Although Mr. Hankes performs no very conspicuous part in our story,
he makes his appearance at the Hermitage with a degree of pomp and
circumstance which demand mention. With our reader's kind leave,
therefore, we mean to devote a very brief chapter to that gentleman and
his visit.
As in great theatres there is a class of persons to whose peculiar skill
and ability are confided all the details of “spectacle,” all those grand
effects of panoramic splendor which in a measure make the action of the
drama subordinate to the charms of what, more properly, ought to be mere
accessories; so modern speculation has called to its aid its own
special machinists and decorators,--a gifted order of men, capable of
surrounding the dryest and least promising of enterprises with all the
pictorial attractions and attractive graces of the “ballet”
If it be a question of a harbor or dock company, the prospectus is
headed with a colored print, wherein tall three-deckers mingle with
close-reefed cutters, their gay buntings fluttering in the breeze as the
light waves dance around the bows; from the sea beneath to the clouds
above, all is motion and activity,--meet emblems of the busy shore
where commerce lives and thrives. If it be a building speculation, the
architecture is but the background of a brilliant “mall,” where splendid
equipages and caracoling riders figure, with gay parasols and sleek
poodles intermixed.
One “buys in” to these stocks with feelings far above “five percent.”
A sense of the happiness diffused amongst thousands of our
fellow-creatures--the “blessings of civilization,” as we like to call
the extension of cotton prints--cheer and animate us; and while laying
out our money advantageously, we are crediting our hearts with a
large balance on the score of philanthropy. To foster this commendable
tendency, to feed the tastes of those who love, so to say, to “shoot at
Fortune with both barrels,” an order of men arose, cunning in all the
devices of advertisement, learned in the skill of capitals, and adroit
in illustrations.
Of these was Mr. Hankes. Originally brought up at the feet of George
Robins, he was imported into Ireland by Mr. Davenport Dunn as his chief
man at business,--the Grand Vizier of Joint Stock Companies and all
industrial speculations.
If Dr. Pangloss was a good man for knowing what wickedness was, Mr.
Hankes might equally pretend to skill in all enterprises, since he had
experienced, for a number of years, every species of failure and
defeat The description of his residences would fill half a column of a
newspaper. They ranged from Brompton to Boulogne, and took in everything
from Wilton Crescent to St John's Wood. He had done a little of
everything, too, from “Chief Commissioner to the Isthmus”--we never
heard of what isthmus--to Parliamentary Agent for the friends of Jewish
emancipation. With a quickness that rarely deceived him, Dunn saw his
capabilities. He regarded him as fighting fortune so bravely with all
the odds against him, that he ventured to calculate what such a man
might be, if favorably placed in the world. The fellow who could bring
down his bird with a battered old flint musket might reasonably enough
distinguish himself if armed with an Enfield rifle. The venture was not,
however, entirely successful; for though Hankes proved himself a very
clever fellow, he was only really great under difficulties. It was
with the crash of falling fortunes around him--amidst debt, bankruptcy,
executions, writs, and arrests--Hankes rose above his fellows, and
displayed all the varied resources of his fertile genius. The Spartan
vigor of his mind assorted but badly with prosperity, and Hankes
waxed fat and indolent, affected gorgeous waistcoats and chains, and
imperceptibly sank down to the level of those decorative arts we have
just alluded to.
The change was curious: it was as though Gerard or Gordon Cumming should
have given up lion-hunting and taken to teach piping bullfinches!
Every venture of Davenport Dunn was prosperous. All his argosies were
borne on favoring winds, and Hankes saw his great defensive armor hung
up to rust and to rot. Driven in some measure, therefore, to cut out his
path in life, he invented that grand and gorgeous school of enterprise
whose rashness and splendor crush into insignificance all the puny
attempts of commonplace speculators. He only talked millions; thousands
he ignored. He would accept of no names on the direction of his schemes
save the very highest in rank. If he crossed the Channel, his haste
required a special steamer. If he went by rail, a special train awaited
him. The ordinary world, moving along at its tortoise pace, was shocked
at the meteor course that every now and then shot across the hemisphere,
and felt humiliated in their own hearts by the comparison.
Four smoking posters, harnessed to the neatest and lightest of
travelling-carriages, had just deposited Mr. Hankes at the Hermitage;
and he now sat in Mr. Dunn's dressing-room, arranging papers and
assorting documents in preparation for his arrival.
It was easy to perceive that as Dunn entered the room he was very far
from feeling pleased at his lieutenant's presence there.
“What was there so very pressing, Mr. Hankes,” said he, “that could not
have awaited my return to town?”
“A stormy meeting of the Lough Allen Tin Company yesterday, sir,--a
very stormy meeting indeed. Shares down to twenty-seven and an
eighth,--unfavorable report on the ore, and a rumor--mere rumor, of
course--that the last dividend was paid out of capital.”
“Who says this?” asked Dunn, angrily.
“The 'True Blue,' sir, hinted as much in the evening edition, and the
suggestion was at once caught up by the Tory Press.”
“Macken--isn't that the man's name--edits the 'True Blue'?”
“Yes, sir; Michael Macken.”
“What answer shall I give him, then?” asked Hankes.
“Tell him--explain to him that the exigencies of party--No, that won't
do. Send down Harte to conduct his election, let him be returned for
the borough, and tell Joe Harte to take care to provide a case that will
unseat him on a petition; before the petition comes on, we shall have
the sale completed. The Colonel shall be taught that our tactics are
somewhat sharper than his own.”
Hankes smiled approvingly at this stratagem of his chief, and really for
the moment felt proud of serving such a leader. Once more, however,
did he turn to his dreary note-book and its inexorable bead-roll of
difficulties; but Dunn no longer heard him, for he was deep in his
private correspondence, tearing open and reading letter after letter
with impatient haste. “What of the Crimea--what did you say, there?”
cried Dunn, stopping suddenly, and catching at the sound of that one
word.
“That report of the 'Morning Post' would require a prompt
contradiction.”
“What report?” asked Dunn, quickly.
“Here's the paragraph.” And the other read from a newspaper before him:
“'Our readers, we feel assured, will learn with satisfaction that the
Government is at this moment in negotiation for the services of Mr.
Davenport Dunn in the Crimea. To any one who has followed the sad
story of our Commissariat blunders and shortcomings, the employment of
this--the first administrative mind of our day--will be matter for just
gratification. We have only to turn our eyes to the sister country, and
see what success has attended his great exertions there, to anticipate
what will follow his labors in the still more rugged field of the
Crimea.'
“This is from the 'Examiner': 'We are sorry to hear, and upon the
authority that assumes to be indisputable, that a grave difficulty has
suspended, for the time at least, the negotiation between the Government
and Mr. Daren-port Dunn; the insistence on the part of that gentleman of
such a recognition for his services as no Administration could dare to
promise being the obstacle.'
“'Punch' has also his say: 'Mr. Davenport Dunn's scheme is now before
the cabinet It resolves itself into this: The Anglo-French alliance
to be conducted on the principles of a Limited Liability Company. For
preference shares, address Count Morny in Paris, or Dowb at Balaklava.'”
“So much for official secrecy and discretion. This morning brings me the
offer from the Minister of this appointment; and here is the whole press
of England speculating, criticising, and ridiculing it, forty-eight
hours before the proposal is made me! What says the great leading
journal?” added he, opening a broad sheet before him. “Very brief, and
very vague,” muttered he. “'No one knows better than the accomplished
individual alluded to, how little the highest honors in the power of the
Crown to bestow could add to the efficiency of that zeal, or the purpose
of that guidance he has so strenuously and successfully devoted to the
advancement of his country.' Psha!” cried he, angrily, as he threw down
the paper, and walked to the window.
Hankes proceeded to read aloud one of those glowing panegyrics certain
popular journals loved to indulge in, on the superior virtue, capacity,
and attainments of the middle classes. “Of these,” said the writer,
“Mr. Dunn is a good specimen. Sprung from what may be called the very
humblest rank--”
“Who writes that? What paper is it?”
“The 'Daily Tidings.'”
“You affect to know all these fellows of the press. It is your pride
to have been their associate and boon companion. I charge you, then, no
matter for the means or the cost, get that man discharged; follow him
up too; have an eye upon him wherever he goes, and wherever he obtains
employment. He shall learn that a hungry stomach is a sorry recompense
for the pleasure of pointing a paragraph. Let me see that you make a
note of this, Mr. Hankes, and that you execute it also.”
It was something so new for Hankes to see Dunn manifest any the
slightest emotion on the score of the press, whether its comments took
the shape of praise or blame, that he actually stared at him with a sort
of incredulous astonishment.
“If I were born a Frenchman, an Italian, or even a German,” said Dunn,
with a savage energy of voice, “should I be taunted in the midst of my
labors that my origin was plebeian? Would the society in which I move be
reminded that they accept me on sufferance? Would the cheer that greeted
my success be mingled with the cry, 'Remember whence you came'? I tell
you, sir,” and here he spoke with the thickened utterance of intense
passion,--“I tell you, sir, that with all the boasted liberty of our
institutions, we cultivate a social slavery in these islands, to which
the life of a negro is freedom in comparison!”
A sharp tap at the door interrupted him, and he cried, “Come in.” It was
a servant to say dinner was on the table, and his Lordship was waiting.
“Please to say I am indisposed,--a severe headache. I hope his Lordship
will excuse my not appearing to-day,” said he, with evident confusion;
and then, when the servant withdrew, added: “You may go down to the inn.
I suppose there is one in the village. I shall want horses to-morrow,
and relays ready on the road to Killarney. Give the orders, and if
anything else occurs to my recollection, I 'll send you word in the
evening.”
Whether it was that Mr. Hankes had been speculating on the possible
chances of dining with “my Lord” himself, or that the prospect of the
inn at Glengariff was little to his taste, but he assuredly gathered
up his papers in a mood that indicated no peculiar satisfaction, and
withdrew without a word.
A second message now came to inquire what Mr. Dunn would like to
take for his dinner, and conveying Lord Glengariffs regrets for his
indisposition.
“A little soup--some fish, if there be any--nothing else,” said Dunn,
while he opened his writing-desk and prepared for work. Not noticing the
interruption of the servant as he laid the table, he wrote away rapidly;
at last he arose, and, having eaten a few mouthfuls, reseated himself at
his desk. His letter was to the Minister, in answer to the offer of
that morning's post. There was a degree of dexterity in the way that he
conveyed his refusal, accompanying it by certain suggestive hints, vague
and shadowy of course, of what the services of such a man as himself
might possibly accomplish, so as to indicate how great was the loss
to the State by not being fortunate enough to secure such high
acquirements. The whole wound up with a half-ambiguous regret that,
while the Ministry should accept newspaper dictation for their
appointments, they could not also perceive that popular will should be
consulted in the rewards extended to those who deserted their private
and personal objects to devote their energies to the cause of the
empire.
“Whenever such a Government shall arise,” wrote he, “the Ministry
will find few refusals to the offers of employment, and men will alike
consult their patriotism and their self-esteem in taking office under
the Crown; nor will there be found, in the record of replies to a
Ministerial proffer, one such letter as now bears the signature of your
Lordship's
“Very devoted and very obedient servant,
“Davenport Dunn.”
This history does not profess to say how Mr. Dunn's apology was received
by his noble host. Perhaps, however, we are not unwarranted in supposing
that Lord Glengariffs temper was sorely and severely tested; one thing
is certain, the dinner passed off with scarcely a word uttered at the
table, and a perfect stillness prevailed throughout the cottage.
After some hours of hard labor, Dunn opened his window to enjoy the
fresh air of the night, tempered slightly as it was with a gentle
sea-breeze. If our western moonlights have not the silver lustre of
Greece, of which old Homer himself sings, they have, in compensation,
a mellow radiance of wondrous softness and beauty. Objects are less
sharply defined and picked out, it is true, but the picture gains
in warmth of color, and those blended effects where light and shadow
alternate. The influences of Nature--the calm, still moonlight; the
measured march of the long, sweeping waves upon the strand; those
brilliant stars, “so still above, so restless in the water”--have a
marvellous power over the hard-worked men of the world. They are amidst
the few appeals to the heart which they can neither spurn nor reject.
Half hidden by the trees, but still visible from where he sat, Dunn
could mark the little window of his humble bedroom twenty years ago! Ay!
there was the little den to which he crept at night, his heart full of
many a sorrow; the “proud man's contumely” had eaten deep into him, and
each day brought some new grievance, some new trial to be endured, while
the sight of her he loved--the young and haughty girl--goaded him almost
to madness.
One after another came all the little incidents of that long-forgotten
time crowding to his memory; and now he bethought him how noiselessly he
used to glide down those stairs, and, stealing into the wood, meet her
in her morning's walk, and how, as with uncovered head, he bowed to
her, she would bestow upon him one of her own half-saucy smiles,--more
mockery than kindness. He called to mind the day, too, he had climbed
the mountain to gather a bouquet of the purple heath,--she said she
liked it,--and how, after a great effort of courage, he ventured to
offer it to her. She took it half laughingly from his hand, and then,
turning to her pet goat beside her, gave it him to eat. He could have
shot himself that morning, and yet there he was now, to smile over the
incident!
As he sat, the sounds of music floated up from the open window of the
room beneath. It was the piano, the same he used to hear long ago, when
the Poet himself of the Melodies came down to pass a few days at the
Hermitage. A low, soft voice was now singing, and as he bent down he
could hear the words of poor Griffin's beautiful song:--
“A place in thy memory, dearest,
Is all that I claim;
To pause and look back as thou nearest
The sound of my name.”
What a strange thrill did the words send through him! They came, as it
were, to fill up the whole story of the past, embodying the unspoken
prayer his love-sick heart once was filled with. For that “smile and
kind word when we meet,” had he once pined and longed, and where was the
spirit now that had once so yearned for love? A cold shudder passed over
him, and he felt ill. He sat for a long while so deep in reflection that
he did not notice the music had ceased, and now all was still and silent
around. From the balcony outside his window a little winding stair led
down to the lawn beneath; and down this he now took his way, resolving
to stroll for half an hour or so before bedtime.
Walking carelessly along, he at last found himself on the banks of
the river, close to the spot where he had met Miss Kellett that same
morning. How glad he would have been to find her there again! That long
morning's ramble had filled him with many a hopeful thought--he knew,
with the instinct that in such men as himself rarely deceives--that
he had inspired her with a sort of interest in him, and it warmed his
self-esteem to think that he could be valued for something besides
“success.” The flutter of a white dress crossing the little rustic
bridge caught his eye at this moment, and he hurried along the path. He
soon gained sufficiently upon the retiring figure to see it was a lady.
She was strolling quietly along, stopping at times to catch the effects
of the moonlight on the landscape.
Dunn walked so as to make his footsteps heard approaching, and she
turned suddenly and exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Dunn, who would have thought to
see you here?”
“A question I might almost have the hardihood to retort, Lady Augusta,”
said he, completely taken by surprise.
“As for me,” said she, carelessly, “it is my usual walk every evening. I
stroll down to the shore round by that rocky headland, and rarely return
before midnight; but _you,_” added she, throwing a livelier interest
into her tone, “they said you were poorly, and so overwhelmed with
business it was hopeless to expect to see you.”
“Work follows such men as myself like a destiny,” said he, sighing; “and
as the gambler goes on to wager stake after stake on fortune, so do we
hazard leisure, taste, happiness, all, to gain--I know not what in the
end.”
“Your simile points to the losing gamester,” said she, quickly; “but
he who has won, and won largely, may surely quit the table when he
pleases.”
“It is true,” said he, after a pause,--“it is true, I have had luck with
me. The very trees under whose branches we are walking, could they but
speak, might bear witness to a time when I strolled here as poor and as
hopeless as the meanest outcast that walks the high-road. I had not one
living soul to say, 'Be of good cheer, your time will come yet.' My
case had even more than the ordinary obstacles to success; for fate had
placed me where every day, every hour of my life, should show me the
disparity between myself and those high-born great to whose station I
aspired. If you only knew, Lady Augusta,” added he, in a tone tremulous
with emotion, “what store I laid on any passing kindness,--the simplest
word, the merest look,--how even a gesture or a glance lighted hope
within my heart, or made it cold and dreary within me, you 'd wonder
that a creature such as this could nerve itself to the stern work of
life.”
“I was but a child at the time you speak of,” said she, looking down
bashfully; “but I remember you perfectly.”
“Indeed!” said he, with an accent that implied pleasure.
“So well,” continued she, “that there is not a spot in the wood where we
used to take our lesson-books in summer, but lives still associated in
my mind with those hours, so happy they were!”
“I always feared that I had left very different memories behind me
here,” said he, in a low voice.
“You were unjust, then,” said she, in a tone still lower,--“unjust to
yourself and to us.”
They walked on without speaking, a strange mysterious consciousness that
each was in the other's thoughts standing in place of converse between
them. At length, stopping suddenly in front of a little rocky cavern,
over which aquatic plants were drooped, she said, “Do you remember
calling that 'Calypso's grotto'? It bears no other name still.”
“I remember more,” said he; and then stopped in some confusion.
“Some girlish folly of mine, perhaps,” broke she in hurriedly; “but
once for all, let me ask forgiveness for many a thoughtless word, many
a childish wrong. You, who know all tempers and moods of men as few
know them, can well make allowances for natures spoiled as ours
were,--pampered and flattered by those about us, living in a little
world of our own here. And yet, do not think me silly when I own that
I would it were all back again. The childish wrong. You, who know all
tempers and moods of men as few know them, can well make allowances for
natures spoiled as ours were--pampered and nattered by those about us,
living in a little world of our own here. And yet, do not think me silly
when I own that I would it were all back again. The childhood and the
lessons, ay, the dreary Telemachus, that gave me many a headache, and
the tiresome hours at the piano, and the rest of it.” She glanced a
covert glance at Dunn, and saw that his features were a shade darker and
gloomier than before. “Mind,” said she, quickly, “I don't ask you
to join in this wish. You have lived to achieve great successes--to be
courted, and sought after, and caressed. I don't expect you to care
to live over again hours which perhaps you look back to with a sort of
horror.”
“I dare not well tell you how I look back to them,” said he, in a
half-irresolute manner.
Had there been any to mark it, he would have seen that her cheek flushed
and her dark eyes grew darker as he spoke these words. She was far too
skilful a tactician to disturb, even by a syllable, the thoughts she
knew his words indicated; and again they sauntered along in silence,
till they found themselves standing on the shore of the sea.
“How is it that the sea, like the sky, seems ever to inspire the wish
that says, 'What lies beyond that?'” said Dunn, dreamily.
“It comes of that longing, perhaps, for some imaginary existence out of
the life of daily care and struggle--”
“I believe so,” said he, interrupting. “One is so apt to forget that
another horizon is sure to rise to view,--another bourne to be passed!”
Then suddenly, as if with a rapid change of thought, he said, “What a
charming spot this is to pass one's days in,--so calm, so peaceful, so
undisturbed!”
“I love it!” said she, in a low, murmuring voice, as though speaking to
herself.
“And I could love it too,” said he, ardently, “if fortune would but
leave me to a life of repose and quiet.”
“It is so strange to hear men like yourself--men who in a measure make
their own fate,--always accuse Destiny. Who is there, let me ask,” said
she, with a boldness the stronger that she saw an influence followed her
words,--“who is there who could with more of graceful pride retire from
the busy cares of life than he who has worked so long, so successfully,
for his fellow-men? Who is there who, having achieved fortune, friends,
station--Why do you shake your head?” cried she, suddenly.
“You estimate my position too flatteringly, Lady Augusta,” said
he, slowly, and like one laboring with some painful reflection. “Of
fortune--if that mean wealth--I have more than I need. Friends--what the
world calls such--I suppose I may safely say I possess my share of. But
as to station, by which I would imply the rank which stamps a certain
grade in society, and carries with it a prestige--”
“It is your own whenever you care to demand it,” broke she in. “It is
not when the soldier mounts the breach that his country showers its
honours on him--it is when, victory achieved, he comes back great and
triumphant. You have but to declare that your labours are completed,
your campaign finished, to meet any, the proudest, recognition your
services could claim. You know my father,” said she, suddenly changing
her voice to a tone at once confidential and intimate--“you know how
instinctively, as it were, he surrounds himself with all the prejudices
of his order. Well, even he, as late as last night, said to me, 'Dunn
ought to be one of us, Augusta. We want men of his stamp. The lawyers
overbear us just now. It is men of wider sympathies lets technical less
narrowed, that we need. He ought to be one of us.' Knowing what a great
admission that was for one like him, I ventured to ask how this was to
be accomplished. 'Ministers are often the last to ratify the judgment
the public' he pronounced.”
“Well, and what said you to that,” asked Dunn, eagerly.
“Let him only open his mind to Lady Augusta,” said she. “If he but have
the will I promise to show him the way.”
Dunn uttered no reply, but with bent-down head walked along, deep in
thought.
“May I ask you to lend me your arm, Mr. Dunn?” said Lady Augusta, in
her gentlest of voices; and Dunn's heart beat with a strange, proud
significance as he gave it.
They spoke but little as they returned to the cottage.