The Knight of Gwynne, by Charles James Lever

“Nothing is a man's own but his honor, sir. That base cowardice yonder believes itself honest and independent, as if a single right feeling, a single good or virtuous thought, could consort with habits like theirs; but they are less base than those who instigate them. The real scoundrels are the Hickmans of this world, the men who compensate for low birth and plebeian origin by calumniating the wellborn and the noble.—What is Flury wanting here?” said he, as, attracted by Daly's narrative, the poor fellow had drawn near to listen.

“'I 'm glad you put the pewter pot on the Bully's head, he 's a disgrace to the town,” said Flury, with a laugh; and he turned away, as if enjoying the downfall of an enemy.

“Oh! I see,” said Daly, taking up one of the papers that had fallen to the ground, “this is the first act of the drama. Come along, Lionel, let us talk of matters nearer to our hearts.”

They walked along together to the library, each silently following his own train of thought, and for some time neither seemed disposed to speak. Lionel at length broke silence, as he said,—

“I have been thinking over it, and am convinced my father will never be able to endure this life of inactivity before him.”

“That is exactly the fear I entertain myself for him; altered fortunes will impress themselves more in the diminished sphere to which his influence and utility will be reduced, than in anything else: but how to remedy this?”

“I have been considering that also; but you must advise me if the plan be a likely one. He held the rank of colonel once—”

“To be sure he did, and with good right,—he raised the regiment himself. Darcy's Light Horse were as handsome a set of fellows as the service could boast of.”

“Well, then, my notion is, that although the Government did not buy his vote on the Union, there would be no just reason why they should not appoint him to some one of those hundred situations which the service includes. His former rank, his connection and position, his unmerited misfortunes, are, in some sense, claims. I can scarcely suppose his opposition in Parliament would be remembered against him at such a moment.”

“I hardly think it would,” said Daly, musingly; “there is much in what you propose. Would Lord Netherby support such a request if it were made?”

“He could not well decline it; almost the last thing he said at parting was, that whatever favor he enjoyed should be gladly employed in our behalf. Besides, we really seek nothing to which we may not lay fair and honest claim. My intention would be to write at once to Lord Netherby. acquainting him briefly with our altered fortunes.”

“To mention my father's military rank and services, to state that, having raised and equipped a company at his own expense, without accepting the slightest aid from the Government, now, in his present change of condition, he would be proud of any recognition of those services which once he was but too happy to render unrewarded by the Crown. There are many positions, more or less lucrative, which would well become him, and which no right-minded gentleman could say were ill-bestowed on such a man.”

“All true,” said Daly, whose eye brightened as he gazed on the youth, whose character seemed already about to develop itself under the pressure of misfortune with traits of more thoughtful meaning than yet appeared iu him.

“Then I will write to Lord Netherby at once,” resumed Lionel; “there can be no indelicacy in making such a request: he is our relative, the nearest my mother has.”

“He is far better, he 's a Lord in Waiting, and a very subtle courtier,” said Daly. “Write this day, and, if you like it, I 'll dictate the letter.”

Lionel accepted the offer with all the pleasure possible. He had been from boyhood a firm believer in the resources and skill of Daly in every possible contingency of life, and looked on him as one of those persons who invariably succeed when everybody else fails.

There is a species of promptitude in action, the fruit generally of a strong will and a quick imagination, which young men mistake for a much higher gift, and estimate at a price very far above its value. Bagenal Daly had, however, other qualities than these; but truth compels us to own that, in Lionel's eyes, his supremacy on such grounds was no small merit. He had ever found him ready for every emergency, prompt to decide, no less quick to act, and, without stopping to inquire how far success followed such rapid resolves, this very energy charmed him. It was, then, in perfect confidence in the skill and address of his adviser that Lionel sat down, pen in hand, to write at his dictation.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAW AND ITS CHANCES.

We left Mr. Daly at the conclusion of our last chapter in the exercise of—what to him was always a critical matter—the functions of a polite letter-writer. His faults, it is but justice to say, were much less those of style than of the individual himself; for if he rarely failed to convey a clear notion of his views and intentions, he still more rarely omitted to impart considerable insight into his own character.

His abrupt and broken sentences, his sudden outbreaks of intelligence or passion, were not inaptly conveyed by the character of a handwriting which was bold, careless, and hurried. Indifferent to everything like neatness or accuracy, generally blotted, and never very legible, these defects, if they did not palliate, they might, in a measure, explain something of his habits of thought and action; but now, when about to dictate to another, the case was different, and those interruptions which Daly would have set down by a dash of his pen, were to be conveyed by the less significant medium of mere blanks.

“I 'm ready,” said Lionel, at length, as he sat for some time in silent expectation of Daly's commencement. But that gentleman was walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back, occasionally stopping to look out upon the lawn.

“Very well, begin—'My dear Lord Netherby,' or 'My dear Lord,'—it does n't signify which, though I suppose he would be of another mind, and find a whole world of difference between the two. Have you that?—very well. Then go on to mention, in such terms as you like yourself, the sudden change of fortune that has befallen your family,—briefly, but decisively.”

“Dictate it, I'll follow you,” said Lionel, somewhat put out by this mode of composition.

“Oh! it doesn't matter exactly what the words are,—say, that a d——d scoundrel, Gleeson—Honest Tom we always called him—has cut and run with something like a hundred thousand pounds, after forging and falsifying every signature to our leases for the last ten or fifteen years; we are, in consequence, ruined—obliged to leave the abbey, take to a cottage—a devilish poor one, too.”

“Utterly smashed—broken up—no home, and devilish little to live upon,—my mother's jointure being barely sufficient for herself and Helen. I want, therefore, to remind you—your Lordship, that is—to remind your Lordship of the kind pledge which you so lately made us, at a time when we little anticipated the early necessity we should have to recall it. My father, some forty-five or six years back, raised the Darcy Light Horse, equipped, armed, and mounted six hundred men, at his own expense. This regiment, of which he took the head, did good service in the Low Countries, and although distinguished in many actions, he received nothing but thanks,—happily not wanting more, if so much. Times are changed now with him, and it would be a seasonable act of kindness and a suitable reward to an old officer—highly esteemed as he is and has been through life—to make up for past neglect by some appointment—the service has many such—Confound them! the pension-list shows what fellows there are—'governors and deputy-governors,' 'acting adjutants' of this, and 'deputy assistant commissaries' of that.”

“No, you needn't,—it would do no harm, though, to give them a hint on the subject; but never mind it now. 'As for myself, I 'll leave the Guards, and take service in the Line. I am only anxious for a regiment on a foreign station, and if in India, so much the better.' Is that down? Well—eh! that will do, I think. You may just say, that the matter ought to be arranged without any communication with your father, inasmuch as, from motives of delicacy, he might feel bound to decline what was tendered as an offer, though he would hold himself pledged to accept what was called by the name of duty. Yes, Lionel, that's the way to put the case; active service, by all means active service,—no guard-mounting at Windsor or Carlton House; no Hounslow Heath engagements.”

Lionel followed, as well as he was able, the suggestions, to which sundry short interjections and broken “hems!” and “ha's!” gave no small confusion, and at last finished a letter, which, if it conveyed some part of the intention, was even a stronger exponent of the character, of him who dictated it.

“Heaven forbid! If you did, I 'd alter every word of it. I never reconsidered a note that I did not change my mind about it, and I don't believe I ever counted a sum of money over more than once without making the tot vary each time. Send it off as it is—' Yours truly, Lionel Darcy.'”

It was about ten days after the events we have just related that Bagenal Daly sat in consultation with Darcy's lawyer in the back parlor of the Knight's Dublin residence. Lionel, who had been in conclave with them for several hours, had just left the room, and they now remained in thoughtful silence, pondering over their late discussion.

“That young man,” said Bicknell, at length, “is very far from being deficient in ability, but he is wayward and reckless as the rest of the family; he seems to have signed his name everywhere they told him, and to anything. Here are leases forever at nominal rents—no fines in renewal—rights of fishery disposed of—oak timber—marble quarries—property of every kind—made away with. Never was there such wasteful, ruinous expenditure coupled with peculation and actual robbery at the same time.”

“What's to be done?” said Daly, interrupting a catalogue of disasters he could scarcely listen to with patience; “have you anything to propose?”

“We must move in Equity for an inquiry into the validity of these documents; many of the signatures are probably false; we can lay a case for a jury—”

“Well, I don't want to hear the details,—you mean to go to law; now, has Darcy wherewithal to sustain a suit? These Hickmans are rich.”

“Very wealthy people indeed,” said Bicknell, dryly. “The Knight cannot engage in a legal contest with them without adequate means. I am not sufficiently in possession of Mr. Darcy's resources to pronounce on the safety of such a step.”

“I can tell you, then: they have nothing left to live upon save his wife's jointure. Lady Eleanor has something like a thousand a year in settlement,—certainly not more.”

“If they can contrive to live on half this sum,” said the lawyer, cautiously, “we may, perhaps, find the remainder enough for our purposes. The first expenses will be, of course, very heavy: drafts to prepare, searches to make, witnesses to examine, with opinion of high counsel, will all demand considerable outlay.”

“This is a point I can give no opinion upon,” said Daly; “they have been accustomed to live surrounded with luxuries of every kind: whether they can at once descend to actual poverty, or would rather cling to the remnant of their former comforts, is not in my power to tell.”

“The very bond under which they have foreclosed,” said Bicknell, “admits of great question. Unfortunately, that fellow Gleeson destroyed all the papers before his suicide, or we could ascertain if a clause of redemption were not inserted; there was no registry of the judgment, and we are consequently in the hands of the enemy.”

“I cannot help saying,” said Daly, sternly, “that if it were not for the confounded subtleties of your craft, roguery would have a less profitable sphere of employment: so many hitches, so many small crotchety conjunctures influence the mere question of right and wrong that a man is led at last to think less of justice itself than of the petty artifices to secure a superiority.”

“I must assure you that you are in a great error,” said Bicknell, calmly; “the complication of a suit is the necessary security the law has recourse to against the wiles and stratagems of designing men. What you call its hitches and subtleties are the provisions against craft by which mere honesty is protected: that they are sometimes employed to defeat justice, is saying no more than that they are only human contrivances; for what good institution cannot be so perverted?”

“So much the better, if you can think so. Now, what are Darcy's chances of success?—never mind recapitulating details, which remind me a great deal too much of my own misfortunes, but say, in one word, is the prospect good or bad, or has it a tinge of both?”

“It may be any of the three, according to the way in which the claim is prosecuted; if there be sufficient means—”

“Undoubtedly; large fees to the leading counsel, retainers, if a record be kept for trial at the Assizes, and payment to special juries: all are expensive, and all necessary.”

“I 'll write to Darcy to-night, then,—or, better still, I 'll write to Lady Eleanor, repeating what you have told me, and asking her advice and opinion; meanwhile, lose no time in consulting Mr. Boyle,—you prefer him?”

“Certainly, in a case like this he cannot be surpassed; besides, he is already well acquainted with all the leading facts, and has taken a deep interest in the affair. There are classes and gradations of ability at the bar, irrespective of degrees of actual capacity; we have the heavy artillery of the Equity Court, the light field-pieces of the King's Bench, and the Congreve rockets of Assize display: to misplace or confound them would be a grave error.”

“I know where I 'd put them all, if my pleasure were to be consulted,” muttered Daly, in an undergrowl.

“The same. I perceive you scarcely approve of my suggestion; but his success at the bar is very considerable: he knows a good deal of law, and a great deal more about mankind. A rising man, sir, I assure you.”

“It must be in a falling state of society, then,” said Daly, bitterly. “Time was when the first requisite of a barrister was to be a gentleman. An habitual respect for the decorous observances of polite life was deemed an essential in one whose opinions were as often to be listened to in questions of right feeling as of right doing. His birth, his social position, and his acquirements were the guarantees he gave the world that, while discussing subtleties, he would not be seduced into anything low or unworthy. I am sorry that notion has become antiquated.”

“You would not surely exclude men of high talents from a career because their origin was humble?” said Bicknell.

“And why not, sir? Upon what principle was the bodyguard of noble persons selected to surround the person of the sovereign, save that blood was deemed the best security for allegiance? And why should not the law, only second in sacred respect to the person of the monarch, be as rigidly protected? The Church excludes from her ministry all who, even by physical defect, may suggest matter of ridicule or sarcasm to the laity; for the same reason I would reject from all concern with the administration of justice those coarser minds whose habits familiarize them with vulgar tastes and low standards of opinion.”

“I confess this seems to me very questionable doctrine, not to speak of the instances which the law exhibits of her brightest ornaments derived from the very humblest walks in life.”

“Such cases are probably esteemed the more because of that very reason,” said Daly, haughtily; “they are like the pearl in the oyster-shell, not very remarkable in itself, but one must go so low down to seek for it. I have an excuse for warmth; I have lost the greater part of a large fortune in contesting a right pronounced by high authority to be incontrovertible. Besides,” added he, with a courteous smile, “if Mr. Bicknell may oppose my opinion, he has the undoubted superiority that attaches to liberality, his own family claiming alliance with the best in the land.”

This happy turn seemed to divert the course of a conversation which half threatened angrily. Again the business topic was resumed, and after a short discussion, Bicknell took his leave, while Daly prepared to write his letter to Lady Eleanor.

He had not proceeded far in his task when Lionel entered with a newspaper in his hand.

“It's curious enough,” said Lionel, coolly, seating himself to read the paragraph, without noticing the eagerness of Daly's manner; “the fellow seems to have had a taste for sporting matters which no personal fear could eradicate. His capture took place this wise. He went over to Doncaster, to be present at the Spring Meeting, where he betted freely, and won largely. There happened, however, to come a reverse to his fortune, and on the last day of the running he lost everything, and was obliged to apply for assistance to a former companion, who, it would seem, was some hundred pounds in his debt; this worthy, having no desire to refund, threatened the police; Freney became exasperated, knocked him down on the spot, and then, turning smartly round, chucked one of the jockeys from his saddle, sprang on the horse's back, and made off like lightning. The other, only stunned for a moment, was soon on his legs again, and the cry of 'Freney! it was Freney the robber!' resounded throughout the race-course. The scene must then have been a most exciting one, for the whole mounted population, with one accord, gave chase. Noblemen and country gentlemen, fox-hunters, farmers, and blacklegs, away they went, Freney about a quarter of a mile in front, and riding splendidly.”

“Mellington took the lead of every one, mounted on that great steeplechase horse he is so proud of,—no fences too large for him, they say; but the robber—and what a good judge of country the fellow must be—left the heavy ground and preferred even breasting a long hill of grass-land, with several high rails, to the open country below, where the clay soil distressed his horse. By this manoeuvre, says the newspaper, he was obliged to make a circuit which again brought the great body of his pursuers close up with him; and now his dexterity as a horseman became apparent, for while riding at top speed, and handling his horse with the most perfect judgment, he actually contrived to divest himself of his heavy greatcoat. He had but just accomplished this very difficult task, when Lord Mellington once more came up. There was a heavy dike in front, with a double post and rail, and at this they rushed desperately, each, apparently, calculating on the other being thrown, or at least checked.

“Freney, now only a dozen strides in advance, turned in his saddle, and drawing a pistol from his breast, took an aim,—as steadily, too, as if firing at a mark. Lord Mellington saw the dreadful purpose of the robber; he shouted aloud, and, pulling up with all his might, he bent down to the very mane of his horse. Freney pulled the trigger, and with one mad plunge Lord Mellington's horse came headforemost to the ground, with his rider under him. Freney was not long the victor; the racer he bestrode breasted the high rail, and, unable to clear it, fell heavily forward, smashing the frail timbers before him, and pitching the rider on his head. He was up in a second and away; for about twenty yards his speed was immense, then, reeling, he staggered forwards and fell senseless; before he rallied he was taken, and in handcuffs. There is a description of the fellow,” said Lionel, “and, by Jove! one would think they were describing some wild denizen of the woods, or some strange animal of savage life, so eloquent is the paragraph about his appearance and personal strength.”

“A well-knit fellow, no doubt, and more than a match for most in single combat,” said Daly, musing.

“That is so far fortunate, because the jailer is an old acquaintance of mine.”

“Come along with me, then,” said Daly, as he arose and rang the bell to order a carriage; “you shall gratify your curiosity; but I must ask you to leave us alone together afterwards, for, strange as it may seem, we have a little affair of confidence between us.”

It did, indeed, appear not a little strange that any secret negotiation or understanding should exist between two such men; but Lionel did not venture to ask any explanation of the difficulty, but silently prepared to accompany him. As they went along towards Newgate, Daly related several anecdotes of Freney, all of which tended to show that the fellow had all his life felt that strange passion for danger so attractive to certain minds, and that his lawless career was more probably adopted from this tendency than any mere desire of money-getting. Many of his robberies resembled feats of daring rather than cautious schemes to obtain property. “Society,” added Daly, “is truly not much benefited because the highwayman is capricious; but still, one cannot divest oneself of a certain interest for a rascal who has always shown himself ready to risk his neck, and who has never been charged with any distinct act of cruelty. When I say this much, I must caution you against indulging a sympathy for a law-breaker because he is not a perfect monster of iniquity; such fellows are very rare, and we are always too well inclined to admire the few good qualities of a bad man, just as we are astonished at a few words spoken plain by a parrot.

“'The things themselves are neither strange nor rare;
We wonder how the devil they came there.'”

While Daly wisely cautioned his young companion against the indulgence of a false and mawkish sympathy for the criminal, he in his own heart could not help feeling the strongest interest for any misfortune of a spirit so wild and so reckless.

Daly's card, passed through the iron grating of the strong door, soon procured them admission, and they were conducted into a small and neatly furnished room, where a mild-looking middle-aged man was seated, reading. He rose as they entered, and saluted them respectfully.

“Good evening, Dunn; I hope I see you well. My friend Captain Darcy—Mr. Dunn. We have just heard that the noted Freney has taken up his lodgings here, and are curious to see him.”

“I 'm afraid I must refuse your request, Mr. Daly; my orders are most positive about the admission of any one to the prisoner: there have been I can't say how many people here on the same errand since four o'clock, when he arrived.”

“I think I ought to be free of the house,” said Daly, laughing; “I matriculated here at least, if I didn't take out a high degree.”

“So you did, sir,” said Dunn, joining in the laugh. “Freney is in the very same cell you occupied for four months.”

“There is another objection, and a stronger one,—. Freney himself declines seeing any one, and asked a special leave of the sheriff to refuse all comers admission to him.”

“This surprises me,” said Daly. “Why, the fellow has a prodigious deal of personal vanity, and I cannot conceive his having adopted such a resolution.”

“Perhaps I can guess his meaning,” said the jailer, shrewdly; “the greater number of those who came here, and also who tried to see him in Liverpool, were artists of one kind or other, wanting to take busts or profiles of him. Now, my surmise is, Freney would not dislike the notoriety, if it were not that it might be inconvenient one of these days. To be plain, sir, though he is doubly ironed, and in the strongest part of the strongest jail in Ireland, he is at this moment meditating on an escape, in the event of which he calculates all the trouble and annoyance it would give him to have his picture or his cast stuck up in every town and village of the kingdom. This, at least, is my reading of the mystery; but I think it is not without some show of probability.”

“Well, the objection could scarcely apply to me,” said Daly; “if his portrait be not taken by a more skilful artist than I am, he may be very easy on the score of recognition. Pray let me send in my name to him, and if he refuses to see me, I 'll not press the matter further.”

Partly from an old feeling of kindness towards Daly, Dunn gave no further opposition, but in reality he was certain that Freney's refusal would set the matter at rest. His surprise was consequently great when the turnkey returned with a civil message from Freney that he would be very glad to see Mr. Daly.

“Your friend can remain here,” said Dunn, in a voice that plainly showed he was not quite easy in his mind as to the propriety of the interview; and Daly, to alleviate suspicions natural enough in one so circumstanced, assented, and walked on after the turnkey, alone.

“That's the way he spends his time; listen to him now,” whispered the turnkey, as they stopped at the door of the cell, from within which the deep tones of a man's voice were heard singing to himself, as he slowly paced the narrow chamber, his heavy fetters keeping a melancholy time to the melody:—

     “'T was afther two when he quitted Naas,
     But he gave the spar, and he went the pace,
     'As many an like may now give chase,'
     Says he, 'I give you warning.
     You may raise the country far and near,
     From Malin Head down to Cape Clear,
     But the divil a man of ye all I fear,
     I 'll be far away before morning.'

     “By break of day he reach'd Kildare,
     The black horse never turn'd a hair;
     Says Freney, 'We 've some time to spare,
     This stage we 've rather hasten'd.'
     So he eat four eggs and a penny rowl,
     And he mix'd of whiskey such a bowl!
     The drink he shared with the beast, by my sowl,
     For Jack was always dacent.

     “'You might tighten the girths,' Jack Freney cried,
     'For I 've soon a heavy road to ride.'
     'Twas the truth he tould, for he never lied;
     The way was dark and rainy.
     'Good-by,' says he, 'I 'll soon be far,
     And many a mile from Mullingar.'
     So he kiss'd the girl behind the bar,
     'T is the divil you wor, Jack Freney!”

“Sorra lie in that, any way,” said the robber, as he repeated the last line over once more, with evident self-satisfaction.

“Who comes there?” cried he, sternly, as the heavy bolts were shot back, and the massive door opened.

“Why don't you say, 'Stand and deliver'?” said the turnkey, with a laugh as harsh and grating as the creak of the rusty hinges.

“Mr. Daly, your sarvant,” said the robber, saluting him; “you 're the only man in Ireland I wanted to see.”

“I wish our meeting had been anywhere else,” said Daly, sorrowfully, as he took his seat on a stool opposite the bed where Freney sat.

“Well, well, so it is, sir; it's just what every one prophesied this many a day,—as if there was much cunning in saying that I 'd be hanged some time or other; why, if they wanted to surprise me, they 'd have tould me I 'd never be taken. You heard how it was, I suppose?”

“The English horse wouldn't rise to the rail; if I was on the chestnut mare or Black Billy, I would n't be where I am now.”

“I have several things to ask you about, Freney; but first, how I can serve you? You must have counsel in this business.”

“No, sir, I thank you; it's only throwing good money after bad. I'll plead guilty,—it will save time with us all.”

“Faix, I spoiled my chance long ago, Mr. Daly. Do you know, sir,”—here he spoke in a low, determined tone,—“there's not a mail in Ireland I did n't stop at one time or other. There's few country gentlemen I have n't lightened of their guineas; the court wouldn't hold the witnesses against me if I were to stand my trial.”

“With all that, you must still employ a lawyer; these fellows are as crafty in their walk as ever you were in yours. Who will you have? Name the man, and leave the rest to me.”

Freney seemed to deliberate for a few moments, and he threw his eyes down at the heavy irons on his legs, and he gazed at the strong stanchions of the windows, and then said, in a low voice,—

“There's a chap called Hosey M'Garry, in a cellar in Charles Street: he's an ould man with one eye, and not a tooth in his head; but he's the only man that could sarve me now.”

“Hosey M'Garry,” repeated Daly, “Charles Street,” as he wrote down the address with his pencil: “a strange name and residence for a lawyer.”

“The only man, now alive, that can make a cowld chisel to cut iron without noise.”

“Ah! that's what you're thinking of; you'd rather trust to the flaws of the iron than of the indictment. Perhaps you are not far wrong, after all.”

“If I was in the court below without the fetters,” said Freney, eagerly, “I could climb the wall with a holdfast and a chisel, and get down the same way on the other side; once there, Mr. Daly, I 'd sing the ould ballad,—

“For the divil a man of ye all I fear,
I 'll be far away before morning.”

“And how are these tools to reach you here? If they admit any of your friends, won't they search them first?”

“So they will, barrin' it was a gentleman,” replied Freney, while his eyes twinkled with a peculiarly cunning lustre.

“So, then, you rely on me for this piece of service?” said Daly, after a pause.

“Troth, you're the only gentleman of my acquaintance,” said Freney, quaintly.

“Well, I suppose I must not give you a bad impression of the order; I 'll do it.”

“I knew you would,” rejoined Freney, calmly. “You might bring two files at the same time, and a phial of sweet oil to keep down the noise. Hush! here's Gavin coming to turn you out,—he said ten minutes.”

“Well, then, you shall see me to-morrow, Freney, and I 'll endeavor to see your friend in the mean time.” This was said as the turnkey stood at the open door.

“This gentleman wants to have a look at you, Freney,” said the jailer,—“as if he could n't see you for nothing, some Saturday morning soon.”

“Maybe he 'd not know me in a nightcap,” replied Freney, laughing, while he turned the lamplight full on Lionel Darcy's features.

“The very fellow that rode off with the horse!” exclaimed Lionel as he saw him.

“Young O'Reilly!” said Freney. “What signifies that charge now? Won't it satisfy you if they hang me for something else?”

“That's Captain Darcy, man,” broke in Daly. “Is all your knowledge of mankind of so little use to you that you cannot distinguish between a born gentleman and an upstart?”

“By my oath,” said the robber, aloud, “I 'm as glad as a ten-pound note to know that it wasn't a half-bred one that showed the spirit you did! Hurrah! there's hopes for ould Ireland yet, when the blood and bone is still left in her! And wasn't it real luck that I saw you this night? If I did n't, I 'd have done you a bad turn. One word, Mr. Daly, one word in your ear.”

A violent exclamation burst from Daly as he listened, and then he cried out, “What! are you sure of this? Don't deceive me, man!”

“Because”—here he faltered—“because—faix, I 'll tell the truth—I thought that young gentleman was Hickman's grandson, and I could n't bring myself to do him a spite after what I had seen.”

“The time is up, gentlemen,” said the turnkey, who, out of the delicacy of his official feeling, was slowly pacing the corridor up and down while they talked together.

“If this be but true,” muttered Daly to himself, “there's another cast of the dice for it yet.”

“I am sorry for that fellow,” said Lionel, aloud; “he did me a good turn once: I might have gone down the torrent, were it not for his aid.”

“So you might, man,” said Daly, speaking in a half-soliloquy; “he gives the only chance of victory I've seen yet.”

These words, so evidently inapplicable to Lionel's observations, were a perfect enigma; but he did not dare to ask for any explanation, and walked on in silence beside him.

CHAPTER XXXVII. A SCENE OF HOME.

If the climate of northern Ireland be habitually one of storm and severity, it must be confessed that, in the rare but happy intervals of better weather, the beauty of the coast scenery is unsurpassed. Indented with little bays, whose sides are formed of immense cliffs of chalk, or the more stately grandeur of that columnar basalt which extends for miles on either side of the Causeway, the most vivid coloring unites with forms the wildest and most fantastic; crag and precipice, sandy beach and rocky shore, alternate in endless variety; while islands are there, some, green and sheep-clad, others, dark and frowning, form the home of nothing but the sea-gull.

It was on such an evening of calm as displayed the scene to its greatest advantage, when a long column of burnished golden light floated over the sea, tipping each crested wave, and darkened into deeper beauty between them, that the Knight, Lady Eleanor, and Helen sat under the little porch of their cottage and gazed upon the fair and gorgeous picture.

If the leafy grove or the dark wood seem sweeter to our senses when the thrilling notes of the blackbird or the thrush sing in their solitude, so the deepest silence, the most unbroken stillness, has a wonderful effect of soothing to the mind beside the seashore we have so often seen terrible in the fury of the storm. A gentle calm steals over us as we listen to the long sweeping of the waves, heaving and breaking in measured melody; and our thoughts, enticed by some dreaming ecstasy, wander away over the boundless ocean, not to the far-off lands of other climes alone, but into worlds of brighter and more beauteous mould.

They sat in silence, at first only occupied by the lovely scene that stretched away before them, but at last each deeply immersed in his own thoughts,—thoughts which, unconnected with the objects around, yet by some strange mystery were tinctured by all their calm and tranquil beauty. A fisherman was mending his net upon the little beach below, and his children were playing around him, now running merrily along the strand, now dabbling in the white foam left by the retreating waves; the father looked up from time to time to watch them, but without interrupting the low monotonous chant by which he lightened his labor.

Towards the little group at length their eyes were turned. “Yes,” said the Knight, as if interpreting what was passing in the minds of those at his side, “that is about as near to human happiness as life affords. I believe there would be very few abortive ambitions if men were content to see their children occupy the same station as themselves; and yet, when the time of one's own reverses arrives, how very little of true happiness is lost by the change of fortune.”

“My dearest father!” said Helen, as in a transport of delight she threw her arms around him, “how happy your words make me! You are, then, contented?”

“Do I not look so, my sweet Helen? And your mother, too, when have you seen her so well?—when do you remember her walking, as she did to-day, to the top of the great cliff of Dunluce?”

“With no other ill consequence,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “than a most acute attack of vanity; for I begin to fancy myself quite young again.”

“Well, Mamma, don't forget we have a visit to pay, some of these days, to Ballintray,—that's the name of the place, I think, Miss Daly resides at.”

“Yes, we really must not neglect it. There was a delicacy in her note of welcome to us here, judging that we might not be prepared for a personal visit, which prepossesses me in her favor. You promised to make our acknowledgments, but I believe you forgot all about it.”

“No, not that,” said the Knight, hesitatingly; “but in the midst of so many things to do and think about, I deferred it from day to day.”

“I think it were better if your father went first, lest the way should prove too long for us. I am so proud of my pedestrianism, Helen, I'll not risk any failure.”

“Be it so,” said the Knight, quietly. “And now of this other matter Bagenal presses so strongly upon us. I feel the greatest repugnance to assume any name but that I have always borne, and, I hope, not disgraced; he says we shall be objects of impertinent curiosity here to the neighborhood.”

“Ruins to dispute the honors of lionship with Dunluce,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling faintly.

“Just so; that might, however, be borne patiently; they will soon leave off talking of us when we give them little matter for speculative gossip. Besides, we are so far away from anything that could be called neighborhood.”

“He does, but so darkly and mysteriously that I cannot even guess his drift. Here is his letter.” And the Knight took several papers from his pocket, from among which he selected one, whose large and blotted writing unmistakably pronounced it Bagenal Daly's. “Yes, here it is: 'Bicknell says that Hickman's people are fully persuaded that you have left Ireland with the intention of never returning; that this impression should be maintained, because it will induce them to be less guarded than if they believed you were still here, directing any legal proceeding. The only case, therefore, he will prepare for trial will be one respecting the leases falsely signed. The bond and its details must be unravelled by time; here also your incognito is all-essential,—it need only be for a short time, and on scruples of delicacy so easily got over: your grandfather called himself Gwynne, and wrote it also.' That is quite true, Eleanor, so he did; his letters are signed Matthew Gwynne, Knight of————. I remember the signature well.”

“I think, with Mr. Daly,” said Lady Eleanor, “it will save us a world of observant impertinence; this place is tranquil and solitary enough just now, but in summer the coast and the Causeway have many visitors, and although 'the Corvy' is out of the common track, if our names be bruited about, we shall not escape that least graceful of all attentions, the tender commiseration of mere acquaintances.”

“Mamma is right,” said Helen; “we should be hunted out by every tourist to report on how we bore our reverses, and tormented with anonymous condolences in prose, and short stanzas on the beauty of resignation.”

“Well, and, my dear Helen, perhaps the lessons might not be so very inapplicable,” said the Knight, smiling affectionately.

“But very inefficient, sir,” replied Helen, with a toss of her head; “I'm not a bit resigned.”

“Not a bit, Mamma; I am happy,—happier than I ever knew myself before, if you like that phrase better,—because we are together, because this life realizes to me all I ever dreamed of,—that quiet and tranquil pleasure people might, but somehow never please to, taste of; but if you ask me am I resigned to see you and my dear father in a station so much beneath your expectations and your habits, I cannot say that I am.”

“Then, my dear girl, you accuse us of bearing our misfortunes badly, if we cannot partake of your enjoyments on account of our own vain regrets?”

“No, no, Papa, don't mistake me; if I grieve over the altered fortunes that limit your sphere of usefulness as well as of pleasure, it is because I know how well you understood the privileges and demands of your high station, and how little a life so humble as this is can exact of qualities that were not given to be wasted in obscurity.”

“My sweet child,” said the Knight, fondly, “it is a very dangerous practice to blend up affection with principle; depend upon it, the former will always coerce the latter, and bend it to its will; and as for those good gifts you speak of, had I really as many of them as your fond heart would endow me with, believe me there is no station so humble as not to admit of their exercise. There never yet was a walk in life without its sphere of duties; now I intend that not only are we to be happy here, but that we should contribute to the well-being of those about us.”

There was a pause after the Knight had done speaking, during which he busied himself in turning over some letters, the seals of which were still unbroken; he knew the handwriting on most of them, and yet hesitated about inflicting on himself the pain of reading allusions to that condition he had once occupied. “Yes,” muttered he to himself, “we are always flattering ourselves of how essential we are to our friends, our party, and so forth; and yet, when any events occur which despoil us of our brief importance, we see the whole business of the world go on as currently as ever. What a foretaste this gives one of death! So it is, the stream of life flows on, whether the bubble on its surface float or burst.”

“That's Lord Netherby's hand, is it not?” said Lady Eleanor, as she lifted a letter which had fallen to the ground.

“Yes,” said Darcy, carelessly; “written probably soon after his return to England. I have no doubt it contains a most courtly acknowledgment of our poor hospitality, and an assurance of undying regard.”

“If it be of that tenor, I have no curiosity to read it,” said Lady Eleanor, handing the letter to the Knight.

“Helen would like to study so great a master of epistolary flatteries,” said the Knight, smiling; “and provided she will keep the whole for her private reading, I am willing to indulge her.”

“I accept the favor with thanks,” said Helen, receiving the letter; “you know I plead guilty to liking our noble relative. I 'm not skilled enough to distinguish between an article trebly gilded and one of pure gold, and his Lordship, to my eyes, looked as like the true metal as possible: he said so many pretty things to Mamma, and so many fine things of you and Lionel—”

“And paid so many compliments to the fair Helen herself,” interposed the Knight.

“And good taste, Helen,” added Lady Eleanor, smiling; “why not say that?”

“Well, I see I shall have to defend myself as well as my champion, so I 'll even go and read my letter.”

And so saying, she arose, and sauntered down to the shore; under the shelter of a tall rock, from whence the view extended for miles along, she sat down. “What a contrast!” said she, as she broke the seal, “a courtier's letter in such a scene as this!”

Lord Netherby's letter was, as the Knight suspected, written soon after his return to England, expressing, in his own most courtly phrase, the delightful memory he retained of his visit to Ireland. Gracefully contrasting the brilliant excitement of that brief period with the more staid quietude of the life to which he returned, he lightly suggested that none other than one native to the soil could support an existence so overflowing with pleasurable emotions. With all the artifice of a courtier, he recalled certain little incidents, too small, as mere matters of memory, to find a resting-place in the mind, but all of them indicative of the deep impression made, upon him who remarked them.

He spoke also of the delight with which his Royal Highness the Prince listened to his narrative of life in Ireland. “In truth,” wrote his Lordship, “I do not believe that the exigencies of his station ever cost him more than when he reflected on the impossibility of his witnessing such perfection in the life of a country house as I feebly endeavored to convey to him. Again and again has he asked me to repeat the tale of the hunt—the brilliant ball the night of your arrival—and I have earned a character for story-telling of which Kelly and Sheridan are beginning to feel jealous, by the mere retail of your anecdotes. Lionel's return is anxiously looked for by all here, and the Prince has more than once expressed himself impatient to see him back again. My sweet favorite Helen, too,—when is she to be presented? There will be a court in the early part of next month, of which I shall not fail to apprise you, most earnestly entreating that my cousin Eleanor will not think the journey too far which shall bring her once again among those scenes she so gracefully adorned, and where her triumphs will be renewed in the admiration of her lovely daughter. I need not tell you that my house in town is entirely at her disposal, either as my guests, or, if you prefer it, I shall be theirs, whenever I am not in waiting.”

Here the writer detailed, with an eloquence all his own, the advantage to Helen of making her entrée into life under circumstances so favorable, remarking, with that conventional philosophy just then the popular cant of the day, that the enthusiasm of the world was never long-lived, and that even his beautiful cousin Helen should not be above profiting by the favorable reception the kindly disposition of the court was sure to procure for her. This was said in a tone of half-serious banter, but at the same time the invitation was reiterated with an evident desire for its acceptance.

As the letter drew near its conclusion, the lines became more closely written, as though some circumstances hitherto forgotten had suddenly occurred to the writer; and so it proved.

“I was about, my dear Knight, to write myself, with what truth I will not say, your 'most affectionate friend, Netherby,' when I received a letter which requires some mention at my hands. It is, indeed, one of the most extraordinary documents I have ever perused; nothing very wonderful in that, when I tell you from whom it comes,—your old sweetheart, Julia Wallincourt, or, as you will better remember her, Julia d'Esterre; she is still very beautiful, and just as capricious, just as maligne, as when she endeavored, by every artifice of her coquetry, to make you jilt my cousin Eleanor. There 's no doubt of it, Darcy, this woman loved you! at least, as much as she could love anything, except the pleasure of torturing her fellow-creatures. Well, it would seem that a younger son of hers, popularly known as Dick Forester, paid you a visit in Ireland, and, no very unnatural occurrence, fell desperately in love with your daughter,—not so Helen with him. She probably regarded him as one of that class upon which London has so stamped its impress of habit and manner that all individualism is lost in the quiet observance of certain proprieties. He must have been a rare contrast to the high-souled enthusiasm and waywardness of her own brother! Certain it is she refused him; and he, taking the thing much more to heart than a young Guardsman usually does a similar catastrophe, hastened home, and endeavored to interest his mother in his suit. Lady Julia had an old vengeance to exact, and, like a true woman, could not forego it; she not only positively refused all intercession on her part, but went what you and I will probably feel to be a very unnecessary length, and actually declared she never would consent to such an alliance. We used to remember (some years ago), at Eton, of a certain Dido who never forgave, and we are told how, for many years after, the lethalis arundo lateri adhosit; but assuredly the poet was speaking less of the woes of an individual than of the sorrows of fine ladies in all ages. Unfortunately, the similitude between her ladyship and Dido ends here; the classic fair one exhibited, as we are told, the most delicate fondness for the son of her lover. But, to grow serious, Lady Wallincourt's conduct must have been peremptory and harsh; she actually went the length of writing to the Duke of York to request an exchange for her son into a regiment serving in India: whether Forester obtained some clew to this manouvre or not, he anticipated the stroke by selling out and leaving the army altogether; whither he is gone, or what has become of him since, no one can tell. Such, my dear Knight, is the emergency in which Lady Wallincourt addresses her letter to me,—a letter so peculiarly her own, so full of reproaches against you, and vindication of herself, that I actually scruple to transmit to you this palpable evidence of still enduring affection.

“Were you both thirty years younger, I should claim great credit to my morality for the forbearance. Let that pass, however, and let me rather ask you if you know, or have heard anything, of this wayward boy? Personally, I am unacquainted with him; but his friends agree in saying that he is high-spirited, honorable, and brave; and it would be a great pity that his affection for a young lady, and his anger with an old one, should mar all the prospects of his life. Could you, by any means, find a clew to him? I do not, of course, ask you to interfere in person, lest it might seem that you encouraged an attachment which you have far more reason to discountenance for your daughter than has Lady Wallincourt for her son; however, your doing so would go far to reconcile the young man to his mother by showing that, if there was a difficulty on one side, a still greater obstacle existed on the other.”

Requesting a speedy answer, and begging that the whole might be in strict confidence between them, the letter concluded.

“I do not doubt, my dear Knight,” said the postscript, “that you will see in all this a reason the more for coming up to town. Helen's appearance at the Drawing-Room would be the best, if not the only, rebuke Lady Wallin-court's insolence could receive. By all means, come.

“Another complication! Lady W., on first hearing of her son's duel, and the kind treatment he met with after being wounded, wrote a letter of grateful acknowledgments, which she enclosed to her son, neither knowing nor caring for the address of his benefactor. When she did hear it at length, she was excessively angry that she had been, as she terms it, 'the first to make advances.' Ainsi, telles sont les femmes du monde!”

Such was Lord Netherby's letter. With what a succession of emotions Helen read it we confess ourselves unable to depict. If she sometimes hesitated to read on, an influence, too powerful to control, impelled her to continue, while a secret interest in Forester's fortunes—a feeling she had never known till now—induced her to learn his fate. More than once, in the alteration of her condition, had she recalled the proffer of affection she had with such determination rejected, and with what gratitude did she remember the firmness of her decision!

“Poor fellow!” thought she, “I deemed it the mere caprice of one whose gratitude for kindness had outrun his calmer convictions. And so he really loved me!”

We must avow the fact: Helen's indifference to Forester had, in the main, proceeded from a false estimate of his character; she saw in him nothing but a well-bred, good-looking youth, who, with high connections and moderate abilities, had formed certain ambitious views, to be realized rather by the adventitious aid of fortune than his own merits. He was, in her eyes, a young politician, cautions and watchful, trained up to regard Lord Castlereagh as the model of statesmen, and political intrigue as the very climax of intellectual display. To know that she had wronged him was to make a great revolution in her feelings towards him, to see that this reserved and calmly minded youth should have sacrificed everything—position, prospects, all—rather than resign his hope, faint as it was, of one day winning her affection!

If these were her first thoughts on reading that letter, those that followed were far less pleasurable. How should she ever be able to show it to her father? The circumstances alluded to were of a nature he never could be cognizant of without causing the greatest pain both to him and herself. To ask Lady Eleanor's counsel would be even more difficult. Helen witnessed the emotion the sight of Lady Wallincourt's name had occasioned her mother the day Forester first visited them; the old rivalry had, then, left its trace on her mind as well as on that of Lady Julia! What embarrassment on every hand! Where could she seek counsel, and in whom? Bagenal Daly, the only one she could have opened her heart to, was away; and was it quite certain she would have ventured to disclose, even to him, the story of that affection which already appeared so different from at first? Forester was not now in her eyes the fashionable guardsman, indulging a passing predilection, or whiling away the tedious hours of a country-house by a flirtation, in which he felt interested because repulsed; he was elevated in her esteem by his misfortunes, and the very uncertainty of his fate augmented her concern. And yet she must forego the hope of saving him, or else, by showing the letter to her father, acknowledge her acquaintance with events she should never have known, or, knowing, should never reveal.

There was no help for it, the letter could not be shown. In all likelihood neither the Knight nor Lady Eleanor would ever think more about it; and if they did, there was still enough to speak of in the courteous sentiments of the writer, and the polite attention of his invitation,—a civility which even Helen's knowledge of life informed her was rather proffered in discharge of a debt than as emanating from any real desire to play their host in London.

Thus satisfying herself that no better course offered for the present, she turned homewards, but with a heavier heart and more troubled mind than had ever been her fortune in life to have suffered.