When Bagenal Daly reached the courtyard, he was disappointed at finding that, instead of the surgeon whose arrival was so anxiously looked for, the visitor was no other than old Dr. Hickman, the father of Hickman O'Reilly, M. P. for the county, and grandfather of that very promising young gentleman slightly presented to our reader in an early chapter.
If the acorn be a very humble origin for the stately oak of the forest, assuredly Peter Hickman, formerly of Loughrea, “Apothecary and Surgeon,” was the most unpretending source for the high and mighty house of O'Reilly. More strictly speaking, the process was only a “graft,” and it is but justice to him to say, that of this fact no one was more thoroughly convinced than old Peter himself. Industry and thrift had combined to render him tolerably well off in the world, when the death of a brother who had sought his fortunes in the East—when fortunes were to be found in that region—put him in possession of something above two hundred thousand pounds. Even before this event, he had been known as a shrewd contriver of small speculations, a safe investor of little capital, was conversant, from the habits of his professional life, with the private circumstances of every family of the country where money was wanting, and where repayment was sure; the very temperament of his patients suggested to him the knowledge by which he guided his operations, and he could bring his skill as a medical man into his service, and study his creditors with the eye of a physiologist. When this great accession of wealth so suddenly occurred, far from communicating his good fortune to his friends and neighbors, he merely gave out that poor Tom had left him “his little savings,” “though God knows, in that faraway country, if he'd ever see any of it.” His guarded caution on the subject, and the steady persistence with which he maintained his former mode of life, gave credence to the story, and the utmost estimate of his wealth would not have gone beyond being a snug old fellow “that might give up his business any day.” This was, however, the very last thing in his thoughts; the title of “Doctor,” so courteously bestowed in Ireland on the humbler walks of medicine, was a “letter of marque” enabling him to cruise in latitudes otherwise inaccessible. Any moneyed embarrassment of the country gentry, any severe pressure to be averted by an opportune loan or the sale of landed property, was speedily made available by him as a call to see whether “the cough was easier;” or “how was the gouty ankle;” if the “mistress was getting better of the nerves,” “and the children gaining strength by the camomile.” And in this way he made one species of gain subservient to another, while his character for kindness and benevolence was the theme of the whole neighborhood.
For several years long he pursued this course without deviating, and in that space had become the owner of estated property to a very great extent, not only in his own, but in three neighboring counties. How much longer he might have persisted in growing rich by stealth it is difficult to say, when accident compelled him to change his tactique. A very large property had been twice put up for sale in the county Mayo, under the will of its late owner, the trustees being empowered to make a great reduction in the price to any purchaser of the whole,—a condition which, from the great value of the estates, seemed of little avail, no single individual being supposed able to make such a purchase.
At last, and as a final effort to comply with the wishes of the testator, the estate was offered at ten thousand pounds below the original demand, when a bidder made his appearance, the offer was accepted, and the apothecary of Lough-rea became the owner of one of the most flourishing properties of the West, with influence sufficient to return a member for the county.
The murder was now out, and the next act was to build a handsome but unpretentious dwelling-house on a part of the estate, to which he removed with his son, a widower with one child. The ancient family of O'Reilly had been the owners of the property, and the name was still retained to grace the new demesne, which was called Mount O'Reilly, while Tom Hickman became Hickman O'Reilly, under the plea of some relationship to the defunct,—a point which gained little credence in the county, and drew from Bagenal Daly the remark “that he trusted that they had a better title to the acres than the arms of the O'Reillys.” When old Peter had made this great spring, he would gladly have retired to Loughrea once more, and pursued his old habits; but, like a blackleg who has accidentally discovered his skill at the game, no one would play with him again, and so he was fain to put up with his changed condition, and be a “gentleman,” as he called it, in spite of himself.
He it was who, under the pretence of a friendly call to see the Knight, now drove into the courtyard of Gwynne Abbey. His equipage was a small four-wheeled chair close to the ground, and drawn by a rough mountain pony which, in size and shape, closely resembled a water-dog. The owner of this unpretending conveyance was a very diminutive, thin old man, with a long, almost transparent nose, the tip of which was of a raspberry red; a stiff queue, formed of his wiry gray hair carefully brushed back, even from the temples, made a graceful curve on his back, or occasionally appeared in front of his left shoulder. His voice was a feeble treble, with a tremulous quiver through all he said, while he usually finished each sentence with a faint effort content with his opinion; and this, on remarkable occasions, at a laugh, a kind of acknowledgment to himself that he was would be followed by the monosyllable “ay,”—a word which, brief as it was, struck terror into many a heart, intimating, as it did, that old Peter had just satisfied himself that he had made a good bargain, and that the other party was “done.”
The most remarkable circumstance of his appearance was his mode of walking, and even here was displayed his wonted ingenuity. A partial paralysis had for some years affected his limbs, and particularly the muscles which raise and flex the legs; to obviate this infirmity, he fastened a cord with a loop to either foot, and by drawing them up alternately he was enabled to move forward, at a slow pace, to be sure, and in a manner it was rather difficult to witness for the first time with becoming gravity. This was more remarkable when he endeavored to get on faster, for then the flexion, a process which required a little time, was either imperfectly performed or altogether omitted, and consequently he remained stationary, and only hopped from one leg to the other after the fashion of a stage procession. His dress was a rusty black coat with a standing collar, black shorts, and white cotton stockings, over which the short black gaiters reached half way up the leg; on the present occasion he also wore a spencer of light gray cloth, as the day was cold and frosty, and his hat was fastened under his chin by a ribbon.
“And so he is n't at home, Tate,” said he, as he sat whipping the pony from habit,—a process which the beast seemed to regard with a contemptuous indifference.
“No, Docther,” for by this title the old man was always addressed by preference, “the Knight's up in Dublin; he went on Monday last.”
“And this is the seventh of the month,” muttered the other to himself. “Faith, he takes it easy, anyhow! And you don't know when he'll be home?”
“The sorra know I know, Docther; 't is maybe to-night he 'd come—maybe to-morrow—maybe it would be three weeks or a month; and it's not but we want him badly this day, if it was God's will he was here!” These words were uttered in a tone that Tate intended should provoke further questioning, for he was most eager to tell of the duel and its consequences; but the “doctor” never noticed them, but merely muttered a short “Ay.”
“How do you do, Hickman?” cried out the deep voice of Bagenal Daly at the same moment. “You did n't chance to see Mulville on the road, did you?”
“How d'ye do, Mister Daly? I hope I see you well. I did n't meet Dr. Mulville this morning,—is there anything that's wrong here? Who is it that's ill?”
“A young fellow, a stranger, who has been burning powder with Mr. MacDonough up at Cluan, and has been hit under the rib here.”
“Well, well, what folly it is, and all about nothing, I 'll engage.”
“So your grandson would tell you,” said Daly, sternly; “for if he felt it to be anything, this quarrel should have been his.”
“Faix, and I'm glad he left it alone,” said the other, complacently; “'t is little good comes of the same fighting. I 'll be eighty-five if I live to March next, and I never drew sword nor trigger yet against any man.”
“One reason for which forbearance is, sir, that you thereby escaped a similar casualty to yourself. A laudable prudence, and likely to become a family virtue.”
The old doctor felt all the severity of this taunt against his grandson, but he merely gave one of his half-subdued laughs, and said, in a low voice, “Did you get a note from me, about a fortnight ago? Ay!”
“I received one from your attorney,” said Daly, carelessly, “and I threw it into the fire without reading it.”
“That was hasty, that was rash, Mr. Daly,” resumed the other, calmly; “it was about the bond for the four thousand six hundred—”
“D——n me if I care what was the object of it! I happened to have some weightier things to think of than usury and compound interest, as I, indeed, have at this moment. By the by, if you have not forgotten the old craft, come in and see this poor fellow. I 'm much mistaken, or his time will be but short.”
“Ay, ay, that's a debt there's no escaping!” muttered the old man, combining his vein of moralizing with a sly sarcasm at Daly, while he began the complicated series of manouvres by which he usually effected his descent from the pony carriage.
In the large library, and on a bed hastily brought down for the purpose, lay Forester, his dress disordered, and his features devoid of all color. The glazed expression of his eye, and his pallid, half-parted lips showed that he was suffering from great loss of blood, for, unhappily, Mr. Daly's surgery had not succeeded in arresting this symptom. His breathing was short and irregular, and in the convulsive movement of his fingers might be seen the evidence of acute suffering. At the side of the bed, calm, motionless, and self-possessed, with an air as stern as a soldier at his post, stood Sandy M'Grane; he had been ordered by his master to maintain a perfect silence, and to avoid, if possible, even a reply to Forester's questions, should he speak to him. The failure of the first few efforts on Forester's part to obtain an infraction of this rule ended in his submitting to his destiny, and supplying by signs the want of speech; in this way he had just succeeded in procuring a drink of water, when Daly entered, followed by Hickman. As with slow and noiseless steps they came forward, Forester turned his head, and, catching a glance of the mechanism by which old Peter regulated his progression, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
“Ye mauna do it, ye mauna do it, sir,” said Sandy, sternly; “ye are lying in a pool of blood this minute, and it's no time for a hearty laugh. Ech! ech! sir,” continued he, turning towards his master, “if we had that salve the Delawares used to put on their wounds, I wadna say but we 'd stap it yet.”
By this time old Peter had laid his hand on the sick man's wrist, and, with a large watch laid before him on the bed, was counting his pulse aloud.
“It's a hundred and fifty,” said he, in a whisper, which, although intended for Daly's ear, was overheard by Forester; “but it's thin as a thread, and looks like inward bleeding.”
“What's to be done, then? have you anything to advise?” said Daly, almost savagely.
“Very little,” said Hickman, with a malignant grin, “except writing to his friends. I know nothing else to serve him.”
A brief shudder passed over Daly's stern features, rather like the momentary sense of cold than proceeding from any mental emotion, and then he said, “I spoke to you as a doctor, sir; and I ask you again, is there nothing can be done for him?”
“Well, well, we might plug up the wound, to be sure, and give him a little wine, for he's sinking fast. I 've got a case of instruments and some lint in the gig—never go without the tools, Mr. Daly—there's no knowing when one may meet a little accident like this.”
“In Heaven's name, then, lose no time!” said Daly. “Whatever you can do, do it at once.”
The tone of command in which he spoke seemed to act like a charm on the old doctor, for he turned at once to hobble from the room.
“My servant will bring what you want,” said Daly, impatiently.
“No, no,” said Peter, shaking his head, “I have them under lock and key in the driving-box; there's no one opens that but myself.”
Daly turned away with a muttered execration at the miser's suspicions, and then, fixing his eyes steadily on Sandy's face, he gave a short and significant nod. The servant instinctively looked after the doctor; then, slowly moving across the floor, the nod was repeated, and Sandy, wheeling round, made three strides, and, catching the old man round the body with his remaining arm, carried him out of the room with the same indifference to his struggles or his cries as a nurse would bestow on a misbehaving urchin.
When Sandy deposited his burden beside the pony-carriage, old Peter's passion had reached its climax, and assuredly, if the will could have prompted the act, he would have stamped as roundly as he swore.
“It's an awfu' thing,” observed Sandy, quaintly, “to see an auld carle, wi' his twa legs in the grave, blaspheming that gate; but come awa', tak' your gimcracks, and let's get back again, or, by the saul of my body, I 'll pit you in the fountain!”
Reasoning on that excellent principle of analogy, that what had happened might happen again even in a worse form, old Hickman unlocked the box and delivered into Sandy's hands a black leather case, bearing as many signs of long years and service as his own.
“Let me walk I let me walk!” cried he, in a supplicating tone.
“Av you ca' it walking,” said Sandy, grimly; “but it's mair, far mair, like the step o' a goose than a Christian man.”
What success might have attended Peter's request it is difficult to say, for at this moment the noise of a horse was heard galloping up the avenue, and, immediately after, Mulville, the surgeon sent for by Mr. Daly, entered the courtyard. Without deigning a look towards Hickman, or paying even the slightest attention to his urgent demands for the restoration of his pocket-case, Sandy seized Mulville by the arm and hurried him away to the house.
The newly arrived doctor was an army surgeon, and proceeded, with all the readiness experience had taught him, to examine Forester's wound; while Sandy, to save time, opened old Hickman's case on the bed, and arranged the instruments.
“Look here, Mr. Daly,” said the doctor, as he drew some lint from the antiquated leather pocket,—“look here, and see how our old friend practises the art of medicine.” He took up, as he spoke, a roll of paper, and held it towards Daly: it was a packet of bill stamps of various value, for old Peter could never suffer himself to be taken short, and was always provided with the ready means of transacting money affairs with his patients.
“Here's my d——d old bond,” said Daly, laughing, as he drew forth a much-crumpled and time-discolored parchment; “I'd venture to say the man would deserve well of his country who would throw this confounded pocket-book, and its whole contents, into that fire.”
“Ye maybe want some o' the tools yet,” said Sandy, dryly, for, taking his master's observations in the light of a command, he was about to commit the case and the paper to the flames.
“Take care! take care!” said Mulville, in a whisper; “it might be a felony.”
“It's devilish little Sandy would care what name they would give it,” replied Daly; “he 'd put the owner on the top of them, and burn all together, on a very brief hint;” then, lowering his voice, he added, “What's his chance?”
“The chance of every young fellow of two or three-and-twenty to live through what would kill any man of my time of life. With good care and quiet, but quiet above all, he may rub through it. We must leave him now.”
“You 'll remain here,” said Daly; “you 'll not quit this, I hope?”
“For a day or two at least, I 'll not leave him.” And with this satisfactory assurance Daly closed the door, leaving Sandy on guard over the patient.
“Here's your case of instruments, Hickman,” said Daly, as the old doctor sat motionless in his gig, awaiting their reappearance; for, in his dread of further violence, he had preferred thus patiently to await their return, than venture once more into the company of Sandy M'Grane. “We 've robbed you of nothing except some lint; and,” added he in a whisper to Muiville, “I very much doubt if that case were ever opened and closed before with so slight an offence against the laws of property.”
Old Hickman by this time had opened the pocket-book, and was busily engaged inspecting its contents.
“Ay, that's the bond!” said Daly, laughing; “you may well think how small the chance of repayment is, when I did not think it worth while burning it.”
“It will be paid in good time,” said Hickman, in a low cackle, “and the interest too, maybe—ay!” And with sundry admonitions from the whip, and successive chucks of the rein, the old pony threw up his head, shook his tail crossly, and, with a step almost as measured as that of his master, moved slowly out of the courtyard.
“So much for our century and our civilization!” said Daly, as he looked after him; “the old miser that goes there has more power over our country and its gentry than ever a feudal chief wielded in the days of vassalage.”
It was upon one of the very coldest evenings of the memorably severe January of 1800 that the doors of Daly's Club House were besieged by carriages of every shape and description: some brilliant in all the lustre of a perfect equipage; others more plainly denoting the country gentleman or the professional man; and others, again, the chance occupants of the various coach-stands, displayed every variety of that now extinct family whose members went under the denominations of “whiskeys,” “jingles,” and “noddies.”
A heavy fall of sleet, accompanied with a cutting north wind, did not prevent the assemblage of a considerable crowd, who, by the strange sympathy of gregarious curiosity, were drawn up in front of the building, satisfied to think that something unusual, of what nature they knew not, was going forward within, and content to gaze on the brilliant glare of the lustres as seen through the drawn curtains, and mark the shadowy outlines of figures as they passed and repassed continually.
Leaving the mob, for it was in reality such, to speculate on the cause of this extraordinary gathering, we shall at once proceed up the ample stair and enter the great saloon of the Club, which, opening by eight windows upon College Green, formed the conversation-room of the members.
Here were now assembled between three and four hundred persons, gathered in groups and knots, and talking with all the eagerness some engrossing topic could suggest. In dress, air, and manner they seemed to represent sections of every social circle of the capital: some, in full Castle costume, had just escaped from the table of the Viceroy; others, in military uniform or the dress of the Club, contrasted with coats of country squires or the even more ungainly quaintness of the lawyers' costume. They were of every age, from the young man emerging into life, to the old frequenter of the Club, who had occupied his own place and chair for half a century, and in manner and style as various, many preserving the courteous observances of the old school in all its polished urbanity, and the younger part of the company exhibiting the traits of a more independent, but certainly less graceful, politeness. Happily for the social enjoyments of the time, political leanings had not contributed their bitterness to private life, and men of opinions the most opposite, and party connections most antagonistic, were here met, willing to lay aside for a season the arms of encounter, or to use them with only the sportive pleasantry of a polished wit. If this manly spirit of mutual forbearance did not characterize the very last debates of the Irish Parliament, it may in a great measure be attributed to the nature of that influence by which the measure of the Union was carried; for bribery not only corrupted the venal, but it soured and irritated the men who rejected its seductions; and in this wise a difference was created between the two parties, wider and more irreconcilable than all which political animosity or mere party dislike could effect.
On the present occasion, however, the animating spirit of the assemblage seemed to partake of nothing less than a feature of political acrimony; and amid the chance phrases which met the ear, and the hearty bursts of laughter that every moment broke forth, it was easy to collect that no question of a party nature occupied their attention.
At the end of the room a group of some twenty persons stood or sat around a chair in which a thin elderly gentleman was seated, his fine and delicately marked features far more unequivocally proclaiming rank than even the glittering star he wore on his breast. Without being in reality very old, Lord Drogheda seemed so, for, partly from delicacy of health, and partly, as some affirmed, from an affectation of age (a more frequent thing than is expected), he had contracted a stoop, and walked with every sign of debility.
“Well, gentlemen, how does time go?” said he, with an easy smile. “Are we not near the hour?”
“Yes; it wants but eleven minutes of ten now, my Lord,” said one of the group. “Do you mean to hold him sharp to time?”
“Egad, I should think so,” interrupted a red-whiskered squire, in splashed top-boots. “I've ridden in from Kildare to-night to see the match, and I protest against any put-off.”
Lord Drogheda turned his eyes towards the speaker with a look in which mildness was so marked, it could not be called reproof, but it evidently confused him, as he added, “Of course, if the gentlemen who have heavy wagers on it are content I must be also.”
“I, for one, say 'sharp time,'” cried out a dapperly dressed young fellow, with an open pocket-book in his hand; “play or pay is the only rule in these cases.”
“I 've backed my Lord at eight to ten, in hundreds,” said another, “and certainly I 'll claim my bet if the Knight is one minute late.”
“Then you have just three to decide that question,” said one at his side. “My watch is with the Post-office.”
“Quite, time enough left to order my carriage,” said Lord Drogheda, rising with an energy very different from his ordinary indolent habit. “If the Knight of Gwynne should be accidentally delayed, gentlemen, I, for my part, prefer being also absent. It will then be a matter of some difficulty for the parties betting to say who is the delinquent.” He took his hat as he spoke, and was moving through the crowd, when a sudden cheer from without was heard, and then, almost the instant after, a confused sound of acclamation as the Knight of Gwynne entered, leaning on the arm of Con Heffernan. Making his way with difficulty through the crowd of welcoming friends and acquaintances, the Knight approached the end of the room where Lord Drogheda now awaited him, standing.
“Not late, my Lord, though very near it,” said he, extending his hand. “If I should apologize, however, I have an excuse you will not reject,—Con Heffernan's Burgundy is hard to part with.”
“Very true, Knight,” said his Lordship, smiling. “With a friend one sees so seldom, a little dalliance is most pardonable.”
This sarcasm was met by a ready laugh, for Heffernan was better known as a guest at other tables than a host at his own; nor did he, at whose expense the jest was made, refrain from joining in the mirth, while he added,—
“The Burgundy, like one of your Lordship's bons mots, is perhaps appreciated the more highly because of its rarity.”
“Very true, Heffernan,” replied Lord Drogheda; “we should keep our wit and wine only for our best friends.”
“Faith, then,” whispered the red-whiskered squire who spoke before, “if the liquor does not gain more by keeping than the wit, I'd recommend Con to drink it off a little faster.”
“Or, better still,” interposed the Knight, “only give it to those who understand its flavor. But we are, if I mistake not, losing very valuable time. What say you to the small room off the library, or will your Lordship remain here?”
“Here, if equally agreeable to you. We are both of us too old in the harness to care much for being surrounded by spectators.”
“Is it true, Con,” said a friend in Heffernan's ear, “that Darcy has laid fifty thousand on this party?”
“I believe you are rather under than over the mark,” whispered Heffernan. “The wager has been off and on these last eight or ten years. It was made at Hutchinson's one evening when we all had drunk a good deal of wine. At first, whist was talked of; but Drogheda objected to Darcy's naming Vicars as his partner.”
“More fool he! Vicars is a first-rate player, but confoundedly unlucky.”
“Be that as it may, they fixed on piquet as the game, and, if accounts be true, all the better for Darcy. They say he has beaten the best players in France.”
“And what is really the stake? One hears so many absurd versions of it.”
“The Ballydermot property.”
“The whole of it?”
“Every acre, with the demesne, house, plate, pictures, carriages, wine,—begad! I 'm not sure if the livery servants are not included,—against fifty thousand pounds. You know Drogheda has lent him a very large sum on a mortgage of that property already, and this will make the thing about double or quits.”
“Well, Heffernan,” cried the Knight, “are you making your book there? When you've quite finished, let me have a pinch of that excellent snuff of yours.”
“Why not try mine?” said Lord Drogheda, pushing a magnificently jewelled box, containing a miniature, across the table.
“'T would be a bad augury, my Lord,” said Darcy, laughing. “If I remember aright, you won this handsome box from the Duke de Richelieu.”
“Ah! you know that story, then?”
“I was present at the time, and remember the circumstance perfectly. The King was leaning over the Duke's chair, watching the game—”
“Quite true. The Duke affected not to know that his Majesty was there, and when he placed the box on the table, cried, 'A thousand louis against the portrait of the King!' There was no declining such a wager at such a moment, although, intrinsically, the box was not worth half the sum. I accepted, and won it.”
“And the Duke then offered to give you twice the money for it back again?”
“He did so, and I refused. I shall not readily forget the sweet, sad smile of the King as he tapped the wily courtier on the shoulder, and said, 'Ah! Monsieur le Duc, do you only value your King when you've lost him?' They were prophetic words! Well, well! we 've got upon a sorrowful theme; let's change it.”
“Here are the cards, at last,” said the Knight, taking a sealed packet from the waiter's hand, and breaking it open on the table. “Now, Heffernan, order me a glass of claret negus, and take care that no one comes to worry us with news of the House.”
“It's a sugar bill, or a new clause in the Corporation Act, or something of that kind, they 're working at,” said Lord Drogheda, negligently.
“No, my Lord,” interposed Heffernan, slyly, “it's a bill to permit your Lordship's nephew to hold the living of Ardragh with his deanery.”
“All right and proper,” said his Lordship, endeavoring to hide a rising flush on his cheek by an opportune laugh. “Tom is a capital fellow, and a good parson too.”
“And ought never to omit the prayer for the Parliament!” muttered Heffernan, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders, who relished the allusion heartily.
“The deal is with you, Knight,” said Lord Drogheda, pushing the cards across the table.
The moment afterwards, a pin could not have fallen unheard in that crowded assembly. Even they who were not themselves bettors felt the deepest interest in the game where the stake was so great, and all who could set value on skill and address were curious to watch the progress of the contest. Not a word was spoken on either side as the cards fell upon the table, and although many of the bystanders displayed looks of more eager anxiety, the players showed by their intentness how strenuously each struggled for the victory.
After the lapse of about half an hour, a low, murmuring noise spread through the room, and the news was circulated that the first game was over, and the Knight was the winner. The players, however, were silent as before, and the deal went over without a word.
“One moment, my Lord,” said Darcy, as he gently interposed his hand to prevent Lord Drogheda taking up his cards,—“a single moment. You will call me faint-hearted for it, but I do not care. I beseech you, let the party cease here. It is a great favor; but as I could not ask it if I had lost the game, give me, I pray, so much of advantage for my good luck.”
“You forget, Knight, that I, as a loser, could not accede to your proposal; what would be said of any man who, with such a stake at issue, accepted an offer like this?”
“My dear Lord, don't you think that you and I might afford to have our actions canvassed, and yet be very little afraid of criticism?” said Darcy, proudly.
“No, no, my dear Darcy, I really could not do this; besides, you must concede something to mortified vanity. Now, I am anxious to have my revenge.”
“Be it so, my Lord,” said the Knight, with a sigh, and the game began.
The looks and glances which were interchanged by those about during this brief colloquy showed how little sympathy there was felt with the generosity of either side. The bettors had set their hearts on gain, and cared little for the feelings of the players.
“You see he was right,” whispered the red-whiskered squire to his neighbor; “my Lord has won the game in one hand.” And so it was; in less than five minutes the party was over.
“Now for the conqueror,” cried the Knight of Gwynne, who, somewhat nettled at a success which seemed to lessen the generous character of his own proposal, dealt the cards hastily, as if anxious to conclude.
“Now, Darcy, we have a better opportunity,” said Lord Drogheda, smiling; “what say you to draw stakes as we stand?”
“Willingly, most willingly, my Lord. If a bad cause saps courage, I have reason to be low at heart. This foolish wager has cost me the loss of three nights' sleep, and if you are content—”
“But are these gentlemen here satisfied?” said Lord Drogheda; and an almost universal cry of “No” was the reply.
“Then if we are to play for the bystanders, my Lord, let us not delay them,” said the Knight, as he took up his cards and began to arrange them.
“Darcy has it, by Jove!—the game is his,” was muttered from one to another in the crowd behind his chair, and the report, gaining currency, was soon circulated in the larger room without.
“Have you anything heavy on it, Con?” said a fashionably dressed man to Heffernan, who endeavored to force his way through the crowd to where the Knight sat.
“Look at Heffernan!” said another. “They say he never bets; but mark the excitement of his face now!”
“What is it, Heffernan?” said the Knight, as the other leaned over his chair and tried to whisper something in his ear. “Is that a queen, my Lord? In that case I believe the game is mine.—What is it, Heffernan?” and he bent his ear to listen; then, suddenly dashing the cards upon the table, cried out, “Great Heaven! is this true?—the young fellow I met at Kilbeggan?”
“The same,” whispered Heffernan, rapidly; “a brother officer of your son Lionel's—a cousin of Lord Castle-reagh's—a fine, dashing fellow, too.”
“Where is he wounded?” asked Darcy, eagerly.
“Finish your game—I must tell you all about it,” said Heffernan, folding up a letter which he had taken from his pocket a few minutes before.
“Your pardon, my Lord,” said Darcy, with a look full of agitation; “I have just heard very bad news.—I play the knave.” A murmur ran through the crowd behind him.
“You meant the king, I know, Knight,” said Lord Drogheda, restoring the card to his hand as he spoke, but a loud expression of dissatisfaction arose from those at his side.
“You are right, my Lord, I did intend the king,” said the Knight; “but these gentlemen insist upon the knave, and, if you 'll permit me, I 'll play it.”
The whole fortune of the game hung upon the card, and, after a brief struggle, the Knight was beaten.
“Even so, my Lord,” said the Knight, smiling calmly, “you have beaten me against luck; Fortune will not do everything. The Roman satirist goes even further, and says she can do nothing.” He rose as he said these words, and looked around for Heffernan.
“If you want Con Heffernan, Knight,” said one of the party, “I think he has gone down to the House.”
“The very man,” said Darcy. “Good-night, my Lord,—good-night, gentlemen all.”
“I did not believe that anything could shake Darcy's nerve, but he certainly played that game ill,” said a bystander.
“Heffernan could tell us more about it,” said another; “rely on it, Master Con and the devil knew why that knave was played.”
Of all the evil influences which swayed the destinies of Ireland in latter days, none can compare, in extent of importance, with the fatal taste for prodigality that characterized the habits of the gentry. Reckless, wasteful extravagance, in every detail of life, suggested modes of acting and thinking at variance with all individual and, consequently, all national prosperity. Hospitality was pushed to profusion, liberality became a spendthrift habit. The good and the bad qualities of the Irish temperament alike contributed to this passion; there was the wish to please, the desire to receive courteously, and entertain with splendor within doors, and to appear with proportionate magnificence without.
A proud sense of what they deemed befitting their station induced the gentry to vie in expenditure with the richly endowed officials of the Government, and the very thought of prudence or foresight in matters of expense would have been stigmatized as a meanness by those who believed they were sustaining the honor of their country while sapping the foundation of its prosperity.
If we have little to plead in defence or in palliation of such habits, we can at least affirm that in many cases they were practised with a taste and elegance that shed lustre over the period. Unlike the vulgar displays of newly acquired wealth, they exhibited in a striking light the generous and high-spirited features of the native character, which deemed that nothing could be too good for the guest, nor any expenditure for his entertainment either too costly or too difficult. The fatal facility of Irish nature, and the still more ruinous influence of example, hurried men along on this road to ruin; and as political prospects grew darker, a reckless indifference to the future succeeded, in which little care was taken for the morrow, until, at last, thoughtless extravagance became a habit, and moneyed difficulties the lot of almost every family of Ireland.
That a gentry so embarrassed, and with such prospects of ruin before them, should have been easy victims to Ministerial seduction, is far less surprising than that so many were to be seen who could prefer their integrity to the rich bribes of Government patronage; and it is a redeeming feature of the day that amid all the lavish and heedless course of prodigality and excess there were some who could face poverty with stouter hearts than they could endure the stigma of gilded corruption: nor is it the history of every Parliament that can say as much.
Let us leave this theme, even at the hazard of being misunderstood, for the moment, by our reader, and turn to the Knight of Gwynne, who now was seated at his breakfast in a large parlor of his house in Henrietta Street. Sad and deserted as it seems now, this was in those days the choice residence of Irish aristocracy, and the names of peers and baronets on every door told of a class which, now, should be sought for in scattered fragments among the distant cities of the Continent.
The Knight was reading the morning papers, in which, amid the fashionable news, was an account of his own wager with Lord Drogheda, when a carriage drove up hastily to the door, and, immediately after, the loud summons of a footman resounded through the street.
While the Knight was yet wondering who this early visitor should prove, the servant announced Mr. Con Heffernan.
“The very man I wished to see,” cried Darcy, eagerly; “tell me all about this unfortunate business. But, first of all, is he out of danger?”
“Quite safe. I understand, for a time, it was a very doubtful thing; Daly's surgery, it would seem, rather increased the hazard. He began searching for the ball regardless of the bleeding, and the young fellow was very near sinking under loss of blood.”
“The whole affair was his doing!” said the Knight, impatiently. “How Mr. MacDonough could have found himself at my table is more than I can well imagine; that when he got there, something like this would follow, does not surprise me. Daly is really too bad. Well, well, I hoped to have set off for the abbey to-day, but I must stay here, I find; Drogheda is kind enough to let me redeem Ballydermot, and I must see Gleeson about it. It's rather a heavy blow just now.”
“I am afraid I am not altogether blameless,” said Heffernan, timidly. “I ought not to have mentioned that unlucky business till the game was over; but I thought your nerve was proof against anything.”
“So it was, Heffernan,” said the Knight, laughing, “some five-and-twenty years ago; but this shattered wreck has little remains of the old three-decker. I should have won that game.”
“It's all past and over now, so never think more about it.”
“Yes, I should have won the game. Drogheda saw my advantage: he went on with the very suit in my hand, and when he reached over for his snuff-box, his hand trembled like in an ague-fit.”
“Come, don't let the thing dwell in your mind. There is another and a heavier game to play, and you 're certain to win there, if you do but like it.”
“I don't clearly understand you,” said Darcy, doubtingly.
“I'll be explicit enough, then,” said Heffernan, taking a chair and seating himself directly in front of the Knight. “You know the position of the Government at this moment. They have secured a safe and certain majority,—the 'Union' is carried. When I say 'carried,' I mean that there is not a doubt on any reasonable mind but that the bill will pass. The lists show a majority of seven, perhaps eight, for the Ministry; and if they had but one in their favor, Pitt is determined to go through with it. Now, we all very well know how this has been done. Our people have behaved infamously, disgracefully,—there's no mincing the matter. You heard of Fox—?”
“No. What of him?”
“He has just accepted the escheatorship of—I forget what or where, but he vacates his seat to make room for Courtenay.”
“Sam Courtenay?—Scrub, as we used to call him?”
“Scrub,—exactly so. Well, he comes in for Roscommon, and is to have a place under the new commission of twelve hundred a year. But to go back to what I was saying: Castlereagh has bought these fellows at his price or their own; some were dear enough, some were cheap. Barton, for instance, takes it out in Castle dinners, and has sold his birthright for the Viceroy's venison.”
“May good digestion wait on appetite!” repeated Darcy, laughing.
“Well, let's not waste more time on them, but come to what I mean. Castlereagh wants to know how you mean to vote: some have told him you would be on his side; others, myself among the number, say the reverse. In fact, little as you may think about the matter, heavy bets are laid at this moment on the question, and—But I won't mention names; enough if I say a friend of ours—an old friend, too—has a thousand on it.”
The Knight tapped his snuff-box calmly, and with his blandest smile begged Heffernan to proceed.
“Faith! I 've nearly told all I had to say. Every one well knows that, whatever decision you come to, it will be unbiassed by everything save your own conscientious sense of right; and as arguments are pretty nearly equal on the question,—for, in truth, after having heard and read most of what has been written or spoken on the point,—I 'm regularly nonplussed on which side to see the advantage. The real question seems to be, Can we go on as we are?”
“I think not,” observed the Knight, gravely. “A Parliament which has exhibited its venality so openly can have little pretension to public confidence.”
“The very remark I made myself,” cried Heffernan, triumphantly.
“The men who sell themselves to-day to the Crown will, if need be, sell themselves to-morrow to the mob.”
“My own words, by Jove!—my very words.”
“A dependent Parliament, attempting separate and independent legislation, means an absurdity.”
“There is no other name for it,” cried Heffernan, in ecstasy.
“I have known Ireland for something more than half a century now,” said the Knight, with a touch of melancholy in his voice, “and yet never before saw so much of social disorder as at present, and perhaps we are only at the beginning of it. The scenes we have witnessed in France have been more bloody and more cruel, but they will leave less permanent results behind them than our own revolution; for such, after all, it is. The property of the country is changing hands, the old aristocracy are dying out, if not dead; their new successors have neither any hold on the affection of the people, nor a bond of union with each other. See what will come of it; the old game of feudalism will be tried by these men of yesterday, and the peasantry, whose reverence for birth is a religion, will turn on them, and the time is not very distant, perhaps, when the men who would not harm the landlord's dog will have little reverence for the landlord's self.”
“You have drawn a sad picture,” said Heffernan, either feeling or affecting to feel the truthfulness of the Knight's delineation.
“Our share in the ruin,” said the Knight, rising, and pacing the room with rapid strides,—“our share is not undeserved. We had a distinct and defined duty to perform, and we neglected it; instead of extending civilization, we were the messengers of barbarism among the people.”
“Your own estates, I have heard, are a refutation of your theory,” interposed Heffernan, insinuatingly.
“My estates—” repeated the Knight; and then, stopping suddenly, with a changed voice, he said, “Heffernan, we have got into a long and very unprofitable theme; let us try back, if we can, and see whence we started: we were talking of the Union.”
“Just so,” said Heffernan, not sorry to resume the subject which induced his visit.
“I have determined not to vote on the measure,” said the Knight, solemnly; “my reasons for the course I adopt I hope to be able to justify when the proper time arrives; meanwhile, it will prevent unnecessary speculation, and equally unnecessary solicitation, if I tell you frankly what I mean to do. Such is my present resolve.”
The word “solicitation” fell from the Knight's lips with such a peculiar expression that Heffernan at once saw his own game was detected, and, like a clever tactician, resolved to make the best of his forced position.