We have said that Mr. Dempsey had barely time to conceal himself when
the door was opened,--so narrow indeed was his escape, that had the new
arrival been a second sooner, discovery would have been inevitable; as
it was, the pictorial Daly and Sandy rocked violently to and fro, making
their natural ferocity and grimness something even more terrible than
usual. Mr. Nickie remarked nothing of this. His first care was to divest
himself of certain travelling encumbrances, like one who proposes to
make a visit of some duration, and then, casting a searching look around
the premises, he proceeded,--
“Now for Mr. Darcy--”
“If ye 'r maning the Knight of Gwynne, sir, his honor--”
“Well, is his honor at home?” said the other, interrupting with a saucy
laugh.
“No, sir,” said Tate, almost overpowered at the irreverence of his
questioner.
“When do you expect him, then,--in an hour or two hours?”
“He 's in England,” said Tate, drawing a long breath.
“In England! What do you mean, old fellow? He has surely not left this
lately?”
“Yes, sir, 'twas the King sent for him, I heerd the mistress say.”
A burst of downright laughter from the stranger stopped poor Tate's
explanation.
“Why, it's _you_ his Majesty ought to have invited,” cried Mr. Nickie,
wiping his eyes, “_you yourself_, man; devilish fit company for each
other you 'd be.”
Poor Tate had not the slightest idea of the grounds on which the
stranger suggested his companionship for royalty, but he was not the
less insulted at the disparagement of his master thus implied.
“'T is little I know about kings or queens,” growled out the old man,
“but they must be made of better clay than ever I seen yet, or they 're
not too good company for the Knight of Gwynne.”
After a stare for some seconds, half surprise, half insolence, Nickie
said, “You can tell me, perhaps, if this cottage is called 'The Corvy'?”
“Ay, that's the name of it.”
“The property of one Bagenal Daly, Esquire, isn't it?”
Tate nodded an assent.
“Maybe he is in England too,” continued Nickie. “Perhaps it was the
Queen sent for him,--he 's a handsome man, I suppose?”
“Faix, you can judge for yourself,” said Tate, “for there he is, looking
at you this minute.”
Nickie turned about hastily, while a terrible fear shot through him that
his remarks might have been heard by the individual himself; for, though
a stranger to Daly personally, he was not so to his reputation for
hare-brained daring and rashness, nor was it till he had stared at the
wooden representative for some seconds that he could dispel his dread of
the original.
“Is that like him?” asked he, affecting a sneer.
“As like as two pays,” said Tate, “barring about the eyes; Mr. Daly's
is brighter and more wild-looking. The Blessed Joseph be near us!”
exclaimed the old man, crossing himself devoutly, “one would think the
crayture knew what we were saying. Sorra lie in 't, there 's neither
luck nor grace in talking about you!”
This last sentiment, uttered in a faint voice, was called forth by an
involuntary shuddering of poor Mr. Dempsey, who, feeling that the whole
scrutiny of the party was directed towards his hiding-place, trembled so
violently that the plumes nodded, and the bone necklace jingled with the
motion.
While Mr. Nickie attributed these signs to the wind, he at the same
time conceived a very low estimate of poor Tate's understanding,--an
impression not altogether un-warranted by the sidelong and stealthy
looks which he threw at the canoe and its occupants.
“You seem rather afraid of Mr. Daly,” said he, with a sneering laugh.
“And so would you be, too, if he was as near you as that chap is,”
replied Tate, sternly. “I 've known braver-looking men than either of us
not like to stand before him. I mind the day--”
Tate-s reminiscences were brought to a sudden stop by perceiving his
mistress and Miss Darcy approaching the cottage; and hastening forward,
he threw open the door, while by way of introduction he said,--
“A gentleman for the master, my Lady.”
Lady Eleanor flushed up, and as suddenly grew pale. She guessed at once
the man and his errand.
“The Knight of Gwynne is from home, sir,” said she, in a voice her
efforts could not render firm.
“I understand as much, madam,” said Nickie, who was struggling to
recover the easy self-possession of his manner with the butler, but
whose awkwardness increased at every instant. “I believe you expect him
in a day or two?”
This was said to elicit if there might be some variance in the statement
of Lady Eleanor and her servant.
“You are misinformed, sir. He is not in the kingdom, nor do I anticipate
his speedy return.”
“So I told him, my Lady,” broke in the old butler. “I said the King
wanted him--”
“You may leave the room, Tate,” said Lady Eleanor, who perceived with
annoyance the sneering expression old Tate's simplicity had called up in
the stranger's face. “Now, sir,” said she, turning towards him, “may I
ask if your business with the Knight of Gwynne is of that nature that
cannot be transacted in his absence or through his law agent?”
“Scarcely, madam,” said Nickie, with a sententious gravity, who, in the
vantage-ground his power gave him, seemed rather desirous of prolonging
the interview. “Mr. Darcy's part can scarcely be performed by deputy,
even if he found any one friendly enough to undertake it.”
Lady Eleanor never spoke, but her hand grasped her daughter's more
closely, and they both stood pale and trembling with agitation. Helen
was the first to rally from this access of terror, and with an assured
voice she said,--
“You have heard, sir, that the Knight of Gwynne is absent; and as you
say your business is with him alone, is there any further reason for
your presence here?”
Mr. Nickie seemed for a moment taken aback by this unexpected speech,
and for a few seconds made no answer; his nature and his calling,
however, soon supplied presence of mind, and with an air of almost
insolent familiarity he answered,--
“Perhaps there may be, young lady.” He turned, and opening the door,
gave a sharp whistle, which was immediately responded to by a cry of
“Here we are, sir,” and the two followers already mentioned entered the
cottage.
“You may have heard of such a thing as an execution, ma'am,” said
Nickie, addressing Lady Eleanor, in a voice of mock civility, “the
attachment of property for debt. This is part of my business at the
present moment.”
“Do you mean here, sir--in this cottage?” asked Lady Eleanor, in an
accent scarcely audible from terror.
“Yes, ma'am, just so. The law allows fourteen days for redemption, with
payment of costs, until which time these men here will remain on the
premises; and although these gimcracks will scarcely pay my client's
costs, we must only make the best of it.”
“But this property is not ours, sir. This cottage belongs to a friend.”
“I am aware of that, ma'am. And that friend is about to answer for his
own sins on the present occasion, and not yours. These chattels are
attached as the property of Bagenal Daly, Esquire, at the suit of Peter
Hickman, formerly of Loughrea, surgeon and apothecary.”
“Is Mr. Daly aware-does he know of these proceedings?” gasped Lady
Eleanor, faintly.
“In the multiplicity of similar affairs, ma'am, it is quite possible he
may have let this one escape his memory; for if I don't mistake, he
has two actions pending in the King's Bench, an answer in equity, three
cases of common assault, and a contempt ol court,--all upon his hands
for this present session, not to speak of what this may portend.”
Here he took a newspaper from his pocket, and having doubled down a
paragraph, handed it to Lady Eleanor.
Overwhelmed by grief and astonishment, she made no motion to take the
paper, and Mr. Nickie, turning to Helen, read aloud,--
'“There is a rumor prevalent in the capital this morning, to which we
cannot, in the present uncertainty as to fact, make any more than a
guarded allusion. It is indeed one of those strange reports which we can
neither credit nor reject,--the only less probable thing than its truth
being that any one could deliberately fabricate so foul a calumny. The
story in its details we forbear to repeat; the important point, however,
is to connect the name of a well-known and eccentric late M. P. for an
Irish borough with the malicious burning of Newgate, and the subsequent
escape of the robber Freney.
“'The reasons alleged for this most extraordinary act are so marvellous,
absurd, and contradictory that we will not trifle with our readers'
patience by recounting them. The most generally believed one, however,
is, that the senator and the highwayman had maintained, for years past,
an intercourse of a very confidential nature, the threat to reveal
which, on his trial, Freney used as compulsory means of procuring his
escape.'
“Carrick goes further,” added Mr. Nickie, as he restored the paper to
his pocket, “and gives the name of Bagenal Daly, Esq., in full; stating,
besides, that he sailed for Halifax on Sunday last.”
Lady Eleanor and Helen exchanged looks of intelligent meaning, as he
finished the paragraph. To them Daly's hurried departure had a most
significant importance.
“This, ma'am, among other reasons,” resumed Nickie, “was another hint to
my client to press his claim; for Mr. Daly's departure once known, there
would soon be a scramble for the little remnant of his property. With
your leave, I 'll now put the keepers in possession. Perhaps you 'll not
be offended,” added he, in a lower tone, “if I remark that it's usual to
offer the men some refreshment. Come here, M'Dermot,” said he, aloud,-“a
very respectable man, and married, too,--the ladies will make you
comfortable, Mick, and I 'm sure you 'll be civil and obliging.”
A grunt and a gesture with both hands was the answer.
“Falls, we'll station you in the kitchen; mind you behave yourself.
“I 'll just take a slight inventory of the principal things,--a mere
matter of form, ma'am,--I know you 'll not remove one of them,” said Mr.
Nickie, who, like most coarsely minded people, was never more offensive
than when seeking to be complimentary. He did not notice, however,
the indignant look with which his speech was received, but proceeded
regularly in his office.
There is something insupportably offensive and revolting in the
business-like way of those who execute the severities of the law. Like
the undertaker, they can sharpen the pangs of misfortune by vulgarizing
its sorrows. Lady Eleanor gazed, in but half-consciousness, at
the scene; the self-satisfied assurance of the chief, the ruffian
contented-ness of his followers, grating on every prejudice of her mind.
Not so Helen; more quick to reason on impressions, she took in, at a
glance, their sad condition, and saw that, in a few days at furthest,
they should be houseless as well as friendless in the world,--no one
near to counsel or to succor them! Such were her thoughts as almost
mechanically her eyes followed the sheriff's officer through the
chamber.
“Not that, sir,” cried she, hastily, as he stopped in front of a
miniature of her father, and was noting it down in his list, among the
objects of the apartment,--“not that, sir.”
“And why not, miss?” said Nickie, with a leer of impudent familiarity.
“It is a portrait of the Knight of Gwynne, sir, and _our_ property.”
“Sorry for it, miss, but the law makes no distinction with regard to
property on the premises. You can always recover by a replevin.”
“Come, Helen, let us leave this,” said Lady Eleanor, faintly; “come
away, child.”
“You said, sir,” said Helen, turning hastily about,--“you said, sir,
that these proceedings were taken at the suit of Dr. Hickman. Was it his
desire that we should be treated thus?”
“Upon my word, young lady, he gave no special directions on the subject,
nor, if he had, would it signify much. The law, once set in motion, must
take its course; I suppose you know that.”
Helen did not hear his speech out, for, yielding to her mother, she
quitted the apartment.
Mr. Nickie stood for a few moments gazing at the door by which they had
made their exit, and then, turning towards M'Dermot, with a knowing wink
he said, “We'll be better friends before we part, I 'll engage, little
as she likes me now.”
“Faix, I never seen yer equal at getting round them,” answered the sub,
in a voice of fawning flattery, the very opposite of his former gruff
tone.
“That's the way I always begin, when they take a saucy way with them,”
resumed Nickie, who felt evidently pleased at the other's admiration.
“And when they 're brought down a bit to a sense of their situation, I
can just be as kind as I was cruel.”
“Never fear ye!” said M'Dermot, with a sententious shake of the head.
“Devil a taste of her would lave the room, if it wasn't for the mother.”
“I saw that plain enough,” said Nickie, as he threw a self-approving
look at himself in a tall mirror opposite.
“She's a fine young girl, there's no denying it,” said M'Dermot, who
anticipated, as the result of his chief's attention, a more liberal
scale of treatment for himself. “But I don't know how ye 'll ever get
round her, though to be sure if _you_ can't, who can?”
“This inventory will keep me till night,” said Nickie, changing the
theme quite suddenly, “and I'll miss Dempsey, I 'm afraid.”
“I hope not; sure you have his track,--haven't you?”
“Yes, and I have four fellows after him, along the shore here, but they
say he 's cunning as a fox. Well, I 'll not give him up in a hurry,
that's all. Is that rain I hear against the glass, Mick?”
“Ay, and dreadful rain too!” said the other, peeping through the window,
which now rattled and shook with a sudden squall of wind. “You 'll not
be able to leave this so late.”
“So I 'm thinking, Mick,” said Nickie, laying down his
writing-materials, and turning his back to the fire; “I believe I must
stay where I am.”
“'T is yourself is the boy!” cried Mick, with a look of admiration at
his master.
“You 're wrong, Mick,” said he, with a scarce repressed smile, “all
wrong; I wasn't thinking of her.”
“Maybe not,” said M'Dermot, shaking his head doubtfully; “maybe she's
not thinking of you this minute! But, afther all, I don't know how ye
'll do it. Any one would say the vardic was again you.”
“So it is, man, but can't we move for a new trial?” So saying, he turned
suddenly about, and pulled the bell.
M'Dermot said nothing, but stood staring at his chief, with a
well-feigned expression of wonderment, as though to say, “What is he
going to do next?”
The summons was speedily answered by old Tate, who stood in respectful
attention within the door. Not the slightest suspicion had crossed the
butler's mind of Mr. Nickie's calling, or of his object with the
Knight, or his manner would certainly have displayed a very different
politeness. “Didn't you ring, sir?” said he, with a bow to Nickie, who
now seemed vacillating, and uncertain how to proceed.
“Yes--I did--ring--the--bell,” replied he, hesitating between each
word of the sentence. “I was about to say that, as the night was so
severe,--a perfect hurricane it seems,--I should remain here. Eh, did
you speak?”
“No, sir,” replied Tate, respectfully.
“You can inform your mistress, then, and say, with Mr. Nickie's
respectful compliments,-mind that!--that if they have no objection, he
would be happy to join them at supper.”
Tate stood as if transfixed, not a sign of anger, not even of surprise
in his features. The shock had actually stupefied him.
“Do ye hear what the gentleman 's saying to you?” asked Mick, in a stern
voice.
“Sir?” said Tate, endeavoring to recover his routed faculties,--“sir?”
“Tell the old fool what I said,” muttered Nickie, with angry impatience;
and then, as if remembering that his message might possibly be not
over-courteously worded by Mr. M'Dennot, he approached Tate, and said,
“Give your mistress Mr. Nickie's compliments, and say that, not being
able to return to Coleraine, he hopes he may be permitted to pass the
evening with her and Miss Darcy.” This message, uttered with
great rapidity, as if the speaker dare not trust himself with more
deliberation, was accompanied by a motion of the hand, which half pushed
the old butler from the room.
Neither Mr. Nickie nor his subordinate exchanged a word during Tate's
absence. The former, indeed, seemed far less confident of his success
than at first, and M'Dermot waited the issue, for his cue what part to
take in the transaction.
If Tate's countenance, when he left the room, exhibited nothing but
confusion and bewilderment, when he reentered it his looks were composed
and steadfast.
“Well?” said Nickie, as the old butler stood for a second without
speaking,--“well?”
“Her Ladyship says that you and the other men, sir, may receive any
accommodation the house affords.” He paused for a moment or two, and
then added, “Her Ladyship declines Mr. Nickie's society.”
“Did she give you that message herself?” asked Nickie, hastily; “are
those her own words?”
“Them's her words,” said Tate, dryly.
“I never heerd the likes--”
“Stop, Mick, hold your tongue!” said Nickie, to his over-zealous
follower; while he muttered to himself, “My name is n't Anthony Nickie,
or I 'll make her repent that speech! Ay, faith,” said he, aloud, as
turning to the portrait of the Knight he appeared to address it, “you
shall come to the hammer as the original did before you.” If Tate had
understood the purport of this sarcasm, it is more than probable the
discussion would have taken another form; as it was, he listened to Mr.
Nickie's orders about the supper with due decorum, and retired to make
the requisite preparations. “I will make a night of it, by-------,”
exclaimed Nickie, as with clinched fist he struck the table before him.
“I hope you know how to sing, Mick?”
“I can do a little that way, sir,” grinned the ruffian, “when the
company is pressin'. If it was n't too loud--”
“Too loud! you may drown the storm out there, if ye 're able. But wait
till we have the supper and the liquor before us, as they might cut
off the supplies.” And with this prudent counsel, they suffered Tate to
proceed in his arrangements, without uttering another word.