The bountifully spread breakfast-table of the following morning was not
destined to be graced by Mr. Dunn's presence. A clerk had arrived
early in the morning with a mass of correspondence from Dublin, and
a Government messenger, armed with an ominous-looking red box, came
post-haste about an hour later, while a request for a cup of tea in
his own room explained that Mr. Dunn was not to make his appearance in
public.
“This savors of downright slavery,” said Lady Augusta, whose morning
toilette was admirably devised.
“To me it savors of downright humbug,” said Lord Glengariff, pettishly.
“No one shall tell me that a man has not time to eat his meals like a
gentleman. A Secretary of State does n't give himself such airs. Why, I
protest, here comes another courier! what can this fellow be?”
“A messenger from the Home Office has just arrived for Mr. Dunn,” said
Miss Kellett, entering the room.
“Our little cottage is become like a house in Whitehall Gardens,” said
Lord Glengariff, angrily. “I have no doubt we ought to feel excessively
flattered by the notoriety the newspapers are certain to accord us.”
“Mr. Dunn is more to be pitied than any of us,” said Lady Augusta,
compassionately.
“I suspect he'd not agree with you,” said his Lordship, bitterly. “I
rather opine that Mr. Dunn has another and a very different estimate of
his present position.”
“Such a life is certainly not enviable. Perhaps I'm wrong, though,” said
she, quickly; “Miss Kellett does not seem of _my_ mind.”
Sybella blushed slightly, and in some embarrassment said, “Certain
minds find their best happiness in great labor; Mr. Dunn's may be one of
these.”
“Pulteney found time for a cast with the hounds, and Charles Fox
had leisure for his rubber of whist. It is these modern fellows have
introduced the notion that 'the House' is like a 'mill at Manchester.'
There goes one with his despatches,” cried he, as a mounted messenger
rode off from the door. “I 'd wager a trifle that if they never came to
hand the world would just jog on its course as pleasantly, and no one
the worse for the mishap.”
“With Mr. Dunn's compliments, my Lord,” said a servant, placing several
open letters on the table; “he thought your Lordship would like to see
the latest news from the Crimea.”
While Lord Glengariff took out his spectacles, his face grew crimson,
and he seemed barely able to restrain a burst of passionate indignation.
As the servant closed the door, he could no longer contain himself, but
broke out: “Just fancy their sending off these despatches to this fellow
Dunn. Here am I, an Irish peer, of as good blood and ancient family as
any in my country, and I might as well expect to hear Buckingham Palace
was fitted up for my town residence when next I went to London, as look
for an attention of this sort. If I had n't it here under my own eyes,
and saw the address, 'Davenport Dunn, Esq.,' 'on her Majesty's service,'
I 'd say flatly it was impossible.”
“May I read some of them?” asked Lady Augusta, wishing by any means to
arrest this torrent of angry attack.
“Yes, read away,” cried he, laying down his spectacles. “Miss Kellett,
too, may indulge her curiosity, if she has any, about the war.”
“I have a dearer interest at stake there,” said Sybella, blushing.
“I see little here we have not already read in the 'Times,'” said Lady
Augusta, perusing the paper before her. “The old story of rifle-pits,
sorties against working parties, the severity of the duty, and the
badness of the commissariat.”
“This is interesting,” broke in Sybella. “It is an extract from a
private letter of some one high in command. It says: 'The discontent
of our allies increases every day; and as every post from France only
repeats how unpopular the war is in that country, I foresee that nothing
short of some great _fait d'armes_, in which the French shall have all
the glory, will induce the Imperial Government to continue the struggle.
The satisfaction felt in France at the attacks of the English journals
on our own army, its generalship, and its organization, are already
wearing out, and they look now for some higher stimulant to the national
vanity.'”
“Who writes this?” cried Lord Glengariff, eagerly.
“The name is not given,” said she. “The despatch goes on merely to say,
'Your Lordship would do well to give these words the consideration
they seem to deserve.' But here again, 'the coolness of the Marshal
increases, and our intercourse is neither frank nor confidential.'”
“All this sounds badly,” said Lord Glengariff. “Our only progress would
seem to be in ill-will with our ally. I suppose the end of it will be,
we shall be left to continue the struggle alone.”
“Would that it were so!” burst in Sybella. “A great orator said t' other
day in the House, that coalitions were fatal; Englishmen never liked
them. He only spoke of those alliances where parties agree to merge
their differences and unite for some common object; but far more
perilous are the coalitions where nations combine, the very contest
that they wage being a field to evoke ancient rivalries and smouldering
jealousies. I 'd rather see our little army alone, with its face to
the foe and its back to the sea, than I 'd read of our entrance into
Sebastopol side by side with the legions of France.”
The passionate enthusiasm of the moment had carried her away, and she
grew pale and heart-sick at her unwonted boldness as she finished.
“I hope Mr. Dunn may be able to benefit by your opinions on strategy,”
said Lady Augusta, as she rose from the table.
“What was it Lady Augusta said?” cried Lord Glengariff, as she left the
room.
“I scarcely heard her aright, my Lord,” said Sybella, whose face was now
crimson.
It was the first moment in her life in which dependence had exposed her
to insult, and she could not collect her faculties, or know what to do.
“These things,” said Lord Glengariff, pushing the despatches
contemptuously away, “add nothing to our knowledge. That writer in the
'Times' gives us everything we want to know, and gives it better too.
Send them back to Dunn, and ascertain, if you can, when we are likely to
see him. I want him to come down to the bay; he ought to see the harbor
and the coast. Manage this, Miss Kellett,--not from me, of course, but
in your own way,--and let me know.”
Lord Glengariff now left the room, and Sybella was once more deep in the
despatches.
Dry and guarded as they were,--formal, with all the stamp of official
accuracy,--they yet told of the greatest and grandest struggle of our
age. It was a true war of Titans, with the whole world for spectators.
The splendid heroism of our army seemed even eclipsed by the unbroken
endurance of daily hardship,--that stern and uncomplaining courage that
faced death in cold blood, and marched to the fatal trenches with the
steadfast tramp of a forlorn hope.
“No conscript soldiers ever bore themselves thus,” cried she,
in ecstasy. “These are the traits of personal gallantry, not the
disciplined bravery that comes of the serried file and the roll of the
drum.”
With all her anxieties for his fate, she gloried to think “dear Jack”
was there,--that he was bearing his share of their hardships, and
reaping his share of their glory. And oh! if she could but read mention
of his name; if she could hear of him quoted for some act of gallantry,
or, better still, some trait of humanity and kindness,--that he had
rescued a wounded comrade, or succored some poor maimed and forlorn
enemy!
How hard was it for her on that morning, full of these themes, to
address herself to the daily routine of her work! The grand panorama
of war continued to unroll itself before her eyes, and the splendid
spectacle of the contending armies revealed itself like a picture before
her. The wondrous achievements she had read of reminded her of those old
histories which had been the delight of her childhood, and she gloried
to think that the English race was the same in daring and chivalry as it
had shown itself centuries back!
She tried hard to persuade herself that the peaceful triumphs of art,
the great discoveries of science, were finer and grander developments of
human nature; but with all her ingenuity they seemed inglorious and poor
beside the splendid displays of heroism.
“And now to my task,” said she, with a sigh, as she folded up the map of
the Crimea, on which she was tracing the events of the war.
Her work of that morning was the completion of a little “Memoir” of
Glengariff and its vicinity, written in that easy and popular style
which finds acceptance in our periodicals, and meant to draw attention
to the great scheme for whose accomplishment a company was to be formed.
Lord Glengariff wished this sketch should be completed while Dunn was
still there, so that it might be shown him, and his opinion be obtained
upon it.
Never had her task seemed so difficult, never so uncongenial; and though
she labored hard to summon up all her former interest in the great
enterprise, her thoughts would stray away, in spite of her, to the
indented shores of the Crimea, and the wild and swelling plains around
Sebastopol. Determined to see if change of place might not effect some
change of thought, she carried her papers to a little summer-house on
the river-side, and once more addressed herself resolutely to her work.
With an energy that rarely failed her, she soon overcame the little
distraction, and wrote away rapidly and with ease. She at last reached
that stage in her essay where, having enumerated all the advantages of
the locality, she desired to show how nothing was wanting to complete
its celebrity and recognition but the touch of some of those great
financial magicians whose great privilege it is to develop the wealth
and augment the resources of their fellow-men. She dwelt earnestly and,
indeed, eloquently on the beauty of the scenery. She knew it in every
varying aspect of its coloring, and she lingered over a description of
which the reality had so often captivated her. Still, even here, the
fostering hand of taste might yet contribute much. The stone pine and
the ilex would blend favorably with the lighter foliage of the ash and
the hazel, and many a fine point of view was still all but inaccessible
for want of a footpath. How beautifully, too, would the tasteful cottage
of some true lover of the picturesque peep from amidst the evergreen
oaks that grew down to the very shore. While she wrote, a shadow fell
over her paper. She looked up, and saw Mr. Dunn. He had strolled by
accident to the spot, and entered unperceived by her.
[Illustration: 414]
“What a charming place you have chosen for your study, Miss Kellett!”
said he, seating himself at the table. “Not but I believe,” continued
he, “that when once deeply engaged in a pursuit, one takes little
account of surrounding objects. Pastorals have been composed in garrets,
and our greatest romancer wrote some of his most thrilling scenes amid
the noise and commonplace interruptions of a Court of Sessions.”
“Such labors as mine,” said she, smiling, “neither require nor deserve
the benefit of a chosen spot.”
“You are engaged upon Glengariff,” said he; “am I at liberty to look?”
And he took the paper from the table as he spoke. At first he glanced
half carelessly at the lines; but as he read on he became more
attentive, and at last, turning to the opening pages, he read with
marked earnestness and care.
“You have done this very well,--admirably well,” said he, as he laid it
down; “but shall I be forgiven if I make an ungracious speech?”
“Say on,” said she, smiling good-naturedly.
“Well, then,” said he, drawing a long breath, “you are pleading an
impossible cause. They who suggested it were moved by the success of
those great enterprises which every day develops around us, and which,
by the magic word 'Company,' assume vitality and consistence; they
speculated on immense profits just as they could compute a problem in
arithmetic. It demanded so much skill and no more. _You_--I have no need
that you should tell me so--were actuated by very different motives. You
wanted to benefit a poor and neglected peasantry, to disseminate amongst
them the blessings of comfort and civilization; _you_ were eager for the
philanthropy of the project, _they_ for its gain.”
“But why, as a mere speculation, should it be a failure?” broke she in.
“There are too many reasons for such a result,” said he, with a
melancholy smile. “Suffice it if I give you only one. We Irish are not
in favor just now. While we were troublesome and rebellious, there was
an interest attached to us,--we were dangerous; and even in the
sarcasms of the English press there lurked a secret terror of some great
convulsion here which should shake the entire empire. We are prosperous
now, and no longer picturesque. Our better fortune has robbed us of the
two claims we used to have on English sympathy; we are neither droll
nor ragged, and so they can neither laugh at our humor nor sneer at our
wretchedness. Will not these things show you that we are not likely
to be fashionable? I say this to you; to Lord Glengariff I will speak
another language. I will tell him that his scheme will not attract
speculators. I myself cannot advocate it. I never link my name with
defeats. He will be, of course, indignant, and we shall part on bad
terms. He is not the first I have refused to make rich.”
There was a tone of haughty assumption in the way he spoke these words
that astonished Sybella, who gazed at him without speaking.
“Are you happy here?” asked he, abruptly.
“Yes,--that is, I have been so up to this--”
“In short, until I had robbed you of an illusion,” said he, interrupting
her. “Ah, how many a pang do these 'awakenings' cost us in life!”
muttered he, half to himself. “Every one has his ambitions of one
sort or other, and fancies his goal the true one; but, his faith once
disturbed, how hard it is to address himself earnestly to another
creed!”
“If it be duty,” broke she in, “and if we have the consciousness of an
honest breast and a right intention--”
“That is to say, if we gain a verdict in the court where we ourselves
sit as judge,” said he, with a suddenness that surprised her. “I, for
instance, have my own sense of what is right and just; am I quite sure
it is _yours?_ I see certain anomalies in our social condition, great
hardships, heavy wrongs; if I address myself to correct them, am I so
certain that others will concur with me? The battle of life, like every
other conflict, is one in which to sustain the true cause one must do
many a cruel thing. It is only at last, when success has crowned all
your efforts, that the world condescends to say you have done well.”
“You, of all men, can afford to await this judgment patiently.”
“Why do you say that of _me?_” asked he, eagerly.
“Because, so long as I can remember, I have seen your name associated
with objects of charity and benevolence; and not these alone, but with
every great enterprise that might stimulate the efforts and develop the
resources of the country.”
“Some might say that personal objects alone influenced me,” said he, in
a low voice.
“How poor and narrow-minded would be such a judgment!” replied she,
warmly. “There is an earnestness in high purpose no self-seeking could
ever counterfeit.”
“That is true,--quite true,” said he; “but are you so certain that the
world makes the distinction? Does not the vulgar estimate confound the
philanthropist with the speculator? I say this with sorrow.” said he,
painfully, “for I myself am the victim of this very injustice.” He
paused for a few seconds, and then rising, he said, “Let us stroll along
the river-side; we have both worked enough for the day.” She arose at
once, and followed him. “It is ever an ungracious theme,--one's self,”
said he, as they walked along; “but, somehow, I am compelled to talk to
you, and, if you will allow me, confidentially.” He did not wait for a
reply, but went on: “There was, in the time of the French Regency, a
man named Law, who, by dint of deep study and much labor, arrived at the
discovery of a great financial scheme; so vast, so comprehensive, and
so complete was it, that not only was it able to rescue the condition
of the State from bankruptcy, but it disseminated through the
trading-classes of the nation the sound principles of credit on which
alone commerce can be based. Now, this man--a man of unquestionable
genius and, if benefits to one's species gave a just title to the
name, a philanthropist--lived to see the great discovery he had made
prostituted to the basest arts of scheming speculators. From the Prince,
who was his patron, to the humblest agent of the Bourse, he met nothing
but duplicity, falsehood, and treachery, and he ended in being driven
in shame and ignominy from the land he had succeeded in rescuing from
impending rain! You will say that the people and the age explain much of
this base ingratitude; but, believe me, nations and eras are wonderfully
alike. The good and evil of this world go on repeating themselves in
cycles with a marvellous regularity. The fate which befell Law may
overtake any who will endeavor to imitate him; there is but one
condition which can avert this catastrophe, and that is success. Law
had too long deferred to provide for his own security. Too much occupied
with his grand problem, he had made himself neither rich nor great,
so that when the hour of adversity came no barriers of wealth or
power stood between him and his enemies. Had he foreseen this
catastrophe,--had he anticipated it,--he might have so dovetailed his
own interests with those of the State that attack upon one involved the
fate of the other. But Law did nothing of the kind; he made friends
of Princes, and with the fortune that attaches to such friendships, he
fell!” For some minutes he walked along at her side without speaking,
and then resumed: “With all these facts before me, I, too, see that
Law's fate may be my own!”
“But have you--” When she had gone thus far, Sybella stopped, and
blushed deeply, unable to continue.
“Yes,” said he, answering what might have been her words,--“yes, it was
my ambition to have been to Ireland what Law was to France,--not
what calumny and injustice have pictured him, remember, but the great
reformer, the great financier, the great philanthropist,--to make this
faction-torn land a great and united nation. To develop the resources
of the richest country in Europe was no mean ambition, and he who even
aspired to it was worthy of a better recompense than attack and insult.”
“I have seen none of these,” broke she in. “Indeed, so long as I
remember, I can call to mind only eulogies of your zeal, praises of your
intelligence, and the grandeur of your designs.”
“There are such, however,” said he, gloomily; “they are the first low
murmurings, too, of a storm that will come in full force hereafter! Let
it come,” muttered he, below his breath. “If I am to fall, it shall be
like Samson, and the temple shall fall with me.”
Sybella did not catch his words, but the look of his features as he
spoke them made her almost shudder with terror.
“Let us turn back,” said she; “it is growing late.”
Without speaking, Dunn turned his steps towards the cottage, and walked
along in deep thought.
“Mr. Hankes has come, sir,” said Dunn's servant, as he reached the door.
And without even a word, Dunn hastened to his own room.