“I have heard the ditty,” answered the Knight; “and if my memory serves me, the last lines run thus,—
“Devil a lie in that, anyhow, sir,” said the other, laughing heartily; “and an uglier tumble a man needn't have than to slip through Tom Galvin's fingers. But I see the fire is out now; so I 'll be jogging homeward. Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night,” said Darcy; and then, as the other moved away, turning to the landlord, he asked if he knew the stranger.
“No, sir,” was the reply; “he came up with some others to have a look at the fire.”
“Well, I 'll to my bed,” said Darcy; “let me be awakened at four o'clock. I see I shall have but a short sleep; the day is breaking already.”
It was not until after the lapse of several days that Darcy's departure was made known to the denizens of Port Ballintray.
If the event was slow of announcement, they endeavored to compensate for the tardiness of the tidings by the freedom of their commentary on all its possible and impossible reasons. There was not a casualty, in the whole catalogue of human vicissitudes, unquoted; deaths, births, and marriages were ransacked in newspapers; all sudden and unexpected turns of fortune were well weighed, accidents and offences scanned with cunning eyes, and the various paragraphs to which editorial mysteriousness gave an equivocal interpretation were commented on with a perseverance and an ingenuity worthy of a higher theme.
It may be remarked that no class of persons are viewed more suspiciously, or excite more sharp criticism from their neighbors, than those who, with evidently narrow means, prefer retirement and estrangement from the world to mixing in the small circle of some petty locality. A hundred schemes are put in motion to ascertain by what right such superiority is asserted,—why, and on what grounds, they affect to be better than their neighbors, and so on; the only offence all the while consisting of an isolation which cannot with truth imply any such imputation.
When the Knight of Gwynne found himself by an unexpected turn of fortune condemned to a station so different from his previous life, he addressed himself at once to the difficulties of his lot; and, well aware that all reserve on his part would be set down as the cloak of some deep mystery, he affected an air of easy cordiality with such of the boarding-house party as he ever met, and endeavored, by a tone of well-assumed familiarity, to avoid all detection of the difference between him and his new associates.
It was in this spirit that he admitted Mr. Dempsey to his acquaintance, and even asked him to his cottage. In this diplomacy he met with little assistance from Lady Eleanor and his daughter; the former, from a natural coldness of manner and an instinctive horror of everything low and underbred. Helen's perceptions of such things were just as acute, but, inheriting the gay and lively temperament of her father's house, she better liked to laugh at the absurdities of vulgar people than indulge a mere sense of dislike to their society. Such allies were too dangerous to depend on, and hence the Knight conducted his plans unaided and unsupported.
Whether Mr. Dempsey was bought off by the flattering exception made in his favor, and that he felt an implied superiority on being deemed their advocate, he certainly assumed that position in the circle of Mrs. Fumbally's household, and on the present occasion sustained his part with a certain mysterious demeanor that imposed on many.
“Well, he's gone, at all events!” said a thin old lady with a green shade over a pair of greener eyes; “that can't be denied, I hope! Went off like a shot on Tuesday morning. Sandy M'Shane brought him into Coleraine, for the Dublin coach; and, by the same token, it was an outside place he took—”
“I beg your pardon, ma'am,” interposed a fat little woman, with a choleric red face and a tremulous underlip,—she was an authoress in the provincial papers, and occasionally invented her English as well as her incidents,—“it was the Derry mail he went by. Archy M'Clure trod on his toe, and asked pardon for it, just to get him into conversation; but he seemed very much dejected, and wouldn't interlocute.”
“Very strange indeed!” rejoined the lady of the shade, “because I had my information from Williams, the guard of the coach.”
“And I mine from Archy M'Clure himself.”
“And both were wrong,” interposed Paul Dempsey, triumphantly.
“It's not very polite to tell us so, Mr. Dempsey,” said the thin old lady, bridling.
“Perhaps the politeness may equal the voracity,” said the fat lady, who was almost boiling over with wrath.
“This Gwynne wasn't all right, depend upon it,” interposed a certain little man in powder; “I have my own suspicions about him.”
“Well, now, Mr. Dunlop, what's your opinion? I'd like to hear it.”
“What does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?” rejoined the little gentleman, turning to the authoress,—for in the boarding-house they both presided judicially in all domestic inquisitions regarding conduct and character,—“what does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?”
“I prefer letting Mr. Dunlop expose himself before me.”
“The case is doubtful—dark—mysterious,” said Dunlop, with a solemn pause after each word.
“The more beyond my conjunctions,” said the lady. “You remember what the young gentleman says in the Latin poet, 'Sum Davy, non sum Euripides.'”
“I 'll tell you my opinion, then,” said Mr. Dunlop, who was evidently mollified by the classical allusion; and with firm and solemn gesture he crossed over to where she sat, and whispered a few words in her ear.
A slight scream, and a long-drawn “Oh!” was all the answer.
“Upon my soul, I believe so,” said Mr. Dunlop, thrusting both hands into the furthest depths of his coat-pockets; “nay, more, I'll maintain it!”
“I know what you are driving at,” said Dempsey, laughing; “you think he's the gauger that went off with Mrs. Murdoch of Ballyquirk—”
“Mr. Dempsey! Mr. Dempsey! the ladies, sir! the ladies!” called out two or three reproving voices from the male portion of the assembly; while, as if to corroborate the justice of the appeal, the thin lady drew her shade down two inches lower, and Mr. Dunlop's face became what painters call “of a warm tint.”
“Oh! never talk of a rope where a man's father was hanged,” muttered Paul to himself, for he felt all the severity of his condemnation, though he knew that the point of law was against him.
“There 's a rule in this establishment, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mr. Dunlop, with all the gravity of a judge delivering a charge,—“a rule devised to protect the purity, the innocence,”—here the ladies held down their heads,—“the beauty—”
“Yes, sir, and I will add, the helplessness of that sex—”
“Paul 's right, by Jove!” hiccuped Jack Leonard, whose faculties, far immersed in the effects of strong whiskey-and-water, suddenly flashed out into momentary intelligence,—“I say he's right! Who says the reverse?”
“Oh, Captain Leonard! oh dear, Mr. Dunlop!” screamed three or four female voices in concert, “don't let it proceed further.”
A faint and an anxious group were gathered around the little gentleman, whose warlike indications grew stronger as pacific entreaties increased.
“He shall explain his words,” said he, with a cautious glance to see that his observation was not overheard; then, seeing that his adversary had relapsed into oblivion, he added, “he shall withdraw them;” and finally, emboldened by success, he vociferated, “or' he shall eat them. I 'll teach him,” said the now triumphant victor, “that it is not in Mark Dunlop's presence ladies are to be insulted with impunity. Let the attempt be made by whom it will,—he may be a lieutenant on half pay or on full pay!—I tell him, I don't care a rush.”
“Of course not!” “Why would you?” and so on, were uttered in ready chorus around him; and he resumed,—
“And as for this Gwynne, or Quin, who lives up at 'The Corvy' yonder, for all the airs he gives himself, and his fine ladies too, my simple belief is he 's a Government spy!”
“Is that your opinion, sir?” said a deep and almost solemn voice; and at the same instant Miss Daly appeared at the open window. She leaned her arm on the sill, and calmly stared at the now terrified speaker, while she repeated the words, “Is that your opinion, sir?”
Before the surprise her words had excited subsided, she stood at the door of the apartment. She was dressed in her riding-habit, for she had that moment returned from an excursion along the coast.
“Mr. Dunlop,” said the lady, advancing towards him, “I never play the eavesdropper; but you spoke so loud, doubtless purposely, that nothing short of deafness could escape hearing you. You were pleased to express a belief respecting the position of a gentleman with whom I have the honor to claim some friendship.”
“I always hold myself ready, madam, to render an account to any individual of whom I express an opinion,—to himself, personally, I mean.”
“Of course you do, sir. It is a very laudable habit,” said she, dryly; “but in this case—don't interrupt me—in the present case it cannot apply, because the person traduced is absent. Yes, sir, I said traduced.”
“Oh, madam, I must say the word would better suit one more able to sustain it. I shall take the liberty to withdraw.” And so saying, he moved towards the door; but Miss Daly interposed, and, by a gesture of her hand, in which she held a formidable horsewhip, gave a very unmistakable sign that the passage was not free.
“You 'll not go yet, sir. I have not done with you,” said she, in a voice every accent of which vibrated in the little man's heart. “You affect to regret, sir, that I am not of the sex that exacts satisfaction, as it is called; but I tell you, I come of a family that never gave long scores to a debt of honor. You have presumed—in a company, certainly, where the hazard of contradiction was small—to asperse a gentleman of whom you know nothing,—not one single fact,—not one iota of his life, character, or fortune. You have dared to call him by words every letter of which would have left a welt on your shoulders if uttered in his hearing. Now, as I am certain he would pay any little debts I might have perchance forgotten in leaving a place where I had resided, so will I do likewise by him; and here, on this spot, and in this fair company, I call upon you to unsay your falsehood, or—” Here she made one step forward, with an air and gesture that made Mr. Dunlop retire with a most comic alacrity. “Don't be afraid, sir,” continued she, laughing. “My brother, Mr. Bagenal Daly, will arrive here soon. He 's no new name to your ears. In any case, I promise you that whatever you find objectionable in my proceedings towards you he will be most happy to sustain. Now, sir, the hand wants four minutes to six. If the hour strike before you call yourself a wanton, gratuitous calumniator, I 'll flog you round the room.”
A cry of horror burst from the female portion of the assembly at a threat the utterance of which was really not less terrific than the meaning.
“Such a spectacle,” continued Miss Daly, sarcastically, “I should scruple to inflict on this fair company; but the taste that could find pleasure in witless, pointless slander may not, it is possible, dislike to see a little castigation. Now, sir, you have just one minute and a quarter.”
“I protest against this conduct, madam. I here declare—”
“Declare nothing, sir, till you have avowed yourself by your real name and character. If you cannot restrain your tongue, I 'll very soon convince you that its consequences are far from agreeable. Is what you have spoken false?”
“There may come a heavy reckoning for all this, madam,” said Dunlop, trembling between fear and passion.
“I ask you again, and for the last time, are your words untrue? Very well, sir. You held a commission in Germany, they say; and probably, as a military man, you may think it undignified to surrender, except on compulsion.”
With these words Miss Daly advanced towards him with a firm and determined air, while a cry of horror arose through the room, and the fairer portion intrepidly threw themselves in front of their champion, while Dempsey and the others only restrained their laughter for fear of personal consequences. Pushing fiercely on, Miss Daly was almost at his side, when the door of the room was opened, and a deep and well-known voice called out to her,—
“Maria, what the devil is all this?”
“Oh, Bagenal,” cried she, as she held out her hand, “I scarcely expected you before eight o'clock.”
“But in the name of everything ridiculous, what has happened? Were you about to horsewhip this pleasant company?”
“Only one of its members,” said Miss Daly, coolly,—“a little gentleman who has thought proper to be more lavish of his calumny than his courage. I hand him over to you now; and, faith, though I don't think that he had any fancy for me, he 'll gain by the exchange! You 'll find him yonder,” said she, pointing to a corner where already the majority of the party were gathered together.
Miss Daly was mistaken, however, for Mr. Dunlop had made his escape during the brief interchange of greetings between the brother and sister. “Come, Bagenal,” said she, smiling, “it's all for the best. I have given him a lesson he 'll not readily forget,—had you been the teacher, he might not have lived to remember it.”
“What a place for you!” said Bagenal, as he threw his eye superciliously around the apartment and its occupants; then taking her arm within his own, he led her forth, and closed the door after them.
Once more alone, Daly learned with surprise, not unmixed with sorrow, that his sister had never seen the Darcys, and save by a single call, when she left her name, had made no advances towards their acquaintance. She showed a degree of repugnance, too, to allude to the subject, and rather endeavored to dismiss it by saying shortly,—“Lady Eleanor is a fine lady, and her daughter a wit What could there be in common between us?”
“But for Darcy's sake?”
“For his sake I stayed away,” rejoined she, hastily; “they would have thought me a bore, and perhaps have told him as much. In a word, Bagenal, I did n't like it, and that's enough. Neither of us were trained to put much constraint on our inclinations. I doubt if the lesson would be easily learned at our present time of life.”
Daly muttered some half-intelligible bitterness about female obstinacy and wrong-headedness, and walked slowly to and fro. “I must see Maurice at once,” said he, at length.
“That will be no easy task; he left this for Dublin on Tuesday last.”
“And has not returned? When does he come back?”
“His old butler, who brought me the news, says not for some weeks.”
“Confusion and misery!” exclaimed Daly, “was there ever anything so ill-timed! And he's in Dublin?”
“He went thither, but there would seem some mystery about his ultimate destination; the old man binted at London.”
“London!” said he, with a heavy sigh. “It's now the 18th, and on Saturday she sails.”
“Who sails?” asked Miss Daly, with more of eagerness than she yet exhibited.
“Oh, I forgot, Molly, I had n't told you, I 'm about to take a voyage,—not a very long one, but still distant enough to make me wish to say good-bye ere we separate. If God wills it, I shall be back early in the spring.”
“What new freak is this, Bagenal?” said she, almost sternly; “I thought that time and the world's crosses might have taught you to care for quietness, if not for home.”
“Home!” repeated he, in an accent the sorrow of which sank into her very heart; “when had I ever a home? I had a house and lands, and equipages, horses, and liveried servants,—all that wealth could command, or, my own reckless vanity could prompt,—but these did not make a home!”
“You often promised we should have such one day, Bagenal,” said she, tenderly, while she stole her hand within his; “you often told me that the time would come when we should enjoy poverty with a better grace than ever we dispensed riches.”
“We surely are poor enough to make the trial now,” said he, with a bitterness of almost savage energy.
“And if we are, Bagenal,” replied she, “there is the more need to draw more closely to each other; let us begin at once.”
“Not yet, Molly, not yet,” said he, passing his hand across his eyes. “I would grasp such a refuge as eagerly as yourself, for,” added he, with deep emotion, “I am to the full as weary; but I cannot do it yet.”
Miss Daly knew her brother's temper too long and too well either to offer a continued opposition to any strongly expressed resolve, or to question him about a subject on which he showed any desire of reserve.
“Have you no Dublin news for me?” she said, as if willing to suggest some less touching subject for conversation.
“No, Molly; Dublin is deserted. The few who still linger in town seem only half awake to the new condition of events. The Government party are away to England; they feel, doubtless, bound in honor to dispense their gold in the land it came from; and the Patriots—Heaven bless the mark!—they look as rueful as if they began to suspect that Patriotism was too dear a luxury after all.”
“And this burning of Newgate,-what did it mean? Was there, as the newspaper makes out, anything like a political plot connected with it?”
“Nothing of the kind, Molly. The whole affair was contrived among the prisoners. Freney, the well-known highwayman, was in the jail, and, although not tried, his conviction was certain.”
“And they say he has escaped. Can it be possible that some persons of influence, as the journals hint, actually interested themselves for the escape of a man like this?”
“Everything is possible in a state of society like ours, Molly.”
“But a highwayman—a robber—a fellow that made the roads unsafe to travel!”
“All true,” said Daly, laughing. “Nobody ever kept a hawk for a singing-bird; but he 's a bold villain to pounce upon another.”
“I like not such appliances; they scarcely serve a good name, and they make a bad one worse.”
“I'm quite of your mind, Molly,” said Daly, thoughtfully; “and if honest men were plenty, he would be but a fool who held any dealings with the knaves. But here comes the car to convey me to 'The Corvy.' I will make a hasty visit to Lady Eleanor, and be back with you by supper-time.”
Neither of the ladies were at home when Bagenal Daly, followed by his servant Sandy, reached “The Corvy,” and sat down in the porch to await their return. Busied with his own reflections, which, to judge from the deep abstraction of his manner, seemed weighty and important, Daly never looked up from the ground, while Sandy leisurely walked round the building to note the changes made in his absence, and comment, in no flattering sense, on the art by which the builder had concealed so many traits of “The Corvy's” origin.
“Ye 'd no ken she was a ship ava!” said he to himself, as he examined the walls over which the trellised creepers were trained, and the latticed windows festooned by the honeysuckle and the clematis, and gazed in sadness over the altered building. “She's no a bit like the auld Corvy!”
“Of course she 's not!” said Daly, testily, for the remark had suddenly aroused him from his musings. “What the devil would you have? Are you like the raw and ragged fellow I took from this bleak coast, and led over more than half the world?”
“Troth, I am no the same man noo that I was sax-and-forty years agane, and sorry I am to say it.”
“Sorry,—sorry! not to be half-starved and less than half-clad; hauling a net one day, and being dragged for yourself the next—sorry!”
“Even sae, sore sorry. Eight-and-sixty may be aye sorry not to be twa-and-twenty. I ken nae rise in life can pay off that score. It 's na ower pleasant to think on, but I'm no the man I was then. No, nor, for that matter, yerself neither.”
Daly was too long accustomed to the familiarity of Sandy's manner to feel offended at the remark, though he did not seem by any means to relish its application. Without making any reply, he arose and entered the hall. On every side were objects reminding him of the past, strange and sad commentary on the words of his servant. Sandy appeared to feel the force of such allies, and, as he stood near, watched the effect the various articles produced on his master's countenance.
“A bonnie rifle she is,” said he, as if interpreting the admiring look Daly bestowed upon a richly ornamented gun. “Do you mind the day yer honor shot the corbie at the Tegern See?”
“Where the Tyrol fellows set on us, on the road to Innspruck, and I brought down the bird to show them that they had to deal with a marksman as good at least as themselves.”
“Just sae; it was a bra' shot; your hand was as firm, and your eye as steady then as any man's.”
“I could do the feat this minute,” said Daly, angrily, as turning away he detached a heavy broadsword from the wall.
“She was aye over weighty in the hilt,” said Sandy, with a dry malice.
“You used to draw that bowstring to your ear,” said Daly, sternly, as he pointed to a Swiss bow of portentous size.
“I had twa hands in those days,” said the other, calmly, and without the slightest change of either voice or manner.
Not so with him to whom they were addressed. A flood of feelings seemed to pour across his memory, and, laying his hand on Sandy's shoulder, he said, in an accent of very unusual emotion, “You are right, Sandy, I must be changed from what I used to be.”
“Let us awa to the auld life we led in those days,” said the other, impetuously, “and we 'll soon be ourselves again! Does n't that remind yer honor of the dark night on the Ottawa, when you sent the canoe, with the pine-torch burning in her bow, down the stream, and drew all the fire of the Indian fellows on her?”
“It was a grand sight,” cried Daly, rapturously, “to see the dark river glittering with its torchlight, and the chiefs, as they stood rifle in hand, peering into the dense pine copse, and making the echoes ring with their war-cries.”
“It was unco near at one time,” said Sandy, as he took up the fold of the blanket with which his effigy in the canoe was costumed. “There 's the twa bullet-holes, and here the arrow-bead in the plank, where I had my bead! If ye had missed the Delaware chap wi' the yellow cloth on his forehead—”
“I soon changed its color for him,” said Daly, savagely.
“Troth did ye; ye gied him a bonny war-paint. How he sprang into the air! I think I see him noo; many a night when I 'm lying awake, I think I can hear the dreadful screech he gave, as he plunged into the river.”
“It was not a cry of pain, it was baffled vengeance,” said Daly.
“He never forgave the day ye gripped him by the twa hands in yer ain one, and made the squaws laugh at him. Eh, how that auld deevil they cau'd Black Buffalo yelled! Her greasy cheeks shook and swelled over her dark eyes, till the face looked like nothing but a tar lake in Demerara when there 's a hurricane blowin' over it.”
“You had rather a tenderness in that quarter, if I remember aright,” said Daly, dryly.
“I 'll no deny she was a bra sauncie woman, and kenned weel to make a haggis wi' an ape's head and shoulders.” Sandy smacked his lips, as if the thought had brought up pleasant memories.
“How I escaped that bullet is more than I can guess,” said Daly, as he inspected the blanket where it was pierced by a shot; and as he spoke, he threw its wide folds over his shoulders, the better to judge of the position.
“Ye aye wore it more on this side,” said Sandy, arranging the folds with tasteful pride; “an', troth, it becomes you well. Tak the bit tomahawk in your hand, noo. Ech! but yer like yoursel once more.”
“We may have to don this gear again, and sooner than you think,” said Daly, thoughtfully.
“Nae a bit sooner than I 'd like,” said Sandy. “The salvages, as they ca' them, hae neither baillies nor policemen, they hae nae cranks about lawyers and 'tornies; a grip o' a man's hair and a sharp knife is even as mickle a reason as a hempen cord and a gallows tree! Ech, it warms my bluid again to see you stridin' up and doon,—if you had but a smudge o' yellow ochre, or a bit o' red round your eyes, ye 'd look awful well.”
“What are you staring at?” said Daly, as Sandy opened a door stealthily, and gazed down the passage towards the kitchen.
“I 'm thinking that as there is naebody in the house but the twa lasses, maybe your honor would try a war-cry,—ye ken ye could do it bra'ly once.”
“I may need the craft soon again,” said Daly, thoughtfully.
“Mercy upon us! here 's the leddies!” cried Sandy. But before Daly could disencumber himself of his weapons and costume, Helen entered the hall.
If Lady Eleanor started at the strange apparition before her, and involuntarily turned her eye towards the canoe, to see that its occupant was still there, it is not much to be wondered at, so strongly did the real and the counterfeit man resemble each other. The first surprise over, he was welcomed with sincere pleasure. All the eccentricities of character which in former days were commented on so sharply were forgotten, or their memory replaced by the proofs of his ardent devotion.
“How well you are looking!” was his first exclamation, as he gazed at Lady Eleanor and Helen alternately, with that steady stare which is one of the prerogatives of age towards beauty.
“There is no such tonic as necessity,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “and it would seem as if health were too jealous to visit us when we have every other blessing.”
“It is worth them all, madam. I am an old man, and have seen much of the world, and I can safely aver that what are called its trials lie chiefly in our weaknesses. We can all of us carry a heavier load than fortune lays on us—” He suddenly checked himself, as if having unwittingly lapsed into something like rebuke, and then said, “I find you alone; is it not so?”
“Yes; Darcy has left us, suddenly and almost mysteriously, without you can help us to a clearer insight. A letter from the War Office arrived here on Tuesday, acknowledging, in most complimentary terms, the fairness of his claim for military employment, and requesting his presence in London. This was evidently in reply to an application, although the Knight made none such.”
“But he has friends, mamma,—warm-hearted and affectionate ones,-who might have done so,” said Helen, as she fixed her gaze steadily on Daly.
“And you, madam, have relatives of high and commanding influence,” said he, avoiding to return Helen's glance,—“men of rank and station, who might well feel proud of such a protégé as Maurice Darcy. And what have they given him?”
“We can tell you nothing; the official letter may explain more to your clear-sightedness, and I will fetch it.” So saying, Lady Eleanor arose and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when Daly stood up, and, walking over, leaned his arm on the back of Helen's chair.
“You received my letter, did you not?” said he, hurriedly. “You know the result of the trial?”
Helen nodded assent, while a secret emotion covered her face with crimson, as Daly resumed,—
“There was ill-luck everywhere: the case badly stated; Lionel absent; I myself detained in Dublin, by an unavoidable necessity,—everything unfortunate even to the last incident. Had I been there, matters would have taken another course. Still, Helen, Forester was right; and, depend upon it, there is no scanty store of generous warmth in a heart that can throb so strongly beneath the aiguiletted coat of an aide-de-camp. The holiday habits of that tinsel life teach few lessons of self-devotion, and the poor fellow has paid the penalty heavily.”
“What has happened?” said Helen, in a voice scarcely audible.
“He is disinherited, I hear. All his prospects depended on his mother; she has cast him off, and, as the story goes, is about to marry. Marriage is always the last vengeance of a widow.”
“Here is the letter,” said Lady Eleanor, entering; “let us hope you can read its intentions better than we have.”
“Flattering, certainly,” muttered Daly, as he conned over the lines to himself. “It's quite plain they mean to do something generous. I trust I may learn it before I sail.”
“Sail! you are not about to travel, are you?” asked Lady Eleanor, in a voice that betrayed her dread of being deprived of such support.
“Oh! I forgot I had n't told you. Yes, madam, another of those strange riddles which have beset my life compels me to take a long voyage—to America.”
“To America!” echoed Helen; and her eye glanced as she spoke to the Indian war-cloak and the weapons that lay beside his chair.
“Not so, Helen,” said Daly, smiling, as if replying to the insinuated remark; “I am too old for such follies now. Not in heart, indeed, but in limb,” added he, sternly; “for I own I could ask nothing better than the prairie or the pine-forest. I know of no cruelty in savage life that has not its counterpart amid our civilization; and for the rude virtues that are nurtured there, they are never warmed into existence by the hotbed of selfishness.”
“But why leave your friends,—your sister?”
“My sister!” He paused, and a tinge of red came to his cheek as he remembered how she had failed in all attention to the Darcys. “My sister, madam, is self-willed and headstrong as myself. She acknowledges none of the restraints or influence by which the social world consents to be bound and regulated; her path has ever been wild and erratic as my own. We sometimes cross, we never contradict, each other.” He paused, and then muttered to himself, “Poor Molly! how different I knew you once! And so,” added he, aloud, “I must leave without seeing Darcy! and there stands Sandy, admonishing me that my time is already up. Good-bye, Lady Eleanor; good-bye, Helen.” He turned his head away for a second, and then, in a voice of unusual feeling, said: “Farewell is always a sad word, and doubly sad when spoken by one old as I am; but if my heart is heavy at this moment, it is the selfish sorrow of him who parts from those so near. As for you, madam, and your fortunes, I am full of good hope. When people talk of suffering virtue, believe me, the element of courage must be wanting; but where the stout heart unites with the good cause, success will come at last.”
He pressed his lips to the hands he held within his own, and hurried, before they could reply, from the room.
“Our last friend gone!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, as she sank into a chair.
Helen's heart was too full for utterance, and she sat down silently, and watched the retiring figure of Daly and his servant till they disappeared in the distance.
When Darcy arrived in London, he found a degree of political excitement for which he was little prepared. In Ireland the Union had absorbed all interest and anxiety, and with the fate of that measure were extinguished the hopes of those who had speculated on national independence. Not so in England; the real importance of the annexation was never thoroughly considered till the fact was accomplished, nor, until then, were the great advantages and the possible evils well and maturely weighed. Then, for the first time, came the anxious question, What next? Was the Union to be the compensation for large concessions to the Irish people, or was it rather the seal of their incorporation with a more powerful nation, who by this great stroke of policy would annihilate forever all dream of self-existence? Mr. Pitt inclined to the former opinion, and believed the moment propitious to award the Roman Catholic claims, and to a general remission of those laws which pressed so heavily upon them. To this opinion the King was firmly and, as it proved, insurmountably opposed; he regarded the Act of Union as the final settlement of all possible disagreements between the two countries, as the means of uniting the two Churches, and, finally, of excluding at once and forever the admission of Roman Catholics to Parliament. This wide difference led to the retirement of Mr. Pitt, and subsequently to the return of the dangerous indisposition of the King, an attack brought on by the anxiety and agitation this question induced.
The hopes of the Whig party stood high; the Prince's friends, as they were styled, again rallied around Carlton House, where, already, the possibility of a long Regency was discussed. Besides these causes of excitement were others of not less powerful interest,—the growing power of Bonaparte, the war in Egypt, and the possibility of open hostilities with Russia, who had now thrown herself so avowedly into the alliance of France.
Such were the stirring themes Darcy found agitating the public mind, and he could not help contrasting the mighty interests they involved with the narrow circle of consequences a purely local legislature could discuss or decide upon. He felt at once that he trod the soil of a more powerful and more ambitious people, and he remembered with a sigh his own anticipations, that in the English Parliament the Irish members would be but the camp-followers of the Crown or the Opposition.
If he was English in his pride of government and his sense of national power and greatness, he was Irish in his tastes, his habits, and his affections. If he gloried in the name of Briton as the type of national honor and truth throughout the globe, he was still more ardently attached to that land where, under the reflected grandeur of the monarchy, grew up the social affections of a poorer people. There is a sense of freedom and independence in the habits of semi-civilization very fascinating to certain minds, and all the advantages of more polished communities are deemed shallow compensation for the ready compliance and cordial impulses of the less cultivated.
With all his own high acquirements the Knight was of this mind; and if he did not love England less, he loved Ireland more.
Meditating on the great changes of fortune Ireland had undergone even within his own memory, he moved along through the crowded thoroughfares of the mighty city, when he heard his name called out, and at the same instant a carriage drew up close by him.
“How do you do, Knight?” said a friendly voice, as a hand was stretched forth to greet him. It was Lord Castle-reagh, who had only a few weeks previous exchanged his office of Irish Secretary for a post at the Board of Trade. The meeting was a cordial one on both sides, and ended in an invitation to dine on the following day, which Darcy accepted with willingness, as a gage of mutual good feeling and esteem.
“I was talking about you to Lord Netherby only yesterday,” said Lord Castlereagh, “and, from some hints he dropped, I suspect the time is come that I may offer you any little influence I possess, without it taking the odious shape of a bargain; if so, pray remember that I have as much pride as yourself on such a score, and will be offended if you accept from another what might come equally well through me.”
The Knight acknowledged this kind speech with a grateful smile and a pressure of the hand, and was about to move on, when Lord Castlereagh asked if he could not drop him in his carriage at his destination, and thus enjoy, a few moments longer, his society.
“I scarcely can tell you, my Lord,” said Darcy, laughing, “which way I was bent on following. I came up to town to present myself at the Duke of York's levée, and it is only a few moments since I remembered that I was not provided with a uniform.”
“Oh, step in then,” cried Lord Castlereagh, hastily; “I think I can manage that difficulty for you. There is a levée this very morning; some pressing intelligence has arrived from Egypt, and his Royal Highness has issued a notice for a reception for eleven o'clock. You are not afraid,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing, as Darcy took his seat beside him,—“you are not afraid of being seen in such company now.”
“If I am not, my Lord, set my courage down to my principle; for I never felt your kindness so dangerous,” said the Knight, with something of emotion.
A few moments of rapid driving brought them in front of the Duke's residence, where several carriages and led horses were now standing, and officers in full dress were seen to pass in and out, with signs of haste and eagerness.
“I told you we should find them astir here,” said Lord Castlereagh. “Holloa, Fane, have you heard anything new to-day?”
The officer thus addressed touched his hat respectfully, and approaching the window of the carriage, whispered a few words in Lord Castlereagh's ear.
“Is the news confirmed?” said his Lordship, calmly.
“I believe so, my Lord; at least, Edgecumbe says he heard it from Dundas, who got it from Pitt himself.”
“Bad tidings these, Knight,” said Lord Castlereagh, as the aide-de-camp moved away; “Pulteney's expedition against Ferrol has failed. These conjoint movements of army and navy seem to have a most unlucky fortune.”
“What can you expect, my Lord, from an ill-assorted 'Union'?” said Darcy, slyly.
“They 'll work better after a time,” said Lord Castlereagh, smiling good-humoredly at the hit; “for the present, I acknowledge the success is not flattering. The general always discovers that the land batteries can only be attacked in the very spot where the admiral pronounces the anchorage impossible; each feels compromised by the other; hence envy and every manner of uncharitableness.”
“And what has been the result here? Is it a repulse?”
“You can scarcely call it that, since they never attacked. They looked at the place, sailed round it, and, like the King of France in the story, they marched away again. But here we are at length at the door; let us try if we cannot accomplish a landing better than Lord Keith and General Moore.”
Through a crowd of anxious faces, whose troubled looks tallied with the evil tidings, Lord Castlereagh and Darcy ascended the stairs and reached the antechamber, now densely thronged by officers of every grade of the service. His Lordship was immediately recognized and surrounded by many of the company, eager to hear his opinion.
“You don't appear to credit the report, my Lord,” said Darcy, who had watched with some interest the air of quiet incredulity which he assumed.
“It is all true, notwithstanding,” said he, in a whisper; “I heard it early this morning at the Council, and came here to see how it would be received. They say that war will be soon as unpopular with the red-coats as with the no-coats; and really, to look at these sombre faces, one would say there was some truth in the rumor. But here comes Taylor.” And so saying, Lord Castlereagh moved forward, and laid his hand on the arm of an officer in a staff uniform.
“I don't think so, my Lord,” said he, in reply to some question from Lord Castlereagh; “I 'll endeavor to manage it, but I 'm afraid I shall not succeed. Have you heard of Elliot's death? The news has just arrived.”
“Indeed! So then the government of Chelsea is to give away. Oh, that fact explains the presence of so many veteran generals! I really was puzzled to conceive what martial ardor stirred them.”
“You are severe, my Lord,” said Darcy; “I hope you are unjust.”
“One is rarely so in attributing a selfish motive anywhere,” said the young nobleman, sarcastically. “But, Taylor, can't you arrange this affair? Let me present my friend meanwhile: The Knight of Gwynne—Colonel Taylor.”
Before Taylor could more than return the Knight's salutation he was summoned to attend his Royal Highness; and at the same moment the folding-doors at the end of the apartment were thrown open, and the reception began.
Whether the sarcasm of Lord Castlereagh was correct, or that a nobler motive was in operation, the number of officers was very great; and although the Duke rarely addressed more than a word or two to each, a considerable time elapsed before Lord Castlereagh, with the Knight following, had entered the room.
“It is against a positive order of his Royal Highness, my Lord,” said an aide-de-camp, barring the passage; “none but field-officers, and in full uniform, are received by his Royal Highness.”
Lord Castlereagh whispered something, and endeavored to move on; but again the other interposed, saying, “Indeed, my Lord, I'm deeply grieved at it, but I cannot—I dare not transgress my orders.”
The Duke, who had been up to this moment engaged in conversing with a group, suddenly turned, and perceiving that the presentations were not followed up, said, “Well, gentlemen, I am waiting.” Then recognizing Lord Castlereagh, he added, “Another time, my Lord, another time: this morning belongs to the service, and the color of your coat excludes you.”
“I ask your Royal Highness's pardon,” said Lord Castlereagh, in a tone of great deference, while he made the apology an excuse for advancing a step into the room. “I have but just left the Council, and was anxious to inform you that your Royal Highness's suggestions have been fully adopted.”
“Indeed! is that the case?” said the Duke, with an elated look, while he drew his Lordship into the recess of a window. The intelligence, to judge from the Duke's expression, must have been both important and satisfactory, for he looked intensely eager and pleased by turns.
“And so,” said he, aloud, “they really have determined on Egypt? Well, my Lord, you have brought me the best tidings I 've heard for many a day.”
“And like all bearers of good despatches,” said Lord Castlereagh, catching up the tone of the Duke, “I prefer a claim to your Royal Highness's patronage.”
“If you look for Chelsea, my Lord, you are just five minutes too late. Old Sir Harry Belmore has this instant got it.”
“I could have named as old and perhaps a not less distinguished soldier to your Royal Highness, with this additional claim,—a claim I must say, your Royal Highness never disregards”—
“That he has been unfortunate with the unlucky,” said the Duke, laughing, and good-naturedly alluding to his own failure in the expedition to the Netherlands; “but who is your friend?”
“The Knight of Gwynne,—an Irish gentleman.”
“One of your late supporters, eh, Castlereagh?” said the Duke, laughing. “How came he to be forgotten till this hour? Or did you pass him a bill of gratitude payable at nine months after date?”
“No, my Lord, he was an opponent; he was a man that I never could buy, when his influence and power were such as to make the price of his own dictating. Since that day, fortune has changed with him.”
“And what do you want with him now?” said the Duke, while his eyes twinkled with a sly malice; “are you imitating the man that bowed down before statues of Hercules and Apollo at Rome, not knowing when the time of those fellows might come up again? Is that your game?”
“Not exactly, your Royal Highness; but I really feel some scruples of conscience that, having assisted so many unworthy candidates to pensions and peerages, I should have done nothing for the most upright man I met in Ireland.”
“If we could make him a Commissary-General,” said the Duke, laughing, “the qualities you speak of would be of service now: there never was such a set of rascals as we have got in that department! But come, what can we do with him? What 's his rank in the army? Where did he serve?”
“If I dare present him to your Royal Highness without a uniform,” said Lord Castlereagh, hesitatingly, “he could answer these queries better than I can.”
“Oh, by Jove! it is too late for scruples now,—introduce him at once.”
Lord Castlereagh waited for no more formal permission, but, hastening to the antechamber, took Darcy's hand, and led him forward.
“If I don't mistake, sir,” said the Duke, as the old man raised his head after a deep and courteous salutation, “this is not the first time we have met. Am I correct in calling you Colonel Darcy?”
The Knight bowed low in acquiescence.
“The same officer who raised the Twenty-eighth Light Dragoons, known as Darcy's Light Horse?”
The Knight bowed once more.
“A very proud officer in command,” said the Duke, turning to Lord Castlereagh with a stern expression on his features; “a colonel who threatened a prince of the blood with arrest for breach of duty.”
“He had good reason, your Royal Highness, to be proud,” said the Knight, firmly; “first, to have a prince to serve under his command; and, secondly, to have held that station and character in the service to have rendered so unbecoming a threat pardonable.”
“And who said it was?” replied the Duke, hastily.
“Your Royal Highness has just done so.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, my Lord Duke,” said Darcy, with a calm and unmoved look, “that your Royal Highness would never have recurred to the theme to one humbled as I am, if you had not forgiven it.”
“As freely as I trust you forgive me, Colonel Darcy,” said the Duke, grasping his hand and shaking it with warmth. “Now for my part: what can I do for you?—what do you wish?”
“I can scarcely ask your Royal Highness; I find that some kind friend has already applied on my behalf. I could not have presumed, old and useless as I am, to prefer a claim myself.”
“There's your own regiment vacant,” said the Duke, musing. “No, by Jove! I remember Lord Netherby asking me for it the other day for some relative of his own. Taylor, is the colonelcy of the Twenty-eighth promised?”
“Your Royal Highness signed it yesterday.”
“I feared as much. Who is it?—perhaps he'd exchange.”
“Colonel Maurice Darcy, your Royal Highness, unattached.”
“What! have I been doing good by stealth? Is this really so?”
“If it be, your Royal Highness,” said Darcy, smiling, “I can only assure you that the officer promoted will not exchange.”
“The depot is at Gosport, your Royal Highness,” said Taylor, in reply to a question from the Duke.
“Well, station it in Ireland, Colonel Darcy may prefer it,” said the duke; “for, as the regiment forms part of the expedition to Egypt, the depot need not be moved for some time to come.”
“Your Royal Highness can increase the favor by only one concession—dare I ask it?—to permit me to take the command on service.”
The Duke gazed with astonishment at the old man, and gradually his expression became one of deep interest, as he said,—
“Colonel Darcy could claim as a right what I feel so proud to accord him as a favor. Make a note of that, Taylor,” said the Duke, raising his voice so as to be heard through the room: “'Colonel Darcy to take the command on service at his own special request.' Yes, gentlemen,” added he, louder, “these are times when the exigencies of the service demand alike the energy of youth and the experience of age; it is, indeed, a happy conjuncture that finds them united. My Lord Castlereagh and Colonel Darcy, are you disengaged for Wednesday?”
They both bowed respectfully.
“Then on Wednesday I'll have some of your brother officers to meet you, Colonel. Now, Taylor, let us get through our list.”
So saying, the Duke bowed graciously; and Lord Castlereagh and the Knight retired, each too full of pleasure to utter a word as he went.