When Forester entered the Knight's room in the inn, where, in calm
quietude, he sat awaiting the verdict, he hesitated for a moment how he
should break the joyful tidings of Daly's arrival.
“Speak out,” said Darcy. “If not exactly without hope, I am well
prepared for the worst.”
“Can you say you are equally ready to hear the best?” asked Forester,
eagerly.
“The best is a very strong word, my young friend,” said Darcy, gravely.
“And yet, I speak advisedly,--the best.”
“If so, perhaps I am not so prepared. My heart has dwelt so long on
these troubles, recognizing them as I felt they must be, that I would,
perhaps, ask a little time to think how I should hear tidings so remote
from all expectation. Of course, I do not speak of the mere verdict
here.”
“Nor I,” interposed Forester, impatiently. “I speak of what restores you
to your ancient house and rank, your station and your fortune.”
“Can this be true?”
“Ay, Maurice, every word of it,” broke in Daly, who, having listened so
far, could no longer restrain himself. The two old men fell into each
other's arms with all the cordial affection with which they had embraced
as schoolfellows sixty years before.
Great as was Darcy's amazement at seeing his oldest friend thus suddenly
restored, it was nothing in comparison to what he felt as Daly narrated
the event of the shipwreck, and his rescue from the sinking vessel by
Forester.
“And your companions, who were they?” asked Darcy, eagerly.
“You shall hear.”
“I guess one of them already,” interposed the Knight “The trusty Sandy.
Is it not so?”
“The other you will never hit upon,” said Daly, nodding an assent.
“I 'm thinking over all our friends, and yet none seem likely.”
“Come, Maurice, prepare yourself for surprise. What think you, if he to
whose fate I had linked myself, resolving that, live or die, we should
not separate,--if this man was--Gleeson--honest Tom Gleeson?”
The words seemed stunning in their effect; for Darey leaned back,
and passing his hands over his closed lids, murmured, “I hope my poor
faculties are not wandering,--I trust this may be no delusion.”
“He is yonder,” said Daly, taking the Knight's hand in his strong grasp;
“Sandy mounts guard over him. Not that the poor devil thinks of or
desires escape; he was too weary of a life of deception and sin when
we caught him, to wish to prolong it. Now rouse yourself, and listen to
me.”
It would doubtless be a heavy tax on our kind reader's patience were
we to relate, circumstantially, the conversation, that, now commencing,
lasted during the entire night and till late in the following morning.
Enough if we say that Daly, having, through Freney's instrumentality,
discovered that Gleeson had not committed suicide, but only spread this
rumor for concealment's sake, resolved to pursue him to America. Fearing
that any suspicion of his object might escape, he did not even
trust Bicknell with the secret; but by suffering him to continue
law proceedings as before, totally blinded the Hickmans as to the
possibility of the event.
It would in itself be a tale of marvel to recount the strange adventures
which Daly encountered in his search and pursuit of Gleeson, who had
originally taken up his residence in the States, was recognized there,
and fled into Canada, where he wandered about from place to place,
conscience-stricken and miserable. He was wretchedly poor, besides;
for on the bills and securities he carried away, many being on eminent
houses in America, payment was stopped, and being unable to risk
proceedings, he was reduced to beggary.
It now appeared that at a very early period of life, when a clerk in the
office of old Hickman's agent, he had committed a forgery. It was for
a small sum, and only done in anticipation of meeting the bill by his
salary due a few weeks later. So far the fraud was palliated by the
intention. By some mischance the document fell into the possession of
Dr. Hickman, whose name it falsely bore. He immediately took steps to
trace its origin, and having succeeded, he sent for Gleeson. When the
youth, pale and terror-stricken by suspicion, made his appearance, he
was amazed that, instead of finding a prosecutor ready prepared for his
ruin, he discovered a benevolent patron, who, having long watched the
zeal and assiduity with which he discharged his duties, desired to be
of use to him in life. Hickman told him that if he were disposed to make
the venture on his own account, he would use his influence to procure
him some small agencies, and even assist him with funds, to make
advances to those landlords who might employ him. The interview lasted
long. There was much excellent advice and wise admonition on one side,
profuse expression of gratitude and lasting fidelity on the other.
“Very well, very well,” said old Hickman, at the close of a very devoted
speech, in which Gleeson professed the most attached and the most
honorable motives,--for he was not at all aware that his bill was known
of,--“I am not ignorant of mankind; they are rarely, if ever, very bad
or very good; they can be occasionally faithful to their friends;
but there is one thing they are always--careful of themselves. See
this,”--here he took from his pocket-book the forged paper, and held it
before the almost sinking youth,--“there is what can bring you to the
gallows any day! Is this the first time?”
“It is, so help me--” cried he, falling on his knees.
“Never mind swearing. I believe you. And the last also?”
“And the last!”
“I see it must be, by the date,” rejoined Hickman.
“I can pay it, sir; I have the money ready--on Tuesday--”
“Never mind that,” replied Hickman, folding it up, and replacing it in
the pocket-book. “You shall pay me in something better than money,--in
gratitude. Come and dine with me alone to-day, and we 'll talk over the
future.”
It has never been our taste to present pictures of depravity to our
readers; we would more willingly turn from them, or, where that is
impossible, make them as sketchy as may be. It will be sufficient,
then, if we say that Gleeson's whole career was the plan and creation
of Hickman. The rigid and scrupulous honor, the spotless decorum, the
unshaken probity, were all devices to win public confidence and
esteem. That they were eminently successful, the epithet of “honest Tom
Gleeson,” by which he was universally known, is the guarantee. The union
of such qualities with consummate skill and the most unwearied zeal soon
made him the most distinguished man in his walk, and made his services
not only an evidence of success, but of a rectitude in obtaining success
that men of character prized still more highly.
Possessed of the titles of immense estates, invested with unbounded
confidence by the owners, cognizant of every legal flaw that
could excite uneasiness, aware of every hitch and strait of their
circumstances, he was less the servant than the master of those who
employed him.
It was a period when habits of extravagance prevailed to the widest
extent. The proprietors of estates deemed spending their incomes their
only duty, and left its cares to the agents. The only reproach, then,
ever laid to Gleeson's door was that when a question of a sale or a
loan was agitated, honest Tom's scruples were often a most troublesome
impediment to his less scrupulous employer. In fact, Gleeson stood
before the public as a kind of guardian of estated property,--the
providence of dowagers, widows, and younger children!
Such a man, with his neck in a halter, at any moment at the mercy of
old Dr. Hickman, was an agent for ruin almost inconceivable. Through his
instrumentality the old usurer laid out his immense stores of wealth
at enormous interest, obtained possession of vast estates at a mere
fraction of their worth, till at length, grown hardy by long impunity,
and daring by the recognition of the world, bolder expedients were
ventured on. Darcy's ruin was long the cherished dream of Hickman; and
when, after many a wily scheme and long negotiation, he saw Gleeson
engaged as his agent, he felt certain of victory. His first scheme was
to make Gleeson encourage young Lionel in every project of extravagance,
by putting his name to bills, assuring him that his father permitted him
an almost unlimited expenditure. This course once entered upon, and well
aware that the young man kept no record of such transactions, his name
was forged to several acceptances of large amount, and, subsequently, to
sales of property to meet them.
Meanwhile great loans were raised by Darcy to pay off incumbrances,
and never so employed; till, at length, the Knight decided upon the
negotiation which was to clear off Hickman's mortgage,--the debt, of all
others, he hated most to think of. So quietly was this carried on, that
Hickman heard nothing of it; for Gleeson, long wearied by a life of
treachery and perfidy, and never knowing the day or the hour when
disclosure might come, had resolved on escaping to America with this
large sum of money, leaving his colleague in crime to carry on business
alone.
“The Doctor” was not, however, to be thus duped. Secret and silent as
the arrangements for flight were, he heard of them all; and hastening
out to Gleeson's house, coolly told him that any attempt at escape would
bring him to the gallows. Gleeson attempted a denial. He alleged that
his intended going over to England was merely on account of this sum,
which Darcy was negotiating for, to pay off the mortgage.
A new light broke on Hickman. He saw that his terrified confederate
could not much longer be relied upon, and it was agreed between them
that Gleeson should pay the money to redeem the mortgage, and, having
obtained the release, show it to the Knight of Gwynne. This done, he was
to carry it back to Hickman, and, for the sum of £10,000, replace it in
his hands, thus enabling the doctor to deny the payment and foreclose
the mortgage, while honest Tom, weary of perfidy, and seeking repose,
should follow his original plan, and escape to America.
The money was paid, as Freney surmised and Daly believed; but Gleeson,
still dreading some act of treachery, instead of returning the release
and claiming the price, started a day earlier than he promised. The rest
is known to the reader. Whether the Hickmans credited the story of
the suicide or not, they were never quite free of the terror of a
disclosure; and, in pressing the matrimonial arrangement, hoped forever
to set at rest the disputed possession.
It would probably not interest our readers were we to dwell longer on
Gleeson or his motives. That some vague intention existed of one day
restoring to Darcy the release of his mortgage, is perhaps not unlikely.
A latent spark of honor, long buried beneath the ashes of crime, often
shines out brightly in the last hour of existence. There might be,
too, a cherished project of vengeance against the man that tempted and
destroyed him. Be it as it may, he guarded the document as though it had
been his last hope; and when tracked, pursued, and overtaken near
Fort Erie by a party of the Delawares, of whom the Howling Wind, alias
Bagenal Daly, was chief, it was found stitched up in the breast of his
waistcoat.
Our space does not permit us to dwell upon Bagenal Daly's adventures,
though we may assure our readers that they were both wild and wonderful.
One only regret darkened the happiness of his exploit. It was that he
was compelled so soon to leave the pleasant society of the Red
Skins, and the intellectual companionship of “Blue Fox” and “Hissing
Lightning;” while Sandy, discovering himself to be a widower, would
gladly have contracted new ties, to cement the alliance of the ancient
house of M'Grane with that of the Royal Family of Hickinbooke, or
the “Slimy Whip Snake,” a fair princess of which had bid high for his
affections. Indeed, the worthy Sandy had become romantic on the subject,
and suggested that if the lady would condescend to adopt certain
articles of attire, he would have no objection to take her back to “The
Corvy.” These were sacrifices, however, that not even love was called
upon to make, and the project was abortive.
[Illustration: 458]
So far have we condensed Bagenal Daly's narrative, which, orally
delivered, lasted till the sun was high and the morning fine and bright.
He had only concluded, when a servant in O'Reilly's livery brought
a letter, which he said was to be given to the Knight of Gwynne, but
required no answer. Its contents were the following:--
Sir,--The melancholy catastrophe of yesterday evening might excuse me
in your eyes from any attention to the claims of mere business. But the
discovery of certain documents lately in the possession of my father
demand at my hands the most prompt and complete reparation. I now know,
sir, that we were unjustly possessed of an estate and property that
were yours. I also know that severe wrongs have been inflicted upon you
through the instrumentality of my family. I have only to make the
best amende in my power, by immediately restoring the one, and asking
forgiveness for the other. If you can and will accord me the pardon I
seek, I shall, as soon as the sad duties which devolve upon me here are
completed, leave this country for the Continent, never to return. I have
already given directions to my legal adviser to confer with Mr Bicknell;
and no step will be omitted to secure a safe and speedy restoration
of your house and estate to its rightful owner. In deep humiliation, I
remain
Your obedient servant,
H. O'Reilly.
“Poor fellow!” said Darcy, throwing down the letter before Daly; “he
seems to have been no party to the fraud, and yet all the penalty falls
upon him.”
“Have no pity for the upstart rascal, Maurice; I 'll wager a
hundred--thank Heaven, Mr. Gleeson has put me in possession of a
few--that he was as deep as his father. Give me this paper, and I 'll
ask honest Tom the question.”
“Not so, Bagenal; I should be sorry to think worse of any man than I
must do. Let him have at least the benefit of a doubt; and as to honest
Tom, set him at liberty: we no longer want him; the papers he has given
are quite sufficient,--more than we are ever like to need.”
Daly had no fancy for relinquishing his hold of the game that cost him
so much trouble to take; but the Knight's words were usually a law to
him, and with a muttering remark of “I 'll do it because I 'll have my
eye on him,” he left the room to liberate his captive.
“There he goes,” exclaimed Daly, as, re-entering the room, he saw a
chaise rapidly drive from the door,--“there he goes, Maurice; and I own
to you I have an easier conscience for having let loose Freney on the
world than for liberating honest Tom Gleeson; but who have we here, with
four smoking posters?--ladies too!”
A travelling-carriage drew up at the door of the little inn, and
immediately three ladies descended. “That 's Maria,” cried Daly, rushing
from the room, and at once returned with his sister, Lady Eleanor, and
Miss Darcy.
Miss Daly had, three days before, received a letter from
Bagenal, detailing his capture of Gleeson, and informing her that he
hoped to be back in Ireland almost as soon as his letter. With these
tidings she hastened to Lady Eleanor, and concerted the journey which
now brought them all together.
Story-tellers have but scant privilege to linger where all is happiness,
unbroken and perfect. Like Mother Cary's chickens, their province is
rather with menacing storm than the signs of fair weather. We have,
then, but space to say that a more delighted party never met than those
who now assembled in that little inn; but one face showed any signs of
passing sorrow,--that was poor Forester's. The general joy, to which he
had so much contributed by his exertions, rather threw a gloomier shade
over his own unhappiness; and in secret he resolved to say “Good-bye”
that same evening.
Amid a thousand plans for the future, all tinged with their own bright
color, they sat round the fire at evening, when Miss Daly, whose
affection for the youth was strengthened by what she had seen during
his illness, remarked that he alone seemed exempt from the general
happiness.
“To whom we owe so much,” said Lady Eleanor, kindly. “My husband is
indebted to him for his life.”
“I can say as much, too,” said Daly; “not to speak of Gleeson's
gratitude.”
“Nay!” exclaimed the young man, blushing, “I did not know the service I
was rendering. I little guessed how grateful I should myself have reason
to be for being its instrument.”
“All this is very well,” said Miss Daly, abruptly; “but it is not
honest,--no, it is not honest. There are other feelings concerned here
than such amiable generalities as Joy, Pity, and Gratitude. Don't frown,
Helen,--that is better, love,--a smile becomes you to perfection.”
“I must stop you,” said Forester, blushing deeply. “It will be enough
if I say that any observation you can make must give me the deepest
pain,--not for myself--”
“But for Helen? I don't believe it. You may be a very sharp politician
and a very brave soldier, but you know very little about young ladies.
Yes, there 'a no denying it,-their game is all deceit.”
“Oh! Colonel Darcy--Lady Eleanor, will you not speak a word?” exclaimed
Forester, pale and agitated.
“A hundred, my dear boy,” cried the Knight, “if they would serve you;
but Helen's one is worth them all.”
“Miss Darcy, dare I hope? Helen, dearest!” added he, in a whisper, as,
taking her hand, he led her towards a window.
“My Lord, the carriage is ready,” said his servant, throwing wide the
door.
“You may order the horses back again,” said Daly, dryly; “my Lord is not
going this evening.”
Has our reader ever made a long voyage? Has he ever experienced in
himself the strange but most complete alteration in all his sentiments
and feelings when far away from land,--on the wild, bleak waters,--and
that same “himself,” when in sight of shore, with seaweed around the
prow, and land-breezes on his cheek? But a few hours back and that
ship was his world; he knew her from “bow to taffrail;” he greeted the
cook's galley as though it were the “restaurant” his heart delighted in;
he even felt a kind of friendship for the pistons as they jerked up and
down into a bowing acquaintance. But now how changed are his sentiments,
how fixedly are his eyes turned to the pier of the harbor, and how
impatient is he at those tacking zigzag approaches by which nautical
skill and care approximate the goal!
Already landed in imagination, the cautious manouvres of the crew are
an actual martyrdom; he has no bowels for anything save his own
enfranchisement, and he cannot comprehend the tiresome detail of
preparations, which, after all, perhaps, are scarcely five minutes
in endurance. At last, the gangway launched, see him, how he
elbows forward, fighting his way, carpet-bag in hand, regardless of
passport-people, police, and porters; he'll scarce take time to mutter a
“Good-bye, Captain,” in the haste to leave a scene all whose interest is
over, whose adventure is past.
Such is the end of a voyage; and such, or very nearly such, the end of
a novel! You, most amiable reader, are the passenger, we the skipper.
A few weeks ago you deemed us tolerable company, _faute de mieux_,
perhaps. We 'll not ask why, at all events. We had you out on the wide,
wild waters of uncertainty, free to sail where'er our fancy listed.
In our very waywardness there was a mock semblance of power, for the
creatures we presented to you were our own, their lives and fortunes in
our hands. Now all that is over,--we have neared the shore, and all our
hold on you is bygone.
How can we hope to excite interest in events already accomplished? Why
linger over details which you have already filled up? Of course, say
you, all ends happily now. Virtue is rewarded--as novelists understand
rewarding--by matrimony, and vice punished in single blessedness. The
hero marries the heroine; and if they don't live happy, etc.
But what became of Bagenal Daly? says some one who would compliment us
by expressing so much of interest. Bagenal, then, only waited to see the
Knight restored to his own, to retire with his sister to “The Corvy,”
where, attended by Sandy, he passed the remainder of his days in peace
and quietude; his greatest enjoyment being to seize on a chance tourist
to the Causeway, and make him listen to narratives of his early life,
but which age had now so far commingled that the merely strange became
actually marvellous.
Paul Dempsey grieved for a week, but consoled himself on hearing
that his rival had been a “lord;” and subsequently, in a “moment of
enthusiasm,” he married Mrs. Fumbally. The Hickmans left Ireland for the
Continent, where they are still to be found, rambling about from city
to city, and expressing the utmost sympathy with their country's
misfortunes, but, to avoid any admixture of meaner feeling, suffering no
taint of lucre to mingle with their compassion.
As for Lionel Darcy, his name is to be found in the despatches from the
East, and with a mention that shows that he has derogated in nothing
from the proud character of his race.
Of all those who figured before our reader, but one remains on the stage
where they all performed; and he, perhaps, has no claim to be especially
remembered. There is always, however, somewhat of respectability
attached to the oldest inhabitant, that chronicler of cold winters and
warm summers, of rainy springs and stormy Octobers. Con Heffernan,
then, lives, and still wields no inconsiderable share of his ancient
influence. Each party has discovered his treachery, but neither can
dispense with his services. He is the last link remaining between the
men of Ireland's “great day” and the very different race who now usurp
the direction of her destiny.
Of the period of which we have endeavored to picture some meagre
resemblance, unhappily the few traces remaining are those most to be
deplored. The poverty, the misery, and the anarchy survive; the genial
hospitality, the warm attachment to country, the cordial generosity of
Irish feeling, have sadly declined. Let us hope that from the depth
of our present sufferings better days are about to dawn, and a period
approaching when Ireland shall be “great” in the happiness of her
people, “glorious” in the development of her inexhaustible resources,
and “free” by that best of freedom,--free from the trammels of an
unmeaning party warfare, which has ever subjected the welfare of the
country to the miserable intrigues of a few adventurers.
THE END.