Neither of the ladies were at home when Bagenal Daly, followed by his
servant Sandy, reached “The Corvy,” and sat down in the porch to await
their return. Busied with his own reflections, which, to judge from the
deep abstraction of his manner, seemed weighty and important, Daly
never looked up from the ground, while Sandy leisurely walked round the
building to note the changes made in his absence, and comment, in no
flattering sense, on the art by which the builder had concealed so many
traits of “The Corvy's” origin.
“Ye 'd no ken she was a ship ava!” said he to himself, as he examined
the walls over which the trellised creepers were trained, and the
latticed windows festooned by the honeysuckle and the clematis, and
gazed in sadness over the altered building. “She's no a bit like the
auld Corvy!”
“Of course she 's not!” said Daly, testily, for the remark had suddenly
aroused him from his musings. “What the devil would you have? Are _you_
like the raw and ragged fellow I took from this bleak coast, and led
over more than half the world?”
“Troth, I am no the same man noo that I was sax-and-forty years agane,
and sorry I am to say it.”
“Sorry,--sorry! not to be half-starved and less than half-clad; hauling
a net one day, and being dragged for yourself the next--sorry!”
“Even sae, sore sorry. Eight-and-sixty may be aye sorry not to be
twa-and-twenty. I ken nae rise in life can pay off that score. It 's na
ower pleasant to think on, but I'm no the man I was then. No, nor, for
that matter, yerself neither.”
Daly was too long accustomed to the familiarity of Sandy's manner to
feel offended at the remark, though he did not seem by any means to
relish its application. Without making any reply, he arose and entered
the hall. On every side were objects reminding him of the past, strange
and sad commentary on the words of his servant. Sandy appeared to feel
the force of such allies, and, as he stood near, watched the effect the
various articles produced on his master's countenance.
“A bonnie rifle she is,” said he, as if interpreting the admiring look
Daly bestowed upon a richly ornamented gun. “Do you mind the day yer
honor shot the corbie at the Tegern See?”
“Where the Tyrol fellows set on us, on the road to Innspruck, and I
brought down the bird to show them that they had to deal with a marksman
as good at least as themselves.”
“Just sae; it was a bra' shot; your hand was as firm, and your eye as
steady then as any man's.”
“I could do the feat this minute,” said Daly, angrily, as turning away
he detached a heavy broadsword from the wall.
“She was aye over weighty in the hilt,” said Sandy, with a dry malice.
“You used to draw that bowstring to your ear,” said Daly, sternly, as he
pointed to a Swiss bow of portentous size.
“I had twa hands in those days,” said the other, calmly, and without the
slightest change of either voice or manner.
Not so with him to whom they were addressed. A flood of feelings seemed
to pour across his memory, and, laying his hand on Sandy's shoulder,
he said, in an accent of very unusual emotion, “You are right, Sandy, I
must be changed from what I used to be.”
“Let us awa to the auld life we led in those days,” said the other,
impetuously, “and we 'll soon be ourselves again! Does n't that remind
yer honor of the dark night on the Ottawa, when you sent the canoe, with
the pine-torch burning in her bow, down the stream, and drew all the
fire of the Indian fellows on her?”
“It was a grand sight,” cried Daly, rapturously, “to see the dark river
glittering with its torchlight, and the chiefs, as they stood rifle in
hand, peering into the dense pine copse, and making the echoes ring with
their war-cries.”
“It was unco near at one time,” said Sandy, as he took up the fold of
the blanket with which his effigy in the canoe was costumed. “There 's
the twa bullet-holes, and here the arrow-bead in the plank, where I had
my bead! If ye had missed the Delaware chap wi' the yellow cloth on his
forehead--”
“I soon changed its color for him,” said Daly, savagely.
“Troth did ye; ye gied him a bonny war-paint. How he sprang into the
air! I think I see him noo; many a night when I 'm lying awake, I think
I can hear the dreadful screech he gave, as he plunged into the river.”
“It was not a cry of pain, it was baffled vengeance,” said Daly.
“He never forgave the day ye gripped him by the twa hands in yer ain
one, and made the squaws laugh at him. Eh, how that auld deevil they
cau'd Black Buffalo yelled! Her greasy cheeks shook and swelled over her
dark eyes, till the face looked like nothing but a tar lake in Demerara
when there 's a hurricane blowin' over it.”
“You had rather a tenderness in that quarter, if I remember aright,”
said Daly, dryly.
“I 'll no deny she was a bra sauncie woman, and kenned weel to make a
haggis wi' an ape's head and shoulders.” Sandy smacked his lips, as if
the thought had brought up pleasant memories.
“How I escaped that bullet is more than I can guess,” said Daly, as he
inspected the blanket where it was pierced by a shot; and as he spoke,
he threw its wide folds over his shoulders, the better to judge of the
position.
“Ye aye wore it more on this side,” said Sandy, arranging the folds with
tasteful pride; “an', troth, it becomes you well. Tak the bit tomahawk
in your hand, noo. Ech! but yer like yoursel once more.”
“We may have to don this gear again, and sooner than you think,” said
Daly, thoughtfully.
“Nae a bit sooner than I 'd like,” said Sandy. “The salvages, as they
ca' them, hae neither baillies nor policemen, they hae nae cranks about
lawyers and 'tornies; a grip o' a man's hair and a sharp knife is even
as mickle a reason as a hempen cord and a gallows tree! Ech, it warms my
bluid again to see you stridin' up and doon,--if you had but a smudge o'
yellow ochre, or a bit o' red round your eyes, ye 'd look awful well.”
“What are you staring at?” said Daly, as Sandy opened a door stealthily,
and gazed down the passage towards the kitchen.
“I 'm thinking that as there is naebody in the house but the twa lasses,
maybe your honor would try a war-cry,--ye ken ye could do it bra'ly
once.”
“I may need the craft soon again,” said Daly, thoughtfully.
“Mercy upon us! here 's the leddies!” cried Sandy. But before Daly could
disencumber himself of his weapons and costume, Helen entered the hall.
[Illustration: 154]
If Lady Eleanor started at the strange apparition before her, and
involuntarily turned her eye towards the canoe, to see that its occupant
was still there, it is not much to be wondered at, so strongly did the
real and the counterfeit man resemble each other. The first surprise
over, he was welcomed with sincere pleasure. All the eccentricities
of character which in former days were commented on so sharply were
forgotten, or their memory replaced by the proofs of his ardent
devotion.
“How well you are looking!” was his first exclamation, as he gazed at
Lady Eleanor and Helen alternately, with that steady stare which is one
of the prerogatives of age towards beauty.
“There is no such tonic as necessity,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “and
it would seem as if health were too jealous to visit us when we have
every other blessing.”
“It is worth them all, madam. I am an old man, and have seen much of the
world, and I can safely aver that what are called its trials lie chiefly
in our weaknesses. We can all of us carry a heavier load than fortune
lays on us--” He suddenly checked himself, as if having unwittingly
lapsed into something like rebuke, and then said, “I find you alone; is
it not so?”
“Yes; Darcy has left us, suddenly and almost mysteriously, without you
can help us to a clearer insight. A letter from the War Office arrived
here on Tuesday, acknowledging, in most complimentary terms, the
fairness of his claim for military employment, and requesting his
presence in London. This was evidently in reply to an application,
although the Knight made none such.”
“But he has friends, mamma,--warm-hearted and affectionate ones,-who
might have done so,” said Helen, as she fixed her gaze steadily on Daly.
“And you, madam, have relatives of high and commanding influence,” said
he, avoiding to return Helen's glance,--“men of rank and station, who
might well feel proud of such a _protégé_ as Maurice Darcy. And what
have they given him?”
“We can tell you nothing; the official letter may explain more to your
clear-sightedness, and I will fetch it.” So saying, Lady Eleanor arose
and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when Daly stood up,
and, walking over, leaned his arm on the back of Helen's chair.
“You received my letter, did you not?” said he, hurriedly. “You know the
result of the trial?”
Helen nodded assent, while a secret emotion covered her face with
crimson, as Daly resumed,--
“There was ill-luck everywhere: the case badly stated; Lionel absent;
I myself detained in Dublin, by an unavoidable necessity,--everything
unfortunate even to the last incident. Had I been there, matters would
have taken another course. Still, Helen, Forester was right; and, depend
upon it, there is no scanty store of generous warmth in a heart that can
throb so strongly beneath the aiguiletted coat of an aide-de-camp. The
holiday habits of that tinsel life teach few lessons of self-devotion,
and the poor fellow has paid the penalty heavily.”
“What has happened?” said Helen, in a voice scarcely audible.
“He is disinherited, I hear. All his prospects depended on his mother;
she has cast him off, and, as the story goes, is about to marry.
Marriage is always the last vengeance of a widow.”
“Here is the letter,” said Lady Eleanor, entering; “let us hope you can
read its intentions better than we have.”
“Flattering, certainly,” muttered Daly, as he conned over the lines to
himself. “It's quite plain they mean to do something generous. I trust I
may learn it before I sail.”
“Sail! you are not about to travel, are you?” asked Lady Eleanor, in a
voice that betrayed her dread of being deprived of such support.
“Oh! I forgot I had n't told you. Yes, madam, another of those strange
riddles which have beset my life compels me to take a long voyage--to
America.”
“To America!” echoed Helen; and her eye glanced as she spoke to the
Indian war-cloak and the weapons that lay beside his chair.
“Not so, Helen,” said Daly, smiling, as if replying to the insinuated
remark; “I am too old for such follies now. Not in heart, indeed, but in
limb,” added he, sternly; “for I own I could ask nothing better than the
prairie or the pine-forest. I know of no cruelty in savage life that has
not its counterpart amid our civilization; and for the rude virtues that
are nurtured there, they are never warmed into existence by the hotbed
of selfishness.”
“But why leave your friends,--your sister?”
“My sister!” He paused, and a tinge of red came to his cheek as he
remembered how she had failed in all attention to the Darcys. “My
sister, madam, is self-willed and headstrong as myself. She acknowledges
none of the restraints or influence by which the social world consents
to be bound and regulated; her path has ever been wild and erratic as
my own. We sometimes cross, we never contradict, each other.” He paused,
and then muttered to himself, “Poor Molly! how different I knew you
once! And so,” added he, aloud, “I must leave without seeing Darcy! and
there stands Sandy, admonishing me that my time is already up. Good-bye,
Lady Eleanor; good-bye, Helen.” He turned his head away for a second,
and then, in a voice of unusual feeling, said: “Farewell is always a sad
word, and doubly sad when spoken by one old as I am; but if my heart
is heavy at this moment, it is the selfish sorrow of him who parts from
those so near. As for you, madam, and your fortunes, I am full of good
hope. When people talk of suffering virtue, believe me, the element of
courage must be wanting; but where the stout heart unites with the good
cause, success will come at last.”
He pressed his lips to the hands he held within his own, and hurried,
before they could reply, from the room.
“Our last friend gone!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, as she sank into a
chair.
Helen's heart was too full for utterance, and she sat down silently,
and watched the retiring figure of Daly and his servant till they
disappeared in the distance.