Long after the other inhabitants of the Hermitage were fast locked in sleep, Sybella Kellett sat at her writing-desk. It was the time—the only time—she called her own, and she was devoting it to a letter to her brother. Mr. Dunn had told her on that morning that an opportunity offered to send anything she might have for him, and she had arranged a little packet—some few things, mostly worked by her own hands—for the poor soldier in the Crimea.
As one by one she placed the humble articles in the box, her tears fell upon them—tears half pleasure and half sorrow—for she thought how “poor dear Jack” would feel as each new object came before him, reminding him of some thoughtful care, some anticipation of this or that casualty; and when at last all seemed packed and nothing forgotten, she arose and crossed the room towards a little shelf, from which she took a small volume, and, kissing it twice fervently, laid it in the box. This done, she knelt down, and with her head between her hands, close pressed and hidden, prayed long and fervently. If her features wore a look of sadness as she arose, it was of sadness not without hope; indeed, her face was like one of those fair Madonnas which Raphael has left us,—faces where trustfulness is more eminently the characteristic than any other quality.
Her long letter was nearly completed, and she sat down to add the last lines to it. It had grown into a sort of Journal of her daily life, its cares and occupations, and she was half shocked at the length to which it extended. “I am not,” wrote she, “so unreasonable as to ask you to write as I have done, but it would be an unspeakable pleasure if you would let me give the public some short extracts from the letters you send me, they are so unlike those our papers teem with. The tone of complaint is, I know, the popular one. Some clever correspondents have struck the key-note with success, and the public only listen with eagerness where the tale is of sufferings which might have been spared, and hardships that need not have been borne. But you, dear Jack, have taken another view of events, and one which, I own, pleases me infinitely more. You say truly, besides, that these narratives, interesting as no doubt they are to all at home here, exercise a baneful influence on the military spirit of our army. Men grow to care too much for newspaper distinction, too little for that noble esprit de camaraderie which is the finest enthusiasm of the service. I could not help feeling as if I heard your voice as I read, 'I wish they would n't go on telling us about muddy roads, raw coffee, wet canvas, and short rations; we don't talk of these things so much amongst ourselves; we came out here to thrash the Russians, and none of us ever dreamed it was to be done without rough usage.' What you add about the evil effects of the soldier appealing to the civilian public for any redress of his grievances, real or imaginary, is perfectly correct. It is a great mistake.
“You must forgive my having shown your last letter to Mr. Davenport Dunn, who cordially joins me in desiring that you will let me send it to the papers. He remarks truly, that the Irish temperament of making the ludicrous repay the disagreeable is wanting in all this controversy, and that the public mind would experience a great relief if one writer would come forth to show that the bivouac fire is not wanting in pleasant stories, nor even the wet night in the trenches without its burst of light-hearted gayety.
“Mr. Dunn fully approves of your determination not to 'purchase.' It would be too hard if you could not obtain your promotion from the ranks after such services as yours; so he says, and so, I suppose, I ought to concur with him; but as this seven hundred pounds lies sleeping at the banker's while your hard life goes on, I own I half doubt if he be right. I say this to show you, once for all, that I will accept nothing of it I am provided for amply, and I meet with a kindness and consideration for which I was quite unprepared. Of course, I endeavor to make my services requite this treatment, and do my best to merit the good-will shown me.
“I often wonder, dear Jack, when we are to meet, and where. Two more isolated creatures there can scarcely be on earth than ourselves, and we ought, at least, to cling to each other. Not but I feel that, in thus struggling alone with fortune, we are storing up knowledge of ourselves, and experiences of life that will serve us hereafter. When I read in your letters how by many a little trait of character you can endear yourself to your poor comrades, softening the hardship of their lot by charms and graces acquired in another sphere from theirs, I feel doubly strong in going forth amongst the poor families of our neighborhood, and doubly hopeful that even I may carry my share of comfort to some poorer and more neglected.
“The last object I have placed in your box, dearest Jack,—it will be the first to reach your hands,—is my prayer-book. You have often held it with me, long, long ago! Oh, if I dared to wish, it would be for that time again, when we were children, with one heart between us. Let us pray, my dear brother, that we may live to meet and be happy as we then were; but if that is not to be,—if one be destined to remain alone a wanderer here,—pray, my dearest brother, that the lot fall not to me, who am weak-hearted and dependent.
“The day is already beginning to break, and I must close this. My heartfelt prayer and blessings go with it over the seas. Again and again, God bless you.”
Why was it that still she could not seal that letter, but sat gazing sadly on it, while at times she turned to the open pages of poor Jack's last epistle to her?
The post-horses ordered for Mr. Dunn's carriage arrived, duly, at break of day; but from some change of purpose, of whose motive this veracious history can offer no explanation, that gentleman did not take his departure, but merely despatched a messenger to desire Mr. Hankes would come over to the Hermitage.
“I shall remain here to-day, Hankes,” said he, carelessly, “and not impossibly to-morrow also. There's something in the air here suits me, and I have not felt quite well latterly.”
Mr. Hankes bowed; but not even his long-practised reserve could conceal the surprise he felt at this allusion to health or well-being. Positive illness he could understand,—a fever or a broken leg were intelligible ills; but the slighter casualties of passing indispositions were weaknesses that he could not imagine a business mind could descend to, no more than he could fancy a man's being turned from pursuing his course because some one had accidentally jostled him in the streets.
Dunn was too acute a reader of men's thoughts not to perceive the impression his words had produced; but with the indifference he ever bestowed upon inferiors, he went on:—
“Forward my letters here till you hear from me; there's nothing so very pressing at this moment that cannot wait my return to town. Stay—I was to have had a dinner on Saturday; you'll have to put them off. Clowes will show you the list; and let some of the evening papers mention my being unavoidably detained in the south,—say nothing about indisposition.”
“Of course not, sir,” said Hankes, quite shocked at such an indiscretion being deemed possible.
“And why, 'of course,' Mr. Hankes?” said Dunn, slowly. “I never knew it was amongst the prerogatives of active minds to be exempt from ailment.”
“A bad thing to speak about, sir,—a very bad thing, indeed,” said Hankes, solemnly. “You constantly hear people remark, 'He was never the same man since that last attack.'”
“Psha!” said Dunn, contemptuously.
“I assure you, sir, I speak the sense of the community. The old adage says, 'Two removes are as bad as a fire,' and in the same spirit I would say, 'Two gouty seizures are equal to a retirement'.”
“Absurdity!” said Dunn, angrily. “I never have acknowledged—I never will acknowledge—any such accountability to the world.”
“They bring us 'to book' whether we will or not,” said Hankes, sturdily.
Dunn started at the words, and turned away to hide his face; and well was it he did so, for it was pale as ashes, even to the lips, which were actually livid.
“You may expect me by Sunday morning, Hankes,”—he spoke without turning round,—“and let me have the balance-sheet of the Ossory Bank to look over. We must make no more advances to the gentry down there; we must restrict our discounts.”
“Impossible, sir, impossible! There must be no discontent—for the present, at least,” said Hankes; and his voice sunk to a whisper.
Dunn wheeled round till he stood full before him, and thus they remained for several seconds, each staring steadfastly at the other.
“You don't mean to say, Hankes—” He stopped.
“I do, sir,” said the other, slowly, “and I say it advisedly.”
“Then there must be some gross mismanagement, sir,” said Dunn, haughtily. “This must be looked to! Except that loan of forty-seven thousand pounds to Lord Lacking-ton, secured by mortgage on the estate it went to purchase, with what has this Bank supplied us?”
“Remember, sir,” whispered Hankes, cautiously glancing around the room as he spoke, “the loan to the Viscount was advanced by ourselves at six per cent, and the estate was bought in under your own name; so that, in fact, it is to us the Bank have to look as their security.”
“And am I not sufficient for such an amount, Mr. Hankes?” said he, sneeringly.
“I trust you are, sir, and for ten times the sum. Time is everything in these affairs. The ship that would float over the bar at high water would stick fast at half-flood.”
“The 'Time' I am anxious for is a very different one,” said Dunn, reflectively. “It is the time when I shall no longer be harassed with these anxieties. Life is not worth the name when it excludes the thought of all enjoyment.”
“Business is business, sir,” said Mr. Hankes, with all the solemnity with which such men deliver platitudes as wisdom.
“Call it slavery, and you 'll be nearer the mark,” broke in Dunn. “For what or for whom, let me ask you, do I undergo all this laborious toil? For a world that at the first check or stumble will overwhelm me with slanders. Let me but afford them a pretext, and they will debit me with every disaster their own recklessness has caused, and forget to credit me with all the blessings my wearisome life has conferred upon them.”
“The way of the world, sir,” sighed Hankes, with the same stereotyped philosophy.
“I know well,” continued Dunn, not heeding the other's commonplace, “that there are men who would utilize the station which I have acquired; they'd soon convert into sterling capital the unprofitable gains that I am content with. They 'd be cabinet ministers, peers, ambassadors, colonial governors. It's only men like myself work without wages.”
“'The laborer is worthy of his hire,' says the old proverb.” Mr. Hankes was not aware of the authority, but quoted what he believed a popular saying.
“Others there are,” continued Dunn, still deep in his own thoughts, “that would consult their own ease, and, throwing off this drudgery, devote what remained to them of life to the calm enjoyments of a home.”
Mr. Hankes was disposed to add, “Home, sweet home;” but he coughed down the impulse, and was silent.
Dunn walked the room with his arms crossed on his breast and his head bent down, deep in his own reflections, while his lips moved, as if speaking to himself. Meanwhile Mr. Hankes busied himself gathering together his papers, preparatory to departure.
“They 've taken that fellow Redlines. I suppose you 've heard it?” said he, still sorting and arranging the letters.
“No,” said Dunn, stopping suddenly in his walk; “where was he apprehended?”
“In Liverpool. He was to have sailed in the 'Persia,' and had his place taken as a German watchmaker going to Boston.”
“What was it he did? I forget,” said Dunn, carelessly.
“He did, as one may say, a little of everything; issued false scrip on the Great Coast Railway, sold and pocketed the price of some thirty thousand pounds' worth of their plant, mortgaged their securities, and cooked their annual accounts so cleverly that for four years nobody had the slightest suspicion of any mischief.”
“What was it attracted the first attention to these frauds, Hankes?” said Dunn, apparently curious to hear an interesting story.
“The merest accident in the world. He had sent a few lines to the Duke of Wycombe to inquire the character and capacity of a French cook. Pollard, the Duke's man of business, happened to be in the room when the note came, and his Grace begged he would answer it for him. Pollard, as you are aware, is Chairman of the Coast Line; and when he saw the name 'Lionel Redlines,' he was off in a jiffy to the Board room with the news.”
“One would have thought a little foresight might have saved him from such a stupid mistake as this,” said Dunn, gravely. “A mode of living so disproportioned to his well-known means must inevitably have elicited remark.”
“At any other moment, so it would,” said Hankes; “but we live in a gambling age, and no one can say where, when, the remedy be curative or poisonous.” Then, with a quick start round, he said, “Hankes, do you remember that terrific accident which occurred a few years ago in France,—at Angers, I think the place was called? A regiment in marching order had to cross a suspension-bridge, and coming on with the measured tramp of the march, the united force was too much for the strength of the structure; the iron beams gave way, and all were precipitated into the stream below. This is an apt illustration of what we call credit. It will bear, and with success, considerable pressure if it be irregular, dropping, and incidental. Let the forces, however, be at once consentaneous and united,—let the men keep step,—and down comes the bridge! Ah, Hankes, am I not right?”
“I believe you are, sir,” said Hankes, who was not quite certain that he comprehended the illustration.
“His Lordship is waiting breakfast, sir,” said a smartly dressed footman at the door.
“I will be down in a moment. I believe, Hankes, we have not forgotten anything? The Cloyne and Carrick Company had better be wound up; and that waste-land project—let me have the papers to look over. You think we ought to discount those bills of Barrington's?”
“I'm sure of it, sir. The people at the Royal Bank would take them to-morrow.”
“The credit of the Bank must be upheld, Hankes. The libellous articles of those newspapers are doing us great damage, timid shareholders assail us with letters, and some have actually demanded back their deposits. I have it, Hankes!” cried he, as a sudden thought struck him,—“I have it! Take a special train at once for town, and fetch me the balance-sheet and the list of all convertible securities. You can be back here—let us see—by to-morrow at noon, or, at latest, to-morrow evening. By that time I shall have matured my plan.”
“I should like to hear some hint of what you intend,” said Hankes.
“You shall know all to-morrow,” said he, as he nodded a good-bye, and descended to the breakfast-room. He turned short, however, at the foot of the stairs, and returned to his chamber, where Hankes was still packing up his papers. “On second thoughts, Hankes, I believe I had better tell you now,” said he. “Sit down.”
And they both eat down at the table, end never moved from it for an hour. Twice—even thrice—there cane messages from below, requesting Mr. Dunn's presence at the breakfast-table, but a hurried “Yes, immediately,” was his reply, and he came not.
At last they rose? Hankes the first, saying, as he looked at his watch, “I shall just be in time. It is a great idea, a very great idea indeed, and does you infinite credit.”
“It ought to have success, Hankes,” said he, calmly.
“Ought, Sir! It will succeed. It is as fine a piece of tactics as I ever heard of. Trust me to carry it out, that's all.”
“Remember, Hankes, time is everything. Goodby!”
What a charming day was that at the Hermitage,—every one pleased, happy, and good-humored! With a frankness that gave universal satisfaction, Mr. Dunn declared he could not tear himself away. Engagements the most pressing, business appointments of the deepest moment, awaited him on every side, but, “No matter what it cost,” said he, “I will have my holiday!” Few flatteries are more successful than those little appeals to the charms and fascinations of a quiet home circle; and when some hard-worked man of the world, some eminent leader at the Bar, or some much-sought physician condescends to tell us that the world of clients must wait while he lingers in our society, the assurance never fails to be pleasing. It is, indeed, complimentary to feel that we are, in all the easy indolence of leisure, enjoying the hours of one whose minutes are valued as guineas; our own value insensibly rises at the thought, and we associate ourselves in our estimate of the great man. When Mr. Davenport Dunn had made this graceful declaration, he added another, not less gratifying, that he was completely at his Lordship's and Lady Augusta's orders, as regarded the great project on which they desired to have his opinion.
“The best way is to come down and see the spot yourself, Dunn. We 'll walk over there together, and Augusta will acquaint you with our notions as we go along.”
“I ought to mention,” said Dunn, “that yesterday, by the merest chance, I had the opportunity of looking over a little sketch of your project.”
“Oh, Miss Kellett's!” broke in Lady Augusta, coloring slightly. “It is very clever, very prettily written, but scarcely practical, scarcely business-like enough for a prosaic person like myself. A question of this kind is a great financial problem, not a philanthropic experiment. Don't you agree with me?”
“Perfectly,” said he, bowing.
“And its merits are to be tested by figures, and not by Utopian dreams of felicity. Don't you think so?”
He bowed again, and smiled approvingly.
“I am aware,” said she, in a sort of half confusion, “what rashness it would be in me to say this to any one less largely minded than yourself; how I should expose myself to the censure of being narrow-hearted and worldly, and so forth; but I am not afraid of such judgments from you.”
“Nor have you need to dread them,” said he, in a voice a little above a whisper.
“Young ladies, like Miss Kellett, are often possessed by the ambition—a very laudable sentiment, no doubt—of distinguishing themselves by these opinions. It is, as it were, a 'trick of the time' we live in, and, with those who do not move in 'society,' has its success too.”
The peculiar intonation of that one word “society” gave the whole point and direction of this speech. There was in it that which seemed to say, “This is the real tribunal! Here is the one true court where claims are recognized and shams nonsuited.” Nor was it lost upon Mr. Davenport Dunn. More than once—ay, many a time before—had he been struck by the reference to that Star Chamber of the well-bred world. He had even heard a noble lord on the Treasury benches sneer down a sturdy champion of Manchesterism, by suggesting that in a certain circle, where the honorable gentleman never came, very different opinions prevailed from those announced by him.
While Dunn was yet pondering over this mystic word, Lord Glengariff came to say that, as Miss Kellett required his presence to look over some papers in the library, they might stroll slowly along till he overtook them.
As they sauntered along under the heavy shade of the great beech-trees, the sun streaking at intervals the velvety sward beneath their feet, while the odor of the fresh hay was wafted by on a faint light breeze, Dunn was unconsciously brought back in memory to the “long, long ago,” when he walked the self-same spot in a gloom only short of despair. Who could have predicted the day when he should stroll there, with her at his side, her arm within his own, her voice appealing in tones of confidence and friendship? His great ambitions had grown with his successes, and as he rose higher and higher, his aims continued to mount upwards; but here was a sentiment that dated from the time of his obscurity, here a day-dream that had filled his imagination when from imagination alone could be derived the luxury of triumph, and now it was realized, and now—
Who is to say what strange wild conflict went on within that heart where worldliness felt its sway for once disputed? Did there yet linger there, in the midst of high ambitions, some trait of boyish love, or was it that he felt this hour to be the crowning triumph of his long life of toil?
“If I were not half ashamed to disturb your revery,” said Lady Augusta, smiling, “I'd tell you to look at that view yonder. See where the coast stretches along there, broken by cliff and headland, with those rocky islands breaking the calm sea-line, and say if you saw anything finer in your travels abroad?”
“Was I in a revery? have I been dreaming?” cried he, suddenly, not regarding the scene, but turning his eyes fully upon herself. “And yet you 'd forgive me were I to confess to you of what it was I was thinking.”
“Then tell it directly, for I own your silence piqued me, and I stopped speaking when I perceived I was not listened to.”
“Perhaps I am too confident when I say you would forgive me?”
“You have it in your power to learn, at all events,” said she, laughingly.
“But not to recall my words if they should have been uttered rashly,” said he, slowly.
“Shall I tell you a great fault you have,—perhaps your greatest?” asked she, quickly.
“Do, I entreat of you.”
“And you pledge yourself to take my candor well, and bear me no malice afterwards?”
“It is a coldness,—a reserve almost amounting to distrust, which seems actually to dominate in your temper. Be frank with me, now, and say fairly, was not this long alley reylying all the thoughts of long ago, and were you not summing up the fifty-one little grudges you had against that poor silly child who used to torment and fret you, and, instead of honestly owning all this, you fell back upon that stern dignity of manner I have just complained of? Besides,” added she, as though hurried away by some strong impulse, “if it would quiet your spirit to know you were avenged, you may feel satisfied.”
“As how?” asked he, eagerly, and not comprehending to what she pointed.
“Simply thus,” resumed she. “As I continued to mark and read of your great career in life, the marvellous successes which met you in each new enterprise, how with advancing fortune you ever showed yourself equal to the demand made upon your genius, I thought with shame and humiliation over even my childish follies, how often I must have grieved—have hurt you! Over and over have I said, 'Does he ever remember? Can he forgive me?' And yet there was a sense of exquisite pleasure in the midst of all my sorrow as I thought over all these childish vanities, and said to myself, 'This man, whom all are now flattering and fawning upon, was the same I used to irritate with my caprices, and worry with my whims!'”
“I never dreamed that you remembered me,” said he, in a voice tremulous with delight.
“Your career made a romance for me,” said she, eagerly. “I could repeat many of those vigorous speeches you made,—those spirited addresses. One, in particular, I remember well; it was when refusing the offer of the Athlone burgesses to represent their town; you alluded so happily to the cares which occupied you,—less striking than legislative duties, but not less important,—or, as you phrased it, yours was like the part of those 'who sound the depth and buoy the course that thundering three-deckers are to follow.' Do you remember the passage? And again, that proud humility with which, alluding to the wants of the poor, you said, 'I, who have carried my musket in the ranks of the people!' Let me tell you, sir,” added she, playfully, “these are very haughty avowals, after all, and savor just as much of personal pride as the insolent declarations of many a pampered courtier!”
Dunn's face grew crimson, and his chest swelled with an emotion of intense delight.
“Shall I own to you,” continued she, still running on with what seemed an irrepressible freedom, “that it appears scarcely real to me to be here talking to you about yourself, and your grand enterprises, and your immense speculations. You have been so long to my mind the great genius of wondrous achievements, that I cannot yet comprehend the condescension of your strolling along here as if this world could spare you.”
If Dunn did not speak, it was that his heart was too full for words; but he pressed the round arm that leaned upon him closer to his side, and felt a thrill of happiness through him.
“By the way,” said she, after a pause, “I have a favor to ask of you: papa would be charmed to have a cast of Marochetti's bust of you, and yet does not like to ask for it. May I venture—”
“Too great an honor to me,” muttered Dunn. “Would you—I mean, would he—accept—”
“Yes, I will, and with gratitude; not but I think the likeness hard and harsh. It is, very probably, what you are to that marvellous world of politicians and financiers you live amongst, but not such as your friends recognize you,—what you are to-day, for instance.”
“And what may that be,” asked he, playfully.
“I was going to say an impudence, and I only caught myself in time.”
“Do, then, let me hear it,” said he, eagerly, “for I am quite ready to cap it with another.”
“Yours be the first, then,” said she, laughing. “Is it not customary to put the amendment before the original motion?”
Both Mr. Dunn and his fair companion were destined to be rescued from the impending indiscretion by the arrival of Lord Glengariff, who, mounted on his pony, suddenly appeared beside them.
“Well, Dunn,” cried he, as he came up, “has she made a convert of you? Are you going to advocate the great project here?”
Dunn looked sideways towards Lady Augusta, who, seeing his difficulty, at once said, “Indeed, papa, we never spoke of the scheme. I doubt if either of us as much as remembered there was such a thing.”
“Well, I'm charmed to find that your society could prove so fascinating, Augusta,” said Lord Glengariff, with some slight irritation of manner, “but I must ask of Mr. Dunn to bear with me while I descend to the very commonplace topic which has such interest for me. The very spot we stand on is admirably suited to take a panoramic view of our little bay, the village, and the background. Carry your eyes along towards the rocky promontory on which the stone pines are standing; we begin there.”
Now, most worthy reader, although the noble Lord pledged himself to be brief, and really meant to keep his word, and although he fancied himself to be graphic,—truth is truth,—he was lamentably prolix and confused beyond all endurance. As for Dunn, he listened with an exemplary patience; perhaps his thoughts were rambling away elsewhere,—perhaps he was compensated for the weariness by the occasional glances which met him from eyes now downcast, now bent softly upon him. Meanwhile the old Lord floundered on, amidst crescents and bathing-lodges, yacht stations and fisheries, aiding his memory occasionally with little notes, which, as he contrived to mistake, only served to make the description less intelligible. At length he had got so far as to conjure up a busy, thriving, well-to-do watering-place, sought after by the fashionable world that once had loved Brighton or Dieppe. He had peopled the shore with loungers, and the hotels with visitors; equipages were seen flocking in, and a hissing steamer in the harbor was already sounding the note of departure for Liverpool or Holyhead, when Dunn, suddenly rousing himself from what might have been a revery, said, “And the money, my Lord,—the means to do all this?”
“The money—the means—we look to you, Dunn, to answer that question. Our scheme is a great shareholding company of five thousand—no, fifty—nay, I 'm wrong. What is it, Augusta?”
“The exact amount scarcely signifies much, my Lord. The excellence of the project once proved, money can always be had. What I desired to know was, if you already possessed the confidence of some great capitalist favorable to the undertaking, or is it simply its intrinsic merits which recommend it?”
“Its own merits, of course,” broke in Lord Glengariff, hastily. “Are they not sufficient?”
“I am not in a position to affirm or deny that opinion,” said Dunn, gravely. “Let me see,” added he, to himself, while he drew a pencil from his pocket, and on the back of a letter proceeded to scratch certain figures. He continued to calculate thus for some minutes, when at last he said: “If you like to try it, my Lord, with an advance of say twenty thousand pounds, there will be no great difficulty in raising the money. Once afloat, you will be in a position to enlist shareholders easily enough.” He spoke with all the cool indifference of one discussing the weather.
“I must say, Dunn,” cried Lord Glengariff, with warmth, “this is a very noble—a very generous offer. I conclude my personal security—”
“We can talk over all this at another time, my Lord,” broke in Dunn, smiling. “Lady Augusta will leave us if we go into questions of bonds and parchments. My first care will be to send you down Mr. Steadman, a very competent person, who will make the necessary surveys; his report, too, will be important in the share market.”
“So that the scheme enlists your co-operation, Dunn,—so that we have you with us,” cried the old Lord, rubbing his hands, “I have no fears as to success.”
“May we reckon upon so much?” whispered Lady Augusta, while a long, soft, meaning glance stole from her eyes.
Dunn bent his head in assent, while his face grew crimson.
“I say, Augusta,” whispered Lord Glengariff, “we have made a capital morning's work of it—eh?”
“I hope so, too,” said she. And her eyes sparkled with an expression of triumph.
“There is only one condition I would bespeak, my Lord. It is this: the money market at this precise moment is unsettled, over-speculation has already created a sort of panic, so that you will kindly give me a little time—very little will do—to arrange the advance. Three weeks ago we were actually glutted with money, and now there are signs of what is called tightness in discounts.”
“Consult your own convenience in every respect,” said the old Lord, courteously.
“Nothing would surprise me less than a financial crisis over here,” said Dunn, solemnly. “Our people have been rash in their investments latterly, and there is always a retribution upon inordinate gain!”
Whether it was the topic itself warmed him, or the gentle pressure of Lady Augusta's arm as in encouragement of his sentiments, but Dunn continued to “improve the occasion” as they strolled along homeward, inveighing in very choice terms against speculative gambling, and deploring the injury done to honest, patient industry by those examples of wealth acquired without toil and accumulated without thrift. He really treated the question well and wisely, and when he passed from the mere financial consideration to the higher one of “morals” and the influence exerted upon national character, he actually grew eloquent.
Let us acknowledge that the noble Lord did not participate in all his daughter's admiration of this high-sounding harangue, nor was he without a sort of lurking suspicion that he was listening to a lecture upon his, own greed and covetousness; he, however, contrived to throw in at intervals certain little words of concurrence, and in this way occupied they arrived at the Hermitage.
It is not always that the day which dawns happily continues bright and unclouded to its close; yet this was such a one. The dinner passed off most agreeably, the evening in the drawing-room was delightful. Lady Augusta sang prettily enough to please even a more critical ear than Mr. Dunn's, and she had a tact, often wanting in better performers, to select the class of music likely to prove agreeable to her hearers. There is a very considerable number of people who like pictures for the story and music for the sentiment, and for these high art is less required than something which shall appeal to their peculiar taste. But, while we are confessing, let us own that if Mr. Dunn liked “the melodies,” it assuredly added to their charm to hear them sung by a peer's daughter; and as he lay back in his well-cushioned chair, and drank in the sweet sounds, it seemed to him that he was passing a very charming evening.
Like many other vulgar men in similar circumstances, he wondered at the ease and unconstraint he felt in such choice company! He could not help contrasting the tranquil beatitude of his sensations with what he had fancied must be the coldness and reserve of such society. He was, as he muttered to himself, as much at home as in his own house; and truly, as with one hand in his breast, while with the fingers of the other he beat time,—and all falsely,—he looked the very ideal of his order.
“Confound the fellow!” muttered the old peer, as he glanced at him over his newspaper, “he is insufferably at his ease amongst us!”
And Sybella Kellett, where was she all this time—or have we forgotten her? Poor Sybella! she had been scarcely noticed at dinner, scarcely spoken to in the drawing-room, and she had slipped unperceived away to her own room.
They never missed her.
If Mr. Davenport Dunn had passed a day of unusual happiness and ease, the night which followed was destined to be one of intense labor and toil. Scarcely had the quiet of repose settled down upon the Hermitage, than the quick tramp of horses, urged to their sharpest trot, was heard approaching, and soon after Mr. Hankes descended from his travelling-carriage at the door.
Dunn had been standing at his open window gazing into the still obscurity of the night, and wondering at what time he might expect him, when he arrived.
“You have made haste, Hankes,” said he, not wasting a word in salutation. “I scarcely looked to see you before daybreak.”
“Yes, sir; the special train behaved well, and the posters did their part as creditably. I had about four hours altogether in Dublin, but they were quite sufficient for everything.”
“For everything?” repeated Dunn.
“Yes; you'll find nothing has been forgotten. Before leaving Cork, I telegraphed to Meekins of the 'Post,' and to Browne of the 'Banner,' to meet me on my arrival at Henrietta Street. Strange enough, they both were anxiously waiting for some instructions on the very question at issue. They came armed with piles of provincial papers, all written in the same threatening style. One in particular, the 'Upper Ossory Beacon,' had an article headed, 'Who is our Dionysius?'”
“Never mind that,” broke in Dunn, impatiently. “You explained to them the line to be taken?”
“Fully, sir. I told them that they were to answer the attacks weakly, feebly, deprecating in general terms the use of personalities, and throwing out little appeals for forbearance, and so on. On the question of the Bank, I said, 'Be somewhat more resolute; hint that certain aspersions might be deemed actionable; that wantonly to assail credit is an offence punishable at law; and then dwell upon the benefits already diffused by these establishments, and implore all who have the interest of Ireland at heart not to suffer a spirit of faction to triumph over their patriotism.'”
“Will they understand the part?” asked Dunn, more impatiently than before.
“Thoroughly; Browne, indeed, has a leader already 'set up'—”
“What do I care for all these?” broke in Dunn, peevishly. “Surely no man knows better than yourself that these fellows are only the feathers that show where the wind blows. As to any influence they wield over public opinion, you might as well tell me that the man who sweats a guinea can sway the Stock Exchange.”
Hankes shook his head dissentingly, but made no reply.
“You have brought the Bank accounts and the balance-sheet?”
“Yes, they are all here.”
“Have you made any rough calculation as to the amount—” He stopped.
“Fifty thousand ought to cover it easily—I mean with what they have themselves in hand. The first day will be a heavy one, but I don't suspect the second will, particularly when it is known that we are discounting freely as ever.”
“And now as to the main point?” said Dunn.
“All right, sir. Etheridge's securities give us seventeen thousand; we have a balance of about eleven on that account of Lord Lackington; I drew out the twelve hundred of Kellett's at once; and several other small sums, which are all ready.”
“It is a bold stroke!” muttered Dunn, musingly.
“None but an original mind could have hit upon it, sir. I used to think the late Mr. Robins a very great man, sir,—and he was a great man,—but this is a cut above him.”
“Let us say so when it has succeeded, Hankes,” said Dunn, with a half-smile.
As he spoke, he seated himself at the table, and, opening a massive account-book, was soon deep in its details. Hankes took a place beside him, and they both continued to con over the long column of figures together.
“We stand in a safer position than I thought, Hankes,” said Dunn, leaning back in his chair.
“Yes, sir; we have been nursing this Ossory Bank for some time. You remember, some time ago, saying to me, 'Hankes, put condition on that horse, we 'll have to ride him hard before the season is over'?”
“Well, you have done it cleverly, I must say,” resumed Dunn. “This concern is almost solvent.”
“Almost, sir,” echoed Hankes.
“What a shake it will give them all, Hankes,” said Dunn, gleefully, “when it once sets in, as it will and must, powerfully! The Provincial will stand easily enough.”
“To be sure, sir.”
“And the Royal, also; but the 'Tyrawley'—”
“And the 'Four Counties,'” added Hankes. “Driscoll is ready with four thousand of the notes 'to open the ball,' as he says, and when Terry's name gets abroad it will be worse to them than a placard on the walls.”
“I shall not be sorry for the 'Four Counties.' It was Mr. Morris, the chairman, had the insolence to allude to me in the House, and ask if it were true that the Ministry had recommended Mr. Davenport Dunn as a fit object for the favors of the Crown? That question, sir, placed my claim in abeyance ever since. The Minister, pledged solemnly to me, had to rise in his place and say 'No.' Of course he added the stereotyped sarcasm, 'Not that, if such a decision had been come to, need the Cabinet have shrunk from the responsibility through any fears of the honorable gentleman's indignation.'”
“Well, Mr. Morris will have to pay for his joke now,” said Hankes. “I 'm told his whole estate is liable to the Bank.”
“Every shilling of it. Driscoll has got me all the details.”
“Lushington will be the great sufferer by the 'Tyrawley,'” continued Hankes.
“Another of them, Hankes,—another of them,” cried Dunn, rubbing his hands joyfully. “Tom Lushington—the Honorable Tom, as they called him—blackballed me at 'Brookes's. They told me his very words: 'It's bad enough to be “Dunned,” as we are, out of doors, but let us, at least, be safe from the infliction at our Clubs.' A sorry jest, but witty enough for those who heard it.”
“I don't think he has sixpence.”
“No, sir; nor can he remain a Treasury Lord with a fiat of bankruptcy against him. So much, then, for Tom Lushington! I tell you, Hankes,” said he, spiritedly, “next week will have its catalogue of shipwrecks. There's a storm about to break that none have yet suspected.”
“There will be some heavy sufferers,” said Hankes gravely.
“No doubt, no doubt,” muttered Dunn. “I never heard of a battle without killed and wounded. I tell you, sir, again,” said he, raising his voice, “before the week ends the shore will be strewn with fragments; we alone will ride through the gale unharmed. It is not fully a month since I showed the Chief Secretary here—ay, and his Excellency, also—the insolent but insidious system of attack the Government journals maintain against me, the half-covert insinuations, the impertinent queries, pretended inquiries for mere information's sake. Of course, I got for answer the usual cant about 'freedom of the press,' 'liberty of public discussion,' with the accustomed assurance that the Government had not, in reality, any recognized organ; and, to wind up, there was the laughing question, 'And what do you care, after all, for these fellows?' But now I will show what I do care,—that I have good and sufficient reason to care,—that the calumnies which assail me are directed against my material interests; that it is not Davenport Dunn is 'in cause,' but all the great enterprises associated with his name; that it is not an individual, but the industry of a nation, is at stake; and I will say to them, 'Protect me, or—' You remember the significant legend inscribed on the cannon of the Irish Volunteers, 'Independence or—' Take my word for it, I may not speak as loudly as the nine-pounder, but my fire will be to the full as fatal!”
Never before had Hankes seen his chief carried away by any sense of personal injury; he had even remarked, amongst the traits of his great business capacity, that a calm contempt for mere passing opinion was his characteristic, and he was sorely grieved to find that such equanimity could be disturbed. With his own especial quickness Dunn saw what was passing in his lieutenant's mind, and he added hastily,—
“Not that, of all men, I need care for such assaults; powerful even to tyranny as the press has become amongst us, there is one thing more powerful still, and that is—Prosperity! Ay, sir, there may be cavil and controversy as to your abilities; some may condemn your speech, or carp at your book, they may cry down your statecraft, or deny your diplomacy; but there is a test that all can appreciate, all comprehend, and that is—Success. Have only that, Hankes, and the world is with you.”
“There's no denying that,” said Hankes, solemnly.
“It is the gauge of every man,” resumed Dunn,—“from him that presides over a Railway Board to him that sways an Empire. And justly so, too,” added he, rapidly. “A man must be a consummate judge of horseflesh that could pick out the winner of the Oaks in a stable; but the scrubbiest varlet on the field can see who comes in first on the day of the race! Have you ever been in America, Hankes?” asked he, suddenly.
“Yes; all over the States. I think I know Cousin Jonathan as well as I know old John himself.”
“You know a very shrewd fellow, then,” muttered Dunn; “over-shrewd, mayhap.”
“What led you to think of that country now?” asked the other, curiously.
“I scarcely know,” said Dunn, carelessly, as he walked the room in thoughtfulness; then added, “If no recognition were to come of these services of mine, I 'd just as soon live there as here. I should, at least, be on the level of the best above me. Well,” cried he, in a higher tone, “we have some trumps to play out ere it come to that.”
Once more they turned to the account books and the papers before them, for Hankes had many things to explain and various difficulties to unravel. The vast number of those enterprises in which Dunn engaged had eventually blended and mingled all their interests together. Estates and shipping, and banks, mines, railroads, and dock companies had so often interchanged their securities, each bolstering up the credit of the other in turn, that the whole resembled some immense fortress, where the garrison, too weak for a general defence, was always hastening to some one point or other,—the seat of immediate attack. And thus an Irish draining-fund was one day called upon to liquidate the demands upon a sub-Alpine railroad, while a Mexican tin-mine flew to the rescue of a hosiery scheme in Balbriggan! To have ever a force ready on the point assailed was Dunn's remarkable talent, and he handled his masses like a great master of war.
Partly out of that indolent insolence which power begets, he had latterly been less mindful of the press, less alive to the strictures of journalism, and attacks were made upon him which, directed as they were against his solvency, threatened at any moment to assume a dangerous shape. Roused at last by the peril, he had determined on playing a bold game for fortune; and this it was which now engaged his thoughts, and whose details the dawning day saw him deeply considering. His now great theory was that a recognized station amongst the nobles of the land was the one only security against disaster. “Once amongst them,” said he, “they will defend me as one of their order.” How to effect this grand object had been the long study of his life. But it was more,—it was also his secret! They who fancied they knew the man, thoroughly understood the habits of his mind, his passions, his prejudices, and his hopes, never as much as suspected what lay at the bottom of them all. He assumed a sort of manner that in a measure disarmed their suspicion; he affected pride in that middle station of life he occupied, and seemed to glory in those glowing eulogies of commercial ability and capacity which it was the good pleasure of leading journalists just then to deliver. On public occasions he made an even ostentatious display of these sentiments, and Davenport Dunn was often quoted as a dangerous man for an hereditary aristocracy to have against them.
Such was he who now pored over complicated details of figures, intricate and tangled schemes of finance; and yet, while his mind embraced them, with other thoughts was he picturing to himself a time when, proud amongst the proudest, he would take his place with the great nobles of the land. It was evident that another had not regarded this ambition as fanciful or extravagant. Lady Augusta—the haughty daughter of one of the haughtiest in the peerage—as much as said, “It was a fair and reasonable object of hope; then none could deny the claims he preferred, nor any affect to undervalue the vast benefits he had conferred on his country.” There was something so truly kind, so touching too, in the generous tone she assumed, that Dunn dwelt upon it again and again. Knowing all the secret instincts of that mysterious brotherhood as she did, Dunn imagined to himself all the advantage her advice and counsels could render him. “She can direct me in many ways, teaching me how to treat these mysterious high-priests as I ought What shall I do to secure her favor? How enlist it in my cause? Could I make her partner in the enterprise?” As the thought flashed across him, his cheek burned as if with a flame, and he rose abruptly from the table and walked to the window, fearful lest his agitation might be observed. “That were success, indeed!” muttered he. “What a strong bail-bond would it be when I called two English peers my brothers-in-law, and an earl for my wife's father! This would at once lead me to the very step of the 'Order.' How many noble families would it interest in my elevation! The Ardens are the best blood of the south, connected widely with the highest in both countries. Is it possible that this could succeed?” He thought of the old Earl and his intense pride of birth, and his heart misgave him; but then, Lady Augusta's gentle tones and gentler looks came to his mind, and he remembered that though a peer's daughter, she was penniless, and—we shame to write it—not young. The Lady Augusta Arden marries the millionnaire Mr. Dunn, and the world understands the compact There are many such matches every season.
“What age would you guess me to be, Hankes?” said he, suddenly turning round.
“I should call you—let me see—a matter of forty-five or forty-six, sir.”
“Older, Hankes,—older,” said he, with a smile of half-pleasure.
“You don't look it, sir, I protest you don't. Sitting up all night and working over these accounts, one might, perhaps, call you forty-six; but seeing you as you come down to breakfast after your natural rest, you don't seem forty.”
“This same life is too laborious; a man may follow it for the ten or twelve years of his prime, but it becomes downright slavery after that.”
“But what is an active mind like yours to do, sir?” asked Hankes.
“Take his ease and rest himself.”
“Ease!—rest! All a mistake, sir. Great business men can't exist in that lethargy called leisure.”
“You are quite wrong, Hankes; if I were the master of some venerable old demesne, like this, for instance, with its timber of centuries' growth, and its charms of scenery, such as we see around us here, I 'd ask no better existence than to pass my days in calm retirement, invite a stray friend or two to come and see me, and with books and other resources hold myself aloof from stocks and statecraft, and not so much as ask how are the Funds or who is the Minister.”
“I 'd be sorry to see you come to that, sir, I declare I should,” said Hankes, earnestly.
“You may live to see it, notwithstanding,” said Dunn, with a placid smile.
“Ah, sir,” said Hankes, “it's not the man who has just conceived such a grand idea as this “—and he touched the books before him—“ought to talk about turning hermit.”
“We'll see, Hankes,—we'll see,” said Dunn, calmly. “There come the post-horses—I suppose for you.”
“Yes, sir; I ordered them to be here at six. I thought I should have had a couple of hours in bed by that time; but it does n't signify, I can sleep anywhere.”
“Let me see,” said Dunn, calculating. “This is Tuesday; now, Friday ought to be the day, the news to reach me on Thursday afternoon; you can send a telegraphic message and then send on a clerk. Of course, you will know how to make these communications properly. It is better I should remain here in the interval; it looks like security.”
“Do you mean to come over yourself, sir?”
“Of course I do. You must meet me there on Friday morning. Let Mrs. Hailes have the house in readiness in case I might invite any one.”
“All shall be attended to ir,” said Hankes. “I think I'll despatch Wilkins to you with the news; he's an awful fellow to exaggerate evil tidings.”
“Very well,” said Dunn. “Good-night, or, I opine, rather, good-morning.” And he turned away into his bedroom.