With the most eager desire to accomplish his mission, Paul Dempsey did
not succeed in reaching “The Corvy” until late on the day after Miss
Daly's visit. He set out originally by paths so secret and circuitous
that he lost his way, and was obliged to pass his night among the hills,
where, warned by the deep thundering of the sea that the cliffs were
near, he was fain to await daybreak ere he ventured farther. The
trackless waste over which his way led was no bad emblem of poor Paul's
mind, as, cowering beneath a sand-hill, he shivered through the long
hours of night. Swayed by various impulses, he could determine on no
definite line of action, and wavered and doubted and hesitated, till his
very brain was addled by its operations.
At one moment he was disposed, like good Launcelot Gobbo, to “run for
it,” and, leaving Darcy and all belonging to him to their several fates,
to provide for his own safety; when suddenly a dim vision of meeting
Maria Daly in this world or the next, and being called to account for
his delinquency, routed such determinations. Then he revelled in the
glorious opportunity for gossip afforded by the whole adventure. How he
should astonish Coleraine and its neighborhood by his revelations of
the Knight and his family! Gossip in all its moods and tenses, from
the vague indicative of mere innuendo, to the full subjunctive of open
defamation! Not indeed that Mr. Dempsey loved slander for itself; on
the contrary, his temperament was far more akin to kindliness than its
opposite; but the passion for retailing one's neighbor's foibles or
misfortunes is an impulse that admits no guidance; and as the gambler
would ruin his best friend at play, so would the professed gossip
calumniate the very nearest and dearest to him on earth. There are in
the social as in the mercantile world characters who never deal in the
honest article of commerce, but have a store of damaged, injured, or
smuggled goods, to be hawked about surreptitiously, and always to be
sold in the “strictest secrecy.” Mr. Dempsey was a pedler in this wise,
and, if truth must be told, he did not dislike his trade.
And yet, at moments, thoughts of another and more tender kind were
wafted across Paul's mind, not resting indeed long enough to make any
deep impression, but still leaving behind them, as pleasant thoughts
always will, little twilights of happiness. Paul had been touched--a
mere graze, skin deep, but still touched--by Helen Darcy's beauty and
fascinations. She had accompanied him more than once on the piano while
he sang, and whether the long-fringed eyelashes and the dimpled cheek
had done the mischief, or that the thoughtful tact with which she
displayed Paul's good notes and glossed over his false ones had won his
gratitude, certain is it he had already felt a very sensible regard for
the young lady, and more than once caught himself, when thinking about
her, speculating on the speedy demise of Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey's
Grove, and all the consequences that might ensue therefrom.
If the enjoyment Mr. Dempsey's various peculiarities afforded Helen
suggested on her part the semblance of pleasure in his society, Paul
took these indications all in his own favor, and even catechized himself
how far he might be deemed culpable in winning the affections of a
charming young lady, so long as his precarious condition forbid all
thought of matrimony. Now, however, that he knew who the family really
were, such doubts were much allayed; for, as he wisely remarked to
himself, “Though they are ruined, there 's always nice picking in the
wreck of an Indiaman!” Such were the thoughts by which his way was
beguiled, when late in the afternoon he reached “The Corvy.”
Lady Eleanor and her daughter were out walking when Mr. Dempsey arrived,
and, having cautiously reconnoitred the premises, ventured to approach
the door. All was quiet and tranquil about the cottage; so, reassured by
this, he peered through the window into the large hall, where a cheerful
fire now blazed and shed a mellow glow over the strange decorations of
the chamber. Mr. Dempsey had often desired an opportunity of examining
these curiosities at his leisure. Not indeed prompted thereto by any
antiquarian taste, but, from a casual glance at the inscriptions, he
calculated on the amount of private history of the Dalys he should
obtain. Stray and independent facts, it is true, but to be arranged by
the hand of a competent and clever commentator.
With cautious hand he turned the handle of the door and entered.
There he stood, in the very midst of the coveted objects; and never did
humble bookworm gaze on the rich titles of an ample library with more
enthusiastic pleasure. He drew a long breath to relieve his overburdened
heart, and glutted his eyes in ecstasy on every side. Enthusiasm takes
its tone from individuality, and doubtless Mr. Dempsey felt at that
moment something as Belzoni might, when, unexpectedly admitted within
some tomb of the Pyramids, he found himself about to unravel some secret
history of the Pharaohs.
“Now for it,” said he, half aloud; “let us do the thing in order; and
first of all, what have we here?” He stooped and read an inscription
attached to a velvet coat embroidered with silver,--
“Coat worn by B. D. in his duel with Colonel Matthews,--62,--the
puncture under the sword-arm being a tierce outside the guard; a very
rare point, and which cost the giver seriously.”
“He killed Matthews, of course,” added Dempsey; “the passage can mean
nothing else, so let us be accurate as to fact and date.”
So saying, he proceeded to note down the circumstance in a little
memorandum-book. “So!” added he, as he read his note over; “now for the
next. What can this misshapen lump of metal mean?”
“A piece of brute gold, presented with twelve female slaves by the
chiefs of Doolawochyeekeka on B. D.'s assuming the sovereignty of the
island.”
“Brute gold,” said Mr. Dempsey; “devilish little of the real thing
about it, I'll be sworn! I suppose the ladies were about equally refined
and valuable.”
“Glove dropped by the Infanta Donna Isidore within the arena at Madrid,
a few moments after Ruy Peres da Castres was gored to death.”
A prolonged low whistle from Mr. Dempsey was the only comment he made on
this inscription; while he stooped to examine the fragment of a bull's
horn, from which a rag of scarlet cloth was hanging. The inscription
ran, “Portion of horn broken as the bull fell against the barrier of the
circus. The cloth was part of Da Castres' vest.”
A massive antique helmet, of immense size and weight, lay on the floor
beside this. It was labelled, “Casque of Rudolf v. Hapsbourg, presented
to B. D. after the tilt at Regensburg by Edric Conrad Wilhelm Kur Furst
von Bavera, a.d. 1750.”
A splendid goblet of silver gilt, beautifully chased and ornamented, was
inscribed on the metal as being the gift of the Doge of Venice to his
friend Bagenal Daly; and underneath was written on a card, “This cup
was drained to the bottom at a draught by B. D. after a long and deep
carouse, the liquor strong 'Vino di Cypro.' The Doge tried it and
failed; the mark within shows how far he drank.”
“By Jove! what a pull!” exclaimed Dempsey, who, as he peered into
the capacious vessel, looked as if he would not object to try his own
prowess at the feat.
Wonderment at this last achievement seemed completely to have taken
possession of Mr. Dempsey; for while his eyes ranged over weapons
of every strange form and shape,--armor, idols, stuffed beasts and
birds,--they invariably came back to the huge goblet with an admiring
wonder that showed that here at least there was an exploit whose merits
he could thoroughly appreciate.
“A half-gallon can is nothing to it!” muttered he, as he replaced it on
its bracket.
The reflection was scarcely uttered, when the quick tramp of a horse and
the sound of wheels without startled him. He hastened to the window just
in time to perceive a jaunting-car drive up to the wicket, from which
three men descended. Two were common-looking fellows in dark upper
coats and glazed hats; the third, better dressed, and with a
half-gentlemanlike air, seemed the superior. He threw off a loose
travelling-coat, and discovered, to Mr. Dempsey's horror, the features
of his late patient at Larne, the sheriff's officer from Dublin. Yes,
there was no doubt about it. That smart, conceited look, the sharp and
turned-up nose, the scrubby whisker, proclaimed him as the terrible
Anthony Nickie, of Jervas Street, a name which Mr. Dempsey had read on
his portmanteau before guessing how its owner was concerned in his own
interests.
What a multitude of terrors jostled each other in his mind as the men
approached the door, and what resolves did he form and abandon in the
same moment! To escape by the rear of the house while the enemy was
assailing the front, to barricade the premises and stand a siege, to arm
himself--and there was a choice of weapons--and give battle, were all
rapid impulses no sooner conceived than given up. A loud summons of the
door-bell announced his presence; and ere the sounds died away, Tate's
creaking footstep and winter cough resounded along the corridor. Mr.
Dempsey threw a last despairing glance around, and the thought flashed
across him, how happily would he exchange his existence with any of the
grim images and uncouth shapes that grinned and glared on every side,
ay, even with that saw-mouthed crocodile that surmounted the chimney!
Quick as his eye traversed the chamber, he fancied that the savage
animals were actually enjoying his misery, and Sandy's counterpart
appeared to show a diabolical glee at his wretched predicament. It
was at this instant he caught sight of the loose folds of the Indian
blanket, which enveloped Bagenal Daly's image. The danger was too
pressing for hesitation; he stepped into the canoe, and cowering down
under the warlike figure, awaited his destiny. Scarcely had the drapery
closed around him when Tate admitted the new arrival.
“'The Corvy? '“ said Mr. Nickie to the old butler, who with decorous
ceremony bowed low before him. “'The Corvy,' ain't it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tate.
“All right, Mac,” resumed Nickie, turning to the elder of his two
followers, who had closely dogged him to the door. “Bring that
carpet-bag and the small box off the car, and tell the fellow he 'll
have time to feed his horse at that cabin on the road-side.”
He added something in a whisper, too low for Tate to hear, and then,
taking the carpet-bag, he flung it carelessly in a corner, while he
walked forward and deposited the box on the table before the fire.
“His honor is coming to dine, maybe?” asked Tate, respectfully; for old
habit of his master's hospitality had made the question almost a matter
of course, while age had so dimmed his eyesight that even Anthony Nickie
passed with him for a gentleman.
“Coming to dine,” repeated Nickie, with a coarse laugh; “that's a
bargain there 's always two words to, my old boy. I suppose you 've
heard it is manners to wait to be asked, eh?--without,” added he, after
a second's pause,--“without I 'm to take this as an invitation.”
“I believe your honor might, then,” said Tate, with a smile. “'Tis many
a one I kept again the family came home for dinner, and sorrow word of
it they knew till they seen them dressed in the drawing-room! And the
dinner-table!” said Tate, with a sigh, half in regret over the past,
half preparing himself with a sufficiency of breath for a lengthened
oration,-“the dinner-table! it's wishing it I am still! After laying for
ten, or maybe twelve, his honor would come in and say, 'Tate, we 'll be
rather crowded here, for here 's Sir Gore Molony and his family. You 'll
have to make room for five more.' Then Miss Helen would come springing
in with, 'Tate, I forgot to say Colonel Martin and his officers are to
be here at dinner.' After that it would be my lady herself, in her own
quiet way, 'Mr. Sullivan,'-she nearly always called me that,--'could n't
you contrive a little space here for Lady Burke and Miss MacDonnel? But
the captain beat all, for he 'd come in after the soup was removed, with
five or six gentlemen from the hunt, splashed and wet up to their necks;
over he 'd go to the side-table, where I 'd have my knives and forks,
all beautiful, and may I never but he 'd fling some here, others there,
till he 'd clear a space away, and then he'd cry, 'Tate, bring back the
soup, and set some sherry here.' Maybe that wasn't the table for
noise, drinking wine with every one at the big table, and telling such
wonderful stories that the servants did n't know what they were doing,
listening to them. And the master--the heavens be about him!--sending me
over to get the names of the gentlemen, that he might ask them to take
wine with him. Oh, dear--oh, dear, I 'm sure I used to think my heart
was broke with it; but sure it's nigher breaking now that it's all past
and over.”
“You seem to have had very jolly times of it in those days,” said
Nickie.
“Faix, your honor might say so if you saw forty-eight sitting down
to dinner every day in the parlor for seven weeks running; and Master
Lionel--the captain that is--at the head of another table in the
library, with twelve or fourteen more,--nice youths they wor!”
While Tate continued his retrospections, Mr. Nickie had unlocked his
box, and cursorily throwing a glance over some papers, he muttered to
himself a few words, and then added aloud,--“Now for business.”