“There it is, Bella,” said Kellett, as he entered the cottage at
nightfall, and threw a sealed letter on the table. “I hadn't the courage
to open it. A fellow came into the office and said, 'Is one Kellett
here? This is a letter from Mr. Davenport Dunn.' _He_ was Mister, and
_I_ was _one_ Kellett. Wasn't I low enough when I couldn't say a word to
it?--wasn't I down-in the world when I had to bear it in silence?”
“Shall I read it for you?” said she, gently.
“Do, darling; but before you begin, give me a glass of
whiskey-and-water. I want courage for it, and something tells me, Bella,
I'll need courage too.”
“Come, come, papa, this is not like yourself; this is not the old
Albuera spirit you are so justly proud of.”
“Five-and-thirty years' hard struggling with the world never improved
a man's pluck. There was n't a fellow in the Buffs had more life in him
than Paul Kellett. It was in general orders never to sell my traps or
camp furniture when I was reported missing; for, as General Pack said,
'Kellett is sure to turn up to-morrow or the day after.' And look at me
now!” cried he, bitterly; “and as to selling me out, they don't show me
much mercy, Bella, do they?”
She made no reply, but slowly proceeded to break the seal of the letter.
“What a hurry ye're in to read bad news!” cried he, peevishly; “can't
you wait till I finish this?” And he pointed to the glass, which he
sipped slowly, like one wishing to linger over it.
A half-melancholy smile was all her answer, and he went on,--
“I'm as sure of what's in that letter there as if I read it. Now, mark
my words, and I'll just tell you the contents of it: Kellett's Court
is sold, the first sale confirmed, and the Master's report on your poor
mother's charge is unfavorable. There's not a perch of the old estate
left us, and we're neither more nor less than beggars. There it is for
you in plain English.”
“Let us learn the worst at once, then,” said she, resolutely, as she
opened the letter.
“Who told you that was the worst?” broke he in, angrily. “The worst
isn't over for the felon in the dock when the judge has finished the
sentence; there's the 'drop' to come, after that.”
“Father, father!” cried she, pitifully, “be yourself again. Remember
what you said the other night, that if we had poor Jack back again you'd
not be afraid to face life in some new world beyond the seas, and care
little for hardships or humble fortune if we could only be together.”
“I was dreaming, I suppose,” muttered he, doggedly.
“No; you were speaking out of the fulness of your love and affection;
you were showing me how little the accidents of fortune touch the
happiness of those resolved to walk humbly, and that, once divested
of that repining spirit which was ever recalling the past, we should
confront the life before us more light of heart than we have felt for
many a year.”
“I wonder what put it in my head,” muttered he, in the same despondent
tone.
“Your own stout heart put it there. You were recalling what young Conway
was telling us about poor Jack's plans and projects; and how, when the
war was over, he 'd get the Sultan to grant him a patch of land close
to the Bosphorus, where he'd build a little kiosk for us all, and we
'd grow our own corn and have our own vines and fig-trees, seeking for
nothing but what our own industry should give us.”
“Dreams, dreams!” said he, sighing drearily. “You may read the letter
now.” And she began,--
“Sir,--By direction of Mr. Davenport Dunn, I have to
acquaint you that the Commissioners, having overruled the
objections submitted by him, will on Tuesday next proceed to
the sale of the lands of Kellett's Court, Gorestown, and
Kilinaganny, free of all charges and encumbrances thereon,
whether by marriage settlement--”
“I told you,--that's just what I was saying,” burst in Kellett; “there's
not sixpence left us!”
She ran hurriedly over to herself the tiresome intricacies that
followed, till she came to the end, where a brief postscript ran,--
“As your name is amongst those to be reduced in consequence
of the late Treasury order regarding the Customs, Mr. Dunn
hopes you will lose no time in providing yourself with
another employment, to which end he will willingly
contribute any aid in his power.”
A wild, hysterical burst of laughter broke from Kellett as she ceased.
“Isn't there any more good news, Bella? Look over it carefully, darling,
and you 'll surely discover something else.”
The terrible expression of his face shocked her, and she could make no
reply.
“I 'll wager a crown, if you search well, you 'll see something about
sending me to jail, or, maybe, transporting me.--Who's that knocking
at the door there?” cried he, angrily, as a very loud noise resounded
through the little cottage.
“'T is a gentleman without wants to speak to the master,” said the old
woman, entering.
“I 'm engaged, and can't see anybody,” rejoined Kellett, sternly.
“He says it's the same if he could see Miss Bella,” reiterated the old
woman.
“He can't, then; she 's engaged too.”
The woman still lingered at the door, as if she expected some change of
purpose.
“Don't you hear me?--don't you understand what I said?” cried he,
passionately.
“Tell him that your master cannot see him,” said Bella.
“If I don't make too bould,--if it's not too free of me,--maybe you 'd
excuse the liberty I 'm taking,” said a man, holding the door slightly
open, and projecting a round bullet head and a very red face into the
room.
“Oh, Mr. Driscoll,” cried Bella. “Mrs. Hawkshaw's brother, papa,”
whispered she, quietly, to her father, who, notwithstanding the
announcement, made no sign.
“If Captain Kellett would pardon my intrusion,” said Driscoll, entering
with a most submissive air, “he'd soon see that it was at laste with
good intentions I came out all the way here on foot, and a bad night
besides,--a nasty little drizzling rain and mud,--such mud!” And he held
up in evidence a foot about the size of an elephant's.
“Pray sit down, Mr. Driscoll,” said Bella, placing a chair for him.
“Papa was engaged with matters of business when you knocked,--some
letters of consequence.”
“Yes, miss, to be sure, and did n't want to be disturbed,” said
Driscoll, as he sat down, and wiped his heated forehead. “I 'm often the
same way myself; but when I 'm at home, and want nobody to disturb me, I
put on a little brown-paper cap I have, and that's the sign no one's to
talk to me.”
Kellett burst into a laugh at the conceit, and Driscoll so artfully
joined in the emotion that when it ceased they were already on terms of
intimacy.
“You see what a strange crayture I am. God help me!” said Driscoll,
sighing. “I have to try as many dodges with myself as others does be
using with the world, for my poor head goes wanderin' away about this,
that, and the other, and I 'm never sure it will think of what I want.”
“That's a sad case,” said Kellett, compassionately.
“I was like everybody else tell I had the fever,” continued Driscoll,
confidentially. “It was the spotted fever, not the scarlet fever, d' ye
mind; and when I came out of it on the twenty-ninth day, I was the same
as a child, simple and innocent You 'd laugh now if I told you what I
did with the first half-crown I got. I bought a bag of marbles!”
And Kellett did laugh heartily; less, perhaps, at the circumstance than
at the manner and look of him who told it.
“Ay, faith, marbles!” muttered Driscoll to himself; “'tis a game I'm
mighty fond of.”
“Will you take a little whiskey-and-water? Hot or cold?” asked Kellett,
courteously.
“Just a taste, to take off the deadness of the water,” said Driscoll. “I
'm obleeged to be as cautious as if I was walkin' on eggs. Dr. Dodd says
to me, 'Terry,' says he, 'you had never much brains in your best days,
but now you 're only a sheet of thin paper removed from an idiot, and if
you touch spirits it's all up with you.'”
“That was plain speaking, anyhow,” said Kellett, smiling.
“Yes,” said Driscoll, while he seemed struggling to call up some
reminiscence: and then, having succeeded, said, “Ay, 'There's
five-and-twenty in Swift's this minute,' said he, 'with their heads
shaved, and in blue cotton dressing-gowns, more sensible than yourself.'
But, you see, there was one thing in my favor,--I was always harmless.”
The compassionate expression with which Kellett listened to this
declaration guaranteed how completely the speaker had engaged his
sympathy.
“Well, well,” continued Driscoll, “maybe I'm just as happy, ay, happier
than ever I was! Every one is kind and good-natured to me now. Nobody
takes offence at what I say or do; they know well in their hearts that I
don't mean any harm.”
“That you don't,” broke in Bella, whose gratitude for many a passing
word of kindness, as he met her of a morning, willingly seized upon the
opportunity for acknowledgment.
“My daughter has often told me of the kind way you always spoke to her.”
“Think of that, now,” muttered Terry to himself; “and I saying all the
while to my own heart, “'T is a proud man you ought to be to-day, Terry
Driscoll, to be giving good-morning to Miss Kellett of Kellett's Court,
the best ould blood in your own county.'”
“Your health, Driscoll,--your health,” cried Kellett, warmly. “Let your
head be where it will, your heart's in the right place, anyhow.”
“Do you say so, now?” asked he, with all the eagerness of one putting a
most anxious question.
“I do, and I 'd swear it,” cried Kellett, resolutely. “'Tis too clever
and too 'cute the world's grown; they were better times when there was
more good feeling and less learning.”
“Indeed--indeed, it was the remark I made to my sister Mary the night
before last,” broke in Driscoll. “'What is there,' says I, 'that
Miss Kellett can't teach them? They know the rule of three and What
's-his-name's Questions as well as I know my prayers. You don't want
them to learn mensuration and the use of the globes?' 'I 'll send them
to a school in France,' says she; 'it's the only way to be genteel.'”
“To a school in France?” cried Bella; “and is that really determined
on?”
“Yes, miss; they 're to go immediately, and ye see that was the reason I
walked out here in the rain to-night I said to myself, 'Terry,' says I,
'they 'll never say a word about this to Miss Kellett till the quarter
is up; be off, now, and break it to her at once.'”
“It was so like your own kind heart,” burst out Bella.
“Yes,” muttered Driscoll, as if in a revery, “that's the only good o' me
now,--I can think of what will be of use to others.”
“Did n't I tell you we were in a vein of good luck, Bella?” said
Kellett, between his teeth; “didn't I say awhile ago there was more
coming?”
“'But,' says I to Mary,” continued Driscoll, “'you must take care to
recommend Miss Kellett among your friends--'”
Kellett dashed his glass down with such force on the table as to
frighten Driscoll, whose speech was thus abruptly cut short, and the two
men sat staring fixedly at each other. The expression of poor Terry's
vacant face, in which a struggling effort to deprecate anger was the
solitary emotion readable, so overcame Kellett's passion that, stooping
over, he grasped the other's hand warmly, and said,--
“You 're a kind-hearted creature, and you 'd never hurt a living soul. I
'm not angry with you.”
“Thank you, Captain Kellett,--thank you,” cried the other, hurriedly,
and wiped his brow, like one vainly endeavoring to follow out a chain
of thought collectedly. “Who is this told me that you had another
daughter?”
“No,” said Kellett; “I have a son.”
“Ay, to be sure! so it was a son, they said, and a fine strapping young
fellow too. Where is he?”
“He 's with his regiment, the Rifles, in the Crimea.”
“Dear me, now, to think of that,--fighting the French, just the way his
father did.”
“No,” said Kellett, smiling, “it 's the Russians he 's fighting, and the
French are helping him to do it.”
“That's better any day,” said Driscoll; “two to one is a pleasanter
match. And so he's in the Rifles?” And here he laid his head on his hand
and seemed lost in thought. “Is he a captain?” asked he, after a long
pause.
“No, not yet,” said Kellett, while his cheek flushed at the evasion he
was practising.
“Well, maybe he will soon,” resumed the other, relapsing once more into
deep thought. “There was a young fellow joined them in Cork just before
they sailed, and I lent him thirty shillings, and he never paid me. I
wonder what became of him? Maybe he's killed.”
“Just as likely,” said Kellett, carelessly.
“Now, would your son be able to make him out for me?--not for the sake
of the money, for I would n't speak of it, but out of regard for him,
for I took a liking to him; he was a fine, handsome fellow, and bold as
a lion.”
“He mightn't be in Jack's battalion, or he might, and Jack not know him.
What was his name?” said Kellett, in some confusion.
“I 'll tell you if you 'll pledge your word you 'll never say a syllable
about the money, for I can't think but he forgot it.”
“I 'll never breathe a word about it.”
“And will you ask your son all about him,--if he likes the sarvice, or
if he 'd rather be at home, and how it agrees with him?” “And the name?”
“The name?--I wrote it down on a bit of paper just for my own memory's
sake, for I forget everything; the name is Conway,--Charles Conway.”
“Why, that's the very--” When he got so far, a warning look from Bella
arrested Kellett's voice, and he ceased speaking, looking eagerly at his
daughter for some explanation. Had he not been so anxious for some
clew to her meaning, he could scarcely have failed to be struck by the
intense keenness of the glance Driscoll turned from the countenance of
the father to that of the daughter. She, however, marked it, and with
such significance that a deathlike sickness crept suddenly over her, and
she sank slowly down into a seat.
“You ware saying, 'That's the very--'” said Driscoll, repeating the
words, and waiting for the conclusion.
“The very name we read in a newspaper,” said Bella, who, with a sort
of vague instinct of some necessity for concealment, at once gave this
evasive reply. “He volunteered for somewhere, or was first inside a
battery, or did something or other very courageous.”
“It was n't killed he was?” said Driscoll, in his habitual tone.
“No, no,” cried Kellett, “he was all safe.”
“Isn't it a queer thing? but I'd like to hear of him! There was some
Conway s connections of my mother's, and I can't get it out of my head
but he might be one of them. It's not a common name, like Driscoll.”
“Well, Jack will, maybe, be able to tell you about him,” said Kellett,
still under the spell of Bella's caution.
“If you would tell me on what points you want to be informed,” said
Bella, “I shall be writing to my brother in a day or two. Are there any
distinct questions you wish to be answered?”
The calm but searching glance that accompanied these few words gradually
gave way to an expression of pity as Bella gazed at the hopeless
imbecility of poor Driscoll's face, wherein not a gleam of intelligence
now lingered. It was as if the little struggle of intellect had so
exhausted him that he was incapable of any further effort of reason.
And there he sat, waiting till the returning tide of thought should flow
back upon his stranded intelligence.
“Would you like him to be questioned about the family?” said she,
looking good-naturedly at him.
“Yes, miss,--yes,” said he, half dreamily; “that is, I would n't like
my own name, poor crayture as I am, to be mentioned; but if you could
anyways find out if he was one of the Conway s of Abergedley,--they were
my mother's people,--if you could find out that for me, it would be a
great comfort.”
“I'll charge myself with the commission,” said Bella, writing down the
words “Conway of Abergedley.”
“Now there was something else, if my poor head could only remember it,”
said Driscoll, whose countenance displayed the most complete picture of
a puzzled intelligence.
“Mix yourself another tumbler, and you'll think of it by and by,” said
Kellett, courteously.
“Yes,” muttered Driscoll, accepting the suggestion at once. “It was
something about mustard-seed, I think,” added he, after a pause; “they
say it will keep fresh for two years if you put it in a blue-paper
bag,--deep blue is best” A look of sincere compassion passed between
Kellett and his daughter, and Driscoll went on, “I don't think it was
that, though, I wanted to remember.” And he fell into deep reflection
for several minutes, at the end of which he started abruptly up,
finished off his glass, and began to button up his coat in preparation
for the road.
“Don't go till I see what the night looks like,” cried Kellett, as he
left the room to examine the state of the weather.
“If I should be fortunate enough to obtain any information, how shall
I communicate with you?” asked Bella, addressing him hastily, as if to
profit by the moment of their being alone.
Driscoll looked fixedly at her for a second or two, and gradually the
expression of his face settled down into its habitual cast of unmeaning
imbecility, while he merely muttered to himself, “No evidence; throw out
the bills.”
She repeated her question, and in a voice to show that she believed
herself well understood.
“Yes!” said he, with a vacant grin,--“yes! but they don't agree with
everybody.”
“There's a bit of a moon out now, and the rain has stopped,” said
Kellett, entering, “so that it would n't be friendly to detain you.”
“Good-night, good-night,” said Driscoll, hurriedly; “that spirit is got
up to my head. I feel it. A pleasant journey to you both, and be sure to
remember me to Mrs. Miller.” And with these incoherent words he hastened
away, and his voice was soon heard singing cheerily as he plodded his
way towards Dublin. “That's the greatest affliction of all,” said
Kellett, as he sat down and sipped his glass. “There 's nothing like
having one's faculties, one's reason, clear and unclouded. I would n't
be like that poor fellow there to be as rich as the Duke of Leinster.”
“It is a strange condition,” said Bella, thoughtfully. “There were
moments when his eyes lighted up with a peculiar significance, as if,
at intervals, his mind had regained all its wonted vigor. Did you remark
that?”
“Indeed, I did not. I saw nothing of the kind,” said Kellett, peevishly.
“By the way, why were you so cautious about Conway?”
“Just because he begged that his name might not be mentioned. He said
that some trifling debts were still hanging over him, from his former
extravagance; and though all in course of liquidation, he dreaded the
importunate appeals of creditors so certain to pour in if they heard of
his being in Dublin.”
“Every one has his troubles!” muttered Kellett, as he sank into a moody
reflection over his own, and sipped his liquor in silence.
Let us now follow Driscoll, who, having turned the corner of the lane,
out of earshot of the cottage, suddenly ceased his song, and walked
briskly along towards town. Rapidly as he walked, his lips moved more
rapidly still, as he maintained a kind of conversation with himself,
bursting out from time to time with a laugh, as some peculiar conceit
amused him. “To be sure, a connection by the mother's side,” said he.
“One has a right to ask after his own relations! And, for all I know, my
grandmother was a Conway. The ould fool was so near pokin' his foot
in it, and letting out that he knew him well. She's a deep one, that
daughter; and it was a bould stroke the way she spoke to me when we were
alone. It was just as much as to say, 'Terry, put your cards down, for
I know your hand.' 'No, miss,' says I, 'I've a thrump in the heel of
my fist that ye never set eyes on. Ha, ha, ha!' but she's deep for all
that,--mighty deep; and if it was safe, I wish we had her in the plot!
Ay! but is it safe, Mr. Driscoll? By the virtue of your oath, Terry
Driscoll, do you belave she wouldn't turn on you? She's a fine-looking
girl, too,” added he, after an interval. “I wish I knew her sweetheart,
for she surely has one. Terry, Terry, ye must bestir yourself; ye must
be up early and go to bed late, my boy. You 're not the man ye were
before ye had that 'faver,'--that spotted faver!”--here he laughed till
his eyes ran over. “What a poor crayture it has left ye; no memory, no
head for anything!” And he actually shook with laughter at the thought.
“Poor Terry Driscoll, ye are to be pitied!” said he, as he wiped the
tears from his face. “Is n't it a sin and a shame there's no one to look
after ye?”