It is possible that my reader might not unwillingly accompany Sybella
as she stepped into the little boat, and, tripping lightly over the
“thwarts,” seated herself in the stern-sheets. The day was bright and
breezy, the sea scarcely ruffled, for the wind was off the land; the
craft, although but a fishing-boat, was sharp and clean built, the
canvas sat well on her, and, last of all, she who held the tiller was a
very pretty girl, whose cheek, flushed with exercise, and loosely
waving hair, gave to her beauty the heightened expression of which care
occasionally robbed it. The broad bay, with its mountain background
and its wide sea-reach, studded with tall three-masters, was a fine and
glorious object; and as the light boat heeled over to the breeze, and
the white foam came rustling over the prow, Sybella swept her fair
hand through the water, and bathed her brow with the action of one who
dismissed all painful thought, and gave herself to the full enjoyment of
the hour. Yes, my dear reader, the companionship of such a girl on
such a day, in such a scene, was worth having; and so even those rude
fishermen thought it, as, stretched at full length on the shingle
ballast, they gazed half bashfully at her, and then exchanged more
meaning looks with each other as she talked with them.
[Illustration: 198]
Just possible it is, too, that some curiosity may exist as to what
became of Mr. Hankes. Did that great projector of industrial enterprise
succeed in retracing his steps with safety? Did he fall in with some one
able to guide him back to Glengariff? Did he regain the Hermitage after
fatigue and peril, and much self-reproach for an undertaking so foreign
to his ways and habits; and did he vow to his own heart that this was to
be the last of such excursions on his part? Had he his misgivings, too,
that his conduct had not been perfectly heroic; and did he experience a
sense of shame in retiring before a peril braved by a young and delicate
girl? Admitted to a certain share of that gentleman's confidence, we are
obliged to declare that his chief sorrows were occasioned by the loss
of time, the amount of inconvenience, and the degree of fatigue the
expedition had caused him. It was not till late in the afternoon of the
day that he chanced upon a fisherman on his way to Bantry to sell his
fish. The poor peasant could not speak nor understand English, and after
a vain attempt at explanation on either side, the colloquy ended by
Hankes joining company with the man, and proceeding along with him,
whither he knew not.
If we have not traced the steps of Sybella's wanderings, we are little
disposed to linger along with those of Mr. Hankes, though, if his own
account were to be accepted, his journey was a succession of adventures
and escapes. Enough if we say that he at last abandoned his horse amid
the fissured cliffs of the coast, and, as best he might, clambered over
rock and precipice, through tall mazes of wet fern and deep moss, along
shingly shores and sandy beaches, till he reached the little inn at
Bantry, the weariest and most worn-out of men, his clothes in rags,
his shoes in tatters, and he himself scarcely conscious, and utterly
indifferent as to what became of him.
A night's sound sleep and a good breakfast were already contributing
much to efface the memory of past sufferings, when Sybella Kellett
entered his room. She had been over to the cottage, had visited the
whole locality, transacted all the business she had come for, and only
diverged from her homeward route on hearing that Mr. Hankes had just
arrived at Bantry. Rather apologizing for having left _him_ than
accusing him of deserting _her_, she rapidly proceeded to sketch out her
own journey. She did not dwell upon any incidents of the way,--had they
been really new or strange she would not have recalled them,--she only
adverted to what had constituted the object of her coming,--the purchase
of the small townland which she had completed.
“It is a dear old place,” said she, “of a fashion one so rarely sees in
Ireland, the house being built after that taste known as Elizabethan,
and by tradition said to have once been inhabited by the poet Spenser.
It is very small, and so hidden by a dense beech-wood, that you might
pass within fifty yards of the door and never see it. This rude drawing
may give you some idea of it.”
“And does the sea come up so close as this?” asked Hankes, eagerly.
“The little fishing-boat ran into the cove you see there; her mainsail
dropped over the new-mown hay.”
“Why, it 's the very thing Lord Lockewood is looking for, He is
positively wild about a spot in some remote out-of-the-way region; and
then, what you tell me of its being a poet's house will complete the
charm. You said Shakspeare--”
“No, Spenser, the poet of the 'Faërie Queene,'” broke she in, with a
smile.
“It's all the same; he 'll give it a fanciful name, and the association
with its once owner will afford him unceasing amusement.”
“I hope he is not destined to enjoy the pleasure you describe.”
“No?--why not, pray?”
“I hope and trust that the place may not pass into his hands; in a word,
I intend to ask Mr. Dunn to allow me to be the purchaser. I find that
the sum is almost exactly the amount I have invested in the Allotment
scheme,--these same shares we spoke of,--and I mean to beg as a great
favor,--a very great favor,--to be permitted to make this exchange. I
want no land,--nothing but the little plot around the cottage.”
“The cottage formerly inhabited by the poet Spenser, built in the purest
Elizabethan style, and situated in a glen,--you said a glen, I think,
Miss Kellett?” said Hankes,--“in a glen, whose wild enclosure, bosomed
amongst deep woods, and washed by the Atlantic--”
“Are you devising an advertisement, sir?”
“The very thing I was doing, Miss Kellett. I was just sketching out a
rough outline of a short paragraph for the 'Post.'”
“But remember, sir, I want to possess this spot. I wish to be its
owner--”
“To dispose of, of course, hereafter,--to make a clear three, four, or
five thousand by the bargain, eh?”
“Nothing of the kind, Mr. Hankes. I mean to acquire enough--some one
day or other--to go back and dwell there. I desire to have what I shall
always, to myself at least, call mine--my home. It will be as a goal to
win, the time I can come back and live there. It will be a resting-place
for poor Jack when he returns to England.”
Mr. Hankes paused. It was the first time Miss Kellett had referred to
her own fortunes in such a way as permitted him to take advantage of the
circumstance, and he deliberated with himself whether he ought not to
profit by the accident. How would she receive a word of advice from him?
Would it be well taken? Might it possibly lead to something more? Would
she be disposed to lean on his counsels; and, if so, what then? Ay, Mr.
Hankes, it was the “what then?” was the puzzle. It was true his late
conduct presented but a sorry emblem of that life-long fidelity he
thought of pledging; but if she were the clear-sighted, calm-reasoning
intelligence he believed, she would lay little stress upon what, after
all, was a mere trait of a man's temperament. Very rapidly, indeed, did
these reflections pass through his mind; and then he stole a glance at
her as she sat quietly sipping her tea, looking a very ideal of calm
tranquillity. “This cottage,” thought he, “has evidently taken a hold
of her fancy. Let me see if I cannot turn the theme to my purpose.”
And with this intention he again brought her back to speak of the spot,
which she did with all the eagerness of true interest.
“As to the association with the gifted spirit of song,” said Mr. Hankes,
soaring proudly into the style he loved, “I conclude that to be somewhat
doubtful of proof, eh?”
“Not at all, sir. Spenser lived at a place called Kilcoleman, from
which he removed for two or three years, and returned. It was in this
interval he inhabited the cottage. Curiously enough, some manuscript
in his writing--part of a correspondence with the Lord-Deputy--was
discovered yesterday when I was there. It was contained in a small oak
casket with a variety of other papers, some in quaint French, some
in Latin. The box was built in so as to form a portion of a curiously
carved chimney-piece, and chance alone led to its discovery.”
“I hope you secured the documents?” cried Hankes, eagerly.
“Yes, sir; here they are, box and all. The Rector advised me to carry
them away for security' sake.” And so saying, she laid upon the table a
massively bound and strong-built box, of about a foot in length.
It was with no inexperienced hand that Mr. Hankes proceeded to
investigate the contents. His well-practised eye rapidly caught the
meaning of each paper as he lifted it up, and he continued to mutter to
himself his comments upon them. “This document is an ancient grant of
the lands of Cloughrennin to the monks of the Abbey of Castlerosse, and
bears date 1104. It speaks of certain rights reserved to the Baron Hugh
Pritchard Conway. Conway--Conway,” mumbled he, twice or thrice; “that's
the very name I tried and could not remember yesterday, Miss Kellett.
You asked me about a certain soldier whose daring capture of a Russian
officer was going the round of the papers. The young fellow had but one
arm too; now I remember, his name was Conway.”
“Charles Conway! Was it Charles Conway?” cried she, eagerly; “but it
could be no other,--he had lost his right arm.”
“I 'm not sure which, but he had only one, and he was called an orderly
on the staff of the Piedmontese General.”
“Oh, the noble fellow! I could have sworn he would distinguish himself.
Tell me it all again, sir; where did it happen, and how, and when?”
Mr. Hankes's memory was now to be submitted to a very searching test,
and he was called on to furnish details which might have puzzled “Our
own Correspondent.” Had Charles Conway been rewarded for his gallantry?
What notice had his bravery elicited? Was he promoted, and to what
rank? Had he been decorated, and with what order? Were his wounds, as
reported, only trifling? Where was he now?--was he in hospital or on
service? She grew impatient at how little he knew,--how little the
incident seemed to have impressed him. “Was it possible,” she asked,
“that heroism like this was so rife that a meagre paragraph was deemed
enough to record it,--a paragraph, too, that forgot to state what had
become of its hero?”
“Why, my dear Miss Kellett,” interposed he, at length, “one reads a
dozen such achievements every week.”
“I deny it, sir,” cried she, angrily. “Our soldiers are the bravest in
the world; they possess a courage that asks no aid from the promptings
of self-interest, nor the urgings of vanity; they are very lions in
combat; but it needs the chivalrous ardor of the gentleman, the man
of blood and lineage to conceive a feat like this. It was only a noble
patriotism could suggest the thought of such an achievement.”
“I must say,” said Hankes, in confusion, “the young fellow acquitted
himself admirably; but I would also beg to observe that there is nothing
in the newspaper to lead to the conclusion you are disposed to draw.
There's not a word of his being a gentleman.”
“But I know it, sir,--the fact is known to _me_. Charles Conway is a man
of family; he was once a man of fortune: he had served as an officer
in a Lancer regiment; he had been extravagant, wild, wasteful, if you
will.”
“Why, it can't be the Smasher you're talking of?--the great swell that
used to drive the four chestnuts in the Park, and made the wager he 'd
go in at one window of Stagg and Mantle's and out at t'other?”
“I don't care to hear of such follies, sir, when there are better things
to be remembered. Besides, he is my brother's dearest friend, and I will
not hear him spoken of but with respect. Take _my_ word for it, sir, I
am but asking what you had done, without a hint, were he only present.”
“I believe you,--by Jove, I believe you!” cried Hankes, with an honesty
in the tone of his voice that actually made her smile. “And so this is
Conway the Smasher!”
“Pray, Mr. Hankes, recall him by some other association. It is only fair
to remember that he has given us the fitting occasion.”
“Ay, very true,--what you say is perfectly just; and, as you say, he
is your brother's friend. Who would have thought it!--who would have
thought it!”.
Without puzzling ourselves to inquire what it was that thus excited Mr.
Hankes's astonishment, let us observe that gentleman, as he turns over,
one by one, the papers in the box, muttering his comments meanwhile to
himself: “Old title-deeds,--very old indeed,--all the ancient contracts
are recited. Sir Gwellem Conway must have been a man of mark and note in
those days. Here we find him holding 'in capite' from the king, twelve
thousand acres, with the condition that he builds a strong castle and
a 'bawn.' And these are, apparently, Sir Gwellem's own letters. Ah!
and here we have him or his descendant called Baron of Ackroyd and
Bedgellert, and claimant to the title of Lackington, in which he seems
successful. This is the writ of summons calling him to the Lords as
Viscount Lackington. Very curious and important these papers are,--more
curious, perhaps, than important,--for in all likelihood there have been
at least half a dozen confiscations of these lands since this time.”
Mr. Hankes's observations were not well attended to, for Sybella was
already deep in the perusal of a curious old letter from a certain Dame
Marian Conway to her brother, then Sheriff of Cardigan, in which some
very strange traits of Irish chieftain life were detailed.
“I have an antiquarian friend who'd set great store by these old
documents, Miss Kellett,” said Hankes, with a sort of easy indifference.
“They have no value save for such collectors; they serve to throw a
passing light over a dark period of history, and perhaps explain a
bygone custom or an obsolete usage. What do you mean to do with them?”
“Keep them. If I succeed in my plans about the cottage, these letters of
Spenser to Sir Lawrence Esmond are in themselves a title. Of course, if
I fail in my request, I mean to give them to Mr. Dunn.”
“These were Welsh settlers, it would seem,” cried Hankes, still bending
over the papers. “They came originally from Abergedley.”
“Abergedley!” repeated Sybella, three or four times over. “How strange!”
“What is strange, Miss Kellett?” asked Hankes, whose curiosity was
eagerly excited by the expression of her features.
Instead of reply, however, she had taken a small notebook from her
pocket, and sat with her eyes fixed upon a few words written in her own
hand: “The Conways of Abergedley--of what family--if settled at any time
in Ireland, and where?” These few words, and the day of the year when
they were written, recalled to her mind a conversation she had once held
with Terry Driscoll.
“What is puzzling you, Miss Kellett?” broke in Hankes; “I wish I could
be of any assistance to its unravelment.”
“I am thinking of 'long ago;' something that occurred years back. Didn't
you mention,” asked she, suddenly, “that Mr. Driscoll had been the
former proprietor of thia cottage?”
“Yes, in so far as having paid part of the purchase-money. Does his name
recall anything to interest you, Miss Kellett?”
If she heard she did not heed his question, but sat deep sunk in her own
musings.
If there was any mood of the human mind that had an especial fascination
for Mr. Hankes, it was that frame of thought which indicated the
possession of some mysterious subject,--some deep and secret theme which
the possessor retained for himself alone,--a measure of which none were
to know the amount, to which none were to have the key. It would be
ignoble to call this passion curiosity, for, in reality, it was less
exercised by any desire to fathom the mystery than it was prompted by an
intense jealousy of him who thus held in his own hands the solution of
some portentous difficulty. To know on what schemes other men were bent,
what hopes and fears filled them, by what subtle trains of reasoning
they came to this conclusion or to that, were the daily exercises of
his intelligence. He was eternally, as the phrase is, putting things
together, comparing events, confronting this circumstance with that, and
drawing inferences from every chance and accident of life. Now, it was
clear to him Miss Kellett had a secret; or, at least, had the clew
to one. Driscoll was “in it,” and this cottage was “in it,” and, not
impossibly too, some of these Conway s were “in it.” There was something
in that note-book; how was he to obtain sight of it? The vaguest
line---a word--would be enough for him. Mr. Hankes remembered how he
had once committed himself and his health to the care of an unskilful
physician simply because the man knew a fact which he wanted, and
did worm out of him during his attendance. He had, at another time,
undertaken a short voyage in a most unsafe craft, with a drunken
captain, because the stewardess was possessed of a secret of which, even
in his sea-sickness, he obtained the key. Over and over again had he
assumed modes of life he detested, dissipation the most distasteful to
him, to gain the confidence of men that were only assailable in these
modes; and now he bethought him that if he only had a glimmering of his
present suspicion, the precipice and the narrow path and the booming sea
below had all been braved, and he would have followed her unflinchingly
through every peril with this goal before him. Was it too late to
reinstate himself in her esteem? He thought not; indeed, she did not
seem to retain any memory of his defection. At all events, there was
little semblance of it having influenced her in her manner towards him.
“We shall meet at Glengariff, Mr. Hankes,” said Sybella, rising, and
replacing the papers in the box. “I mean to return by the coast road,
and will not ask you to accompany me.”
“It is precisely what I was about to beg as a favor. I was poorly
yesterday,--a nervous headache, an affection I am subject to; in short,
I felt unequal to any exertion, or even excitement.”
“Pray let me counsel you to spare yourself a journey of much fatigue
with little to reward it. Frequency and long habit have deprived the
mountain tract of all terror for me, but I own that to a stranger it
is not without peril. The spot where we parted yesterday is the least
dangerous of the difficulties, and so I would say be advised, and keep
to the high-road.”
Now, there was not the slightest trace of sarcasm in what she said; it
was uttered in all sincerity and good faith, and yet Mr. Hankes could
not help suspecting a covert mockery throughout.
“I 'm determined she shall see I am a man of courage,” muttered he to
himself; and then added, aloud, “You must permit me to disobey you, Miss
Kellett. I am resolved to bear you company.”
There was a dash of decision in his tone that made Sybella turn to
look at him, and, to her astonishment, she saw a degree of purpose and
determination in his face very unlike its former expression. If she did
not possess the craft and subtlety which long years had polished to a
high perfection in him, she had that far finer and more delicate tact by
which a woman's nature reads man's coarser temperament. She watched
his eye, too, and saw how it rested on the oaken box, and, even while
awaiting her answer, never turned from that object.
“Yes,” said she to herself, “there is a game to be played out between
us, and yonder is the stake.”
Did Mr. Hankes divine what was passing in her mind? I know not. All he
said was,--
“May I order the horses, Miss Kellett?”
“Yes, I am ready.”
“And this box, what is to be done with it? Best to leave it here in the
possession of the innkeeper. I suppose it will be safe?” asked he, half
timidly.
“Perfectly safe; it would be inconvenient to carry with us. Will you
kindly tell the landlord to come here?”
No sooner had Mr. Hankes left the room on his errand, than Sybella
unlocked the box, and taking out the three papers in which the name of
Conway appeared, relocked it. The papers she as quickly consigned to
a small bag, which, as a sort of sabretasche, formed part of her
riding-costume.
Mr. Hankes was somewhat longer on his mission than appeared necessary,
and when he did return there was an air of some bustle and confusion
about him, while between him and the landlord an amount of intimacy had
grown up--a sort of confidence was established--that Bella's keen glance
rapidly read.
“An old-fashioned lock, and doubtless worth nothing, Miss Kellett,”
said Hankes, as with a contemptuous smile he regarded the curiously
carved ornament of the keyhole. “You have the key, I think?”
“Yes; it required some ingenuity to withdraw it from where, I suppose,
it has been rusting many a year.”
“It strikes me I might as well put a band over the lock and affix my
seal. It will convey the notion of something very precious inside,”
added he, laughing, “and our friend here, Mr. Rorke, will feel an
increased importance in the guardianship of such a treasure.”
“I 'll guard it like goold, sir; that you may depend on,” chimed in the
landlord.
Why was it that, as Bella's quick glance was bent upon him, he turned so
hastily away, as if to avoid the scrutiny?
Do not imagine, valued reader, that while this young girl scanned the
two faces before her, and tried to discover what secret understanding
subsisted between these two men,--strangers but an hour ago,--that she
herself was calm and self-possessed. Far from it; as little was she
self-acquitted. It was under the influence of a sudden suspicion
flashing across her mind--whence or how she knew not--that some
treachery was being planned, that she withdrew these documents from the
box. The expression of Hankes's look, as it rested on the casket, was
full of significance. It meant much, but of what nature she could not
read. The sudden way he had questioned her about Driscoll imparted a
link of connection between that man and the contents of the box, or part
of them; and what part could that be except what concerned the name of
Conway? If these were her impulses, they were more easily carried
out than forgiven, and in her secret heart she was ashamed of her own
distrust, and of what it led her to do.
“It would be a curious question at law,” said Hankes, as he affixed the
third and last seal,--“a very curious question, who owns that box.
Not that its contents would pay for the litigation,” added he, with
a mocking laugh; “but the property being sold this morning, with an
unsettled claim of Driscoll's over it, and the purchaser being still
undeclared,--for I suppose you bought it in for the Earl, or for Mr.
Dunn, perhaps--”
“No, sir, in my own name, and for myself, waiting Mr. Dunn's good
pleasure to confirm the sale in the way I have told you.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed he, looking with an unfeigned admiration at a young
girl capable of such rapid and decisive action, “so that you really may
consider yourself its owner.”
“I do consider myself its owner,” was her calm reply.
“Then pray excuse my officiousness in this sealing up. I hope you will
pardon my indiscreet zeal.”
She smiled without answering, and the blood mounted to Mr. Hankes's face
and forehead till they were crimson. He, too, felt that there was a game
between them, and was beginning to distrust his “hand.”
“Are we to be travelling-companions, Mr. Hankes?” asked she. And though
nothing was said in actual words, there was that in the voice and manner
of the speaker that made the question run thus: “Are we, after what we
have just seen of each other, to journey together?”
“Well, if you really wish me to confess the truth, Miss Kellett, I must
own I am rather afraid of my head along these mountain paths,--a sort of
faintness, a rushing of blood to the brain, and a confusion; in short,
Nature never meant me for a chamois-hunter, and I should bring no credit
on your training of me.”
“Your resolve is all the wiser, sir, and so to our next meeting.” She
waved him a half-familiar, half-cold farewell, and left the room.
Mr. Hankes saw her leave the town, and he loitered about the street
till he could mark two mounted figures ascending the mountain. He then
ordered a chaise to the door with all speed.
“Will you take it now, sir, or send for it, as you said at first?” asked
the innkeeper, as he stood with the oak box in his hands.
“Keep it till I write,--keep it till you hear from me; or, no, put it in
the chaise,--that's better.”