly, as Dunn rose from his
chair.
“Yes, sir; I have a busy day before me to-morrow, and need some sleep to
prepare for it.”
“What will you be doing to-morrow, Davy?” asked the old man, while a
bright gleam of pride lighted up his eyes and illuminated his whole
face.
“I have deputations to receive,--half a dozen, at least. The Drainage
Commission, too, will want me, and I must contrive to have half an hour
for the Inland Navigation people; then the Attorney-General will call
about these prosecutions, and I have not made up my mind about them;
and the Castle folk will need some clew to my intentions about the new
Secretary; there are some twenty provincial editors, besides, waiting
for directions, not to speak of private and personal requests, some of
which I must not refuse to hear. As to letters, three days won't
get through them; so that you see, father, I do need a little rest
beforehand.”
“God bless you, my boy,--God bless you, Davy,” cried the old man,
tenderly, grasping his hand in both his own. “Keep the head clear, and
trust nobody; that's the secret,--trust nobody; the only mistakes I ever
made in life was when I forgot that rule.” And affectionately kissing
him, the father dismissed his son, muttering blessings on him as he
went.