“You have been frank with me, Knight; I'll not be less candid with you, I came here to convey to you a distinct offer from the Government,—not of any personal favor or advantage, that, they well knew, you would reject,—but, in the event of your support, to take any suggestion you might make on the new Bill into their serious and favorable consideration; to advise with you how, in short, the measure might be made to meet your views, and, so to say, admit you into conclave with the Cabinet.”
“All this is very flattering,” said the Knight, with a smile of evident satisfaction, “but I scarcely see how the opinions of a very humble country gentleman can weigh in the grave councils of a Government.”
“The best proof is the fact itself,” replied Heffernan, artfully. “Were I to tell you of other reasons, you might suspect me of an intention to canvass your support on very different grounds.”
“I confess I'm in the dark; explain yourself more fully.”
“This is a day for sincerity,” said Heffernan, smiling, “and so, here it is: the Prince has taken a special liking to your son Lionel, and has given him his company.”
“His company! I never heard of it.”
“Strange enough that he should not have written to you on the subject, but the fact is unquestionable; and, as I was saying, he is a frequent guest at Carlton House, and admitted into the choice circle of his Royal Highness's parties: if, in the freedom of that intimacy with which he is honored by the Prince, the question should have arisen, how his father meant to vote, the fact was not surprising, no more than that Captain Darcy should have replied—”
“Lionel never pledged himself to control my vote, depend upon that, Mr. Heffernan,” said the Knight, reddening.
“Nor did I say so,” interposed Heffernan. “Hear me out: your son is reported to have answered, 'My father's family have been too trained in loyalty, sire, not to give their voice for what they believe the best interests of the empire: your Royal Highness may doubt his judgment, his honor will, I am certain, never be called in question.' The Prince laughed good-naturedly, and said, 'Enough, Darcy,—quite enough; it will give me great satisfaction to think as highly of the father as I do of the son; there is a vacancy on the staff, and I can offer you the post of an extra aide-de-camp.'”
“This is very good news,—the best I 've heard for many a day, Heffernan; and for its accuracy—”
“Lord Castlereagh is the guarantee,” added Heffernan, hastily; “I had it from his own lips.”
“I 'll wait on him this morning. I can at least express my gratitude for his Royal Highness's kindness to my boy.”
“You 'll not have far to go,” said Heffernan, smiling.
“How so?—what do you mean?”
“Lord Castlereagh is at the door this moment in that carriage;” and Hefifernan pointed to the chariot which, with its blinds closely drawn, stood before the street door.
The Knight moved hastily towards the door, and then, turning suddenly, burst into a hearty laugh,—a laugh so racy and full of enjoyment that Heffernan himself joined in it, without knowing wherefore.
“You are a clever fellow, Hefifernan!” said the Knight, as he lay back in a deep-cushioned chair, and wiped his eyes, now streaming with tears of laughter,—“a devilish clever fellow! The whole affair reminds me of poor Jack Morris.”
“Faith! I don't see your meaning,” said Hefifernan, half fearful that all was not right.
“You knew Jack,—we all knew him. Well, poor Morris was going home one night,—from the theatre, I believe it was,—but, just as he reached Ely Place, he saw, by the light of a lamp, a gentlemanlike fellow trying to make out an address on a letter, and endeavoring, as well as he could, to spell out the words by the uncertain light. 'Devilish provoking!' said the stranger, half aloud; 'I wrote it myself, and yet cannot read a word of it.' 'Can I be of any service?' said Jack. Poor fellow! he was always ready for anything kind or good-natured. 'Thank you,' said the other; 'but I 'm a stranger in Dublin,—only arrived this evening from Liverpool,—and cannot remember the name or the street of my hotel, although I noted both down on this letter.' 'Show it to me,' said Jack, taking the document. But although he held it every way, and tried all manner of guesses, he never could hit on the name the stranger wanted. 'Never mind,' said Jack; 'don't bother yourself about it. Come home with, me and have an oyster,—I 'll give you a bed; 't will be time enough after breakfast to-morrow to hunt out the hotel.' To make short of it, the stranger complied; after all the natural expressions of gratitude and shame, home they went, supped, finished two bottles of claret, and chatted away till past two o'clock. 'You 'd like to get to bed, I see,' said Jack, as the stranger seemed growing somewhat drowsy, and so he rang the bell and ordered the servant to show the gentleman to his room. 'And, Martin,' said he, 'take care that everything is comfortable, and be sure you have a nightcap.' 'Oh! I 've a nightcap myself,' said the stranger, pulling one, neatly folded, out of his coat pocket. 'Have you, by G—d!' said Jack. 'If you have, then, you 'll not sleep here. A man that's so ready for a contingency has generally some hand in contriving it.' And so he put him out of doors, and never saw more of him. Eh, Heffernan, was Jack right?” And again the old man broke into a hearty laugh, in which Heffernan, notwithstanding his discomfiture, could not refrain from participating.
“Well,” said he, as he arose to leave the room, “I feel twenty years younger for that hearty laugh. It reminds me of the jolly days we used to have long ago, with Price Godfrey and Bagenal Daly. By the way, where is Bagenal now, and what is he doing?”
“Pretty much what he always was doing,—mischief and devilment,” said the Knight, half angrily.
“Is he still the member for Old-Castle? I forget what fate the petition had.”
“The fate of the counsel that undertook it is easily remembered,” said the Knight. “Bagenal called him out for daring to take such a liberty with a man who had represented the borough for thirty years, and shot him in the hip. 'You shall have a plumper, by Jove,' said Bagenal; and he gave him one. Men grew shy of the case afterwards, and it was dropped, and so Bagenal still represents the place. Good-by, Heffernan; don't forget Jack Morris.” And so saying, the Knight took leave of his visitor, and returned to his chair at the breakfast-table.
The news of Lionel's promotion, and the flattering notice which the Prince had taken of him, made the Knight very indifferent about his heavy loss of the preceding evening. It was, to be sure, an immense sum; but as Gleeson was arranging his affairs, it was only “raising” so much more, and thus preventing the estate from leaving the family. Such was his own very mode of settling the matter in his own mind, nor did he bestow more time on the consideration than enabled him to arrive at this satisfactory conclusion.
If ever there was an agent designed to compensate for the easy, careless habits of such a principal, it was Mr. Gleeson, or, as he was universally known in the world of that day, “Honest Tom Gleeson.” In him seemed concentrated all those peculiar gifts which made up the perfect man of business. He was cautious, painstaking, and methodical; of a temper which nothing could ruffle, and with a patience no provocation could exhaust; punctual as a clock, neither precipitate nor dilatory, he appeared prompt to the slow, and seemed almost tardy to the hasty man.
In the management of several large estates—he might have had many more if he would have accepted the charge—Mr. Gleeson had amassed a considerable fortune; but so devotedly did he attach himself to the interests of his employers, so thoroughly identify their fortunes with his own, that he gave little time to the cares of his immediate property. By his skill and intelligence many country gentlemen had emerged from embarrassments that threatened to engulf their entire fortunes; and his aid in a difficulty was looked upon as a certain guarantee of success. It was not very surprising if a man endowed with qualities like these should have usurped something of ascendency over his employers. To a certain extent their destiny lay in his hands. Of the difficulties by which they were pressed he alone knew either the nature or amount, while by what straits these should be overcome none but himself could offer a suggestion. If in all his dealings the most strict regard to honor was observable, so did he seem also inexhaustible in his contrivances to rescue an embarrassed or encumbered estate. There was often the greatest difficulty in securing his services, solicitation and interest were even required to engage him; but once retained, he applied his energies to the task, and with such zeal and acuteness that it was said no case, however desperate, had yet failed in his hands.
For several years past he had managed all the Knight's estates; and such was the complication and entanglement of the property, loaded with mortgages and rent-charges, embarrassed with dowries and annuities, that nothing short of his admirable skill could have supported the means of that expensive and wasteful mode of life which the Knight insisted on pursuing, and all restriction on which he deemed unfitting his station. If Gleeson represented the urgent necessity of retrenchment, the very word was enough to cut short the negotiation; until, at last, the agent was fain to rest content with the fruits of good management, and merely venture from time to time on a cautious suggestion regarding the immense expense of the Knight's household.
With all his guardedness and care, these representations were not always safe; for though the Knight would sometimes meet them with some jocular or witty reply, or some bantering allusion to the agent's taste for money-getting, at other times he would receive the advice with impatience or ill-humor, so that, at last, Gleeson limited all complaints on this score to his letters to Lady Eleanor, with whom he maintained a close and confidential correspondence.
This reserve on Gleeson's part had its effects on the Knight, who felt a proportionate delicacy in avowing any act of extravagance that should demand a fresh call for money, and thus embarrass the negotiation by which the agent was endeavoring to extricate the property.
If Darcy felt the loss of the preceding night, it was far more from the necessity of avowing it to Gleeson than from the amount of the money, considerable as it was; and he, therefore, set out to call upon him, in a frame of mind far less at ease than he desired to persuade himself he enjoyed.
Mr. Gleeson lived about three miles from Dublin, so that the Knight had abundant time to meditate as he went along, and think over the interview that awaited him. His revery was only broken by a sudden change from the high-road to the noiseless quiet of the neat avenue which led up to the house.
Mr. Gleeson's abode had been an ancient manor-house in the Gwynne family, a building of such antiquity as to date from the time of the Knights Templars; and though once a favored residence of the Darcys, had, from the circumstances of a dreadful crime committed beneath its roof,—the murder of a servant by his master,—been at first deserted, and subsequently utterly neglected by the owners, so that at last it fell into ruin and decay. The roof was partly fallen in, the windows shattered and broken, the rich ceilings rotten and discolored with damp; it presented an aspect of desolation, when Mr. Gleeson proposed to take it on lease. Nor was the ruin only within doors, but without; the ornamental planting had been torn up, or used as firewood; the gardens pillaged and overrun with cattle; and the large trees—among which were some rare and remarkable ones—were lopped and torn by the country people, who trespassed and committed their depredations without fear or impediment. Now, however, the whole aspect was changed; the same spirit of order that exercised its happy influence in the management of distant properties had arrested the progress of destruction here, and, happily, in sufficient time to preserve some of the features which, in days past, had made this the most beautiful seat in the county.
It was not without a feeling of astonishment that the Knight surveyed the change. An interval of twelve years—for such had been the length of time since he was last there—had worked magic in all around. Clumps had sprung up into ornamental groups, saplings become graceful trees, sickly evergreens that leaned their frail stems against a stake were now richly leaved hollies or fragrant laurustinas; and the marshy pond, that seemed stagnant with rank grass and duckweed, was a clear lake fed by a silvery cascade which descended in quaint but graceful terraces from the very end of the neat lawn.
In Darcy's eyes, the only fault was the excessive neatness perceptible in everything; the very gravel seemed to shine with a peculiar lustre, the alleys were swept clean, not even a withered leaf was suffered to disfigure them, while the shrubs had an air of trim propriety, like the self-satisfied air of a Sunday citizen.
The brilliant lustre of the heavy brass knocker, the white and spotless flags of the stone hall, and the immaculate accuracy of the staid footman who opened the door, were types of the prevailing tastes and habits of the proprietor. A mere glance at the orderly arrangement of Mr. Gleeson's study would have confirmed the impression of his strict notions and regularity of discipline: not a book was out of place; the boxes, labelled with high and titled names, were ranged with a drill-like precision upon the shelves; the very letters that lay in the baskets beside the table fell with an attention to staid decorum becoming the rigid habits of the place.
The Knight had some minutes to bestow in contemplation of these objects before Gleeson entered; he had only that morning arrived from a distant journey, and was dressing when the Knight was announced. With a bland, soft manner, and an air compounded of diffidence and self-importance, Mr. Gleeson made his approaches.
“You have anticipated me, sir,” said he, placing a chair for the Knight; “I had ordered the carriage to call upon you. May I beg you to excuse the question, but my anxiety will not permit me to defer it: there is no truth, or very little, I trust, in the paragraph I 've just read in Carrick's paper—”
“About a party at piquet with Lord Drogheda?” interrupted Darcy.
“The same.”
“Every word of it correct, Gleeson,” said the Knight, who, notwithstanding the occasion, could not control the temptation to laugh at the terrified expression of the agent's face.
“But surely the sum was exaggerated; the paper says, the lands and demesne of Ballydermot, with the house, furniture, plate, wine, equipage, garden utensils—”
“I 'm not sure that we mentioned the watering-pots,” said Darcy, smiling; “but the wine hogsheads are certainly included.”
“A rental of clear three thousand four hundred and seventy-eight pounds, odd shillings, on a lease of lives renewable forever—pepercorn fine!” exclaimed Gleeson, closing his eyes, and folding his hands upon his breast, like a martyr resigning himself to the torture.
“So much for going on spades without the head of the suit!” observed the Knight; “and yet any man might have made the same blunder; and then, Heffernan, with his interruption,—altogether, Gleeson, the whole was mismanaged sadly.”
“The greater, part of the land tithe free,” moaned Gleeson to himself; “it was a grant from the Crown to your ancestor, Everard Darcy.”
“If it was the king gave it, Gleeson, it was the queen lost it.”
“The lands of Corrabeg, Dunragheedaghan, and Muscarooney, let at fifteen shillings an acre, with a right to cut turf on the Derryslattery bog! not to speak of Knocksadowd! lost, and no redemption!”
“Yes, Gleeson, that's the point I'm coming to; there is a proviso in favor of redemption, whenever your grief will permit you to hear it.”
Gleeson gave a brief cough, blew his nose with considerable energy, and with an air of submissive sorrow apologized for yielding to his feelings. “I have been so many years, sir, the guardian—if I may so say—of that property that I cannot think of being severed from its interests without deep, very deep, regret.”
“By Jove! Gleeson, so do I! you have no monopoly of the sorrow, believe me. I acknowledge, readily, the full extent of my culpability. This foolish bet came to pass at a dinner at Hutchison's,—it was the crowning point of a bragging conversation about play,—and Drogheda, it seems, booked it, though I totally forgot all about it. I'm certain he never intended to push the wager on me, but when reminded of it, of course I had nothing else for it but to express my readiness to meet him. I must say he behaved nobly all through; and even when Heffer-nan's stupid interruption had somewhat ruffled my nerves, he begged I would reconsider the card—he saw I had made a mistake—very handsome that!—his backers, I assure you, did not seem as much disposed to extend the courtesy. I relieved their minds, however, I stood by my play, and—”
“And lost an estate of three thousand—”
“Quite correct; I'm sure no man knows the rental better. And now, let us see how to keep it in the family.”
The stare of amazement with which Gleeson heard these words might have met a proposition far more extravagant still, and he repeated the speech to himself, as if weighing every syllable in a balance.
“Yes, Gleeson, that was exactly what I said; now that we are engaged in liquidating, let us proceed with the good work. If I have given you enlarged occasion for the exercise of your abilities, I 'm only acting like Peter Henessy,—old Peter, that held the mill at Brown's Barn.”
The agent looked up with an expression in which all interest to learn the precedent alluded to was lost in astonishment at the levity of a man who could jest at such a moment.
“I see you never heard it, and, as the lawyers say, the rule will apply. I 'll tell it to you. When Peter was dying, he sent for old Rush of the Priory to give him absolution; he would not have the parish priest, for he was a 'hard man,' as Peter said, with little compassion for human weakness, never loved pork nor 'poteen,' but seemed to have a relish for fasts and vigils. 'Rush will do,' said he to all the family applications in favor of the other,—'I 'll have Father Rush;' and so he had, and Rush came, and they were four hours at it, for Peter had a long score of reminiscences to bring up, and it was not without considerable difficulty, it is said, that Rush could apply the remedies of the Church to the various infractions of the old sinner. At last, however, it was arranged, and Peter lay back in bed very tired and fatigued; for, I assure you, Gleeson, whatever you may think of it, confessing one's iniquities is excessively wearying to the spirits. 'Is it all right, Father?' said he, as the good priest counted over the roll of ragged bank-notes that were to be devoted to the purchase of different masses and offerings. 'It will do well,' said Rush; 'make your mind easy, your peace is made now.' 'And are you sure it's quite safe?' said Peter; 'a pound more or less is nothing now compared to—what you know,'—for Peter was polite, and followed the poet's counsel. ''Tis safe and sure both,' said Rush; 'I have the whole of the sins under my thumb now, and don't fret yourself.' 'Take another thirty shillings then, Father,' said he, pushing the note over to him, 'and let Whaley have the two barrels of seed oats—the smut is in them, and they 're not worth sixpence; but, when we are at it, Father, dear, let us do the thing complete: what signifies a trifle like that among the rest?' Such was Peter's philosophy, Gleeson, and, if not very laudable as he applied it, it would seem to suit our present emergency remarkably well.”
Gleeson vouchsafed but a very sickly smile as the Knight finished, and, taking up a bundle of papers from the table, proceeded to search for something amongst them.
“This loss was most inopportune, sir—”
“No doubt of it, Gleeson; it were far better had I won my wager,” said the Knight, half testily; but the agent, scarce noticing the interruption, went on:—
“Mr. Lionel has drawn on me for seven hundred, and so late as Wednesday last I was obliged to meet a bill of his amounting to twelve hundred and eighty pounds. Thus, you will perceive that he has this year overdrawn his allowance considerably. He seems to have been as unlucky as yourself, sir.”
Soft and silky as the accents were, there was a tincture of sarcasm in the way these words were uttered that did not escape Darcy's notice; but he made no reply, and appeared to listen attentively as the other resumed:—
“Then, the expenses of the abbey have been enormous this year; you would scarcely credit the outlay for the hunting establishment; and, as I learn from Lady Eleanor that you rarely, if ever, take the field yourself—”
“Never mind that, Gleeson,” broke in the Knight, suddenly. “I 'll not sell a horse or part with a dog amongst them. My income must well be able to afford me the luxuries I have always been used to. I 'm not to be told that, with a rental of eighteen thousand a year—”
“A rental, sir, I grant you,” said Gleeson, interrupting him; “you said quite correctly,—the rental is even more than you stated; but consider the charges on that rental,—the heavy sums raised on mortgages, the debt incurred by building, the two contested elections, your losses on the turf: these make sad inroads in the amount of your income.”
“I tell you frankly, Gleeson,” said the Knight, starting up and pacing the room with hasty steps, “I 've neither head nor patience for details of this kind. I was induced to believe that my embarrassments, such as they are, were in course of liquidation; that by raising two hundred and fifty thousand pounds at four-and-a-half, or even five per cent, we should be enabled to clear off the heavy debts, for which we are paying ten, twelve,—ay, by Jove! I believe fifteen per cent.”
“Upon my word, I believe you do not exaggerate,” said Gleeson, in a conciliating accent. “Hickman's bond, though nominally bearing six per cent, is actually treble that sum. He holds 'The Grove' at the rent of a cottier's tenure, and with the right of cutting timber in Clon-a-gauve wood,—a right he is by no means chary of exercising.”
“That must be stopped, and at once,” broke in Darcy, with a heightened color. “The old man is actually making a clearing of the whole mountain side; the last time I was up there, Lionel and I counted two hundred and eighteen trees marked for the hatchet. I ordered Finn not to permit one of them to be touched; to go with a message from me to Hickman, saying that there was a wide difference between cutting timber for farm purposes and carrying on a trade in rivalry with the Baltic. Oaks of twenty, eighty, ay, a hundred and fifty years' growth, the finest trees on the property, were among those I counted.”
“And did he desist, sir?” asked Gleeson, with a half cunning look.
“Did he?—what a question you ask me! By Heavens! if he barked a sapling in that wood after my warning, I 'd have sent the Derrahinchy boys down to his place, and they would not have left a twig standing on his cockney territory. Devilish lucky he 'd be if they stopped there, and left him a house to shelter him.”
“He's a very unsafe enemy, sir,” observed Gleeson, timidly.
“By Jove! Gleeson, I think you are bent on driving me distracted this morning. You have hit upon perhaps the only theme on which I cannot control my irritability, and I beg of you, once and for all, to change it.”
“I should never have alluded to Mr. Hickman, sir, but that I wished to remark to you that he is in a position which requires all our watchfulness; he has within the last three weeks bought up Drake's mortgage, and also Belson's bond for seventeen thousand, and, I know from a source of unquestionable accuracy, is at this moment negotiating for the purchase of Martin Hamilton's bond, amounting to twenty-one thousand more; so that, in fact, with the exception of that small debt to Batty and Rowe, he will remain the sole creditor.”
“The sole creditor!” exclaimed Darcy, growing pale as marble,—“Peter Hickman the sole creditor!”
“To be sure, this privilege he will not long enjoy,” said Gleeson, with a degree of alacrity he had not assumed before; “when our arrangements are perfected with the London house of Bicknell and Jervis, we can pay off Hickman at once; he shall have a check for the whole amount the very same day.”
“And how soon may we hope for this happy event, Gleeson?” cried the Knight, recovering his wonted voice and manner.
“It will not be distant now, sir; one of the deeds is ready at this moment, or at least will be to-morrow. On your signing it, we shall have some very trifling delays, and the money can be forthcoming by the end of the next week. The other will be perfected and compared by Wednesday week.”
“So that within three weeks, or a month at furthest, Gieeson, we shall have cut the cable with the old pirate?”
“Three weeks, I trust, will see all finished; that is, if this affair of Ballydermot does not interfere.”
“It shall not do so,” cried the Knight, resolutely; “let it go. Drogheda is a gentleman at least, and if our old acres are to fall into other hands, let their possessor have blood in his veins, and he will not tyrannize over the people; but Hickman—”
“Very right, sir, Hickman might foreclose on the 24th of this month.”
“Gieeson, no more of this; I 'm not equal to it,” said the Knight, faintly; and he sat down with a wearied sigh, and covered his face with his hands. The emotion, painful as it was, passed over soon, and the Knight, with a voice calm and measured as before, said, “You will take care, Gieeson, that my son's bills are provided for; London is an expensive place, and particularly for a young fellow situated like Lionel; you may venture on a gentle—mind, a very gentle—remonstrance respecting his repeated calls for money; hint something about arrangements just pending, which require a little more prudence than usual. Do it cautiously, Gieeson; be very guarded. I remember when I was a young fellow being driven to the Jews by an old agent of my grandfather's; he wrote me a regular homily on thrift and economy, and to show I had benefited by the lesson, I went straightway and raised a loan at something very like sixty per cent.”
“You may rely upon my prudence, sir,” said Gieeson. “I think I can promise that Mr. Lionel will not take offence at my freedom. May I say Tuesday to wait on you with the deeds,—Tuesday morning?”
“Of course, whenever you appoint, I 'll be ready. I hoped to have left town this week; but these are too important matters to bear postponement. Tuesday, then, be it.” And with a friendly shake-hands, they parted,—Gleeson, to the duties of his laborious life; the Knight, with a mind less at ease than was his wont, but still bearing no trace of discomposure on his manly and handsome countenance.
“Whenever Captain Forester is quite able to bear the fatigue, Sullivan,—mind that you say 'quite able,'—it will give me much pleasure to receive him.”
Such was the answer Lady Eleanor Darcy returned to a polite message from the young officer, expressing his desire to visit Lady Eleanor and thank her for the unwearied kindness she had bestowed on him during his illness.
Lady Eleanor and her daughter were seated in the same chamber in which they have already been introduced to the reader. It was towards the close of a dark and gloomy day, the air heavy and overcast towards the land, while, over the sea, masses of black, misshapen cloud were drifted along hurriedly, the presage of a coming storm. The pine wood blazed brightly on the wide hearth, and threw its mellow lustre over the antique carvings and the porcelain ornaments of the chamber, contrasting the glow of in-door comfort with the bleak and cheerless look of all without, where the crashing noise of breaking branches mingled with the yet sadder sound of the swollen torrent from the mountain.
It may be remarked that persons who have lived much on the seaside, and near a coast abounding in difficulties or dangers, are far more susceptible of the influences of weather than those who pass their lives inland. Storm and shipwreck become, in a measure, inseparably associated. The loud beating of the waves upon the rocky shore, the deafening thunder of the swollen breakers, speak with a voice to their hearts, full of most meaning terror. The moaning accents of the spent wind, and the wailing cry of the petrel, awake thoughts of those who journey over “the great waters,” amid perils more dreadful than all of man's devising.
Partly from these causes, partly from influences of a different kind, both mother and daughter felt unusually sad and depressed, and had sat for a long interval without speaking, when Forester's message was delivered, requesting leave to pay his personal respects.
Had the visit been one of mere ceremony, Lady Eleanor would have declined it at once; her thoughts were wandering far away, engrossed by topics of dear and painful interest, and she would not have constrained herself to change their current and direction for an ordinary matter of conventional intercourse. But this was a different case; it was her son Lionel's friend, his chosen companion among his brother officers, the guest, too, who, wounded and almost dying beneath her roof, had been a charge of intense anxiety to her for weeks past.
“There is something strange, Helen, is there not, in this notion of acquaintanceship with one we have never seen; but now, after weeks of watching and inquiry, after nights of anxiety and days of care, I feel as if I ought to be very intimate with this same friend of Lionel's.”
“It is more for that very reason, Mamma, and simply because he is Lionel's friend.”
“No, my dear child, not so; it is the tie that binds us to all for whom we have felt interested, and in whose sorrows we have taken a share. Lionel has doubtless many friends in his regiment, and yet it is very unlikely any of them would cause me even a momentary impatience to see and know what they are like.”
“And do you confess to such in the present case?” said Helen, smiling.
“I own it, I have a strange feeling of half curiosity, and should be disappointed if the real Captain Forester does not come up to the standard of the ideal one.”
“Captain Forester, my Lady,” said Sullivan, as he threw open the door of the apartment, and, with a step which all his efforts could not render firm, and a frame greatly reduced by suffering, he entered. So little was he prepared for the appearance of the ladies who now stood to receive him, that, despite his habitual tact, a slight expression of surprise marked his features, and a heightened color dyed his cheek as he saluted them in turn.
With an air which perfectly blended kindliness and grace, Lady Eleanor held out her hand, and said, “My daughter, Captain Forester;” and then, pointing to a chair beside her own, begged of him to be seated. The unaccustomed exertion, the feeling of surprise, and the nervous irritability of convalescence, all conspired to make Forester ill at ease, and it was with a low, faint sigh he sank into the chair.
“I had hoped, madam,” said he, in a weak and tremulous accent,—“I had hoped to be able to speak my gratitude to you,—to express at least some portion of what I feel for kindness to which I owe my life; but the greatness of the obligation would seem too much for such strength as mine. I must leave it to my mother to say how deeply your kindness has affected us.”
The accents in which these few words were uttered, particularly that which marked the mention of his mother, seemed to strike a chord in Lady Eleanor's heart, and her hand trembled as she took from Forester a sealed letter which he withdrew from another.
“Julia Wallincourt,” said Lady Eleanor, unconsciously reading half aloud the signature on the envelope of the letter.
“My mother, madam,” said Forester, bowing.
“The Countess of Wallincourt!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, with a heightened color and a look of excited and even anxious import.
“Yes, madam, the widowed Countess of the Earl of Wallincourt, late Ambassador at Madrid; am I to have the happiness of hearing that my mother is known to you?”
“I had, sir, the pleasure,—the honor of meeting Lady Julia D'Esterre; to have enjoyed that pleasure, even once, is quite enough never to forget it.” Then, turning to her daughter, she added: “You have often heard me speak of Lady Julia's beauty, Helen; she was certainly the most lovely person I ever saw, but the charm of her appearance was even inferior to the fascination of her manner.”
“She retains it all, madam,” cried Forester, as his eyes sparkled with enthusiastic delight; “she has lost nothing of that power of captivating; and as for beauty, I confess I know nothing higher in that quality than what conveys elevation of sentiment, with purity and tenderness of heart: this she possesses still.”
“And your elder brother, Captain Forester?” inquired Lady Eleanor, with a manner intended to express interest, but in reality meant to direct the conversation into another channel.
“He is in Spain still, madam; he was Secretary of the Embassy when my father died, and replaced him in the mission.”
There was a pause, a long and chilling silence, after these words, that each party felt embarrassing, and yet were unable to break; at last Forester, turning towards Helen, asked “when she had heard from her brother?”
“Not for some days past,” replied she; “but Lionel is such an irregular correspondent, we think nothing of his long intervals of silence. You have heard of his promotion, perhaps?”
“No; pray let me learn the good news.”
“He has got his company. Some very unexpected—I might say, from Lionel's account, some very inexplicable—piece of good fortune has aided his advancement, and he now writes himself, greatly to his own delight, it would appear, Captain Darcy.”
“His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,” said Lady Eleanor, with a look of pride, “has been pleased to notice my son, and has appointed him an extra aide-de-camp.”
“Indeed!” cried Forester; “I am rejoiced at it, with all my heart. I always thought, if the Prince were to know him, he 'd be charmed with his agreeability. Lionel has the very qualities that win their way at Carlton House: buoyant spirit, courtly address, tact equal to any emergency,—all these are his; and the Prince likes to see handsome fellows about his Court. I am overjoyed at this piece of intelligence.”
There was a hearty frankness with which he spoke this that captivated both mother and daughter.
There are few more winning traits of human nature than the unaffected, heartfelt admiration of one young man for the qualities and endowments of another, and never are they more likely to meet appreciation than when exhibited in presence of the mother of the lauded one. And thus the simple expression of Forester's delight at his friend's advancement went further to exalt himself in the good graces of Lady Eleanor than the display of any powers of pleasing, however ingeniously or artfully exercised.
As through the openings of a dense wood we come unexpectedly upon a view of a wide tract of country, unfolding features of landscape unthought of and unlooked for, so occasionally doth it happen that, in conversation, a chance allusion, a mere word, will develop sources of interest buried up to that very moment, and display themes of mutual enjoyment which were unknown before. This was now the case. Lionel's name, which evoked the mother's pride and the sister's affection, called also into play the generous warmth of Forester's attachment to him.
Thus pleasantly glided on the hours, and none remarked how time was passing, or even heeded the howling storm that raged without, while anecdotes and traits of Lionel were recorded, and comments passed upon his character and temper such as a friend might utter and a mother love to hear.
At last Forester rose. More than once during the interview a consciousness crossed his mind that he was outstaying the ordinary limits of a visit; but at each moment some observation of Lady Eleanor or her daughter, or some newly remembered incident in Lionel's career, would occur, and delay his departure. At last he stood up, and, warned by the thickening darkness of how time had sped, was endeavoring to mutter some words of apology, when Lady Eleanor interrupted him with,—
“Pray do not let us suppose you felt the hours too long, Captain Forester; the theme you selected will always make my daughter and myself insensible to the lapse of time. If I did not fear we should be trespassing on both your kindness and health together, I should venture to request you would dine with us.”
Forester's sparkling eyes and flushed cheek replied to the invitation before he had words to say how gladly he accepted it.
“I feel more reconciled to making this request, sir,” said Lady Eleanor, “because in your present state of weakness you cannot enjoy the society of a pleasanter party, and it is a fortunate thing that you can combine a prudent action with a kind one.”
Forester appreciated the flattery of the remark, and, with a broken acknowledgment of its import, moved towards the door.
“No, no,” said Lady Eleanor, “pray don't think of dressing; you have all the privilege of an invalid, and a—friend also.”
The pause which preceded the word brought a slight blush into her cheek, but when it was uttered, she seemed to have resumed her self-possession.
“We shall leave you now with the newspapers, which I suppose you are longing to look at, and join you at the dinner-table.” And as she spoke, she took her daughter's arm and passed into an adjoining room, leaving Forester in one of those pleasant reveries which so often break in upon the hours of returning health, and compensate for all the sufferings of a sick-bed.
“How strange and how unceasing are the anomalies of Irish life!” thought he, as he sat alone, ruminating on the past. “Splendor, poverty, elevation of sentiment, savage ferocity, delicacy the most refined, barbarism the most revolting, pass before the mind's eye in the quick succession of the objects in a magic lantern. Here, in these few weeks, what characters and incidents have been revealed to me! and how invariably have I found myself wrong in every effort to decipher them! Nor are the indications of mind and temper in themselves so very singular, as the fact of meeting them under circumstances and in situations so unlikely. For instance, who would have expected to see a Lady Eleanor Darcy here, in this wild region, with all the polished grace and dignity of manner the best circles alone possess; and her daughter, haughtier, perhaps, than the mother, more reserved, more timid it may be, and yet with all the elegance of a Court in every gesture and every movement. Lionel told me she was handsome,—he might have said downright beautiful. Where were these, fascinations nurtured and cultivated? Is it here, on the margin of this lonely bay, amid scenes of reckless dissipation?”
Of this kind were his musings; nor, amid them all, did one thought obtrude of the cause which threw him first into such companionship, nor of that mission, to discharge which was the end and object of his coming.
Forester's recovery was slow, at least so his friends in the capital thought it, for to each letter requiring to know when he might be expected back again, the one reply forever was returned, “As soon as he felt able to leave Gwynne Abbey.” Nor was the answer, perhaps, injudiciously couched.
From the evening of his first introduction to Lady Eleanor and her daughter, his visits were frequent, sometimes occupying the entire morning, and always prolonged far into the night. Never did an intimacy make more rapid progress; so many tastes and so many topics were in common to all, for while the ladies had profited by reading and study in matters which he had little cultivated, yet the groundwork of an early good education enabled him to join in discussions, and take part in conversation which both interested at the time, and suggested improvement afterward; and if Lady Eleanor knew less of the late events which formed the staple of London small-talk, she was well informed on the characters and passages of the early portion of the reign, which gave all the charm of a history to reminiscences purely personal.
With the wits and distinguished men of that day she had lived in great intimacy, and felt a pride in contrasting the displays of intellectual wealth, so common then, with the flatter and more prosaic habita since introduced into society. “Eccentricities and absurdities,” she would say, “have replaced in the world the more brilliant exhibitions of cultivated and gifted minds, and I must confess to preferring the social qualities of Horace Walpole to the exaggerations of Bagenal Daly, or the ludicrous caprices of Buck Whaley.”
“I think Mr. Daly charming, for my part,” said Helen, laughing. “I'm certain that he is a miracle of truth, as he is of adventure; if everything he relates is not strictly accurate and matter of fact, it is because the real is always inferior to the ideal. The things ought to have happened as he states.”
“It is, at least, ben trovato,” broke in Forester; “yet I go further, and place perfect confidence in his narratives, and truly I have heard some strange ones in our morning rides together.”
“I suspected as much,” said Lady Eleanor, “a new listener is such a boon to him; so, then, you have heard how he carried away the Infanta of Spain, compelled the Elector of Saxony to take off his boots, made the Doge of Venice drunk, and instructed the Pasha of Trebizond in the mysteries of an Irish jig.”
“Not a word of these have I heard as yet.”
“Indeed! then what, in all mercy, has he been talking of,—India, China, or North America, perhaps?”
“Still less; he has never wandered from Ireland and Irish life, and I must say, as far as adventure and incident are concerned, it would have been quite unnecessary for him to have strayed beyond it.”
“You are perfectly right there,” said Lady Eleanor, with some seriousness in the tone; “our home anomalies may shame all foreign wonders: he himself could scarcely find his parallel in any land.”
“He has a sincere affection for Lionel, Mamma,” said Helen, in an accent of deprecating meaning.
“And that very same regard gave the bias to Lionel's taste for every species of absurdity! Believe me, Helen, Irish blood is too stimulating an ingredient to enter into a family oftener than once in four generations. Mr. Daly's has been unadulterated for centuries, and the consequence is, that, although neither deficient in strong sense or quick perception, he acts always on the impulse that precedes judgment, and both his generosity and his injustice outrun the mark.”
“I love that same rash temperament,” said Helen, flushing as she spoke; “it is a fine thing to see so much of warm and generous nature survive all that he must have seen of the littleness of mankind.”
“There! Captain Forester, there! Have I not reason on my side? You thought me very unjust towards poor Mr. Daly,—I know you did; but it demands all my watchfulness to prevent him being equally the model for my daughter, as he is for my son's imitation.”
“There are traits in his character any might well be proud to imitate,” said Helen, warmly; “his life has been a series of generous, single-minded actions; and,” added she, archly “if Mamma thinks it prudent and safe to warn her children against some of Mr. Daly's eccentricities, no one is more ready to acknowledge his real worth than she is.”
“Helen is right,” said Lady Eleanor; “if we could always be certain that Mr. Daly's imitators would copy the truly great features of his character, we might forgive them falling into his weaknesses; and now, can any one tell me why we have not seen him for some days past? He is in the Abbey?”
“Yes, we rode out together yesterday morning to look at the wreck near the Sound of Achill; strange enough, I only learned from a chance remark of one of the sailors that Daly had been in the boat, the night before, that took the people off the wreck.”
“So like him!” exclaimed Helen, with enthusiasm.
“He is angry with me, I know he is,” said Lady Eleanor, musingly. “I asked his advice respecting the answer I should send to a certain letter, and then rejected the counsel. He would have forgiven me had I run counter to his opinions without asking; but when I called him into consultation, the offence became a grave one.”
“I declare, Mamma, I side with him; his arguments were clear, strong, and unanswerable, and the best proof of it is, you have never had the courage to follow your own determination since you listened to him.”
“I have a great mind to choose an umpire between us. What say you, Captain Forester, will you hear the case? Helen shall take Mr. Daly's side; I will make my own statement.”
“It's a novel idea,” said Helen, laughing, “that the umpire should be selected by one of the litigating parties.”
“Then you doubt my impartiality, Miss Darcy?”
“If I am to accept you as a judge, I 'll not prejudice the Court against myself, by avowing my opinions of it,” said she, archly.
“When I spoke of your arbitration, Captain Forester,” said Lady Eleanor, “I really meant fairly, for upon all the topics we have discussed together, politics, or anything bordering on political opinions, have never come uppermost; and, up to this moment, I have not the slightest notion what are your political leanings, Whig or Tory.”
“So the point in dispute is a political one?” asked Forester, cautiously.
“Not exactly,” interposed Helen; “the policy of a certain reply to a certain demand is the question at issue; but the advice of any party in the matter might be tinged by his party leanings, if he have any.”
“If I judge Captain Forester aright, he has troubled his head very little about party squabbles,” said Lady Eleanor; “and in any case, he can scarcely take a deep interest in a question which is almost peculiarly Irish.”
Forester bowed,—partly in pretended acquiescence of this speech, partly to conceal a deep flush that mounted suddenly to his cheek; for he felt by no means pleased at a remark that might be held to reflect on his political knowledge.
“Be thou the judge, then,” said Lady Eleanor. “And, first of all, read that letter.” And she took from her work-box her cousin Lord Netherby's letter, and handed it to Forester.
“I reserve my right to dispute that document being evidence,” said Helen, laughing; “nor is there any proof of the handwriting being Lord Netherby's. Mamma herself acknowledges she has not heard from him for nearly twenty years.”
This cunning speech, meant to intimate the precise relation of the two parties, was understood at once by Forester, who could with difficulty control a smile, although Lady Eleanor looked far from pleased.
There was now a pause, while Forester read over the long letter with due attention, somewhat puzzled to conceive to what particular portion of it the matter in dispute referred.
“You have not read the postscript,” said Helen, as she saw him folding the letter, without remarking the few concluding lines.
Forester twice read over the passage alluded to, and at once whatever had been mysterious or difficult was revealed before him. Lord Netherby's wily temptation was made manifest, not the less palpably, perhaps, because the reader was himself involved in the very same scheme.
“You have now seen my cousin's letter,” said Lady Eleanor, “and the whole question is whether the reply should be limited to a suitable acknowledgment of its kind expressions, and a grateful sense of the Prince's condescension, or should convey—”
“Mamma means,” interrupted Helen, laughingly,—“Mamma means, that we might also avow our sincere gratitude for the rich temptation offered in requital of my father's vote on the 'nion.'”
“No minister would dare to make such a proposition to the Knight of Gwynne,” said Lady Eleanor, haughtily.
“Ministers are very enterprising nowadays, Mamma,” rejoined Helen; “I have never heard any one speak of Mr. Pitt's cowardice, and Lord Castlereagh has had courage to invite old Mr. Hickman to dinner!”
Forester would gladly have acknowledged his relationship to the Secretary, but the moment seemed unpropitious, and the avowal would have had the semblance of a rebuke; so he covered his confusion by a laugh, and said nothing.
“We can scarcely contemn the hardihood of a Government that has made Crofton a bishop, and Hawes a general,” said Helen, with a flashing eye and a lip curled in superciliousness. “Nothing short of a profound reliance on the piety of the Church and the bravery of the Army would support such a policy as that!”
Lady Eleanor seemed provoked at the hardy tone of Helen's speech; but the mother's look was proud, as she gazed on the brilliant expression of her daughter's beauty, now heightened by the excitement of the moment.
“Is it not possible, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, in a voice at once timid and insinuating,—“is it not possible that the measure contemplated by the Government may have results so beneficial as to more than compensate for evils like these?”
“A Jesuit, or a Tory, or both,” cried Helen. “Mamma, you have chosen your umpire most judiciously; his is exactly the impartiality needed.”
“Nay, but hear me out,” cried the young officer, whose cheek was crimsoned with shame. “If the measure be a good one,—well, let me beg the question, if it be a good one—and yet, the time for propounding it is either inopportune or unfortunate, and, consequently, the support it might claim on its own merits be withheld either from prejudice, party connection, or any similar cause,—you would not call a ministry culpable who should anticipate the happy working of a judicious Act, by securing the assistance of those whose convictions are easily won over, in preference to the slower process of convincing the men of more upright and honest intentions.”
“You have begged so much in the commencement, and assumed so much in the conclusion, sir, that I am at a loss to which end of your speech to address my answer; but I will say this much: it is but sorry evidence of a measure's goodness when it can only meet with the approval of the venal. I don't prize the beauty so highly that is only recognized by the blind man.”
“Distorted vision, Miss Darcy, may lead to impressions more erroneous than even blindness.”
“I may have the infirmity you speak of,” said she, quickly, “but assuredly I'll not wear Government spectacles to correct it.”
If Forester was surprised at finding a young lady so deeply interested in a political question, he was still more so on hearing the tone of determination she spoke in, and would gladly, had he known how, have given the conversation a less serious turn.
“We have been all the time forgetting the real question at issue,” said Lady Eleanor. “I 'm sure I never intended to listen to a discussion on the merits or demerits of the Union, on which you both grow so eloquent; will you then kindly return to whence we started, and advise me as to the reply to this letter.”