Davenport Dunn had but little leisure to think about Conway or poor
Kellett. A change of Ministry had just occurred in England, and men's
minds were all eagerly speculating who was “to come in.” Crowds of
country gentlemen flocked up to Dublin, and “rising men” of all shades
of opinion anxiously paraded their own claims to notice. Dunn's house
was besieged from morning to night by visitors, all firmly persuaded
that he must know more of the coming event than any one. Whether such
was really the case, or that he deemed it good policy to maintain the
delusion, Dunn affected a slight indisposition, and refused to admit any
visitor. Mr. Clowes, indeed, informed the inquirers that it was a mere
passing ailment,--“a slight derangement in the bronchi,” he said; but be
rigidly maintained the blockade, and suffered none to infringe it.
Of course, a hundred rumors gave their own version of this illness. It
was spleen; it was indignation; the Government had thrown him over: he
had been refused the secretaryship which he had formerly applied for.
Others averred that his attack was most serious,--an ossification or a
scirrhus of some cartilage, a thing always fatal and dreadfully painful.
Some went further. It was his prosperity was in peril. Over-speculation
had jeopardized him, and he was deep in the “Crédit Mobilier.” Now, all
this while, the disappointed politician, the hopeless invalid, and the
ruined speculator ate and drank well, received and wrote replies to
innumerable confidential notes from those in power, and carefully drew
up a list of such as he desired to recommend to the Government for place
and employment.
Every morning Sir Maurice Dashwood's well-appointed cab drew up at his
door, and the lively baronet would dash up the stairs to Dunn's room
with all the elasticity of youth, and more real energy than is the
fortune of one young fellow in a thousand. With a consummate knowledge
of men and the world, he was second to none in his profession. He felt
he could afford to indulge the gay and buoyant spirits with which Nature
had blessed him, and even, doctor that he was, take his share in all the
sports of the field and all the pleasures of society.
“Well, Dunn,” cried he, gayly, one morning, as he entered the carefully
darkened room where the other sat, surrounded with papers and deep in
affairs, “I think you may accept your bill of health, and come out
of dock tomorrow. They are gazetted now, and the world as wise as
yourself.”
“So I mean to do,” said Dunn. “I intend to dine with the Chancellor.
What is said about the new Government?”
“Very little. There is really little to say. They are nearly the same
pieces, only placed differently on the board. This trumpery cry about
'right men in right places' will lead to all kinds of confusion, since
it will eternally suggest choice, which, in plain words, means newspaper
dictation.”
“As good as any other dictation: better in one respect, for it so often
recants its judgments,” said Dunn, sarcastically.
“Well, they are unanimous about _you_ this morning. They are all eagerly
inquiring in what way the Government propose to recognize the services
of one of the ablest men and most disinterested patriots of our day.”
“I don't want anything from them,” said Dunn, testily, and walking to
the window to avoid the keen, sharp glance the other bent upon him.
“The best way to get it when you _do_ want,” said Dash-wood. “By the
way, what's our new Viceroy like?”
“A very good appointment, indeed,” said Dunn, gravely.
“Oh, I don't mean that. I want to know what he is personally: is he
stiff, haughty, grave, gay, stand-off, or affable?”
“I should say, from what I have seen of Lord Allington, that he is one
of those men who are grave without sadness--”
“Come, come, never mind the antithesis; does he care for society, does
he like sport, is he free-handed, or has he only come here with the
traditional policy to 'drain Ireland'?”
“You 'll like him much,” said Dunn, in his natural voice, “and he 'll
like _you_.”
Sir Maurice smiled, as though to say, “I could answer as much for
myself;” and then asked, “Have you known him long?”
“No; that is, not very long,” said Dunn, hesitating, “nor very
intimately. Why do you ask?”
“Just because I want to get something,--at once too. There's a poor
fellow, a patient of mine now,--we were brother officers once,--in
a very sad way. Your friends of the Encumbered Court have Just been
selling him out, and by the shock they have so stunned him that his
brain has been attacked; at present it does not seem so formidable, but
it will end in softening, and all the rest of it. Now, if they 'd make
him something at once,--quickly it must be,--he could drop out on some
small retired allowance,--anything, in short, that would support him.”
“But what is it to be?” asked Dunn.
“Whatever you like to make him. It can scarcely be a bishop, for he's
not in orders; nor a judge, for he was not called to the bar; but why
not a commissioner of something? You have them for all purposes and of
all degrees.”
“You take a low estimate of commissionerships, I perceive,” said Dunn,
smiling.
“They are row-boats, where two or three pull, and the rest only dip
their oars. But come, promise me you 'll look to this; take a note of
the name,--Paul Kellett a man of excellent family, and once with a large
landed property.”
“I know him,” said Dunn, with a peculiar significance.
“And know nothing to his disadvantage, I'm certain. He was a good
officer and a kind-hearted fellow, whom we all liked. And there he is
now,” added he, after a pause, “with a charming girl--his daughter--and
I really don't believe they have a five-pound note in the world. You
must do this for me, Dunn. I 'm bent upon it!”
“I'll see what can be done about it. Anything like a job is always a
difficulty.”
“And everything is a job here, Dunn, and no man knows better how to deal
with one.” And so saying, and with a pleasant laugh, the gay-hearted
doctor hurried away, to carry hope, and some portion at least of his own
cheery nature, into many a darkened sick-room.
Though several names were announced with pressing entreaties for an
audience, Dunn would see no one. He continued to walk up and down the
room deep in thought, and seemed resolved that none should interrupt
him. There were events enough to occupy, cases enough to engage
him,--high questions of policy, deep matters of interest, all that can
stimulate ambition, all that can awaken energy,--and yet, amidst all,
where were his thoughts straying? They were away to the years of his
early boyhood, when he had been Paul Kellett's playfellow, and when he
was admitted--a rare honor--to the little dinner of the nursery! What a
strange thing it was that it was “there and then” his first studies of
life and character should have been made; that it was there and then he
first moulded himself to the temper and ways of another, conforming to
caprices and tending to inclinations not his own. Stern tyrants were
these child masters! How they _did_ presume upon their high station, how
severely did they make him feel the distance between them, and what
arts did they teach him,--what subtle devices to outwit their own
imperiousness and give him the mastery over them! To these memories
succeeded others more painful still; and Dunn's brow contracted and his
lips became tight-drawn as he recollected them.
“I suppose even my father would allow that the debt is acquitted now,”
muttered he to himself. “I 'll go and see them!” said he, after a
moment; “such a sight will teach me how far I have travelled in life.”
He gently descended a private stair that led to the garden, and, passing
out by the stables, soon gained the street Walking rapidly on to the
first stand, he engaged a car, and started for Clontarf.
If Davenport Dunn never gave way to a passion for revenge in life, it
was in some sort because he deemed it a luxury above his means. He often
fancied to himself that the time might come when he could indulge in
this pleasure, just as now he revelled in a thousand others, which once
had seemed as remote. His theory was that he had not yet attained that
eminence whence he could dispense with all aid, and he knew not what
man's services at any moment might be useful to him. Still, with all
this, he never ceased to enjoy whatever of evil fortune befell those who
even in times past had injured him. To measure their destiny with his
now, was like striking a balance with Fate,--a balance so strong in his
favor; and when he had not actually contributed to their downfall, he
deemed himself high-minded, generous, and pure-hearted.
It was reflecting in this wise he drove along, and at last drew up
at Kellett's door; his knock was answered by Sybella herself, whose
careworn features and jaded look scarcely reminded him of her appearance
when first he saw her, flushed and excited by exercise.
“I thought I'd come myself and ask after him,” said Dunn, as he
explained the object of his visit.
“He has scarce consciousness enough to thank you,” said she, mournfully,
“but _I_ am very grateful to you;” and she preceded him into the room,
where her father sat in the selfsame attitude as before.
“He doesn't know me,” whispered Dunn, as the sick man's gaze was turned
to him without the slightest sign of recognition,--“he does n't know
me!”
“I do. I know you well, Davenport Dunn, and I know why you come here,”
said Kellett, with a distinctness that startled them both. “Leave us
alone together, Bella darling; we want to talk privately.”
Sybella was so astounded at this sudden show of intelligence that she
scarcely knew how to take it, or what to do; but at a gesture from Dunn,
she stepped noiselessly from the room, and left them together.
“You must not excite yourself, Kellett, nor prejudice your prospect
of recovery by any exertion; there will be time enough for matters of
business hereafter--”
“No, there won't; that's the reason I want to talk to you now,” said
Kellett, sharply. “I know well enough my life is short here.”
[Illustration: 284]
Dunn began some phrase of cheering meaning; but the other stopped him
abruptly, and said,--
“There, there, don't be losing time that way. Is that the touch of a man
long for this world?” and he laid on the other's hand his own hot and
burning fingers. “I said I knew why you came here, Dunn,” continued he,
more strongly; “it was to look at your work. Ay, just so. It was _you_
brought me to this, and you wanted to see it. Turn your eyes round the
room, and you 'll see it's poor enough. Look in at that bedroom there,
and you 'll say it could n't be much more humble! I pawned my watch
yesterday; there's all that's out of it;” and he showed some pieces of
silver and copper mixed together in the palm of his hand; “there's not a
silver spoon left, so that you see you 've done it well!”
“My dear Kellett, these words of yours have no meaning in them--”
“Maybe not; but maybe you understand them, for all that! Look here, now,
Dunn,” said he, clutching his hand in his own feverish grasp; “what the
Child begins the Man finishes! I know you well, and I 've watched you
for many a year. All your plans and schemes never deceived _me_; but
it's a house of cards you 're building, after all! What I knew about you
as a boy others may know as a man; and I would n't believe St. Peter if
he told me you only did it _once!_”
“If this be not raving, it is a deliberate insult!” muttered Dunn,
sternly, while he rudely pushed away the other's hand, and drew back his
chair.
“Well, it's not raving, whatever it is,” said Kellett, calmly. “The cold
air of the earth that's opening for me clears my brain, and I know well
the words I 'm saying, and the warning I 'm giving you. Tell the people
fairly that it's only scheming you were; that the companies are a bubble
and the banks a sham; that you 're only juggling this man's credit
against that, making the people think that you have the confidence of
the Government, and the Government believe that you can do what you like
with the people. Go at once and publish it, that you are only cheating
them all, or you 'll have a gloomier ending even than this!”
“I came out of compassion for you.”
“No, you did n't, not a bit of it. You came to tell old Mat Dunn that
the score was wiped off; _he_ came to the window here this morning and
looked in at me.”
“My father? Impossible! He's nearly ninety, and barely able to move
about a room.”
“I don't care for that: there he was, where you see that bush, and he
leaned on the window-sill and looked at me; and he wiped the glass,
where his breath dulled it, twice. Then I gave a shout at him that sent
him off. They had to carry him to the car outside.”
“Is this true?” cried Dunn, eagerly.
“If I had had but the strength to bring me to the window, it's little I
'd have minded his white hair.”
“If you had dared!” said Dunn, rising, and no longer able to control his
anger.
“Don't go yet; I have more to say to you,” cried he, stretching out his
hands towards him. “You think, because your roguery is succeeding, that
you are great and respected. Not a bit; the gentlemen won't have you,
and your own sort won't have you. There's not an honest man would eat
your salt,--there's not an honest girl would bear your name. There you
stand, as much alone in the world as if you came out of another country,
and you 're the only man in Ireland does n't see it.”
Dunn darted from the room as the last words were uttered, and gained the
road. So overwhelmed was he by rage and astonishment that it was some
minutes ere he could remember where he was or whither he would go.
“To Beldoyle,” said he to the carman, pointing in the direction of the
low shore, where his father lived; “drive your best pace.” Then suddenly
changing his mind, he said, “No, to town.”
“Is he gone, Bella?” said Kellett, as his daughter entered.
“Yes; and before I could thank him for his coming.”
“I think I said enough,” said he, with a fierce laugh, which made her
suddenly turn and look at him.
It was all she could do to repress a sudden cry of horror; for one side
of his face was distorted by palsy, and the mouth drawn all awry.
“What's this here, Bella?” said he, trying to touch his cheek with his
hand; “a kind of stiffness--a sort of--Eh, are you crying, darling?”
“No; it was something in my eye pained me,” said she, turning away to
hide her face.
“Give me a looking-glass, quickly,” cried he.
“No, no,” said she, forcing a laugh; “you have not shaved these two
days, and you are quite neglected-look-ing. You sha'n't see yourself in
such a state.”
“Bring it this minute, I say,” said he, passionately, and in a voice
that grew less and less articulate every moment.
“Now pray be patient, dearest papa.”
“Then I'll go for it myself;” and with these words he grasped the arm
of the chair and tried to rise.
“There, there,” said she, softly forcing him back into his seat, “I 'll
fetch it at once. I wish you would be persuaded, dear papa--” began she,
still holding the glass in her hands. But he snatched it rudely from
her, and placed it before him.
“That's what it is,” said he, at last; “handsome Paul Kellett they used
to call me at Corfu. I wonder what they'd say now?”
“It is a mere passing thing, a spasm of some kind.”
“Ay,” said he, with a mocking laugh, to which the distortion imparted
a shocking expression. “Both sides will be the same--to-morrow or next
day--I know that.”
She could hear no more, but, covering her face with her hands, sobbed
bitterly.
Kellett still continued to look at himself in the glass; and whether
the contortion was produced by the malady or a passing emotion, a
half-sardonic laugh was on his features as he said, “I was wrong when I
said I'd never be chapfallen.”