When, punctual to the appointed time, Charles Conway presented himself
at Mr. Dunn's door, he learned to his astonishment that that gentleman
had gone out an hour before to breakfast with the Chief Secretary in the
Park.
“But I came by invitation to breakfast with your master,” said he.
“Possibly so,” said Clowes, scanning the simply clad soldier before him.
“He never mentioned it to me; that's all I know.”
Conway stood for a moment, half uncertain what to say; then, with
a quiet smile, he said, “Pray tell him that I was here,--my name is
Conway.”
“As to the breakfast part of the matter,” said Clowes, who felt “rather
struck” by something in the soldier's manner, as he afterwards expressed
it, “I 'm just about to take mine; you might as well join me.”
Conway looked him full in the face,--such a stare was it as a man gives
when he questions the accuracy of his own senses; a slight flush then
rose to his cheek, and his lip curled, and then, with a saucy laugh that
seemed to combat the passing irritation he was suffering, he said, “It's
not a bad notion, after all; I'm your man.”
Now, though Mr. Clowes had anticipated a very different reception to his
politeness, he said nothing, but led the way into his sanctum, trusting
to the locality and its arrangement to have their due effect upon his
guest. Indeed, in this respect, he did but fair justice to the comforts
around him.
The breakfast-table, placed close to a cheerful fire, was spread with
every luxury of that meal. A small spirit lamp burned under a dish of
most appetizing cutlets, in the midst of various kinds of bread, and
different sorts of preserves. The grateful odor of mocha mingled with
the purer perfume of fresh flowers, which, although in midwinter, were
never wanting at Mr. Clowes's breakfast-table, while in the centre
rose a splendid pineapple, the first of the season, duly offered by the
gardener to the grand vizier of Davenport Dunn.
“I can promise you a better breakfast than _he_ would have given you,”
said Clowes, as he motioned his guest to a seat, while he significantly
jerked his thumb towards Dunn's study. “_He_ takes tea and dry toast,
and he quite forgets to order anything else. He has some crank or other
about beginning the day with a light meal; quite a mistake,--don't you
think so?”
“This is not the most favorable moment to make me a convert to that
opinion,” said Conway, laughing. “I must confess I incline to _your_
side of the controversy.”
“There are herrings there,” said Clowes, “and a spatchcock coming. You
see,” continued he, returning to the discussion, “he overworks--he
does too much--taxes his powers beyond their strength--beyond any man's
strength;” and here Mr. Clowes threw himself back in his chair, and
looked pompously before him, as though to say, Even Clowes would n't
have constitution for what _he_ does.--“A man must have his natural
rest, sir, and his natural support;” and in evidence of the last, he
re-helped himself to the Strasburg pâté.
“Your words are wisdom, and washed down with such Bordeaux I 'd like to
see who 'd gainsay them,” said Conway, with a droll twinkle of the eye.
“Better coffee, that, I fancy, than you got in the Crimea,” said Clowes,
pointing to the coffee-pot.
“I suspect Lord Raglan himself never saw such a breakfast as this. May I
ask if it be your every-day meal?”
“We change slightly with the seasons. Oysters and Sauterne suit spring;
and then, when summer sets in, we lean towards the subacid fruits and
claret-cup. Dash your pineapple with a little rum,--it's very old, and
quite a liqueur.”
“This must be a very jolly life of yours,” said Conway, as he lighted
his cigarette and placed his feet on the fender.
“You 'd prefer it to the trenches or the rifle-pits, I suspect,” said
Clowes, laughing, “and small blame to you. It was out there you lost
your arm, I suppose?”
Conway nodded, and puffed on in silence.
[Illustration: 270]
“A bad business,--a bad business we 're making of it all! The Crimea
was a mistake; we should have marched direct to Moscow,--Moscow or St
Petersburg,--I don't care which.”
“Nor should I, if we could get there,” said Conway, quietly.
“Get there,--and why not? Fifty thousand British bayonets are a match
for the world in arms. It is a head we want, sir,--capacity to deal with
the great questions of strategy. Even you yourself must have remarked
that we have no generalship,--no guidance--”
“I won't say that,” said Conway, quietly. “We're knocking hard at
Sebastopol, and all we can say is we have n't found the weak spot yet.”
“The weak spot! Why, it 's all weak,--earthworks, nothing but
earthworks! Now, don't tell me that Wellington would have minded
earthworks! Ah, we have fallen upon sad times!” sighed he, piteously.
“Our land commanders say earthworks are impregnable; our admirals say
stone walls can't be attacked.”
Conway laughed again, and lighted a fresh cigarette.
“And what pension have you for that?” asked Clowes, glancing at the
empty sleeve.
“A mere trifle; I can't exactly tell you, for I have not applied for it”
“I would, though; I 'd have it out of them, and I 'd have whatever I
could, besides. They 'd not give _you_ the Bath; that they keep for
gentlemen--”
Conway took his cigar from his lips, and while his cheek burned, he
seemed about to reply; then, resuming his smoking, he lay back and said
nothing.
“After all,” said Clowes, “there must be distinctions of rank. One
regrets, one deplores, but can't help it Look at all the attempts at
equality, and see their failures. No, sir, you have _your_ place in the
social scale, and I have _mine_.”
Now, when Mr. Clowes had enunciated this sentiment, he seemed suddenly
to be struck by its severity; for he added, “Not but that every man is
respectable in his own rank; don't imagine that I look down upon you.”
Conway's eyes opened widely as he stared at him, and he puffed his cigar
a little more energetically, but never spoke.
“You 've done with the service, I suppose?” said Clowes, after a while.
“I'm afraid so,” said Conway, sighing.
“Well, _he_”--and he jerked his thumb towards Dunn's room--“he is the
man to help you to something snug. He can give away places every hour
of the day. Ay, sir,” said he, warming, “he can make anything, from an
archbishop to a barony constable.”
“I rather fear that my capacity for employment might not be found very
remarkable. I have idle habits and ways,” said Conway, smiling.
“Bad things, my friend,--bad things for any man, but especially for a
poor one. I myself began life in an humble way,--true, I assure you; but
with industry, zeal, and attention, I am what you see me.”
“That _is_ encouraging, certainly,” said Conway, gravely.
“It is so, and I mention it for your advantage.”
Charles Conway now arose, and threw the half-smoked cigar into the fire.
The movement betokened impatience, and, sooth to say, he was half angry
with himself; for, while disposed to laugh at the vanity and conceit of
the worthy butler, he still felt that he was his guest, and that such
ridicule was ill applied to one whose salt he had eaten.
“You're not going without seeing him?” said Clowes. “He 's sure to be
in before noon. We are to receive the Harbor Commissioners exactly at
twelve.”
“I have a call to make, and at some distance off in the country, this
morning.”
“Well, if I can be of any use to you, just tell me,” said Clowes,
good-naturedly. “My position here--one of trust and confidence, you may
imagine--gives me many an opportunity to serve a friend; and I like you.
I was taken with your manner as you came into the hall this morning, and
I said to myself, 'There 's good stuff in that young fellow, whoever he
is.' And I ain't wrong. You have some blood in you, I'll be bound.”
“We used to be rather bumptious about family,” said Conway, laughing;
“but I suspect the world has taught us to get rid of some of our
conceit.”
“Never mind the world. Pride of birth is a generous prejudice. I
have never forgotten that my grandfather, on the mother's side, was a
drysalter. But can I be of any use to you? that's the question.”
“I 'm inclined to think not; though I 'm just as grateful to you. Mr.
Dunn asked me here this morning, I suspect, to talk over the war with
me. Men naturally incline to hear what an eyewitness has to say, and he
may have fancied I could have mentioned some new fact, or suggested some
new expedient, which in these days seems such a fashionable habit, when
everybody has his advice to proffer.”
“No, no,” said Clowes, shaking his head; “it could n't be that. _We_
have been opposed to this war from the beginning. It was all a mistake,
a dead mistake. Aberdeen agreed with us, but we were outvoted. They
would have a fight. They said we wanted something to get cotton-spinning
out of our blood; and, egad! I suspect they've got it.
“Our views,” continued Clowes, pompously, “were either a peace or a
march to St. Petersburg. This French alliance is a rotten thing, sir.
That Corsican will double on us. The very first moment any turn of
fortune gives France an advantage, _he 'll_ make peace, and leave us all
the obloquy of a reluctant assent. That's _his_ view,--that's mine, too;
and we are seldom mistaken.”
“For all that, I wish I were back there again,” said Conway. “With every
one of its hardships--and they were no trifles--it was a better life
than this lounging one I lead now. Tell Mr. Dunn that I was here. Say
that I enjoyed your excellent hospitality and pleasant company; and
accept my hearty thanks for both.” And with a cordial shake of the hand,
Conway wished him “Good-bye,” and departed.
“That's just the class of men we want in our army,” said Clowes, as he
followed him with his eyes. “A stamp somewhat above the common,--a very
fine young fellow too.”
In less than a quarter of an hour after Conway's departure, Davenport
Dunn's carriage drew up at his door, and Mr. Clowes hastened to receive
his master.
“Are they out, sir,--are they out?” said he, eagerly, as he followed him
into the study.
“Yes,” said Dunn; “but everything is still at sixes and sevens. Lord
Derby has been sent for, and Lord John sent for, and Lord Palmerston
sent for, but nothing decided on,--nothing done.”
“And how will it end?” asked Clowes, like one waiting for the solution
of a difficulty.
“Who has called this morning?” said Dunn, curtly. “Has Lord Glengariff
been here?”
“No, sir. Sir Jacob Harris and the Drumsna Directors are all in waiting,
and a rather promiscuous lot are in the back parlor. A young soldier,
too, was here. He fancied you had asked him to breakfast, and so I made
him join mine.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Dunn. “I forgot all about that engagement. How
provoking! Can you find out where he is stopping?”
“No. But he's sure to drop in again: I half promised him a sort of
protection; and he looks a shrewd sort of fellow, and not likely to
neglect his hits.”
A strange twinkle shone in Dunn's eyes as he heard this speech, and
a queer motion at the angle of his mouth accompanied it, but he never
spoke a word.
As for Conway, meanwhile, he was briskly stepping out towards Clontarf,
to inquire after poor Kellett, whose state was one to call for much
anxiety. To the intense excitement of the morning there had succeeded
a dull and apathetic condition, in which he seemed scarcely to notice
anything or anybody. A look half weary, half vacant, was in his eye; his
head was drooped; and a low muttering to himself was the only sign he
gave of any consciousness whatever. Such was his state when Conway left
the cottage late on the night before, with a promise to be back there
again early the next morning.
Conway saw that the shutters of the little drawing-room were half closed
as he entered the garden, and his quiet, cautious knock at the door
denoted the fear at his heart. From the window, partly open, came a low,
moaning sound, which, as he listened, he discovered to be the sick man's
voice.
“He was just asking if you had come,” said Bella. “He has been talking
of poor Jack, and fancies that you have some tidings of him.” And so
saying, she led him into the house.
Seated before the fire, in a low chair, his hands resting on his knees,
and his gaze fixed on the embers, Kellett never turned his head round
as they entered, nor did he notice Bella, as, in a soft, low voice, she
mentioned Conway's name.
“He has come out to see you, dear papa; to sit with you and keep you
company, and talk about dear Jack.”
“Ay!” said the sick man, in a vague, purposeless tone; and Conway now
took a seat at his side, and laid one of his hands over his.
“You are better to-day, Captain Kellett, ain't you?” said he, kindly.
“Yes,” said he, in the same tone as before.
“And will be still better to-morrow, I trust, and able to come out and
take this long walk with me we have so often promised ourselves.”
Kellett turned and looked him full in the face. The expression of his
features was that of one vainly struggling with some confusion of ideas,
and earnestly endeavoring to find his way through difficulties, and a
faint, painful sigh at last showed that the attempt was a failure.
“What does this state mean? Is it mere depression, or is it serious
illness?” whispered Bella.
“I am not skilful enough to say,” replied Conway, cautiously; “but I
hope and trust it is only the effect of a shock, and will pass off as it
came.”
“Ay,” said Kellett, in a tone that startled them, and for a moment they
fancied he must have overheard them; but one glance at his meaningless
features showed that they had no ground for their fears.
“The evil is deeper than that,” whispered Bella, again. “This cold dew
on his forehead, those shiverings that pass over him from time to time,
and that look in his eye, such as I have never seen before, all betoken
a serious malady. Could you fetch a doctor,--some one in whom you place
confidence?”
“I do know of one, in whom I have the fullest reliance,” said Conway,
rising hastily. “I'll go for him at once.”
“Lose not a moment, then,” said Bella, as she took the place he had just
vacated, and placed her hand on her father's, as Conway had done.
Kellett's glance slowly followed Conway to the door, and then turned
fully in Bella's face, while, with a voice of a thrilling distinctness,
he said, “Too late, darling,--too late!”
The tears gushed from Bella's eyes, and her lips trembled; but she never
uttered a word, but sat silent and motionless as before.
Kellett's eyes were now bent upon her fixedly, with an expression of
deep and affectionate interest; and he slowly drew his hand from beneath
hers, and placed his arm around her.
“I wish he was come, darling,” said he, at last.
“Who, papa?--the doctor?” asked Bella.
“The doctor!--no, not the doctor,” said he, sighing heavily.
“It is poor Jack you are thinking of,” said she, affectionately.
“Poor, sure enough,” muttered he; “we're all poor now.” And an
inexpressible misery was in his face as he spoke.
Bella wished to speak words of comfort and encouragement; she longed to
tell him that she was ready and willing to devote herself to him; that
in a little time, and by a little effort on their part, their changed
fortunes would cease to fret them; that they would learn to see how much
of real happiness can consist with narrow means, but she knew not in
what spirit her words might be accepted; a chance phrase, an accidental
expression, might jar upon some excited feeling, and only irritate where
it was meant to soothe, and so she only pressed her lips to his hand and
was silent.
The sick man's head gradually declined lower and lower, his breathing
grew heavier, and he slept. The long dreary day dragged on its weary
hours, and still Sybella sat by her father's side watching and waiting.
It was already dusk, when a carriage stopped at the little gate and
Conway got out, and was quickly followed by another. “The doctor, at
last,” muttered Sybella, gently moving from her place; and Kellett awoke
and looked at him.
Conway had barely time to whisper the name of the physician in Bella's
ear, when Sir Maurice Dashwood entered. There was none of the solemn
gravity of the learned doctor, none of the catlike stealthiness of the
fashionable practitioner, in his approach. Sir Maurice advanced like a
man entering a drawing-room before a dinner-party, easy, confident, and
affable. He addressed a few words to Miss Kellett, and then placing his
chair next her father's, said,--
“I hope my old brother officer does n't forget me. Don't you remember
Dashwood of the 43d?”
“The wildest chap in the regiment,” muttered Kellett, “though he was the
surgeon. Did you know him, sir?”
“I should think I did,” said the doctor, smiling; “he was a great chum
of yours, was n't he? You messed together in the Pyrenees for a whole
winter.”
“A wild chap,--could never come to any good,” went on Kellett to
himself. “I wonder what became of him.”
“I can tell you, I think. Meanwhile, let me feel your pulse. No fixed
pain here,” said he, touching the region of the heart. “Look fully at
me. Ah, it is there you feel it,” said he, as he touched the other's
forehead; “a sense of weight rather than pain, isn't it?”
“It's like lead I feel it,” said Kellett; “and when I lay it down, I
don't think I 'll ever be able to lift it up again.”
“That you will, and hold it high too, Kellett,” said the doctor, warmly.
“You must just follow my counsels for a day or two, and we shall see a
great change in you.”
“I 'll do whatever you bid me, but it's no use, doctor; but I 'll do it
for her sake there.” And the last words were in a whisper.
“That's spoken like yourself, Kellett,” said the other, cheerily. “Now
let me have pen and ink.”
As the doctor sat down to a table, he beckoned Bella to his side, and
writing a few words rapidly on the paper before him, motioned to her to
read them.
She grasped the chair as she read the lines, and it shook beneath her
hand, while an ashy pallor spread over her features.
“Ask him if I might have a little brandy-and-water, Bella,” said the
sick man.
“To be sure you may,” said Sir Maurice; “or, better still, a glass of
claret; and it so happens I have just the wine to suit him. Conway, come
back with me, and I 'll give you a half-dozen of it.”
“And is there nothing--is there no--” Bella could utter no more, when a
warning of the doctor's hand showed that her father's eyes were on her.
“Come here, Bella,” said he, in a low tone,--“come here to me. There's
a pound in my waistcoat-pocket, in my room; put a shilling inside of it,
for it's a guinea he ought to have, and gold, by rights, if we had it.
And tell him we 'll send for him if we want to see him again. Do it
delicately, darling, so as not to let him know. Say I 'm used to these
attacks; say they're in the family; say--But there, they are driving
away,--they're off! and he never waited for his fee! That's the
strangest thing of all.” And so he fell a-thinking over this curious
fact, muttering from time to time to himself, “I never heard of the like
before.”