Just possible it is, too, that some curiosity may exist as to what became of Mr. Hankes. Did that great projector of industrial enterprise succeed in retracing his steps with safety? Did he fall in with some one able to guide him back to Glengariff? Did he regain the Hermitage after fatigue and peril, and much self-reproach for an undertaking so foreign to his ways and habits; and did he vow to his own heart that this was to be the last of such excursions on his part? Had he his misgivings, too, that his conduct had not been perfectly heroic; and did he experience a sense of shame in retiring before a peril braved by a young and delicate girl? Admitted to a certain share of that gentleman's confidence, we are obliged to declare that his chief sorrows were occasioned by the loss of time, the amount of inconvenience, and the degree of fatigue the expedition had caused him. It was not till late in the afternoon of the day that he chanced upon a fisherman on his way to Bantry to sell his fish. The poor peasant could not speak nor understand English, and after a vain attempt at explanation on either side, the colloquy ended by Hankes joining company with the man, and proceeding along with him, whither he knew not.
If we have not traced the steps of Sybella's wanderings, we are little disposed to linger along with those of Mr. Hankes, though, if his own account were to be accepted, his journey was a succession of adventures and escapes. Enough if we say that he at last abandoned his horse amid the fissured cliffs of the coast, and, as best he might, clambered over rock and precipice, through tall mazes of wet fern and deep moss, along shingly shores and sandy beaches, till he reached the little inn at Bantry, the weariest and most worn-out of men, his clothes in rags, his shoes in tatters, and he himself scarcely conscious, and utterly indifferent as to what became of him.
A night's sound sleep and a good breakfast were already contributing much to efface the memory of past sufferings, when Sybella Kellett entered his room. She had been over to the cottage, had visited the whole locality, transacted all the business she had come for, and only diverged from her homeward route on hearing that Mr. Hankes had just arrived at Bantry. Rather apologizing for having left him than accusing him of deserting her, she rapidly proceeded to sketch out her own journey. She did not dwell upon any incidents of the way,—had they been really new or strange she would not have recalled them,—she only adverted to what had constituted the object of her coming,—the purchase of the small townland which she had completed.
“It is a dear old place,” said she, “of a fashion one so rarely sees in Ireland, the house being built after that taste known as Elizabethan, and by tradition said to have once been inhabited by the poet Spenser. It is very small, and so hidden by a dense beech-wood, that you might pass within fifty yards of the door and never see it. This rude drawing may give you some idea of it.”
“And does the sea come up so close as this?” asked Hankes, eagerly.
“The little fishing-boat ran into the cove you see there; her mainsail dropped over the new-mown hay.”
“Why, it 's the very thing Lord Lockewood is looking for, He is positively wild about a spot in some remote out-of-the-way region; and then, what you tell me of its being a poet's house will complete the charm. You said Shakspeare—”
“No, Spenser, the poet of the 'Faërie Queene,'” broke she in, with a smile.
“It's all the same; he 'll give it a fanciful name, and the association with its once owner will afford him unceasing amusement.”
“I hope he is not destined to enjoy the pleasure you describe.”
“No?—why not, pray?”
“I hope and trust that the place may not pass into his hands; in a word, I intend to ask Mr. Dunn to allow me to be the purchaser. I find that the sum is almost exactly the amount I have invested in the Allotment scheme,—these same shares we spoke of,—and I mean to beg as a great favor,—a very great favor,—to be permitted to make this exchange. I want no land,—nothing but the little plot around the cottage.”
“The cottage formerly inhabited by the poet Spenser, built in the purest Elizabethan style, and situated in a glen,—you said a glen, I think, Miss Kellett?” said Hankes,—“in a glen, whose wild enclosure, bosomed amongst deep woods, and washed by the Atlantic—”
“Are you devising an advertisement, sir?”
“The very thing I was doing, Miss Kellett. I was just sketching out a rough outline of a short paragraph for the 'Post.'”
“But remember, sir, I want to possess this spot. I wish to be its owner—”
“To dispose of, of course, hereafter,—to make a clear three, four, or five thousand by the bargain, eh?”
“Nothing of the kind, Mr. Hankes. I mean to acquire enough—some one day or other—to go back and dwell there. I desire to have what I shall always, to myself at least, call mine—my home. It will be as a goal to win, the time I can come back and live there. It will be a resting-place for poor Jack when he returns to England.”
Mr. Hankes paused. It was the first time Miss Kellett had referred to her own fortunes in such a way as permitted him to take advantage of the circumstance, and he deliberated with himself whether he ought not to profit by the accident. How would she receive a word of advice from him? Would it be well taken? Might it possibly lead to something more? Would she be disposed to lean on his counsels; and, if so, what then? Ay, Mr. Hankes, it was the “what then?” was the puzzle. It was true his late conduct presented but a sorry emblem of that life-long fidelity he thought of pledging; but if she were the clear-sighted, calm-reasoning intelligence he believed, she would lay little stress upon what, after all, was a mere trait of a man's temperament. Very rapidly, indeed, did these reflections pass through his mind; and then he stole a glance at her as she sat quietly sipping her tea, looking a very ideal of calm tranquillity. “This cottage,” thought he, “has evidently taken a hold of her fancy. Let me see if I cannot turn the theme to my purpose.” And with this intention he again brought her back to speak of the spot, which she did with all the eagerness of true interest.
“As to the association with the gifted spirit of song,” said Mr. Hankes, soaring proudly into the style he loved, “I conclude that to be somewhat doubtful of proof, eh?”
“Not at all, sir. Spenser lived at a place called Kilcoleman, from which he removed for two or three years, and returned. It was in this interval he inhabited the cottage. Curiously enough, some manuscript in his writing—part of a correspondence with the Lord-Deputy—was discovered yesterday when I was there. It was contained in a small oak casket with a variety of other papers, some in quaint French, some in Latin. The box was built in so as to form a portion of a curiously carved chimney-piece, and chance alone led to its discovery.”
“I hope you secured the documents?” cried Hankes, eagerly.
“Yes, sir; here they are, box and all. The Rector advised me to carry them away for security' sake.” And so saying, she laid upon the table a massively bound and strong-built box, of about a foot in length.
It was with no inexperienced hand that Mr. Hankes proceeded to investigate the contents. His well-practised eye rapidly caught the meaning of each paper as he lifted it up, and he continued to mutter to himself his comments upon them. “This document is an ancient grant of the lands of Cloughrennin to the monks of the Abbey of Castlerosse, and bears date 1104. It speaks of certain rights reserved to the Baron Hugh Pritchard Conway. Conway—Conway,” mumbled he, twice or thrice; “that's the very name I tried and could not remember yesterday, Miss Kellett. You asked me about a certain soldier whose daring capture of a Russian officer was going the round of the papers. The young fellow had but one arm too; now I remember, his name was Conway.”
“Charles Conway! Was it Charles Conway?” cried she, eagerly; “but it could be no other,—he had lost his right arm.”
“I 'm not sure which, but he had only one, and he was called an orderly on the staff of the Piedmontese General.”
“Oh, the noble fellow! I could have sworn he would distinguish himself. Tell me it all again, sir; where did it happen, and how, and when?”
Mr. Hankes's memory was now to be submitted to a very searching test, and he was called on to furnish details which might have puzzled “Our own Correspondent.” Had Charles Conway been rewarded for his gallantry? What notice had his bravery elicited? Was he promoted, and to what rank? Had he been decorated, and with what order? Were his wounds, as reported, only trifling? Where was he now?—was he in hospital or on service? She grew impatient at how little he knew,—how little the incident seemed to have impressed him. “Was it possible,” she asked, “that heroism like this was so rife that a meagre paragraph was deemed enough to record it,—a paragraph, too, that forgot to state what had become of its hero?”
“Why, my dear Miss Kellett,” interposed he, at length, “one reads a dozen such achievements every week.”
“I deny it, sir,” cried she, angrily. “Our soldiers are the bravest in the world; they possess a courage that asks no aid from the promptings of self-interest, nor the urgings of vanity; they are very lions in combat; but it needs the chivalrous ardor of the gentleman, the man of blood and lineage to conceive a feat like this. It was only a noble patriotism could suggest the thought of such an achievement.”
“I must say,” said Hankes, in confusion, “the young fellow acquitted himself admirably; but I would also beg to observe that there is nothing in the newspaper to lead to the conclusion you are disposed to draw. There's not a word of his being a gentleman.”
“But I know it, sir,—the fact is known to me. Charles Conway is a man of family; he was once a man of fortune: he had served as an officer in a Lancer regiment; he had been extravagant, wild, wasteful, if you will.”
“Why, it can't be the Smasher you're talking of?—the great swell that used to drive the four chestnuts in the Park, and made the wager he 'd go in at one window of Stagg and Mantle's and out at t'other?”
“I don't care to hear of such follies, sir, when there are better things to be remembered. Besides, he is my brother's dearest friend, and I will not hear him spoken of but with respect. Take my word for it, sir, I am but asking what you had done, without a hint, were he only present.”
“I believe you,—by Jove, I believe you!” cried Hankes, with an honesty in the tone of his voice that actually made her smile. “And so this is Conway the Smasher!”
“Pray, Mr. Hankes, recall him by some other association. It is only fair to remember that he has given us the fitting occasion.”
“Ay, very true,—what you say is perfectly just; and, as you say, he is your brother's friend. Who would have thought it!—who would have thought it!”.
Without puzzling ourselves to inquire what it was that thus excited Mr. Hankes's astonishment, let us observe that gentleman, as he turns over, one by one, the papers in the box, muttering his comments meanwhile to himself: “Old title-deeds,—very old indeed,—all the ancient contracts are recited. Sir Gwellem Conway must have been a man of mark and note in those days. Here we find him holding 'in capite' from the king, twelve thousand acres, with the condition that he builds a strong castle and a 'bawn.' And these are, apparently, Sir Gwellem's own letters. Ah! and here we have him or his descendant called Baron of Ackroyd and Bedgellert, and claimant to the title of Lackington, in which he seems successful. This is the writ of summons calling him to the Lords as Viscount Lackington. Very curious and important these papers are,—more curious, perhaps, than important,—for in all likelihood there have been at least half a dozen confiscations of these lands since this time.”
Mr. Hankes's observations were not well attended to, for Sybella was already deep in the perusal of a curious old letter from a certain Dame Marian Conway to her brother, then Sheriff of Cardigan, in which some very strange traits of Irish chieftain life were detailed.
“I have an antiquarian friend who'd set great store by these old documents, Miss Kellett,” said Hankes, with a sort of easy indifference. “They have no value save for such collectors; they serve to throw a passing light over a dark period of history, and perhaps explain a bygone custom or an obsolete usage. What do you mean to do with them?”
“Keep them. If I succeed in my plans about the cottage, these letters of Spenser to Sir Lawrence Esmond are in themselves a title. Of course, if I fail in my request, I mean to give them to Mr. Dunn.”
“These were Welsh settlers, it would seem,” cried Hankes, still bending over the papers. “They came originally from Abergedley.”
“Abergedley!” repeated Sybella, three or four times over. “How strange!”
“What is strange, Miss Kellett?” asked Hankes, whose curiosity was eagerly excited by the expression of her features.
Instead of reply, however, she had taken a small notebook from her pocket, and sat with her eyes fixed upon a few words written in her own hand: “The Conways of Abergedley—of what family—if settled at any time in Ireland, and where?” These few words, and the day of the year when they were written, recalled to her mind a conversation she had once held with Terry Driscoll.
“What is puzzling you, Miss Kellett?” broke in Hankes; “I wish I could be of any assistance to its unravelment.”
“I am thinking of 'long ago;' something that occurred years back. Didn't you mention,” asked she, suddenly, “that Mr. Driscoll had been the former proprietor of thia cottage?”
“Yes, in so far as having paid part of the purchase-money. Does his name recall anything to interest you, Miss Kellett?”
If she heard she did not heed his question, but sat deep sunk in her own musings.
If there was any mood of the human mind that had an especial fascination for Mr. Hankes, it was that frame of thought which indicated the possession of some mysterious subject,—some deep and secret theme which the possessor retained for himself alone,—a measure of which none were to know the amount, to which none were to have the key. It would be ignoble to call this passion curiosity, for, in reality, it was less exercised by any desire to fathom the mystery than it was prompted by an intense jealousy of him who thus held in his own hands the solution of some portentous difficulty. To know on what schemes other men were bent, what hopes and fears filled them, by what subtle trains of reasoning they came to this conclusion or to that, were the daily exercises of his intelligence. He was eternally, as the phrase is, putting things together, comparing events, confronting this circumstance with that, and drawing inferences from every chance and accident of life. Now, it was clear to him Miss Kellett had a secret; or, at least, had the clew to one. Driscoll was “in it,” and this cottage was “in it,” and, not impossibly too, some of these Conway s were “in it.” There was something in that note-book; how was he to obtain sight of it? The vaguest line—-a word—would be enough for him. Mr. Hankes remembered how he had once committed himself and his health to the care of an unskilful physician simply because the man knew a fact which he wanted, and did worm out of him during his attendance. He had, at another time, undertaken a short voyage in a most unsafe craft, with a drunken captain, because the stewardess was possessed of a secret of which, even in his sea-sickness, he obtained the key. Over and over again had he assumed modes of life he detested, dissipation the most distasteful to him, to gain the confidence of men that were only assailable in these modes; and now he bethought him that if he only had a glimmering of his present suspicion, the precipice and the narrow path and the booming sea below had all been braved, and he would have followed her unflinchingly through every peril with this goal before him. Was it too late to reinstate himself in her esteem? He thought not; indeed, she did not seem to retain any memory of his defection. At all events, there was little semblance of it having influenced her in her manner towards him.
“We shall meet at Glengariff, Mr. Hankes,” said Sybella, rising, and replacing the papers in the box. “I mean to return by the coast road, and will not ask you to accompany me.”
“It is precisely what I was about to beg as a favor. I was poorly yesterday,—a nervous headache, an affection I am subject to; in short, I felt unequal to any exertion, or even excitement.”
“Pray let me counsel you to spare yourself a journey of much fatigue with little to reward it. Frequency and long habit have deprived the mountain tract of all terror for me, but I own that to a stranger it is not without peril. The spot where we parted yesterday is the least dangerous of the difficulties, and so I would say be advised, and keep to the high-road.”
Now, there was not the slightest trace of sarcasm in what she said; it was uttered in all sincerity and good faith, and yet Mr. Hankes could not help suspecting a covert mockery throughout.
“I 'm determined she shall see I am a man of courage,” muttered he to himself; and then added, aloud, “You must permit me to disobey you, Miss Kellett. I am resolved to bear you company.”
There was a dash of decision in his tone that made Sybella turn to look at him, and, to her astonishment, she saw a degree of purpose and determination in his face very unlike its former expression. If she did not possess the craft and subtlety which long years had polished to a high perfection in him, she had that far finer and more delicate tact by which a woman's nature reads man's coarser temperament. She watched his eye, too, and saw how it rested on the oaken box, and, even while awaiting her answer, never turned from that object.
“Yes,” said she to herself, “there is a game to be played out between us, and yonder is the stake.”
Did Mr. Hankes divine what was passing in her mind? I know not. All he said was,—
“May I order the horses, Miss Kellett?”
“Yes, I am ready.”
“And this box, what is to be done with it? Best to leave it here in the possession of the innkeeper. I suppose it will be safe?” asked he, half timidly.
“Perfectly safe; it would be inconvenient to carry with us. Will you kindly tell the landlord to come here?”
No sooner had Mr. Hankes left the room on his errand, than Sybella unlocked the box, and taking out the three papers in which the name of Conway appeared, relocked it. The papers she as quickly consigned to a small bag, which, as a sort of sabretasche, formed part of her riding-costume.
Mr. Hankes was somewhat longer on his mission than appeared necessary, and when he did return there was an air of some bustle and confusion about him, while between him and the landlord an amount of intimacy had grown up—a sort of confidence was established—that Bella's keen glance rapidly read.
“An old-fashioned lock, and doubtless worth nothing, Miss Kellett,” said Hankes, as with a contemptuous smile he regarded the curiously carved ornament of the keyhole. “You have the key, I think?”
“Yes; it required some ingenuity to withdraw it from where, I suppose, it has been rusting many a year.”
“It strikes me I might as well put a band over the lock and affix my seal. It will convey the notion of something very precious inside,” added he, laughing, “and our friend here, Mr. Rorke, will feel an increased importance in the guardianship of such a treasure.”
“I 'll guard it like goold, sir; that you may depend on,” chimed in the landlord.
Why was it that, as Bella's quick glance was bent upon him, he turned so hastily away, as if to avoid the scrutiny?
Do not imagine, valued reader, that while this young girl scanned the two faces before her, and tried to discover what secret understanding subsisted between these two men,—strangers but an hour ago,—that she herself was calm and self-possessed. Far from it; as little was she self-acquitted. It was under the influence of a sudden suspicion flashing across her mind—whence or how she knew not—that some treachery was being planned, that she withdrew these documents from the box. The expression of Hankes's look, as it rested on the casket, was full of significance. It meant much, but of what nature she could not read. The sudden way he had questioned her about Driscoll imparted a link of connection between that man and the contents of the box, or part of them; and what part could that be except what concerned the name of Conway? If these were her impulses, they were more easily carried out than forgiven, and in her secret heart she was ashamed of her own distrust, and of what it led her to do.
“It would be a curious question at law,” said Hankes, as he affixed the third and last seal,—“a very curious question, who owns that box. Not that its contents would pay for the litigation,” added he, with a mocking laugh; “but the property being sold this morning, with an unsettled claim of Driscoll's over it, and the purchaser being still undeclared,—for I suppose you bought it in for the Earl, or for Mr. Dunn, perhaps—”
“No, sir, in my own name, and for myself, waiting Mr. Dunn's good pleasure to confirm the sale in the way I have told you.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed he, looking with an unfeigned admiration at a young girl capable of such rapid and decisive action, “so that you really may consider yourself its owner.”
“I do consider myself its owner,” was her calm reply.
“Then pray excuse my officiousness in this sealing up. I hope you will pardon my indiscreet zeal.”
She smiled without answering, and the blood mounted to Mr. Hankes's face and forehead till they were crimson. He, too, felt that there was a game between them, and was beginning to distrust his “hand.”
“Are we to be travelling-companions, Mr. Hankes?” asked she. And though nothing was said in actual words, there was that in the voice and manner of the speaker that made the question run thus: “Are we, after what we have just seen of each other, to journey together?”
“Well, if you really wish me to confess the truth, Miss Kellett, I must own I am rather afraid of my head along these mountain paths,—a sort of faintness, a rushing of blood to the brain, and a confusion; in short, Nature never meant me for a chamois-hunter, and I should bring no credit on your training of me.”
“Your resolve is all the wiser, sir, and so to our next meeting.” She waved him a half-familiar, half-cold farewell, and left the room.
Mr. Hankes saw her leave the town, and he loitered about the street till he could mark two mounted figures ascending the mountain. He then ordered a chaise to the door with all speed.
“Will you take it now, sir, or send for it, as you said at first?” asked the innkeeper, as he stood with the oak box in his hands.
“Keep it till I write,—keep it till you hear from me; or, no, put it in the chaise,—that's better.”
Short as had been Sybella's absence from the Hermitage, a vast number of letters had arrived for her in the mean while. The prospect of a peace, so confidently entertained at one moment, was now rudely destroyed by the abrupt termination of the Vienna conferences, and the result was a panic in the money-market.
The panic of an army rushing madly on to victory; the panic on shipboard when the great vessel has struck, and after three or four convulsive throes the mighty masts have snapped, and the blue water, surging and bounding, has riven the hatchways and flooded the deck; the panic of a mob as the charge of cavalry is sounded, and the flash of a thousand sabres is seen through the long vista of a street; the panic of a city stricken by plague or cholera,—are all dreadful and appalling things, and have their scenes of horror full of the most picturesque terror; still are there incidents of an almost equal power when that dread moment has arrived which is called a “Panic on 'Change.”
It was but yesterday, and the world went well and flourishingly, mills were at work, foundries thundered with their thousand hammers, vessels sailed forth from every port, and white-sailed argosies were freighted with wealth from distant colonies. None had to ask twice for means to carry out his speculations, for every enterprise there was capital; and now scarcely twenty-four hours have passed, and all is changed. A despatch has been received in the night; a messenger has arrived at Downing Street; the Minister has been aroused from his sleep to hear that we have met some great reverse; a terrible disaster has befallen us; two line-of-battle ships, whose draught of water was too great, have grounded under an enemy's fire; in despite of the most heroic resistance, they have been captured; the union-jacks are on their way to Moscow. Mayhap the discomfiture, less afflicting to national pride, is the blunder of a cavalry officer or the obstinacy of an envoy. Little matter for the cause, we have met a check. Down goes credit, and up go the discounts; the mighty men of millions have drawn their purse-strings, and not a guinea is to be had; the city is full of sad-visaged men in black, presaging every manner of misfortune. More troops are wanted; more ships; we are going to have an increase of the income-tax,—a loan,—a renewal of war burdens in fifty shapes! Each fancies some luxury of which he must deprive himself, some expense to be curtailed; and all are taking the dreariest view of a future whose chief feature is to be privation.
So was it now. Amidst a mass of letters was one from Davenport Dunn, written with brevity and in haste. By a mistake, easily made In the hurry and confusion of such correspondence, it was, though intended for Mr. Hankes, addressed to Miss Kellett; the words “Strictly private and confidential” occupying a conspicuous place across the envelope, while lower down was written “Immediate.”
It was a very rare event, latterly, for Mr. Dunn to write to Miss Kellett, nor had she, in all their intercourse, once received from him a letter announced thus “confidential.”
It was, then, in some surprise, and not without a certain anxiety, that she broke the seal. It was dated “Wednesday, Irish Office,” and began thus: “Dear S.”—she started,—he had never called her Sybella in his life; he had been most punctiliously careful ever to address her as Miss Kellett. She turned at once to the envelope, and read the address, “Miss Kellett, the Hermitage, Glengariff.” And yet there could be no mistake. It opened, “Dear S.” “He has forgotten a word,” thought she; “he meant in his mood of confidence to call me Miss Sybella, and has omitted the title.” The letter ran thus: “We have failed at Vienna, as we do everywhere and in everything. The war is to continue; consequently, we are in a terrible mess. Glumthal telegraphs this morning that he will not go on; the Frankfort people will, of course, follow his lead, so that Mount Cenis will be 'nowhere' by the end of the week. I am, however, more anxious about Glengariff, which must be upheld, for the moment, at any cost To-day I can manage to keep up the shares; perhaps, also, to-morrow.. The old Earl is more infatuated about the scheme than ever, though the accounts he receives from that girl”—“That girl,” muttered she; “who can he mean?”—“from that girl occasionally alarm him. She evidently has her own suspicions, though I don't clearly see by what they have been suggested. The sooner, therefore, you can possess yourself of the correspondence, the better. I have written to her by this post with a proposition she will most probably accept; advise it, by all means.”—“This is scarcely intelligible,” said she, once more reverting to the direction of the letter.—“Should the Ministry be beaten on Monday, they mean to dissolve Parliament. Now, they cannot go to the country, in Ireland, without me, and my terms I have already fixed. They must give us aid,—material, substantial aid; I will not be put off with office or honors,—it is no time for either. Meanwhile, I want all the dividend warrants, and a brief sketch of our next statement; for we meet on Saturday. Come what will, the Allotment must be sustained till the new election be announced. I hope Lackington's check was duly presented, for I find that his death was known here on the 4th. Where the new Viscount is, no one seems even to guess. Get rid of the girl, and believe me, yours ever,—D. D.”
“Surely, there is some strange mystification here,” said she, as she sat pondering over this letter. “There are allusions which, had they not been addressed to me, I might have fancied were intended for myself. This girl, whose accounts have terrified Lord Glengariff, and who herself suspects that all is not right, may mean me; but yet it is to me he writes, confidentially and secretly. I cannot complain that the letter lacks candor; it is frank enough; every word forebodes coming disaster, the great scheme is threatened with ruin, nothing can save it but Government assistance,—an infamous compact, if I read it aright. And if all this be so, in what a game have I played a part! This great venture is a swindling enterprise! All these poor people whose hard-earned gains have been invested in it will be ruined; my own small pittance, too, is gone. Good heavens! to what a terrible network of intrigue and deception have I lent myself! How have I come to betray those whose confidence I strove so hard to gain! This girl,—this girl,—who is she, and of whom does he speak?” exclaimed she, as, in an outburst of emotion, she walked the room, her whole frame trembling, and her eyes glaring in all the wildness of high excitement.
“May I come in?” whispered a soft voice, as a low tap was heard at the door; and without waiting for leave, Mr. Hankes entered. Nothing could be silkier nor softer than his courteous approach; his smile was the blandest, his step the smoothest, his bow the nicest blending of homage and regard; and, as he took Miss Kellett's hand, it was with the air of a courtier dashed with the devotion of an admirer. Cruel is the confession that she noticed none—not one—of these traits. Her mind was so engrossed by the letter, that, had Mr. Hankes made his entry in a suit of chain armor, and with a mace in his hand, she would not have minded it.
“I am come to entreat forgiveness,—to sue your pardon, Miss Kellett, for a very great offence, of which, however, I am the guiltless offender. The letter which I hold here, and which, as you see, is addressed S. Hankes, Esq.,' was certainty intended for you, and not me.”
“What—how—misdirected—a mistake in the address?” cried she, eagerly.
“Just so; placed in a wrong enclosure,” resumed he, in a tone of well-graduated calm. “A blunder which occurs over and over in life, but I am fain to hope has never happened with less serious results.”
“In short,” said she, hastily, “my letter, or the letter meant for me, came directed to you?”
“Precisely. I have only to plead, as regards myself, that immediately on discovery—and I very soon discovered that it could not have been destined for my perusal—I refolded the epistle and hastened to deliver it to your own hands.”
“More discreet and more fortunate than I,” said she, with a very peculiar smile, “since this letter which I hold here, and which bore my address, I now perceive was for you, and this I have not read merely once or twice, but fully a dozen times; in truth, I believe I could repeat it, word for word, if the task were required of me.”
What has become of Mr. Hankes's soft and gentle manner? Where are his bland looks, his air of courtesy and kindness, his voice so full of sweetness and deference? Why, the man seems transfixed, his eyeballs are staring wildly, and he actually clutches, not takes, the letter from her hands.
“Why, the first words might have undeceived you,” cried he, rudely. “Your name is not Simpson Hankes.”
“No, sir; but it is Sybella, and the writer begins 'Dear S.,'—a liberty, I own, I felt it, but one which I fancied my position was supposed to permit. Pray read on, sir, and you will see that there was matter enough to puzzle finer faculties than mine.”
Perhaps the tone in which she spoke these words was intentionally triumphant; perhaps Mr. Hankes attributed this significance to them causelessly; at all events, he started and stared at her for above a minute steadfastly, he then addressed himself suddenly to the letter.
“Gracious heavens! what a terrible blunder!” exclaimed he, when he had finished the reading.
“A great mistake, certainly, sir,” said she, calmly.
“But still one of which you are incapable to take advantage, Miss Kellett,” said he, with eagerness.
“Is it to the girl who is to be got rid of, sir, you address this speech? Is it to her whose trustfulness has been made the instrument to deceive others and lure them to their ruin? Nay, Mr. Hankes, your estimate of my forbearance is, indeed, too high.”
“But what would you do, young lady?”
“Do, sir! I scarcely know what I would not do,” burst she in, passionately. “This letter was addressed to me. I know nothing of the mistake of its direction; here is the envelope with my name upon it. It is, consequently, mine,—mine, therefore, to publish, to declare to the world, through its words, that the whole of this grand enterprise is a cheat; that its great designer is a man of nothing, living the precarious life of a gambling speculator, trading on the rich man's horde and the poor man's pittance, making market of all, even to his patriotism. I would print this worthy document with no other comment than the words, 'Received by me, Sybella Kellett, this day of September, and sworn to as the handwriting of him whose initials it bears, Davenport Dunn.' I would publish it in such type that men might read it as they went, that all should take warning and put no faith in these unprincipled tricksters. Ay, sir, and I would cling, as my hope of safety from the world's scorn, to that insulting mention of myself, and claim as my vindication that I am the girl to be 'got rid of.' None shall dare to call me complice, since the little I once called my own is lost. But I would do more, sir. The world I have unwittingly aided to deceive has a full right to an expiation at my hands. I would make public the entire correspondence I have for months back been engaged in. You seem to say 'No' to this. Is it my right you dispute, or my courage to assert the right?”
“You must be aware, Miss Kellett,” said he, deprecatingly, “that you became possessed of this letter by a mistake; that you had no right to the intelligence it contains, and, consequently, have none to avail yourself of that knowledge. It may be perfectly true that you can employ it to our detriment. It would, I have little doubt, serve to shake our credit for a day or two; but do you know what misery, what utter ruin, your rashness will have caused meanwhile? By the fall of our securities you will beggar hundreds. All whose necessities may require them to sell out on the day of your disclosures will be irretrievably ruined. You meditate a vengeance upon Mr. Dunn, and your blow falls on some poor struggling creatures that you never so much as heard of. I do not speak,” continued he, more boldly, as he saw the deep effect his words produced,—“I do not speak of the destitution and misery you will spread here,—all works stopped, all enterprise suspended, thousands thrown out of employment. These are the certain, the inevitable evils of what you propose to do. And now, let me ask, What are to be the benefits? You would depose from his station of power and influence the only man in the kingdom who has a brain to conceive, or a courage to carry out these gigantic enterprises,—the only man of influence sufficient to treat with the Government, and make his own terms. You would dethrone him, to install in his place some inferior intelligence,—some mere creature of profit and loss, without genius or patriotism; and all for what?—for a mere phrase, and that, too, in a letter which was never intended for your eyes.”
Mr. Hankes saw that he was listened to, and he continued. Artfully contriving to take the case out of its real issue, he made it appear to Miss Kellett that she was solely impelled by personal motives, and had no other object in view than a vengeance on the man who had insulted her. “And now just throw your eyes over the letter intended for yourself. I only glanced at it, but it seemed to me written in a tone of sincerest well-wishing.”
It was so. It contained the offer of a most advantageous position. A new Governor-General of India desired a suitable companion for his daughters, who had lost their mother. He was a nobleman of highest rank and influence. The station was one which secured great advantages, and Dunn had obtained the promise of it in her behalf by considerable exertion on his part Nay, more. Knowing that her fortune was engaged in the “Allotment scheme,” he volunteered to take her shares at the highest rate they had ever borne, as she would, probably, require immediate means to procure an Indian outfit. The whole wound up with a deeply expressed regret at the loss Glengariff would sustain by her departure; “but all my selfishness,” added he, “could not blind me to the injustice of detaining in obscurity one whose destiny so certainly points her out for a station lofty and distinguished.”
She smiled at the words, and, showing them to Hankes, said, “It is most unfortunate, sir, that I should have seen the other letter. I could so readily have yielded myself up to all this flattery, which, even in its hollowness, has a certain charm.”
“I am certain Miss Kellett has too much good sense—too much knowledge of life—too much generosity, besides—”
“Pray, sir, let me stop you, or the catalogue of my perfections may become puzzling, not to say that I need all the good gifts with which you would endow me to aid me to a right judgment here. I wish I knew what to do.”
“Can you doubt it?”
“If the road be so clear, will you not point it out?”
“Write to Mr. Dunn. Well, let me write to him. I will inform him how this mischance occurred. I will tell him that you had read and re-read his letter before discovering the mistake of the address; that, consequently, you are now—so far as this great enterprise is concerned—one of ourselves; that, although you scorn to take advantage of a circumstance thus accidentally revealed, yet that, as chance has put you in possession of certain facts, that—-that, in short—”
“That, in short, I ought to profit by my good fortune,” said she, calmly, finishing the phrase for him.
“Unquestionably,” chimed in Hankes, quickly; “and, what's more, demand very high terms too. Dunn is a practical man,” added he, in a lower and more confidential tone; “nobody knows better when liberality is the best policy.”
“So that this is a case for a high price?” asked she, in the same calm tone.
“I 'd make it so if I were in your place. I 'd certainly say a 'high figure,' Miss Keliett.”
“Shall I confess, sir, that, in so far as knowing how to profit by it, I am really unworthy of this piece of fortune? Is Mr. Hankes enough my friend to enlighten me?”
There was a smile that accompanied this speech which went far—very far—to influence Mr. Hankes. Once again did his personal fortunes rise before him; once again did he bethink him that this was an alliance that might lead to much.
“I can give you a case in point, Miss Keliett,—I mean as to the value of a secret. It was when Sir Robert Peel meditated his change in the Corn-laws. One of the council—it does not matter to say his name—accidentally divulged the secret intention, and a great journal gave no less than ten thousand pounds for the intelligence,—ten thousand pounds sterling!”
She seemed to pause over this story, and reflect upon it.
“Now,” resumed Hankes, “it is just as likely he 'd say, 'Money is scarce just now; your demand comes at an inconvenient moment' This would be true,—there's no gainsaying it; and I'd reply, 'Let me have it in shares,—some of the new preference scrip just issued.'”
“How it does allay difficulties to deal with persons of great practical intelligence,—men of purpose-like mind!” said Sybella, gravely.
“Ah, Miss Kellett, if I could only believe that this was a favorable moment to appeal to you in their behalf,—at least, in so far as regards one of their number,—one who has long admired your great qualities in silence, and said to himself, 'What might she not be if allied to one well versed in life, trained to all its chances and changes—'”
“It never occurred to me to fancy I had inspired all this interest, sir,” said she, calmly.
“Probably because your thoughts never dwelt on me,” said Hankes, with a most entreating look; “but I assure you,” added he, warmly, “the indifference was not reciprocal. I have been long—very long attracted by those shining abilities you display. Another might dwell upon your personal attractions, and say the impression your beauty had made upon him; but beauty is a flower,—a perishable hot-house flower. Not,” added he, hastily, “that I pretend to be insensible to its fascinations; no, Miss Kellett, I have my weaknesses like the rest.”
Sybella scarcely heard his words. It was but a day before, and a poor unlettered peasant, an humble creature unread in life and human nature, told her that he deemed her one fit for high and devoted enterprise, and that her rightful place was amidst the wounded and the dying in the Crimea. Had he construed her, then, more truly? At all events, the career was a noble one. She did not dare to contrast it any longer with her late life, so odious now did it seem to her, with all its schemes for wealth, its wily plot-tings and intrigues.
“I am afraid, sir, I have been inattentive,—I fear that my thoughts were away from what you have been saying,” said she, hastily.
“Shall I just throw my ideas on paper, Miss Kellett, and wait your answer—say to-morrow?”
“My answer to what, sir?”
“I have been presumptuous enough to make you an offer of my hand, Miss Kellett,” said he, with a half-offended dignity. “There are, of course, a number of minor considerations—I call them minor, as they relate to money matters—to be discussed after; for instance, with regard to these shares—”
“It will save us both a world of trouble, sir, when I thank you deeply for the honor you would destine me, and decline to accept it.”
“I know there is a discrepancy in point of years—”
“Pray, sir, let us not continue the theme. I have given my answer, and my only one.”
“Or if it be that any meddling individual should have mentioned the late Mrs. H.,” said he, bristling up,— “for she is the late, that I can satisfy you upon,—I have abundant evidence to show how that woman behaved—”
“You are confiding to me more than I have the right or wish to hear, sir.”
“Only in vindication,—only in vindication. I am aware how her atrocious book has libelled me. It made me a perfect martyr for the season after it came out; but it is out of print,—not a copy to be had for fifty pounds, if it were offered.”
“But really, sir—”
“And then, Miss Kellett,” added he, in a sort of thrilling whisper, “she drank; at first sherry,—brown sherry—but afterwards brandy,—ay, ma'am, brandy neat and a matter of a bottle daily. If you only knew what I went through with her,—the scenes in the streets, in the playhouses, in coffee-rooms,—ay, and police-offices,—I give you my sacred word of honor Simpson Hankes was rapidly becoming as great a public scandal as the Rev. Paul Classon himself!”
“Cannot you perceive, sir, that these details are less than uninteresting to me?”
“Don't say that, Miss Kellett,—don't, I beg you, or else you 'll make me fear that you 'll not read the little pamphlet I published, entitled 'A Brief Statement by Simpson Hankes,'—a brochure that I am proud to believe decided the world in my favor.”
“Once for all, Mr. Hankes, I decline to hear more of these matters. If I have not more plainly told you how little they claim to interest me, it is because my own selfish cares fill up my thoughts. I will try to hand you the correspondence Mr. Dunn desires to see in your keeping by to-morrow morning. There are many circumstances will require special explanation in it. However I will do my best to be ready.”
“And my offer, Miss Kellett?”
“I have declined it, sir.”
“But really, young lady, are you well aware of what it is you refuse?” asked he, angrily.
“I will not discuss the question, sir,” said she, haughtily. “Give me that letter I showed you.”
“The letter, I opine, is mine, Miss Kellett. The address alone pertains to you.”
“Do you mean, then, to retain possession of the letter?” asked she, hurriedly.
“I protest, I think it is better—better for all of us—that I should do so. You will pardon me if I observe that you are now under the influence of excited feelings,—you are irritated. Any line of action, under such circumstances, will necessarily be deficient in that calm, matured judgment which is mainly your characteristic.”
“It needed but this, sir, to fill up the measure!” ex-claimed she, passionately.
“I don't perfectly apprehend you, Miss Kellett.”
“I mean, sir, that this last trait of yours was alone wanting to complete the utter contempt I now feel for my late life and its associates. Mr. Dunn's letter, with all its disgraceful disclosures,—your own crafty counsels how best to profit by the accidental knowledge,—and now this refusal to restore the letter,—this mean distrust based on a breach of confidence—”
“By no means, madam. In withholding this letter, I maintain it to be my own. I have already explained to you that the address is all you can lay claim to; a recent legal decision is in my favor. It was tried last Hilary term before Justice Whitecroff. The case was Barnes versus Barnes.”
“If my anger prompt me to rasher acts than my calmer reason might have counselled,” broke in Sybella, “remember, sir, it is to yourself you owe it. At least upon one point you may rely. Whatever I decide to do in this affair, it will not be swayed by any—the slightest—regard for your friends or their interests. I will think of others alone,—never once of them. Your smile seems to pay, 'The war between us is an unequal one.' I know it. I am a woman, poor, friendless, unprotected; you and yours are rich, and well thought of; and yet, with all this odds, if I accept the conflict I do not despair of victory.”
As she left the room and the door closed after her, Mr. Hankes wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down, the perfect picture of dismay.
“What is she up to?” cried he, three or four times to himself. “If she resolves to make a public scandal of it, there's an end of us! The shares would be down—down to nothing—in four-and-twenty hours! I'll telegraph to Dunn at once!” said he, rising, and taking his hat. “The mischance was his own doing; let him find the remedy himself.”
With all that perfection of laconic style which practice confers, Mr. Hankes communicated to Davenport Dunn the unhappy mistake which had just befallen. Under the safeguard of a cipher used between them, he expressed his deepest fears for the result, and asked for immediate counsel and guidance.
This despatch, forwarded by telegraph, he followed by a long letter, entering fully into all the details of the mischance, and reporting with—it must be acknowledged—a most scrupulous accuracy an account of the stormy scene between Miss Kellett and himself. He impressed upon his chief that no terms which should secure her silence would be too high, and gently insinuated that a prompt and generous offer on Dunn's part might not impossibly decide the writer to seal his devotion to the cause, by making the lady Mrs. Hankes. “Only remember,” added he, “it must be in cash or approved bills.”
Partly to illustrate the difficulty of the negotiation he was engaged in, partly to magnify the amount of the sacrifice he proposed to make, he depicted Sybella in colors somewhat less flattering than ardent love usually employs. “It is clear to me now,” wrote he, “from what I witnessed to-day, that neither you nor I ever understood this girl aright. She has a temper of her own, and an obstinacy perfectly invincible. Acting on the dictate of what she fancies to be her conscience, she is quite capable of going to any extreme, and I have the strongest doubt that she is one to be moved by affection or deterred by fear.” After a little more of this eulogistic strain, he wound up by repeating his former generous proposal He adroitly pointed out that it was in the interest of only such a patron he could ever dream of so great a sacrifice; and then in that half-jocular way in which he often attained to all the real and businesslike elements of a project, he added, “Say ten thousand, and the 'match' will come off,—a very moderate stake, if you only remember the 'forfeit.'”
In a brief postscript he mentioned the discovery of the ancient document found at the cottage, with, as he said, “some curious papers about the Conway family. These I have duly sealed up in the box, and retain in my possession, although Miss K. has evidently an eye upon them.
“Write fully and explicitly whatever you mean to do; should you, however, fully agree to what I propose, telegraph back to
“Yours, ever faithfully,
“Simpson Hankes.
“They have come to tell me she is packing up her things and has sent a twenty-pound note to be changed.”