CHAPTER V. THE WORLD'S CHANGES.
While Mr. Davenport Dunn's residence was in Merrion Square, his house of business was in Henrietta Street,—one of those roomy old mansions which, before the days of the Union, lodged the aristocracy of Ireland, but which have now fallen into utter neglect and decay. Far more spacious in extent, and more ornate in decoration, than anything modern Dublin can boast, they remain, in their massive doors of dark mahogany, their richly stuccoed ceilings, and their handsome marble chimney-pieces, the last witnesses of a period when Dublin was a real metropolis.
From the spacious dinner-room below to the attics above, all this vast edifice was now converted into offices, and members of Mr. Dunn's staff were located even in the building at the rear, where the stables once had stood. Nothing can so briefly convey the varied occupations of his life as a glance at some of the inscriptions which figured on the different doors: “Inland Navigation Office,” “Grand Munster Junction Drainage,” “Compressed Fuel Company,” “Reclaimed Lands,” “Encumbered Estates,” “Coast Fishery,” “Copper and Cobalt Mining Association,” “Refuge Harbor Company,” “Slate and Marble Quarries,” “Tyrawley and Erris Bank of Deposit,” “Silver and Lead Mines.” These were but a few of the innumerable “associations,” “companies,” and “industrial speculations” which denoted the cares and employments of that busy head. Indeed, the altered fortunes of that great mansion itself presented no bad type of the changed destinies of the land. Here, once, was the abode of only too splendid hospitality, of all that refined courtesy and polished manners could contribute to make society as fascinating as it was brilliant Here were wit and beauty, and a high, chivalrous tone of manners, blended, it is true, with wildest extravagance and a general levity of thought, that imparted to intercourse the glowing tints of an orgy; and in their stead were now the active signs of industry, all the means by which wealth is amassed and great fortunes acquired, every resource of the country explored, every natural advantage consulted and developed,—the mountains, the valleys, the rivers, the sea-coasts, the vast tracts of bog and moss, the various mines and quarries, the products once deemed valueless, the districts formerly abandoned as irreclaimable, all brought out into strong light, and all investigated in a spirit which hitherto had been unknown to Ireland. What a change was here, and what necessities must have been the fate of those who had so altered all their habits and modes of thought as to conform to a system so widely different from all they had hitherto followed! It was like re-colonizing an empire, so subversive were all the innovations of what had preceded them.
“Eh, Barton, we used to trip up these stairs more flippantly once on a time,” said a very handsome old man, whose well-powdered hair and queue were rather novelties in modern appearance, to a feeble figure who, assisted by his servant, was slowly toiling his way upwards.
“How d' ye do, Glengariff?” said the other, with a weak smile. “So we used; and they were better days in every sense of the word.”
“Not a doubt of it,” said the other. “Is that your destination?” And he pointed to a door inscribed with the title “Encumbered Estates.”
“Ay!” said Barton, sighing.
“It 's mine, too, I 'm sorry to say,” cried Lord Glengariff; “as I suppose, erelong, it will be that of every country gentleman in the land!”
“We might have known it must come to this!” muttered the other, in a weak voice.
“I don't think so,” broke in his Lordship, quickly. “I see no occasion at all for what amounts to an act of confiscation; why not give us time to settle with our creditors? Why not leave us to deal with our encumbrances in our own way? The whole thing is a regular political swindle, Barton; they wanted a new gentry that could be more easily managed than the old fellows, who had no station, no rank, but right ready to buy both one and the other by supporting—”
“Can I be of any service to your Lordship?” interrupted a very over-dressed and much-gold-chained man, of about forty, with a great development of chest, set off to advantage by a very pretentious waistcoat.
“Ah, Hankes! is Dunn come back yet?” asked Lord Glengariff.
“No, my Lord; we expect him on Saturday. The telegraph is dated St. Cloud, where he is stopping with the Emperor.”
Glengariff gave Barton a slight pinch in the arm, and a look of intense meaning at the words.
“Nothing has been done in that matter of mine?” said Barton, feebly. “Jonas Barton is the name,” added he, coloring at the necessity of announcing himself.
“Jonas Barton, of Curryglass House?”
“Yes, that's it.”
“Sold yesterday, under the Court, sir—for, let me see—” And he opened a small memorandum-book. “Griffith's valuation,” muttered he between his teeth, “was rather better than the Commissioner's,—yes, sir, they got a bargain of that property yesterday; it went for twenty-two thousand six hundred—”
“Great God, sir; the whole estate?”
“The whole estate; there is a tithe-rent charge—”
“There, there, don't you see he does not hear you?” said Lord Glengariff, angrily. “Have you no room where he can sit down for half an hour or so?” And so saying, he assisted the servant to carry the now lifeless form into a small chamber beside them. The sick man rallied soon, and as quickly remembered where he was.
“This is bad news, Glengariff,” said he, with a sickly effort at a smile. “Have you heard who was the buyer?”
“No, no; what does it matter? Take my arm and get out of this place. Where are you stopping in town? Can I set you down?” said the other, in hurry and confusion.
“I'm with my son-in-law at Ely Place; he is to call for me here, so you can leave me, my dear friend, for I see you are impatient to get away.”
Lord Glengariff pressed his hand cordially, and descended the stairs far more rapidly than he had mounted them.
“Lord Glengariff,—one word, my Lord,” cried Mr. Hankes, hastening after him, and just catching him at the door.
“Not now, sir,—not now,” said Lord Glengariff.
“I beg a thousand pardons, my Lord, but Mr. Dunn writes me peremptorily to say that it cannot be effected—”
“Not raise the money, did you say?” asked he, growing suddenly pale.
“Not in the manner he proposed, my Lord. If you will allow me to explain—”
“Come over to my hotel. I am at Bilton's,” said Lord Glengariff. “Call on me there in an hour.” And so saying, he got into his carriage and drove off.
In the large drawing-room of the hotel sat a lady working, and occasionally reading a book which lay open before her. She was tall and thin, finely featured, and though now entered upon that period of life when every line and every tint confess the ravage of time, was still handsome. This was Lady Augusta Arden, Lord Glengariff's only unmarried daughter, the very type of her father in temperament as well as appearance.
“By George! it is confiscation. It is the inauguration of that Communism the French speak of,” cried Lord Glengariff, as he entered the room. “There 's poor Barton of Curryglass, one of the oldest names in his county, sold out, and for nothing,—absolutely nothing. No man shall persuade me that this is just or equitable; no man shall tell me that the Legislature shall step in and decide at any moment how I am to deal with my creditors.”
“I never heard of that Burton.”
“I said Barton,—not Burton; a man whose estate used to be called five thousand a year,” said he, angrily. “There he is now, turned out on the world. I verily believe he has n't a guinea left! And what is all this for? To raise up in the country a set of spurious gentry,—fellows that were never heard of, whose names are only known over shop-boards,—as if the people should be better treated or more kindly dealt with by them than by us, their natural protectors! By George! if Ireland should swarm with Davenport Dunns, I 'd call it a sorry exchange for the good blood she had lost in exterminating her old gentry.”
“Has he come back?” asked Lady Augusta, as she bent her head more deeply over her work, and her cheeks grew a shade more red.
“No; he's dining with royalties, and driving about in princely carriages on the Continent Seeing what the pleasures of his intimacy have cost us here at home, I'd say that these great personages ought to look sharp, or, by George! he'll sell them out, as he has done us.” He laughed a bitter laugh at his jest, but his daughter did not join in the emotion.
“I scarcely think it fair,” said she, at length, “to connect Mr. Dunn with a legislation which he is only called upon to execute.”
“With all my heart. Acquit him as much as you will; but, for my part, I feel very little tenderness for the hand that accomplishes the last functions of the law against me. These fellows have displayed a zeal and an alacrity in their work that shows how they relish the sport. After all,” said he, after a pause, “this Dunn is neither better nor worse than the rest of them, and in one respect he has the advantage over them,—he has not forgotten himself quite so much as the others. To be sure, we knew him in his very humblest fortunes, Augusta; he was meek enough then.”
She stooped to pick up her work, which had fallen, and her neck and face were crimson as she resumed it.
“Wonderful little anticipation had he then of the man he was to become one of these days. Do you know, Augusta, that they say he is actually worth two millions?—two millions!”
She never spoke; and after an interval Lord Glengariff burst out into a strange laugh.
“You 'd scarcely guess what I was laughing at, Augusta. I was just remembering the wretched hole he used to sleep in. It was a downright shame to put him there over the stable, but the cottage was under repair at the time, and there was no help for it. 'I can accommodate myself anywhere, my Lord,' he said. Egad, he has contrived to fulfil the prediction in a very different sense. Just fancy—two millions sterling!”
It was precisely what Lady Augusta was doing at the moment, though, perhaps, not quite in the spirit his Lordship suspected.
“Suppose even one half of it be true, with a million of money at command, what can't a man have nowadays?”
And so they both fell a-thinking of all that same great amount of riches could buy,—what of power, respect, rank, flattery, political influence, fine acquaintance, fine diamonds, and fine dinners.
“If he play his cards well, he might be a peer,” thought my Lord.
“If he be as ambitious as he ought to be, he might aspire to a peer's daughter,” was the lady's reflection.
“He has failed in my negotiation, however,” said Lord Glengariff, peevishly; “at least, Hankes just told me that it can't be done. I detest that fellow Hankes. It shows great want of tact in Dunn having such a man in his employment,—a vulgar, self-sufficient, over-dressed fellow, who can't help being familiar out of his own self-satisfaction. Now, Dunn himself knows his place. Don't you think so?”
She muttered something not very intelligible, but which sounded like concurrence.
“Yes,” he resumed, “Dunn does not forget himself,—at least, with me.” And to judge from the carriage of his head as he spoke, and the air with which he earned the pinch of snuff to his nose, he had not yet despaired of seeing the world come back to the traditions which once had made it worth living in.
“I am willing to give him every credit for his propriety of conduct, Augusta,” added he, in a still more lofty tone; “for we live in times when really wealth and worldly prosperity have more than their rightful supremacy, and such men as Dunn are made the marks of an adulation that is actually an outrage,—an outrage upon us!”
And the last little monosyllable was uttered with an emphasis of intense significance.
Just as his Lordship had rounded his peroration, the servant presented him with a small three-cornered note. He opened it and read,—
“My Lord,—I think the bearer of this, T. Driscoll, might possibly do what you wish for; and I send him, since I am sure that a personal interview with your Lordship would be more efficacious than any negotiation.
“By your Lordship's most obedient to command,
“Simpson Hankes.”
“Is the person who brought this below?” asked Lord Glengariff.
“Yes, my Lord; he is waiting for the answer.”
“Show him into my dressing-room.”
Mr. Terence Driscoll was accordingly introduced into that sanctum; and while he employs his few spare moments in curious and critical examination of the various gold and silver objects which contribute to his Lordship's toilet, and wonderingly snuffs at essences and odors of whose existence he had never dreamed, let us take the opportunity of a little examination of himself. He was a short, fat old man, with a very round red face, whose jovial expression was rather heightened than marred by a tremendous squint; for the eyes kept in incessant play and movement, which intimated a restless drollery that his full, capacious mouth well responded to. In dress and general appearance he belonged to the class of the comfortable farmer, and his massive silver watch-chain and huge seal displayed a consciousness of his well-to-do condition in life.
“Are you Mr. Driscoll?” said Lord Glengariff, as he looked at the letter to prompt him to the name. “Pray take a seat!”
“Yes, my Lord, I 'm that poor creature Terry Driscoll; the neighbors call me Tearin' Terry, but that 's all past and gone, Heaven be praised! It was a fever I had, my Lord, and my rayson wandered, and I did many a thing that desthroyed me entirely; I tore up the lease of my house, I tore up Peter Driscoll's, my uncle's, will; ay, and worse than all, I tore up all my front teeth!”
And, in evidence of this feat of dentistry, Mr. Driscoll gave a grin that exposed his bare gums to view.
“Good heavens, how shocking!” exclaimed Lord Glen-gariff, though, not impossibly, the expression was extorted by the sight rather than the history of the calamity.
“Shocking indeed, my Lord,—that's the name for it!” said Terry, sighing; “but ye see I was n't compos when I did it. I thought they were a set of blackguards that I could n't root out of the land,—squatters that would n't pay sixpence, nor do a day's work. That was the delusion that was upon me!”
“I hold here a letter from Mr. Hankes,” said his Lordship, pompously, and in a tone that was meant to recall Mr. Driscoll from the personal narrative he had entered upon with such evident self-satisfaction. “He mentions you as one likely—that is to say—one in a position—a person, in fact—”
“Yes, my Lord, yes,” interrupted Terry, with a grin of unbounded acquiescence.
“And adds,” continued his Lordship, “your desire to communicate personally with myself.” The words were very few and not very remarkable, and yet Lord Glengariff contrived to throw into them an amount of significance really great. They seemed to say, “Bethink thee well, Terry Driscoll, of the good fortune that this day has befallen thee. Thy boldness has been crowned with success, and there thou sittest now, being the poor worm that thou art, in converse with one who wears a coronet.”
And so, indeed, in all abject humility, did Mr. Driscoll appear to feel the situation. He drew his feet closer together, and stole his hands up the wide sleeves of his coat, as though endeavoring to diminish, as far as might be, his corporeal presence.
His Lordship saw that enough had been done for subjection, and blandly added, “And I could have no objection to the interview; none whatever.”
“It's too good you are, my Lord; too good and too gracious to the like of me,” said Terry, barely raising his eyes to throw a glance of mingled shame and drollery on his Lordship; “but I come by rayson of what Mr. Hankes tould me, that it was a trifle of a loan,—a small matter of money your Lordship was wantin' just at this moment.”
“I prefer doing these kind of things through my solicitors. I know nothing of business, sir, absolutely nothing,” said his Lordship, haughtily. “The present case, however, might form an exception. The sum I require is, as you justly remark, a mere trifle, and the occasion is not worthy of legal interference.”
“Yes, my Lord,” chimed in Driscoll, who had a most provoking habit of employing the affirmative in all situations.
“I suppose he mentioned to you the amount?” asked his Lordship, quickly.
“No, indeed, my Lord; all he said was, 'Terry,' says he, 'go over to Bilton's Hotel with this note, and ask for Lord Glengariff. He wants a little ready cash,' says he, 'and I tould him you 're a likely man to get it for him. It's too small a matter for us here,' says he, 'to be bothered about.'”
“He had n't the insolence to make use of these words towards me!” said Lord Glengariff, growing almost purple with passion.
“Faix, I 'm afeard he had, my Lord,” said Terry, looking down; “but I 'm sure he never meant any harm in it; 't was only as much as to say, 'There, Terry, there 's something for you; you 're a poor strugglin' man, and are well plazed to turn a penny in a small way. If you can accommodate my Lord there,' says he, 'he 'll not forget it to you.'”
The conclusion of this speech was far more satisfactory to his Lordship than its commencement seemed to promise; and Lord Glengariff smiled half graciously as he said, “I 'm not in the habit of neglecting those who serve me.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Driscoll, again.
“I may safely say that any influence I possess has always been exercised in favor of those who have been, so to say, supporters of my family.”
Had his Lordship uttered a sentiment of the most exalted and self-denying import, he could not have assumed a prouder air than when he had finished these words. “And now, Mr. Driscoll, to business. I want five thousand pounds—”
A long, low whistle from Terry, as he threw up both his hands in the air, abruptly stopped his Lordship.
“What do you mean? Does the sum appear so tremendous, sir?”
“Five thousand! Where would I get it? Five thousand pounds? By the mortial man! your Lordship might as well ax me for five millions. I thought it was a hundred; or, maybe, a hundred and fifty; or, at the outside, two hundred pounds, just to take you over to London for what they call the sayson, or to cut a figure at Paris; but, five thousand! By my conscience, that's the price of an estate nowadays!”
“It is upon estated property I intend to raise this loan, sir,” said his Lordship, angrily.
“Not Cushnacreena, my Lord?” asked Terry, eagerly.
“No, sir; that is secured by settlement.”
“Nor Ballyrennin?”
“No; the townland of Ballyrennin is, in a manner, tied up.”
“Tory's Mill, maybe?” inquired Terry, with more eagerness.
“Well, sir,” said his Lordship, drawing himself up, “I must really make you my compliments upon the very accurate knowledge you appear to possess about my estate. Since what period, may I venture to ask, have you conceived this warm interest in my behalf?”
“The way of it was this, my Lord,” said Driscoll, drawing his chair closer, and dropping his voice to a low, confidential tone. “After I had the fever,—the fever and ague I told you about,—I got up out of bed the poor crayture you see me, not able to think of anything, or do a hand's turn for myself, but just a burden on my friends or anybody that would keep me. Well, I tried all manner of ways to make myself useful, and I used to go errands here and there over the country for any one that wanted to know what land was to be sold, where there was a lot of good sheep, who had a drove of bullocks or a fancy bull; and, just getting into the habit of it, I larned a trifle of what was doing in the three counties, so that the people call me 'Terry's Almanack,'—that's the name they gave me, better than Tearin' Terry, anyhow! At all events, I got a taste for finding out the secrets of all the great families; and, to be sure, if I only had the memory, I'd know a great deal, but my head is like a cullender, and everything runs out as fast as you put it in. That's how it is, my Lord, and no lie in it.” And Terry wiped his forehead and heaved a heavy sigh, like a man who had just accomplished a very arduous task.
“So, then, I begin to understand how Hankes sent you over here to me,” said his Lordship.
“Yes, my Lord,” muttered Terry, with a bow.
“I had been under the impression—the erroneous impression—that you were yourself prepared to advance this small sum.”
“Me! Terry Driscoll lend five thousand pounds! Arrah, look at me, my Lord,—just take a glance at me, and you 'll see how likely it is I 'd have as many shillings! 'T was only by rayson of being always about—on the tramp, as they call it—that Mr. Hankes thought I could be of use to your Lordship. 'Go over,' says he, 'and just tell him who and what you are.' There it is now!”
Lord Glengariff made no reply, but slowly walked the room in deep meditation; a passing feeling of pity for the poor fellow before him had overcome any irritation his own disappointment had occasioned, and for the moment the bent of his mind was compassionate.
“Well, Driscoll,” said he, at length, “I don't exactly see how you can serve me in this matter.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Terry, with a pleasant leer of his restless eyes.
“I say I don't perceive that you can contribute in any way to the object I have in view,” said his Lordship, half peevish at being, as he thought, misapprehended. “Hankes ought to have known as much himself.”
“Yes, my Lord,” chimed in Terry.
“And you may tell him so from me. He is totally unfitted for his situation, and I am only surprised that Dunn, shrewd fellow that he is, should have ever placed a man of this stamp in a position of such trust. The first requisite in such a man is to understand the deference he owes to us.”
There was an emphasis on the last monosyllable that pretty clearly announced how little share Terry Driscoll enjoyed in this co-partnery.
“That because I have a momentary occasion for a small sum of ready money, he should send over to confer with me a half-witted—I mean a man only half recovered from a fever—a poor fellow still suffering from—”
“Yes, my Lord,” interposed Terry, as he laid his hand on his forehead in token of the seat of his calamity.
“It is too gross,—it is outrageous,—but Dunn shall hear of it,—Dunn shall deal with this fellow when he comes back. I 'm sorry for you, Driscoll,—very sorry indeed; it is a sad bereavement, and though you are not exactly a case for an asylum,—perhaps, indeed, you might have objections to an asylum—”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Well, in that case private friends are, I opine—private friends—and the kind sympathies of those who have known you—eh, don't you think so?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“That is the sensible view to take of it. I am glad you see it in this way. It shows that you really exercise a correct judgment,—a very wise discretion in your case,—and for a man in your situation—your painful situation—you see things in their true light.”
“Yes, my Lord.” And this time the eyes rolled with a most peculiar expression.
“If you should relapse, however,—if, say, former symptoms were to threaten again,—remember that I am on the committee, or a governor, or something or other, of one of these institutions, and I might be of use to you. Remember that, Driscoll.” And with a wave of his hand his Lordship dismissed Terry, who, after a series of respectful obeisances, gained the door and disappeared.
CHAPTER VI. SYBELLA KELLETT.
When change of fortune had reduced the Kelletts so low that Sybella was driven to become a daily governess, her hard fate had exacted from her about the very heaviest of all sacrifices. It was not, indeed, the life of unceasing toil,—dreary and monotonous as such toil is,—it was not the humility of a station for which the world affords not one solitary protection,—these were not what she dreaded; as little was it the jarring sense of dependence daily and hourly imposed. No, she had courage and a high determination to confront each and all of these. The great source of her suffering was in the loss of that calm and unbroken quiet to which the retired habits of a remote country-house had so long accustomed her. With scarcely anything which could be called a society near them, so reduced in means as to be unable to receive visitors at home, Kellett's Court had been for many years a lonely house. The days succeeded each other with such similarity that time was unfelt, seasons came and went, and years rolled on unconsciously. No sights nor sounds of the great world without invaded these retired precincts. Of the mighty events which convulsed the politics of states,—of the great issues that engaged men's minds throughout Europe,—they heard absolutely nothing. The passing story of some little incident of cottier life represented to them all that they had of news; and thus time glided noiselessly along, till they came to feel a sense of happiness in that same unbroken round of life.
They who have experienced the measured tread of a conventual existence—where the same incidents daily recur at the same periods, where no events from without obtrude, where the passions and the ambitions and cares of mankind have so little of reality to the mind that they fail to impress with any meaning—are well aware that in the peaceful calm of spirit thus acquired there is a sense of happiness, which is not the less real that it wears the semblance of seriousness, almost of sadness.
In all that pertained to a sombre monotony, Kellett's Court was a convent. The tall mountains to the back, the deep woods to the front, seemed barriers against the world without; and there was a silence and a stillness about the spot as though it were some lone island in a vast sea, where no voyagers ever touched, no traveller ever landed. This same isolation, strong in its own sense of security, was the charm of the place, investing it with a kind of romance, and imparting to Sybella's own life a something of storied interest. The very few books the house contained she had read and re-read till she knew them almost by heart. They were lives of voyagers,—hardy men of enterprise and daring, who had pushed their fortunes in far-away lands,—or else sketches of life and adventure in distant countries.
The annals of these sea-rovers were full of all the fascination of which gorgeous scenery and stirring incident form the charm. There were lands such as no painter's genius ever fancied, verdure and flowers of more than fairy brilliancy, gold and gems of splendor that rivalled Aladdin's cave, strange customs, and curious observances mingled with deeds of wildest daring, making up a succession of pictures wherein the mind alternated between the voluptuous repose of tropical enjoyment and the hair-breadth 'scapes of buccaneering existence. The great men whose genius planned, and whose courage achieved, these enterprises, formed for her a sort of hero-worship. Their rough virtues, their splendid hospitality, their lion-hearted defiance of danger, were strong appeals to her sympathy, while in their devoted loyalty she found a species of chivalry that elevated them in her esteem. Woman-like, too, she inclined to make success the true test of greatness, and glorified to herself those bold spirits who never halted nor turned aside when on their road to victory. The splendid self-dependence of such men as Drake and Dampier struck her as the noblest attribute of mankind; that resolute trust in their own stout hearts imparted to them a degree of interest almost devotional; and over and over did she bethink her what a glorious destiny it would have been to have had a life associated and bound up with some such man as one of these. The very contest and controversy his actions would have evoked, heightened the illusion, and there savored of heroism in sharing a fame that flung down its proud defiance to the world.
Estrangement from the world often imparts to the stories of the past, or even to the characters of fiction, a degree of interest which, by those engaged in the actual work of life, is only accorded to their friends or relatives; and thus, to this young girl in her isolation, such names as Raleigh and Cavendish—such characters as Cromwell, Lorenzo de' Medici, and Napoleon—stood forth before her in all the attributes of well-known individuals. To have so far soared above the ordinary accidents of life as to live in an atmosphere above all other men,—to have seen the world and its ways from an eminence that gave wider scope to vision and more play to speculation,—to have meditated over the destinies of mankind from the height of a station that gave control over their actions,—seemed so glorious a privilege that the blemishes and even the crimes of men so gifted were merged in the greatness of the mighty task they had imposed upon themselves; and thus was it that she claimed for these an exemption from the judgments that had visited less distinguished wrong-doers most heavily. “How can I, or such as I am, pronounce upon one like this man? What knowledge have I of the conflict waged within his deep intelligence? How can I fathom the ocean of his thoughts, or even guess at the difficulties that have opposed, the doubts that have beset him? I can but vaguely fashion to myself the end and object of his journey; how, then, shall I criticise the road by which he travels, the halts he makes, the devious turnings and windings he seems to fall into?” In such plausibilities she merged every scruple as to those she had deified to her own mind. “Their ways are not our ways,” said she; “their natures are as little our natures.”
From all the dreamland of these speculations was she suddenly and rudely brought to face the battle of life itself, an humble soldier in the ranks. No longer to dwell in secret converse with the mighty spirits who had swayed their fellow-men, she was now to enter upon that path of daily drudgery whose direst infliction was the contact with that work-o'-day world wherewith she had few sympathies.
Mrs. Hawkshaw had read her advertisement in a morning paper, and sent for her to call upon her. Now Mrs. Hawkshaw was an alderman's lady, who lived in a fine house, and had fine clothes and fine servants and fine plate, and everything, in short, fine about her but a fine husband, for he was a rough, homespun, good-natured sort of man, who cared little for anything save a stocking-factory he owned at Balbriggan, and the stormy incidents that usually shook the “livery” he belonged to.
There were six little Hawkshaws to be governed and geographied and catechised, and civilized in all the various forms by which untaught humanity is prepared for the future work of life; there were rudiments of variously colored knowledge to be imparted, habits instilled, and tempers controlled, by one who, though she brought to her task the most sincere desire to succeed, was yet deep in a world of her own thoughts,—far lost in the mazy intricacies of her own fancies. That poor Miss Kellett, therefore, should pass for a very simple-minded, good creature, quite unfit for her occupation, was natural enough; and that Mrs. Hawkshaw should “take her into training” was almost an equally natural consequence.
“She seems to be always like one in a dream, my dear,” said Mrs. Hawkshaw to her husband. “The children do exactly as they please; they play all false, and she never corrects them; they draw landscapes in their copy-books, and she says, 'Very nicely done, darlings.'”
“Her misfortunes are preying upon her, perhaps.”
“Misfortunes! why, they have been in poverty this many a year. My brother Terry tells me that the Kelletts had n't above two hundred a year, and that latterly they lost even this.”
“Well, it is a come-down in the world, anyhow,” said Hawkshaw, sighing, “and I must say she bears it well.”
“If she only feels it as little as she appears to do everything else, the sacrifice doesn't cost her much,” said the lady, tartly. “I told her she was to come here last Sunday and take charge of the children; she never came; and when I questioned her as to the reason, she only smiled and said, 'She never thought of it; in fact, she was too happy to be alone on that day to think of anything.' And here she comes now, nearly an hour late.” And, as she spoke, a weary step ascended the steps to the door, and an uncertain, faltering hand raised the knocker.
“It is nigh eleven o'clock, Miss Kellett,” said Mrs. Hawkshaw, as she met her on the stairs.
“Indeed—I am so sorry—I must have forgotten—I don't think I knew the hour,” said the other, stammeringly.
“Your hour is ten, Miss Kellett.”
“I think so.”
“How is your father, Miss Kellett?” asked the alderman, abruptly, and not sorry to interpose at the juncture.
“He is well, sir, and seems very happy,” said she, gratefully, while her eyes lighted up with pleasure.
“Give him my regards,” said Hawkshaw, good-naturedly, and passed down the stairs; while his wife coldly added,—
“The children are waiting for you,” and disappeared.
With what determined energy did she address herself now to her task,—how resolutely devote her whole mind to her duty. She read and heard and corrected and amended with all the intense anxiety of one eager to discharge her trust honestly and well. She did her very utmost to bring her faculties to bear upon every detail of her task; and it was only when one of the girls asked who was he whose name she had been writing over and over again in her copy-book, that she forgot her self-imposed restraint, and in a fervor of delight at the question, replied, “I 'll tell you, Mary, who Savonarola was.”
In all the vigor of true narrative power, the especial gift of those minds where the play of fancy is only the adornment of the reasoning faculty, she gave a rapid sketch of the prophet priest, his zeal, his courage, and his martyrdom; with that captivating fascination which is the firstborn of true enthusiasm, she awakened their interest so deeply that they listened to all she said as to a romance whose hero had won their sympathies, and even dimly followed her as she told them that such men as this stood out from time to time in the world's history like great beacons blazing on a rocky eminence, to guide and warn their fellow-men. That in their own age characters of this stamp were either undervalued or actually depreciated and condemned, was but the common lot of humanity; their own great destinies raised them very often above the sympathies of ordinary life, and men caught eagerly at the blemishes of those so vastly greater than themselves,—hence all the disesteem they met with from contemporaries.
“And are there none like this now, Miss Bella?” asked one of the girls; “or is it that in our country such are not to be met with?”
“They are of every land and of every age; ay, and of every station! Country, time, birth have no prerogative. At one moment the great light of the earth has been the noblest born in his nation, at another a peasant,—miles apart in all the accidents of fortune, brothers by the stamp which makes genius a tie of family. To-morrow you shall hear of one, the noblest-hearted man in all England, and yet whose daily toil was the vulgar life of an exciseman. This great man's nature is known to us, teaching men a higher lesson than all that his genius has bequeathed us.”
In the willingness with which they listened to her, Bella found fresh support for her enthusiasm. If, therefore, there was this solace to the irksome nature of her task, it rendered that task itself more and more wearisome and distasteful. Her round of duty led her amongst many who did not care for these things; some heard them with apathy, others with even mockery. How often does it happen in life that feelings which if freely expanded had spread themselves broadly over the objects of the world, become by repression compressed into principles!
This was the case with her; the more opposition thwarted, the more resolutely was she bent on carrying out her notions. All her reading tended to this direction, all her speculation, all her thought.
“There must be men amongst us even now,” said she, “to whom this great prerogative of guidance is given; superior minds who feel the greatness of their mission, and, perhaps, know how necessary it is to veil their very ascendancy, that they may exercise it more safely and more widely. What concession may they not be making to vulgar prejudice, what submission to this or that ordinance of society? How many a devious path must they tread to reach that goal that the world will not let them strive for more directly; and, worse than all, through what a sea of misrepresentation, and even calumny, must they wade? How must they endure the odious imputations of selfishness, of pride, of hard-heartedness, nay, perhaps, of even crime? And all this without the recognition of as much as one who knows their purpose and acknowledges their desert.”
CHAPTER VII. AN ARRIVAL AT MIDNIGHT.
Night had just closed in over the Lake of Como; and if the character of the scene in daylight had been such as to suggest ideas of dramatic effect, still more was this the case as darkness wrapped the whole landscape, leaving the great Alps barely traceable against the starry sky, while faintly glimmering lights dotted the dark shores from villa and palace, and soft sounds of music floated lazily on the night air, only broken by the plashing stroke of some gondolier as he stole across the lake.
The Villa d'Este was a-glitter with light. The great saloon which opened on the water blazed with lamps; the terraces were illuminated with many-colored lanterns; solitary candles glimmered from the windows of many a lonely chamber; and even through the dark copses and leafy parterres some lamp twinkled, to show the path to those who preferred the scented night air to the crowded and brilliant assemblage within doors. The votaries of hydropathy are rarely victims of grave malady. They are generally either the exhausted sons and daughters of fashionable dissipation, the worn-out denizens of great cities, or the tired slaves of exciting professions,—the men of politics, of literature, or of law. To such as these, a life of easy indolence, the absence of all constraint, the freedom which comes of mixing with a society where not one face is known to them, are the chief charms; and, with that, the privilege of condescending to amusements and intimacies of which, in their more regular course of life, they had not even stooped to partake. To English people this latter element was no inconsiderable feature of pleasure. Strictly defined as all the ranks of society are in their own country,—marshalled in classes so rigidly that none may move out of the place to which birth has assigned him,—they feel a certain expansion in this novel liberty, perhaps the one sole new sensation of which their natures are susceptible. It was in the enjoyment of this freedom that a considerable party were now assembled in the great saloons of the villa. There were Russians and Austrians of high rank, conspicuous for their quiet and stately courtesy; a noisy Frenchman or two; a few pale, thoughtful-looking Italians, men whose noble foreheads seem to promise so much, but whose actual lives appear to evidence so little; a crowd of Americans, as distinctive and as marked as though theirs had been a nationality stamped with centuries of transmission; and, lastly, there were the English, already presented to our reader in an early chapter,—Lady Lackington and her friend Lady Grace,—having, in a caprice of a moment, descended to see “what the whole thing was like.”
“No presentations, my Lord, none whatever,” said Lady Lackington, as she arranged the folds of her dress, on assuming a very distinguished position in the room. “We have only come for a few minutes, and don't mean to make acquaintances.”
“Who is the little pale woman with the turquoise ornaments?” asked Lady Grace.
“The Princess Labanoff,” said his Lordship, blandly bowing.
“Not she who was suspected of having poisoned—”
“The same.”
“I should like to know her. And the man,—who is that tall, dark man, with the high forehead?”
“Glumthal, the great Frankfort millionnaire.”
“Oh, present him, by all means. Let us have him here,” said Lady Lackington, eagerly. “What does that little man mean by smirking in that fashion,—who is he?” asked she, as Mr. O'Reilly passed and repassed before her, making some horrible grimaces that he intended to have represented as fascinations.
“On no account, my Lord,” said Lady Lackington, as though replying to a look of entreaty from his Lordship.
“But you 'd really be amused,” said he, smiling. “It is about the best bit of low comedy—”
“I detest low comedy.”
“The father of your fair friends, is it not?” asked Lady Grace, languidly.
“Yes. Twining admires them vastly,” said his Lordship, half maliciously. “If I might venture—”
“Oh dear, no; not to me,” said Lady Grace, shuddering. “I have little tolerance for what are called characters. You may present your Hebrew friend, if you like.”
“He's going to dance with the Princess; and there goes Twining, with one of my beauties, I declare,” said Lord Lackington. “I say, Spicer, what is that dark lot, near the door?”
“American trotters, my Lord; just come over.”
“You know them, don't you?”
“I met them yesterday at dinner, and shall be delighted to introduce your Lordship. Indeed, they asked me if you were not the Lord that was so intimate with the Prince of Wales.”
“How stupid! They might have known, even without the aid of a Peerage, that I was a schoolboy when the Prince was a grown man. The tall girl is good-looking; what's her name?”
“She's the daughter of the Honorable Leonidas Shinbone, that's all I know,—rather a belle at Saratoga, I fancy.”
“Very dreadful!” sighed Lady Grace, fanning herself; “they do make such a mess of what might be very pretty toilette. You could n't tell her, perhaps, that her front hair is dressed for the back of the head.”
“No, sir; I never play at cards,” said Lord Lackington, stiffly, as an American gentleman offered him a pack to draw from.
“Only a little bluff or a small party of poker,” said the stranger, “for quarter dollars, or milder, if you like it.”
A cold bow of refusal was the reply.
“I told you he was the Lord,” said a friend, in a drawling accent “He looks as if he 'd 'mow us all down like grass.'”
Dr. Lanfranchi, the director of the establishment, here interposed, and, by a few words, induced the Americans to retire and leave the others unmolested.
“Thank you, doctor,” said Lady Lackington, in acknowledgment; “your tact is always considerate,—always prompt.”
“These things never happen in the season, my Lady,” said he, with a very slight foreign accentuation of the words. “It is only at times like this that people—very excellent and amiable people, doubtless—”
“Oh, to be sure they are,” interrupted she, impatiently; “but let us speak of something else. Is that your clairvoyant Princess yonder?”
“Yes, my Lady; she has just revealed to us what was doing at the Crimea. She says that two of the English advanced batteries have slackened their fire for want of ammunition, and that a deserter was telling Todleben of the reason at the moment She is en rapport with her sister, who is now at Sebastopol.”
“And are we to be supposed to credit this?” asked my Lord.
“I can only aver that I believe it, my Lord,” said Lanfranchi, whose massive head and intensely acute features denoted very little intellectual weakness.
“I wish you 'd ask her why are we lingering so long in this dreary place?” sighed Lady Lackington, peevishly.
“She answered that question yesterday, my Lady,” replied he, quietly.
“How was that? Who asked her? What did she say?”
“It was the Baron von Glum that asked; and her answer was, 'Expecting a disappointment.'”
“Very gratifying intelligence, I must say. Did you hear that, my Lord?”
“Yes, I heard it, and I have placed it in my mind in the same category as her Crimean news.”
“Can she inform us when we are to get away?” asked her Ladyship.
“She mentioned to-morrow evening as the time, my Lady,” said the doctor, calmly.
A faint laugh of derisive meaning was Lady Lackington's only reply; and the doctor gravely remarked: “There is more in these things than we like to credit; perhaps our very sense of inferiority in presence of such prediction is a bar to our belief. We do not willingly lend ourselves to a theory which at once excludes us from the elect of prophecy.”
“Could she tell us who'll win the Derby?” said Spicer, joining the colloquy. But a glance from her Ladyship at once recalled him from the indiscreet familiarity.
“Do you think she could pronounce whose is the arrival that makes such a clatter outside?” said Lord Lackington, as a tremendous chorus of whip-cracking announced the advent of something very important; and the doctor hurried off to receive the visitor. Already a large travelling-carriage, drawn by eight horses, and followed by a “fourgon” with four, had drawn up before the great entrance, and a courier, gold-banded and whiskered, and carrying a most imposingly swollen money-bag, was ringing stoutly for admittance. When Dr. Lanfranchi had exchanged a few words with the courier, he approached the window of the carriage, and, bowing courteously, proceeded to welcome the traveller.
“Your apartments have been ready since the sixteenth, sir; and we hoped each day to have seen you arrive.”
“Have your visitors all gone?” asked the stranger, in a low quiet tone.
“No, sir; the fine weather has induced many to prolong their stay. We have the Princess Labanoff, Lord Lackington, the Countess Grembinski, the Duke of Terra di Monte, the Lady Grace—”
The traveller, however, paid little attention to the Catalogue, but with the aid of the courier on one side and his-valet on the other, slowly descended from the carriage. If he availed himself of their assistance, there was little in his appearance that seemed to warrant its necessity. He was a large, powerfully built man, something beyond the prime of life, but whose build announced considerable vigor. Slightly stooped in the shoulders, the defect seemed to add to the fixity of his look, for the head was thus thrown more forward, and the expression of the deep-set eyes, overshadowed by shaggy gray eyebrows, rendered more piercing and direct His features were massive and regular, their character that of solemnity and gravity; and as he removed his cap, he displayed a high, bold forehead with what phrenologists would have called an extravagant development of the organs of locality. Indeed, these overhanging masses almost imparted an air of retreating to a head that was singularly straight.
“A number of letters have arrived for you, and you will find them in your room, sir,” continued Lanfranchi, as he escorted him towards the stairs. A quiet bow acknowledged this speech, and the doctor went on: “I was charged with a message from Lord Lackington, too, who desired me to say that he hoped to see you as soon as possible after your arrival. May I inform him when you could receive him?”
“Not to-night; some time to-morrow, about twelve o'clock, or half-past, if that will suit him,” said the stranger, coldly. “Is Baron Glumthal here? Well, tell him to come up to me, and let them send me some tea.”
“May I mention your arrival to his Lordship, for I know his great anxiety?”
“Just as you please,” said the other, in the same quiet tone; while he bowed in a fashion to dismiss his visitor.
Having glanced casually at the addresses of a number of letters, he only opened one or two, and looked cursorily over their contents; and then opening a window which looked over the lake, he placed a chair on the balcony and sat down, as if to rest and reflect in the fresh and still night air. It was a calm and quiet atmosphere,—not a leaf stirred, not a ripple moved the glassy surface of the lake; so that, as he sat, he could overhear Dr. Lanfranchi's voice beneath announcing his arrival to Lord Lackington.
“If he can receive Glumthal, why can't he see me?” asked the Viscount, testily. “You must go back and tell him that I desire particularly to meet him this evening.”
“If you wish, my Lord—”
“I do, sir,” repeated he, more peremptorily. “Lady Lackington and myself have been sojourning here the last three weeks, awaiting this arrival, and I am at a loss to see why our patience is to be pushed further. Pray take him my message, therefore.”
The doctor, without speaking, left the room at once.
Lanfranchi was some minutes in the apartment before he discovered where the stranger was sitting, and then approaching him softly he communicated his Lordship's request.
“I am afraid you must allow me to take my own way. I have contracted an unfortunate habit in that respect,” said the stranger, with a quiet smile. “Give my compliments to his Lordship, and say that at twelve to-morrow I am at his orders; and tell Baron Glumthal that I expect him now.”
Lanfranchi withdrew; and having whispered the message to the Baron, proceeded to make his communication to the Viscount.
“Very well, sir,” said Lord Lackington, haughtily interrupting; “something like an apology. Men of this sort have a business-like standard even for their politeness, and there is no necessity for me to teach them something better;” and then, turning to Twining, he added, “That was Dunn's arrival we heard awhile ago.”
“Oh, indeed! Very glad,—quite rejoiced on your account more than my own. Dunn—Dunn; remarkable man—very,” said Twining, hurriedly.
“Thank Heaven! we may be able to get away from this place to-morrow or next day,” said Lord Lackington, sighing drearily.
“Yes, of course; very slow for your Lordship—no society—nothing to do.”
“And the weather beginning to break?” said Lord Lackington, peevishly.
“Just so, as your Lordship most justly observes,—the weather beginning to break.”
“Look at that troop of horses,” said the Viscount, as the postilions passed beneath the window in a long file with the cattle just released from the travelling-carriages. “There goes ten—no, but twelve posters. He travels right royally, doesn't he?”
“Very handsomely, indeed; quite a pleasure to see it,” said Twining, gleefully.
“These fellows have little tact, with all their worldly shrewdness, or they 'd not make such ostentatious display of their wealth.”
“Quite true, my Lord. It is indiscreet of them.”
“It is so like saying, 'This is our day! '” said the Viscount.
“So it is, my Lord; and a very pleasant day they have of it, I must say; clever men—shrewd men—know the world thoroughly.”
“I 'm not so very sure of that, Twining,” said his Lordship, smiling half superciliously. “If they really had all the worldly knowledge you attribute to them, they 'd scarcely venture to shock the feelings of society by assumptions of this sort They would have more patience, Twining,—more patience.”
“So they would, my Lord. Capital thing,—excellent thing, patience; always rewarded in the end; great fun.” And he rubbed his hands and laughed away pleasantly.
“And they'll defeat themselves, that's what will come of it, sir,” said Lord Lackington, not heeding the other's remark.
“I quite agree with your Lordship,” chimed in Twining.
“And shall I tell you why they 'll defeat themselves, sir?”
“Like it of all things; take it as a great favor on your Lordship's part.”
“For this reason, Twining, that they have no 'prestige,'—no, Twining, they have no prestige. Now, sir, wealth unassociated with prestige is just like—what shall I say?—it is, as it were, a sort of local rank,—a kind of thing like being brigadier in the Bombay Army, but only a lieutenant when you 're at home; so long, therefore, as these fellows are rich, they have their influence. Let them suffer a reverse of fortune, however, and where will they be, sir?”
“Can't possibly say; but quite certain your Lordship knows,—perfectly sure of it,” rattled out Twining.
“I do, sir. It is a subject on which I have bestowed considerable thought. I may go further, and say, one which I have reduced to a sort of theory. These men are signs of the times,—emblems of our era; just like the cholera, the electric telegraph, or the gold-fields of Australia. We must not accept them as normal, do you perceive? They are the abnormal incidents of our age.”
“Quite true, most just, very like the electric telegraph!” muttered Twining.
“And by that very condition only exercising a passing influence on our society, sir,” said his Lordship, pursuing his own train of thought.
“Perfectly correct, rapid as lightning.”
“And when they do pass away, sir,” continued the Viscount, “they leave no trace of their existence behind them. The bubble buret, the surface of the stream remains without a ripple. I myself may live to see; you, in all probability, will live to see.”
“Your Lordship far more likely,—sincerely trust as much,” said Twining, bowing.
“Well, sir, it matters little which of us is to witness the extinction of this Plutocracy.” And as his Lordship enunciated this last word, he walked off like one who had totally exhausted his subject.