It was the day appointed for the sale of Kellett's Court, and a
considerable crowd was assembled to witness the proceeding. Property was
rapidly changing hands; new names were springing up in every county,
and old ones were growing obsolete. Had the tide of conquest and
confiscation flowed over the land, a greater social revolution could not
have resulted; and while many were full of hope and confidence that
a new prosperity was about to dawn upon Ireland, there were some who
continued to deplore the extinction of the old names, and the exile
of the old families, whose traditions were part of the history of the
country.
Kellett's Court was one of those great mansions which the Irish
gentlemen of a past age were so given to building, totally forgetting
how great the disproportion was between their house and their rent-roll.
Irregular, incongruous, and inelegant, it yet, by its very size and
extent, possessed a certain air of grandeur. Eighty guests had sat down
to table in that oak wainscoted dinner-room; above a hundred had been
accommodated with beds beneath that roof; the stables had stalls
for every hunting-man that came; and the servants' hall was a great
galleried chamber, like the refectory of a convent, in everything save
the moderation of the fare.
Many were curious to know who would purchase an estate burdened by so
costly a residence, the very maintenance of which in repair constituted
a heavy annual outlay. The gardens, long neglected and forgotten,
occupied three acres, and were themselves a source of immense expense;
a considerable portion of the demesne was so purely ornamental that
it yielded little or no profit; and, as an evidence of the tastes and
habits of its former owners, the ruins of a stand-house marked out where
races once were held in the park, while hurdle fences and deep drains
even yet disfigured the swelling lawn.
Who was to buy such a property was the question none could answer.
The house, indeed, might be converted into a “Union,” if its locality
suited; it was strong enough for a jail, it was roomy enough for a
nunnery. Some averred the Government had decided on purchasing it for
a barrack; others pretended that the sisterhood of the Sacred Heart
had already made their bargain for it; yet to these and many other
assertions not less confidently uttered there were as many demurrers.
While rumors and contradictions were still buzzed about, the
Commissioner took his place on the bench, and the clerk of the Court
began that tedious recital of the circumstances of the estate with whose
details all the interested were already familiar, and the mere curious
cared not to listen to. An informality on a former day had interfered
with the sale, a fact which the Commissioner alluded to with
satisfaction, as property had risen largely in value in the interval,
and he now hoped that the estate would not alone clear off all the
charges against it, but realize something for its former owner. A
confused murmur of conversation followed this announcement. Men
talked in knots and groups, consulted maps and rent-rolls, made
hasty calculations in pencil, whispered secretly together, muttering
frequently the words “Griffith,” “plantation measure,” “drainage,” and
“copyhold,” and then, in a half-hurried, half-wearied way, the Court
asked, “Is there no bidding after twenty-seven thousand five hundred?”
“Twenty-eight!” said a deep voice near the door.
A long, dreary pause followed, and the sale was over.
“Twenty-eight thousand!” cried Lord Glengariff; “the house alone cost
fifty.”
“It's only the demesne, my Lord,” said some one near; “it's not the
estate is sold.”
“I know it, sir; but the demesne contains eight hundred acres, fully
wooded, and enclosed by a wall.--Who is it for, Dunn?” asked he, turning
to that gentleman.
“In trust, my Lord,” was the reply.
“Of that I am aware, sir; you have said as much to the Court.”
Dunn bent over, and whispered some words in his ear.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the other, with evident astonishment; “and intending
to reside?” added he.
“Eventually, I expect so,” said Dunn, cautiously, as others were now
attending to the conversation.
Again Lord Glengariff spoke; but, ere he had finished, a strange
movement of confusion in the body of the Court interrupted him, while
a voice hoarse with passionate meaning cried out, “Is the robbery
over?--is it done?” and a large, powerful man, his face flushed, and
his eyes glaring wildly, advanced through the crowd to the railing
beneath the bench. His waistcoat was open, and he held his cravat in one
hand, having torn it off in the violence of his excitement.
“Who is this man?” asked the Commissioner, sternly.
“I'll tell you who I am,--Paul Kellett, of Kellett's Court, the owner of
that house and estate you and your rascally miscreants have just stolen
from me,--ay, stolen is the word; law or justice have nothing to do with
it. Your Parliament made it law, to be sure, to pamper your Manchester
upstarts who want to turn gentlemen--”
“Does any one know him?--has he no friends who will look after him?”
said the Commissioner, leaning over and addressing those beneath in a
subdued voice.
“Devil a friend in the world! It's few friends stick to the man whose
property comes here. But don't make me out mad. I 'm in my full senses,
though I had enough to turn fifty men to madness.”
“I know him, my Lord; with the permission of the Court, I 'll take
charge of him,” said Dunn, in a tone so low as to be audible only to a
few. Kellett, however, was one of them, and he immediately cried out,--
“Take charge of me! Ay, that he will. He took charge of my estate, too,
and he 'll do by _me_ what he did with the property,--give a bargain of
me!”
A hearty burst of laughter filled the hall at this sally; for Dunn was
one of those men whose prosperity always warrants the indulgence of
a sarcasm. The Court, however, could no longer brook the indecorous
interruption, and sternly ordered that Kellett might be removed.
“My dear Mr. Kellett, pray remember yourself; only recollect where you
are; such conduct will only expose you--”
“Expose me! do you think I've any shame left in me? Do you think, when a
man is turned out to starve on the roads, that he cares much what people
say of him?”
“This interruption is intolerable,” said the Commissioner. “If he be not
speedily removed, I 'll order him into the custody of the police.”
“Do, in God's name,” cried Kellett, calmly. “Anything that will keep me
from laying hands on myself, or somebody else, will be a charity.”
“Come with me, Kellett,--do come along with _me!_” said Dunn,
entreatingly.
“Not a step,--not an inch. It was going with _you_ brought me here.
This man, my Lord,” cried he, addressing the Court with a wild
earnestness,--“this man said to me that this was the time to sell a
property,--that land was rising every day; that if we came into
the Court now, it's not twenty, nor twenty-five, but thirty years'
purchase--”
“I am sorry, sir,” said the Commissioner, sternly, “that you will give
me no alternative but that of committing you; such continued disrespect
of Court cannot longer be borne.”
“I 'm as well in jail as anywhere else. You 've robbed me of my
property, I care little for my person. I'll never believe it's
law,--never! You may sit up with your wig and your ushers and your
criers, but you are just a set of thieves and swindlers, neither more
nor less. Talk of shame, indeed! I think some of yourselves might blush
at what you 're doing. There, there, I 'm not going to resist you,” said
he to the policeman; “there's no need of roughness. Newgate is the best
place for me now. Mind,” added he, turning to where the reporters for
the daily press were sitting,--“mind and say that I just offered a calm
protest against the injustice done me; that I was civilly remonstrating
with the Court upon what every man--”
Ere he could finish, he was quietly removed from the spot, and before
the excitement of the scene had subsided, he was driving away rapidly
towards Newgate.
“Drunk or mad,--which was it?” said Lord Glengariff to Davenport Dunn,
whose manner was scarcely as composed as usual.
“He has been drinking, but not to drunkenness,” said Dunn, cautiously.
“He is certainly to be pitied.” And now he drew nigh the bench and
whispered a few words to the Commissioner.
Whatever it was that he urged--and there was an air of entreaty in his
manner--did not seem to meet the concurrence of the judge. Dunn pleaded
earnestly, however; and at last the Commissioner said, “Let him be
brought up tomorrow, then, and having made a suitable apology to the
Court, we will discharge him.” Thus ended the incident, and once more
the clerk resumed his monotonous readings. Townlands and baronies were
described, valuations quoted, rights of turbary defined, and an ancient
squirearchy sold out of their possessions with as little commotion or
excitement as a mock Claude is knocked down at Christie's. Indeed, of so
little moment was the scene we have mentioned deemed, that scarcely half
a dozen lines of the morning papers were given to its recital. The Court
and its doings were evidently popular with the country at large, and one
of the paragraphs which readers read with most pleasure was that wherein
it was recorded that estates of immense value had just changed owners,
and that the Commissioner had disposed of so many thousands' worth of
landed property within the week.
Sweeping measures, of whatever nature they be, have always been in favor
with the masses; never was any legislation so popular as the guillotine!
Evening was closing in, the gloomy ending of a gloomy day in winter, and
Sybella Kellett sat at the window anxiously watching for her father's
return. The last two days had been passed by her in a state of feverish
uneasiness. Since her father's attendance at the custom-house ceased,--.
for he had been formally dismissed at the beginning of the week,--his
manner had exhibited strange alternations of wild excitement and deep
depression. At times he would move hurriedly about, talking rapidly,
sometimes singing to himself; at others he would sit in a state of
torpor for hours. He drank, too, affecting some passing pain or
some uneasiness as an excuse for the whiskey-bottle; and when gently
remonstrated with on the evil consequences, became fearfully passionate
and excited. “I suppose I 'll be called a drunkard next; there 's
nothing more likely than I 'll be told it was my own sottish
habits brought all this ruin upon me. 'He 's a sot.'--'He 's never
sober.'--'Ask his own daughter about him.'” And then stimulating
himself, he would become furious with rage. As constantly, too, did he
inveigh against Dunn, saying that it was he that ruined him, and that
had he not listened to his treacherous counsels he might have arranged
matters with his creditors. From these bursts of passion he would
fall into moods of deepest melancholy, accusing his own folly and
recklessness as the cause of all his misfortunes, and even pushing
self-condemnation so far as to assert that it was his misconduct and
waste had driven poor Jack from home and made him enlist as a soldier.
Bella could not but see that his intellect was affected and his judgment
impaired, and she made innumerable pretexts to be ever near him. Now she
pretended that she required air and exercise, that her spirits were low,
and needed companionship. Then she affected to have little purchases to
make in town, and asked him to bear her company. At length he showed a
restlessness under this restraint that obliged her to relax it; he even
dropped chance words as if he suspected that he was the object of some
unusual care and supervision. “There's no need of watching me,” said he,
rudely, to her on the morning that preceded the sale; “I 'm in no want
of a keeper. They 'll see Paul Kellett 's not the man to quail under any
calamity; the same to-day, to-morrow, and the next day. Sell him out or
buy him in, and you 'll never know by his face that he felt it.”
He spoke very little on that morning, and scarcely tasted his breakfast.
His dress was more careful than usual; and Bella, half by way of saying
something, asked if he were going into Dublin.
“Into Dublin! I suppose I am, indeed,” said he, curtly, as though giving
a very obvious reply. “Maybe,” added he, after a few minutes,--“maybe
you forget this is the seventeenth, and that this is the day for the
sale.”
“I did remember it,” said she, with a faint sigh, but not daring to ask
how his presence there was needed.
“And you were going to say,” added he, with a bitter smile, “what did
that matter to me, and that wasn't wanted. Neither I am,--I 'm neither
seller nor buyer; but still I 'm the last of the name that lived
there,--I was Kellett of Kellett's Court, and there 'll never be another
to say the same, and I owe it to myself to be there to-day,--just as I
'd attend a funeral,--just as I 'd follow the hearse.”
“It will only give you needless pain, dearest father,” said she,
soothingly; “pray do not go.”
“Faith, I'll go if it gave me a fit,” said he, fiercely. “They may say
when they go home, 'Paul Kellett was there the whole time, as cool as
_I_ am now; you 'd never believe it was the old family place--the house
his ancestors lived in for centuries--was up for sale; there he was,
calm and quiet If that is n't courage, tell me what is.'”
“And yet I 'd rather you did not go, father. The world has trials enough
to tax our energies, that we should not go in search of them.”
“That's a woman's way of looking at it,” said he, contemptuously.
“A man with a man's heart likes to meet danger, just to see how he 'll
treat it.”
“But remember, father--”
“There, now,” said he, rising from the table, “if you talked till you
were tired, I 'd go still. My mind is made up on it.”
Bella turned away her head, and stole her handkerchief to her eyes.
“I know very well,” burst he in, bitterly, “that the blackguard
newspapers to-morrow will just be as ready to abuse me for it. It would
have been more dignified, or more decent, or something or other, if Mr.
Kellett had not appeared at the sale; but I 'll go, nevertheless, if it
was only to see the man that's to take our place there! Wait dinner for
me till six,--that is, if there 's any dinner at all.” And, with a laugh
of bitterest meaning, he left the room, and was soon seen issuing from
the little garden into the road.
What a sad day, full of gloomy forebodings, was that for her! She knew
well how all the easy and careless humor of her father had been changed
by calamity into a spirit fierce and resentful; that, suspectful of
insult on every hand, he held himself ever prepared to meet the most
harmless remark with words of defiance. An imaginary impression that
the world had agreed to scorn him, made him adopt a bearing at once
aggressive and offensive; and he who was once a proverb for good temper
became irritable and savage to a degree.
What might not come of such a temperament, tried in its tenderest spot?
What might occur to expose him to the heartless sneers of those who
neither knew his qualities nor his trials? These were her thoughts as
she walked to and fro in her little room, unable to read, unable
to write, though she made several attempts to begin a letter to her
brother. The dark future also lowered before, without one flicker of
light to pierce its gloom. How were they to live? In a few days more
they would be at the end of their frail resources,--something less than
two pounds was all that they had in the world. How she envied those in
some foreign land who could stoop to the most menial labor, unseen and
unremembered by their own. How easily, she thought, poverty might be
borne, if divested of the terrible contrast with a former condition.
Could they by any effort raise the means to emigrate,--and where to?
Might not Mr. Dunn be the person to give counsel in such a case? From
all she had heard of him, he was conversant with every career, every
walk, and every condition. Doubtless he could name the very colony, and
the very spot to suit them,--nor impossible that he might aid them to
reach it. If they prospered, they could repay him. They might pledge
themselves to such a condition on this head as he would dictate. How,
then, to approach him? A letter? And yet a letter was always so wanting
in the great requisite of answering doubts as they arose, and meeting
difficulties by ready re-Joinder. A personal interview would do this.
Then why not ask for an audience of him? “I'll call upon him at once,”
said she; “he may receive me without other solicitation,--my name will
surely secure me that much of attention.” Would her father approve of
such a step?--would it not appear to his eyes an act of meanness and
dependence?--might not the whole scheme be one to which he would offer
opposition? From conflicts like these she came back to the dreary
present and wondered what could still delay his coming. It was a road
but little travelled; and as she sat watching at the window, her eyes
grew wearied piercing the hazy atmosphere, darkening deeper and deeper
as night drew near. She endeavored to occupy herself in various ways:
she made little preparations for his coming; she settled his room
neatly, over and over; she swept the hearth, and made a cheerful fire to
greet him; and then, passing into the kitchen, she looked after the
humble dinner that awaited him. Six o'clock passed, and another weary
hour followed. Seven,--and still he came not. She endeavored to divert
her thoughts into thinking of the future she had pictured to herself.
She tried to fancy the scenery, the climate, the occupation of that
dream-land over the seas; but at every bough that beat against the
window by the wind, at every sound of the storm without, she would start
up, and hasten to the door to listen.
It was now near eight o'clock; and so acute had her hearing become by
intense anxiety that she could detect the sounds of a footfall coming
along the plashy road. She did not venture to move, lest she should lose
the sound, and she dreaded, too, lest it should pass on. She bent down
her head to hear; and now, oh, ecstasy of relief! she heard the latch of
the little wicket raised, and the step upon the gravel-walk within. She
rushed at once to the door, and, dashing out into the darkness, threw
herself wildly upon his breast, saying, “Thank God you are come! Oh, how
I have longed for you, dearest, dearest father!” And then as suddenly,
with a shriek, cried out, “Who is it? Who is this?”
“Conway,--Charles Conway. A friend,--at least, one who would wish to be
thought so.”
With a wild and rapid utterance she told him of her long and weary
watch, and that her fears--mere causeless fears, she said she knew they
were--had made her nervous and miserable. Her father's habits, always so
regular and homely, made even an hour's delay a source of anxiety.
“And then he had not been well for some days back,--circumstances had
occurred to agitate him; things preyed upon him more heavily than they
had used. Perhaps it was the dreary season--perhaps their solitary kind
of life--had rendered them both more easily depressed. But, somehow--”
She could not go on; but hastening towards the window, pressed her hands
to her face.
“If you could tell me where I would be likely to hear of him,--what are
his haunts in town--”
“He has none,--none whatever. He has entirely ceased to visit any of his
former friends; even Mr. Beecher he has not called on for months long.”
“Has he business engagements in any quarter that you know of?”
“None now. He did hold an office in the Customs, but he does so no
longer. It is possible--just possible--he might have called at Mr.
Dunn's, but he could not have been detained there so late as this. And
if he were--” She stopped, confused and embarrassed.
“As to that,” said he, catching at her difficulty with ready tact, “I
could easily pretend it was my own anxiety that caused the visit. I
could tell him it was likely I should soon see Jack again, and ask of
him to let me be the bearer of some kind message to him.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Bella, half vacantly; for he had only given to his
words the meaning of a mere pretext.
“I think you may trust to me that I will manage the matter delicately.
He shall never suspect that he has given any uneasiness by his absence.”
“But even this,” said she, eagerly, “condemns me to some hours longer of
feverish misery. You cannot possibly go back to town and return here in
less than two--perhaps three hours.”
“I 'll try and do it in half the time,” said Conway, rising, and taking
his cap. “Where does Mr. Dunn live?”
“In Menion Square. I forget the number, but it does not matter; every
one knows his house. It is on the north side.”
“You shall see me before--What o'clock is it now?”
“Half-past eight,” said she, shuddering, as she saw how late it was.
“Before eleven, I promise you confidently,--and earlier if I can.”
“You know my father so very little--so very recently,” said Sybella,
with some confusion, “that it may be necessary to guard you,--that is,
you ought to be made aware that on this day the estate our family has
held for centuries was sold. It is true we are no poorer than we were
yesterday; the property we called our own, and from habit believed to
be such, had been mortgaged this many a year. Why or how we ever
fancied that one day or other we should be in a position to pay off the
encumbrances, I cannot tell you; but it is true that we did so fancy,
and used to talk of that happy event as of one we felt to be in store
for us. Well, the blow has fallen at last, and demolished all our
castle-building! Like storm-tossed vessels, we saw ships sinking on
every side, and yet caught at hope for ourselves. This hope has now left
us. The work of this morning has obliterated every trace of it. It is of
this, then, I would ask you to be mindful when you see my poor father.
He has seen ruin coming this many a year; it never came face to face
with him till to-day. I cannot tell how he may brave it, though there
was a time I could have answered for his courage.”
“Jack Kellett's father could scarcely be deficient in that quality,”
said Conway, whose flashing eyes showed that it was Jack's sister was
uppermost in his mind as he spoke.
“Oh,” said she, sorrowfully, “great as the heroism is that meets death
on the field of battle, it is nothing to the patient and enduring
bravery that confronts the daily ills of life,--confronts them nobly,
but in humility, neither buoyed up by inordinate hope, nor cast down by
despondency, but manfully resolved to do one's best, and, come what may,
to do it without sacrifice of self-respect. Thus meeting fate, and
with a temper that all the crosses of life have not made irritable nor
suspectful, makes a man to my eyes a greater hero than any of those who
charge in forlorn hopes, or single-handed rush up the breach torn by
grape-shot.” Her cheek, at first pale, grew deeper and deeper red,
and her dark eyes flashed till their expression became almost wild in
brilliancy, when, suddenly checking her passionate mood, she said, “It
were better I should go along with you,--better, at least, I were at
hand. He will bear much from me that he would not endure from another,
and I will go.” So saying, she hastened from the room, and in a moment
came back shawled and ready for the road.
“What a night for you to venture out,” said Conway; “and I have got no
carriage of any kind.”
“I am well accustomed to brave bad weather, and care nothing for it.”
“It is raining fearfully, and the waves are washing clear over the low
sea-wall,” said he, trying to dissuade her.
“I have come out here on many such nights, and never the worse for it.
Can't you fancy Jack Kellett's sister equal to more than this?” said
she, smiling through all her sadness, as she led the way to the door.
And now they were upon the road, the wild rain and the gusty wind
beating against them, and almost driving them back. So loud the storm
that they did not try to speak, but with her arm close locked within his
own, Conway breasted the hurricane with a strange sensation of delight
he had never known before.
Scarcely a word passed between them as they went; as the rain beat
heavily against her he would try as well as he could to shelter her;
when the cutting wind blew more severely, he would draw her arm closer
within his own; and yet, thus in silence, they grew to each other like
friends of many a year. A sense of trustfulness, a feeling of a common
object too, sufficed to establish between them a sentiment to be moulded
by the events of after-life into anything. Ay, so is it! Out of these
chance affinities grow sometimes the passion of a life, and sometimes
the disappointments that embitter existence!
“What a good fortune it was that brought you to my aid to-night,” said
she; “I had not dared to have come this long road alone.”
“What a good fortune mine to have even so humble a service to render
you! Jack used to talk to me of you for hours long. Nights just like
this have we passed together; he telling me about your habits and your
ways, so that this very incident seems to fit into the story of your
life as an every-day occurrence. I know,” continued he, as she seemed
to listen attentively, “how you used to ride over the mountains at home,
visiting wild and out-of-the-way spots; how you joined him in his long
fishing excursions, exploring the deep mountain gorges while he lingered
by the riverside. The very names you gave these desolate places--taken
from old books of travel--showed me how a spirit of enterprise was in
your heart.”
“Were they not happy days!” murmured she, half to herself.
“They must have been,” said he, ardently; “to hear of them has charmed
the weariest watches of the night, and made me long to know you.”
“Yes; but I am not what I was,” said she, hastily. “Out of that dreamy,
strange existence I have awakened to a world full of its own stern
realities. That pleasant indolence has ill prepared me for the road I
must travel; and it was selfish too! The vulgarest cares of every-day
life are higher aims than all the mere soarings of imagination, and of
this truth I am only now becoming aware.”
“But it was for never neglecting those very duties Jack used to praise
you; he said that none save himself knew you as other than the careful
mistress of a household.”
“Poor fellow! ours was an humble retinue, and needed little guidance.”
“I see,” said Conway, “you are too proud to accept of such esteem as
mine; but yet you can't prevent me offering it.”
“Have I not told you how I prize your kindness?” said she, gently.
“Will you let me think so?” cried Conway, pressing her arm closely; and
again they were silent Who knows with what thoughts?
How dreary did the streets seem as they entered Dublin! The hazy lamps,
dulled by the fast-falling rain, threw a misty light through the loaded
atmosphere; the streets, deserted by all but the very poorest were
silent and noiseless, save for the incessant plash of the rain; few
lights were seen on any side, and all was darkness and gloom. Wearily
they plodded onward, Sybella deeply sunk in her own thoughts as to the
future, and Conway, too respectful of her feelings to interrupt her,
never uttered a word as they went. At last they reached Merrion Square,
and after some little search stood at the door of Mr. Davenport Dunn.
Sybella drew a heavy sigh as Conway knocked loudly, and muttered to
herself, “Heaven grant me good tidings of my father!”