When the Union was carried, and the new order of affairs in Ireland assumed an appearance of permanence, a general feeling of discontent began to exhibit itself in every class in the capital. The patriots saw themselves neglected by the Government, without having reaped in popularity a recompense for their independence. The mercantile interest perceived, even already, the falling off in trade from the removal of a wealthy aristocracy; and the supporters of the Minister, or such few as still lingered in Dublin, began to suspect how much higher terms they might have exacted for their adhesion, had they only anticipated the immensity of the sacrifice to which they contributed.
Save that comparatively small number who had bargained for English peerages and English rank, and had thereby bartered their nationality, none were satisfied.
Even the moderate men—that intelligent fraction who believe that no changes are fraught with one half the good or evil their advocates or opponents imagine—even they were disappointed on finding that the incorporation of the Irish Parliament with that of England was the chief element of the new measure, and no more intimate or solid Union contemplated. The shrewd men of every party saw not only how difficult would be the future government of the country, but that the critical moment was come which should decide into whose hands the chief influence would fall. Among these speculators on the future, Mr. Heffernan held a prominent place. No man knew better the secret machinery of office, none had seen more of that game, half fair, half foul, by which an administration is sustained. He knew, moreover, the character and capability of every public man in Ireland, had been privy to their waverings and hesitations, and even their bargains with the Crown; he knew where gratified ambition had rendered a new peer indifferent to a future temptation, and also where abortive negotiations had sowed the seeds of a lingering disaffection.
To construct a new party from these scattered elements—a party which, possessing wealth and station, had not yet tasted any of the sweets of patronage—was the task he now proposed to himself. By this party, of whom he himself was to be the organ, he hoped to control the Minister, and support him by turns. Of those already purchased by the Government, few would care to involve themselves once more in the fatigues of a public life. Many would gladly repose on the rewards of their victory; many would shrink from the obloquy their reappearance would inevitably excite. Mr. Heffernan had then to choose his friends either from that moderate section of politicians whom scruples of conscience or inferiority of ability had left un-bought, or the more energetic faction, suddenly called into existence by the success of the French Revolution, and of which O'Halloran was the leader. For many reasons his choice fell on the former. Not only because they possessed that standing and influence which, derived from property, would be most regarded in England, but that their direction and guidance would be an easier task; whereas the others, more numerous and more needy, could only be purchased by actual place or pension, while in O'Halloran Heffernan would always have a dangerous rival, who, if he played subordinate for a while, it would only be at the price of absolute rule hereafter.
From the moment Lord Castlereagh withdrew from Ireland, Mr. Heffernan commenced his intrigue,—at first by a tour of visits through the country, in which he contrived to sound the opinions of a great number of persons, and subsequently by correspondence, so artfully sustained as to induce many to commit themselves to a direct line of action which, when discussing, they had never speculated on seeing realized.
With a subtlety of no common kind, and an indefatigable industry, Heffernan labored in the cause during the summer and autumn, and with such success that there was scarcely a county in Ireland where he had not secured some leading adherent, while for many of the boroughs he had already entered into plans for the support of new candidates of his own opinions.
The views he put forward were simply these: Ireland can no longer be governed by an oligarchy, however powerful. It must be ruled either by the weight and influence of the country gentlemen, or left to the mercy of the demagogue. The gentry must be rewarded for their adhesion, and enabled to maintain their pre-eminence, by handing over to them the patronage, not in part or in fractions, but wholly and solely. Every civil appointment must be filled up by them,—the Church, the law, the revenue, the police, must all be theirs. “The great aristocracy,” said he, “have obtained the marquisates and earldoms; bishoprics and governments have rewarded their services. It is now our turn; and if our prizes be less splendid and showy, they are not devoid of some sterling qualities.
“To make Ireland ungovernable without us must be our aim and object,—to embarrass and confound every administration, to oppose the ministers, pervert their good objects, and exaggerate their bad. Pledged to no distinct line of acting, we can be patriotic when it suits us, and declaim on popular rights when nothing better offers. Acting in concert, and diffusing an influence in every county and town and corporation, what ministry can long resist us, or what government anxious for office would refuse to make terms with us? With station to influence society, wealth to buy the press, activity to watch and counteract our enemies, I see nothing which can arrest our progress. We must and will succeed.”
Such was the conclusion of a letter he wrote to one of his most trusted allies,—a letter written to invite his presence in Dublin, where a meeting of the leading men of the new party was to be held, and their engagements for the future determined upon.
For this meeting Heffernan made the greatest exertions, not only that it might include a great portion of the wealth and influence of the land, but that a degree of éclat and splendor should attend it, the more likely to attract notice from the secrecy maintained as to its object and intention. Many were invited on the consideration of the display their presence would make in the capital; and not a few were tempted by the opportunity for exhibiting their equipages and their liveries at a season when the recognized leaders of fashion were absent.
It is no part of our object to dwell on this well-known intrigue, one which at the time occupied no small share of public attention, and even excited the curiosity and the fears of the Government. Enough when we say that Mr. Heffernan's disappointments were numerous and severe. Letters of apology, some couched in terms of ambiguous cordiality, others less equivocally cold, came pouring in for the last fortnight. The noble lord destined to fill the chair regretted deeply that domestic affairs of a most pressing nature would not permit of his presence. The baronet who should move the first resolution would be compelled to be absent from Ireland; the seconder was laid up with the gout. Scarcely a single person of influence had promised his attendance: the greater number had given vague and conditional replies, evidently to gain time and consult the feeling of their country neighbors.
These refusals and subterfuges were a sad damper to Mr. Heffernan's hopes. To any one less sanguine, they would have led to a total abandonment of the enterprise. He, however, was made of sterner stuff, and resolved, if the demonstration could effect no more, it could at least be used as a threat to the Government,—a threat of not less power because its terrors were involved in mystery. With all these disappointments time sped on, the important day arrived, and the great room of the Rotunda, hired specially for the occasion, was crowded by a numerous assemblage, to whose proceedings no member of the public press was admitted. Notice was given that in due time a declaration, drawn up by a committee, would be published; but until then the most profound secrecy wrapped their objects and intentions.
The meeting, convened for one o'clock, separated at five; and, save the unusual concourse of carriages, and the spectacle of some liveries new to the capital, there seemed nothing to excite the public attention. No loud-tongued orator was heard from without, nor did a single cheer mark the reception of any welcome sentiment; and as the members withdrew, the sarcastic allusions of the mob intimated that they were supposed to be a new sect of “Quakers.” Heffernan's carriage was the last to leave the door; and it was remarked, as he entered it, that he looked agitated and ill,—signs which few had ever remarked in him before. He drove rapidly home, where a small and select party of friends had been invited by him to dinner.
He made a hasty toilet, and entered the drawing-room a few moments after the first knock at the street-door announced the earliest guest. It was an old and intimate friend, Sir Giles St. George, a south-country baronet of old family, but small fortune, who for many years had speculated on Heffernan's interest in his behalf. He was a shrewd, coarse man, who from eccentricity and age had obtained a species of moral “writ of ease,” absolving him from all observance of the usages in common among all well-bred people,—a privilege he certainly did not seem disposed to let rust from disuse.
“Well, Con,” said he, as he stood with his back to the fire, and his hands deeply thrust into his breeches-pockets,—“well, Con, your Convention has been a damnable failure. Where the devil did you get up such a rabble of briefless barristers, ungowned attorneys, dissenting ministers, and illegitimate sons? I'd swear, out of your seven hundred, there were not five-and-twenty possessed of a fifty-pound freehold,—not five who could defy the sheriff in their own county.”
Heffernan made no reply, but with arms crossed, and his head leaned forward, walked slowly up and down the room, while the other resumed,—
“As for old Killowen, who filled the chair, that was enough to damn the whole thing. One of King James's lords, forsooth!—why, man, what country gentleman of any pretension could give precedence to a fellow like that, who neither reads, writes, nor speaks the King's English—and your great gun, Mr. Hickman O'Reilly—”
“False-hearted scoundrel!” muttered Heffernan, half aloud.
“Faith he may be, but he's the cleverest of the pack. I liked his speech well. There was good common sense in his asking for some explicit plan of proceeding,—what you meant to do, and how to do it. Eh, Con, that was to the point.”
“To the point!” repeated Heffernan, scornfully; “yes, as the declaration of an informer, that he will betray his colleagues, is to the point.”
“And then his motion to admit the reporters,” said St. George, as with a malignant pleasure he continued to suggest matter of annoyance.
“He 's mistaken, however,” said Heffernan, with a sarcastic bitterness that came from his heart. “The day for rewards is gone by. He 'll never get the baronetcy by supporting the Government in this way. It is the precarious, uncertain ally they look more after. There is consummate wisdom, Giles, in not saying one's last word. O'Reilly does not seem aware of that. Here come Godfrey and Hume,” said he, as he looked out of the window. “Burton has sent an apology.”
“And who is our sixth?”
“O'Reilly—and here's his carriage. See how the people stare admiringly at his green liveries; they scarcely guess that the owner is meditating a change of color. Well, Godfrey, in time for once. Why, Robert, you seem quite fagged with your day's exertion. Ah! Mr. O'Reilly, delighted to find you punctual. Let me present you to my old friend Sir Giles St. George. I believe, gentlemen, you need no introduction to each other. Burton has disappointed us; so we may order dinner at once.”
As Mr. Heffernan took the head of the table, not a sign of his former chagrin remained to be seen. An air of easy conviviality had entirely replaced his previous look of irritation, and in his laughing eye and mellow voice there seemed the clearest evidence of a mind perfectly at ease, and a spirit well disposed to enjoy the pleasures of the board. Of his guests, Godfrey was a leading member of the Irish bar, a man of good private fortune and a large practice, who, out of whim rather than from any great principle, had placed himself in contiuual opposition to the Government, and felt grievously injured and affronted when the minister, affecting to overlook his enmity, offered him a silk gown. Hume was a Commissioner of Customs, and had been so for some thirty years; his only ambition in life being to retire on his full salary, having previously filled his department with his sons and grandsons. The gentle remonstrances of the Secretary against his plan had made him one of the disaffected, but without courage to avow or influence to direct his animosity. Of Mr. O'Reilly the reader needs no further mention. Such was the party who now sat at a table most luxuriously supplied; for although Heffeman was very far from a frequent inviter, yet his dinners were admirably arranged, and the excellence of his wine was actually a mystery among the bons vivants of the capital. The conversation turned of course upon the great event of the day; but so artfully was the subject managed by Heffeman that the discussion took rather the shape of criticism on the several speakers, and their styles of delivery, than on the matter of the meeting itself.
“How eager the Castle folks will be to know all about it!” said Godfrey. “Cooke is, I hear, in a sad taking to learn the meaning of the gathering.”
“I fancy, sir,” said St. George, “they are more indifferent than you suppose. A meeting held by individuals of a certain rank and property, and convened with a certain degree of ostentation, can scarcely ever be formidable to a government.”
“You forget the Volunteers,” said Heffernan.
“No, I remember their assembling well enough, and a very absurd business they made of it. The Bishop of Downe was the only man of nerve amongst them; and as for Lord Charlemont, the thought of an attainder was never out of his head till the whole association was disbanded.”
“They were very formidable, indeed,” said Heffernan, gravely. “I can assure you that the Government were far more afraid of their defenders than of the French.”
“A government that is ungrateful enough to neglect its supporters,” chimed in Hume, “men that have spent their best years in its service, can scarcely esteem itself very secure. In the department I belong to myself, for instance—”
“Yours is a very gross case,” interrupted Heffernan, who from old experience knew what was coming, and wished to arrest it.
“Thirty-four years, come November next, have I toiled as a commissioner.”
“Unpaid!” exclaimed St. George, with a well-simulated horror,—“unpaid!”
“No, sir; not without my salary, of course. I never heard of any man holding an office in the Revenue for the amusement it might afford him. Did you, Godfrey?”
“As for me,” said the lawyer, “I spurn their patronage. I well know the price men pay for such favors.”
“What object could it be to you,” said Heffernan, “to be made Attorney-General or placed on the bench, a man independent in every seuse? So I said to Castlereagh, when he spoke on the subject: 'Never mind Godfrey,' said I, 'he'll refuse your offers; you'll only offend him by solicitation;' and when he mentioned the 'Rolls'—”
Here Heffernan paused, and filled his glass leisurely. An interruption contrived to stimulate Godfrey's curiosity, and which perfectly succeeded, as he asked in a voice of tremulous eagerness,—
“Well, what did you say?”
“Just as I replied before,—'he 'll refuse you.'”
“Quite right, perfectly right; you have my unbounded gratitude for the answer,” said Godfrey, swallowing two bumpers as rapidly as he could fill them.
“Very different treatment from what I met,—an old and tried supporter of the party,” said Hume, turning to O'Reilly and opening upon him the whole narrative of his long-suffering neglect.
“It's quite clear, then,” said St. George, “that we are agreed,—the best thing for us would be a change of Ministry.”
“I don't think so at all,” interposed Heffernan.
“Why, Con,” interrupted the baronet, “they should have you at any price,—however these fellows have learned the trick,—the others know nothing about it You 'd be in office before twenty-four hours.”
“So I might to-morrow,” said Heffernan. “There's scarcely a single post of high emolument and trust that I have not been offered and refused. The only things I ever stipulated for in all my connection with the Government were certain favors for my personal friends.” Here he looked significantly towards O'Reilly; but the glance was intercepted by the commissioner, who cried out,—“Well, could they say I had no claim? Could they deny thirty-four years of toil and slavery?”
“And in the case for which I was most interested,” resumed Heffernan, not heeding the interruption, “the favor I sought would have been more justly bestowed from the rank and merits of the party than as a recompense for any sen-ices of mine.”
“I won't say that, Heffernan,” said Hume, with a look of modesty, who with the most implicit good faith supposed he was the party alluded to; “I won't go that far; but I will and must say, that after four-and-thirty years as a commissioner—”
“A man must have laid by a devilish pretty thing for the rest of his life,” said St. George, who felt all the bitterness of a narrow income augmented by the croaking complaints of the well-salaried official.
“Well, I hope better days are coming for all of us,” said Heffernan, desirous of concluding the subject ere it should take an untoward turn.
“You have got a very magnificent seat in the west, sir,” said St. George, addressing O'Reilly, who during the whole evening had done little more than assent or smile concurrence with the several speakers.
“The finest thing in Ireland,” interrupted Heffernan.
“Nay, that is saying too much,” said O'Reilly, with a look of half-real, half-affected bashfulness. “The abbey certainly stands well, and the timber is well grown.”
“Are you able to see Clew Bay from the small drawing-room still?—for I remember remarking that the larches on the side of the glen would eventually intercept the prospect.”
“You know the Abbey, then?” asked O'Reilly, forgetting to answer the question addressed to him.
“Oh, I knew it well. My family is connected-distantly, I believe—with the Darcys, and in former days we were intimate. A very sweet place it was; I am speaking of thirty years ago, and of course it must have improved since that.”
“My friend here has given it every possible opportunity,” said Heffernan, with a courteous inclination of the head.
“I've no doubt of it,” said St. George; “but neither money nor bank securities will make trees grow sixty feet in a twelvemonth. The improvements I allude to were made by Maurice Darcy's father; he sunk forty thousand pounds in draining, planting, subsoiling, and what not. He left a rent-charge in his will to continue his plans; and Maurice and his son—what's the young fellow called?—Lionel, isn't it?—well, they are, or rather they were, bound to expend a very heavy sum annually on the property.”
A theme less agreeable to O'Reilly's feelings could scarcely have been started; and though Heffernan saw as much, he did not dare to interrupt it suddenly, for fear of any unpalatable remark from St. George. Whether from feeling that the subject was a painful one, or that he liked to indulge his loquacity in detailing various particulars of the Darcys and their family circumstances, the old man went on without ceasing,—now narrating some strange caprice of an ancestor in one century, now some piece of good fortune that occurred to another. “You know the old prophecy in the family, I suppose, Mr. O'Reilly?” said he, “though, to be sure, you are not very likely to give it credence.”
“I scarcely can say I remember what you allude to.”
“By Jove, I thought every old woman in the west would have told it to you. How is this the doggerel runs—ay, here it is,—
Now, they say that, taking into account all of the family who have fallen in battle, been lost at sea, and so on, only eleven of the stock died at the Abbey.”
Although O'Reilly affected to smile at the old rhyme, his cheek became deadly pale, and his hand shook as he lifted the glass to his lips. It was no vulgar sense of fear, no superstitious dread that moved his cold and calculating spirit, but an emotion of suppressed anger that the ancient splendor of the Darcys should be thus placed side by side with his own unhonored and unknown family.
“I don't think I ever knew one of these good legends have even so much of truth,—though the credit is now at an end,” said Heffernau, gayly.
“I'll engage old Darcy's butler wouldn't agree with you,” replied St. George. “Ay, and Maurice himself had a great dash of old Irish superstition in him, for a clever, sensible fellow as he was.”
“It only remains for my friend here, then, to fit up a room for the Darcys and invite them to die there at their several conveniences,” said Con, laughing. “I see no other mode of fulfilling the destiny.”
“There never was a man played his game worse,” resumed St. George, who with a pertinacious persistence continued the topic. “He came of age with a large unencumbered estate, great family influence, and a very fair share of abilities. It was the fashion to say he had more, but I never thought so; and now, look at him!”
“He had very heavy losses at play,” said Heffernan, “certainly.”
“What if he had? They never could have materially affected a fortune like his. No, no. I believe 'Honest Tom' finished him,—raising money to pay off old debts, and then never clearing away the liabilities. What a stale trick, and how invariably it succeeds!”
“You do not seem, sir, to take into account an habitually expensive mode of living,” insinuated O'Reilly, quietly.
“An item, of course, but only an item in the sum total,” replied St. George. “No man can eat and drink above ten thousand a year, and Darcy had considerably more. No; he might have lived as he pleased, had he escaped the acquaintance of honest Tom Gleeson. By the by, Con, is there any truth in the story they tell about this fellow, and that he really was more actuated by a feeling of revenge towards Darcy than a desire for money?”
“I never heard the story. Did you, Mr. O'Reilly?” asked Heffernan.
“Never,” said O'Reilly, affecting an air of unconcern, very ill consorting with his pale cheek and anxious eye.
“The tale is simply this: that, as Gleeson waxed wealthy, and began to assume a position in life, he one day called on the Knight to request him to put his name up for ballot at 'Daly's.' Darcy was thunderstruck, for it was in those days when the Club was respectable; but still the Knight had tact enough to dissemble his astonishment, and would doubtless have got through the difficulty had it not been for Bagenal Daly, who was present, and called out, 'Wait till Tuesday, Maurice, for I mean to propose M'Cleery, the breeches-maker, and then the thing won't seem so remarkable!' Gleeson smiled and slipped away, with an oath to his own heart, to be revenged on both of them. If there be any truth in the story, he did ruin Daly, by advising some money-lender to buy up all his liabilities.”
“I must take the liberty to correct you, sir,” said O'Reilly, actually trembling with anger. “If your agreeable anecdote has no better foundation than the concluding hypothesis, its veracity is inferior to its ingenuity. The gentleman you are pleased to call a money-lender is my father; the conduct you allude to was simply the advance of a large sum on mortgage.”
“Foreclosed, like Darcy's, perhaps,” said St. George, his irascible face becoming blood-red with passion.
“Come, come, Giles, you really can know nothing of the subject you are talking of; besides, to Mr. O'Reilly the matter is a personal one.”
“So it is,” muttered St. George; “and if report speaks truly, as unpleasant as personal.”
This insulting remark was not heard by O'Reilly, who was deeply engaged in explaining to the lawyer beside him the minute legal details of the circumstance.
“Shrewd a fellow as Gleeson was,” said St. George, interrupting O'Reilly, by addressing the lawyer, “they say he has left some flaw open in the matter, and that Darcy may recover a very large portion of the lost estate.”
“Yes; if for instance this bond should be destroyed. He might move in Equity—”
“He 'd move heaven and earth, sir, if it's Bagenal Daly you mean,” said St. George, who had stimulated his excitement by drinking freely. “Some will tell you that he is a steadfast, firm friend; but I 'll vouch for it, a more determined enemy never drew breath.”
“Very happily for the world we live in, sir,” said O'Reilly, “there are agencies more powerful than the revengeful and violent natures of such men as Mr. Daly.”
“He's every jot as quick-sighted as he's determined; and when he wagered a hogshead of claret that Darcy would one day sit again at the head of his table in Gwynne Abbey—”
“Did he make such a bet?” asked O'Reilly, with a faint laugh.
“Yes; he walked down the club-room, and offered it to any one present, and none seemed to fancy it; but young Kelly, of Kildare, who, being a new member just come in, perhaps thought there might be some éclat in booking a bet with Bagenal Daly.”
“Would you like to back his opinion, sir?” said O'Reilly, with a simulated softness of voice; “or although I rarely wager, I should have no objection to convenience you here, leaving the amount entirely at your option.”
“Which means,” said St. George, as his eyes sparkled with wine and passion, “that the weight of your purse is to tilt the beam against that of my opinion. Now, I beg leave to tell you—”
“Let me interrupt you, Giles; I never knew my Burgundy disagree with any man before, but I d smash every bottle of it to-morrow if I thought it could make so pleasant a fellow so wrong-headed and unreasonable. What say you if we qualify it with some cognac and water?”
“Maurice Darcy is my relative,” said St. George, pushing his glass rudely from him, “and I have yet to learn the unreasonableness of wishing well to a member of one's own family. His father and mine were like brothers! Ay, by Jove! I wonder what either of them would think of the changes time has wrought in their sons' fortunes.” His voice dropped into a low, muttering sound, while he mumbled on, “One a beggar and an exile, the other”—here his eye twinkled with a malicious intelligence as he glanced around the board—“the other the guest of Con Heffernan.” He arose as he spoke, and fortunately the noise thus created prevented his words being overheard. “You 're right, Con,” said he, “that Burgundy has been too much for me. The wine is unimpeachable, notwithstanding.”
The others rose also; although pressed in all the customary hospitality of the period to have “one bottle more,” they were resolute in taking leave, doubtless not sorry to escape the risk of any unpleasant termination to the evening's entertainment.
The lawyer and the commissioner agreed to see St. George home; for although long seasoned to excesses, age had begun to tell upon him, and his limbs were scarcely more under control than his tongue. O'Reilly had dropped his handkerchief, he was not sure whether in the drawing or the dinner room, and this delayed him a few moments behind the rest; and although he declared, at each moment, the loss of no consequence, and repeated his “good-night,” Heffernan held his hand and would not suffer him to leave.
“Try under Mr. O'Reilly's chair, Thomas.—Singular specimen of a by-gone day, the worthy baronet!” said he, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Would you believe it, he and Darcy have not been on speaking terms for thirty years, and yet how irritable be showed himself in his behalf!”
“He seems to know something of the family affairs, however,” said O'Reilly, cautiously.
“Not more than club gossip; all that about Daly and his wager is a week old.”
“I hope my father may never hear it,” said O'Reilly, compassionately; “he has all the irritability of age, and these reports invariably urge him on to harsh measures, which, by the least concession, he would never have pursued. The Darcys, indeed, have to thank themselves for any severity they have experienced at our hands. Teasing litigation and injurious reports of us have met all our efforts at conciliation.”
“A compromise would have been much better, and more reputable for all parties,” said Heffernan, as he turned to stir the fire, and thus purposely averted his face while making the remark.
“So it would,” said O'Reilly, hurriedly; then stopping abruptly short, he stammered out, “I don't exactly know what you mean by the word, but if it implies a more amicable settlement of all disputed points between us, I perfectly agree with you.”
Heffernan never spoke: a look of cool self-possession and significance was all his reply. It seemed to say, “Don't hope to cheat me; however, you may rely on my discretion.”
“I declare my handkerchief is in my pocket all this while,” said O'Reilly, trying to conceal his rising confusion with a laugh. “Good-night, once more—you 're thinking of going over to England to-morrow evening?”
“Yes, if the weather permits, I 'll sail at seven. Can I be of any service to you?”
“Perhaps so: I may trouble you with a commission. Good-night.”
“So, Mr. Hickman, you begin to feel the hook! Now let us see if we cannot play the fish without letting him know the weakness of the tackle!” said Heffernan, as he looked after him, and then slowly retraced his steps to the now deserted drawing-room.
“How frequently will chance play the game more skilfully for us than all our cleverness!” said he, while he paced the room alone. “That old bear, St. George, who might have ruined everything, has done me good service. O'Reilly's suspicions are awakened, his fears are aroused; could I only find a clew to his terror, I could hold him as fast by his fears as by this same baronetcy. This baronetcy,” added he, with a sneering laugh, “that I am to negotiate for, and—be refused!”
With this sentiment of honest intentions on his lips, Mr. Heffernan retired to rest, and, if this true history is to be credited, to sleep soundly till morning.
With the most eager desire to accomplish his mission, Paul Dempsey did not succeed in reaching “The Corvy” until late on the day after Miss Daly's visit. He set out originally by paths so secret and circuitous that he lost his way, and was obliged to pass his night among the hills, where, warned by the deep thundering of the sea that the cliffs were near, he was fain to await daybreak ere he ventured farther. The trackless waste over which his way led was no bad emblem of poor Paul's mind, as, cowering beneath a sand-hill, he shivered through the long hours of night. Swayed by various impulses, he could determine on no definite line of action, and wavered and doubted and hesitated, till his very brain was addled by its operations.
At one moment he was disposed, like good Launcelot Gobbo, to “run for it,” and, leaving Darcy and all belonging to him to their several fates, to provide for his own safety; when suddenly a dim vision of meeting Maria Daly in this world or the next, and being called to account for his delinquency, routed such determinations. Then he revelled in the glorious opportunity for gossip afforded by the whole adventure. How he should astonish Coleraine and its neighborhood by his revelations of the Knight and his family! Gossip in all its moods and tenses, from the vague indicative of mere innuendo, to the full subjunctive of open defamation! Not indeed that Mr. Dempsey loved slander for itself; on the contrary, his temperament was far more akin to kindliness than its opposite; but the passion for retailing one's neighbor's foibles or misfortunes is an impulse that admits no guidance; and as the gambler would ruin his best friend at play, so would the professed gossip calumniate the very nearest and dearest to him on earth. There are in the social as in the mercantile world characters who never deal in the honest article of commerce, but have a store of damaged, injured, or smuggled goods, to be hawked about surreptitiously, and always to be sold in the “strictest secrecy.” Mr. Dempsey was a pedler in this wise, and, if truth must be told, he did not dislike his trade.
And yet, at moments, thoughts of another and more tender kind were wafted across Paul's mind, not resting indeed long enough to make any deep impression, but still leaving behind them, as pleasant thoughts always will, little twilights of happiness. Paul had been touched—a mere graze, skin deep, but still touched—by Helen Darcy's beauty and fascinations. She had accompanied him more than once on the piano while he sang, and whether the long-fringed eyelashes and the dimpled cheek had done the mischief, or that the thoughtful tact with which she displayed Paul's good notes and glossed over his false ones had won his gratitude, certain is it he had already felt a very sensible regard for the young lady, and more than once caught himself, when thinking about her, speculating on the speedy demise of Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey's Grove, and all the consequences that might ensue therefrom.
If the enjoyment Mr. Dempsey's various peculiarities afforded Helen suggested on her part the semblance of pleasure in his society, Paul took these indications all in his own favor, and even catechized himself how far he might be deemed culpable in winning the affections of a charming young lady, so long as his precarious condition forbid all thought of matrimony. Now, however, that he knew who the family really were, such doubts were much allayed; for, as he wisely remarked to himself, “Though they are ruined, there 's always nice picking in the wreck of an Indiaman!” Such were the thoughts by which his way was beguiled, when late in the afternoon he reached “The Corvy.”
Lady Eleanor and her daughter were out walking when Mr. Dempsey arrived, and, having cautiously reconnoitred the premises, ventured to approach the door. All was quiet and tranquil about the cottage; so, reassured by this, he peered through the window into the large hall, where a cheerful fire now blazed and shed a mellow glow over the strange decorations of the chamber. Mr. Dempsey had often desired an opportunity of examining these curiosities at his leisure. Not indeed prompted thereto by any antiquarian taste, but, from a casual glance at the inscriptions, he calculated on the amount of private history of the Dalys he should obtain. Stray and independent facts, it is true, but to be arranged by the hand of a competent and clever commentator.
With cautious hand he turned the handle of the door and entered.
There he stood, in the very midst of the coveted objects; and never did humble bookworm gaze on the rich titles of an ample library with more enthusiastic pleasure. He drew a long breath to relieve his overburdened heart, and glutted his eyes in ecstasy on every side. Enthusiasm takes its tone from individuality, and doubtless Mr. Dempsey felt at that moment something as Belzoni might, when, unexpectedly admitted within some tomb of the Pyramids, he found himself about to unravel some secret history of the Pharaohs.
“Now for it,” said he, half aloud; “let us do the thing in order; and first of all, what have we here?” He stooped and read an inscription attached to a velvet coat embroidered with silver,—
“Coat worn by B. D. in his duel with Colonel Matthews,—62,—the puncture under the sword-arm being a tierce outside the guard; a very rare point, and which cost the giver seriously.”
“He killed Matthews, of course,” added Dempsey; “the passage can mean nothing else, so let us be accurate as to fact and date.”
So saying, he proceeded to note down the circumstance in a little memorandum-book. “So!” added he, as he read his note over; “now for the next. What can this misshapen lump of metal mean?”
“A piece of brute gold, presented with twelve female slaves by the chiefs of Doolawochyeekeka on B. D.'s assuming the sovereignty of the island.”
“Brute gold,” said Mr. Dempsey; “devilish little of the real thing about it, I'll be sworn! I suppose the ladies were about equally refined and valuable.”
“Glove dropped by the Infanta Donna Isidore within the arena at Madrid, a few moments after Ruy Peres da Castres was gored to death.”
A prolonged low whistle from Mr. Dempsey was the only comment he made on this inscription; while he stooped to examine the fragment of a bull's horn, from which a rag of scarlet cloth was hanging. The inscription ran, “Portion of horn broken as the bull fell against the barrier of the circus. The cloth was part of Da Castres' vest.”
A massive antique helmet, of immense size and weight, lay on the floor beside this. It was labelled, “Casque of Rudolf v. Hapsbourg, presented to B. D. after the tilt at Regensburg by Edric Conrad Wilhelm Kur Furst von Bavera, a.d. 1750.”
A splendid goblet of silver gilt, beautifully chased and ornamented, was inscribed on the metal as being the gift of the Doge of Venice to his friend Bagenal Daly; and underneath was written on a card, “This cup was drained to the bottom at a draught by B. D. after a long and deep carouse, the liquor strong 'Vino di Cypro.' The Doge tried it and failed; the mark within shows how far he drank.”
“By Jove! what a pull!” exclaimed Dempsey, who, as he peered into the capacious vessel, looked as if he would not object to try his own prowess at the feat.
Wonderment at this last achievement seemed completely to have taken possession of Mr. Dempsey; for while his eyes ranged over weapons of every strange form and shape,—armor, idols, stuffed beasts and birds,—they invariably came back to the huge goblet with an admiring wonder that showed that here at least there was an exploit whose merits he could thoroughly appreciate.
“A half-gallon can is nothing to it!” muttered he, as he replaced it on its bracket.
The reflection was scarcely uttered, when the quick tramp of a horse and the sound of wheels without startled him. He hastened to the window just in time to perceive a jaunting-car drive up to the wicket, from which three men descended. Two were common-looking fellows in dark upper coats and glazed hats; the third, better dressed, and with a half-gentlemanlike air, seemed the superior. He threw off a loose travelling-coat, and discovered, to Mr. Dempsey's horror, the features of his late patient at Larne, the sheriff's officer from Dublin. Yes, there was no doubt about it. That smart, conceited look, the sharp and turned-up nose, the scrubby whisker, proclaimed him as the terrible Anthony Nickie, of Jervas Street, a name which Mr. Dempsey had read on his portmanteau before guessing how its owner was concerned in his own interests.
What a multitude of terrors jostled each other in his mind as the men approached the door, and what resolves did he form and abandon in the same moment! To escape by the rear of the house while the enemy was assailing the front, to barricade the premises and stand a siege, to arm himself—and there was a choice of weapons—and give battle, were all rapid impulses no sooner conceived than given up. A loud summons of the door-bell announced his presence; and ere the sounds died away, Tate's creaking footstep and winter cough resounded along the corridor. Mr. Dempsey threw a last despairing glance around, and the thought flashed across him, how happily would he exchange his existence with any of the grim images and uncouth shapes that grinned and glared on every side, ay, even with that saw-mouthed crocodile that surmounted the chimney! Quick as his eye traversed the chamber, he fancied that the savage animals were actually enjoying his misery, and Sandy's counterpart appeared to show a diabolical glee at his wretched predicament. It was at this instant he caught sight of the loose folds of the Indian blanket, which enveloped Bagenal Daly's image. The danger was too pressing for hesitation; he stepped into the canoe, and cowering down under the warlike figure, awaited his destiny. Scarcely had the drapery closed around him when Tate admitted the new arrival.
“'The Corvy? '” said Mr. Nickie to the old butler, who with decorous ceremony bowed low before him. “'The Corvy,' ain't it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tate.
“All right, Mac,” resumed Nickie, turning to the elder of his two followers, who had closely dogged him to the door. “Bring that carpet-bag and the small box off the car, and tell the fellow he 'll have time to feed his horse at that cabin on the road-side.”
He added something in a whisper, too low for Tate to hear, and then, taking the carpet-bag, he flung it carelessly in a corner, while he walked forward and deposited the box on the table before the fire.
“His honor is coming to dine, maybe?” asked Tate, respectfully; for old habit of his master's hospitality had made the question almost a matter of course, while age had so dimmed his eyesight that even Anthony Nickie passed with him for a gentleman.
“Coming to dine,” repeated Nickie, with a coarse laugh; “that's a bargain there 's always two words to, my old boy. I suppose you 've heard it is manners to wait to be asked, eh?—without,” added he, after a second's pause,—“without I 'm to take this as an invitation.”
“I believe your honor might, then,” said Tate, with a smile. “'Tis many a one I kept again the family came home for dinner, and sorrow word of it they knew till they seen them dressed in the drawing-room! And the dinner-table!” said Tate, with a sigh, half in regret over the past, half preparing himself with a sufficiency of breath for a lengthened oration,-“the dinner-table! it's wishing it I am still! After laying for ten, or maybe twelve, his honor would come in and say, 'Tate, we 'll be rather crowded here, for here 's Sir Gore Molony and his family. You 'll have to make room for five more.' Then Miss Helen would come springing in with, 'Tate, I forgot to say Colonel Martin and his officers are to be here at dinner.' After that it would be my lady herself, in her own quiet way, 'Mr. Sullivan,'-she nearly always called me that,—'could n't you contrive a little space here for Lady Burke and Miss MacDonnel? But the captain beat all, for he 'd come in after the soup was removed, with five or six gentlemen from the hunt, splashed and wet up to their necks; over he 'd go to the side-table, where I 'd have my knives and forks, all beautiful, and may I never but he 'd fling some here, others there, till he 'd clear a space away, and then he'd cry, 'Tate, bring back the soup, and set some sherry here.' Maybe that wasn't the table for noise, drinking wine with every one at the big table, and telling such wonderful stories that the servants did n't know what they were doing, listening to them. And the master—the heavens be about him!—sending me over to get the names of the gentlemen, that he might ask them to take wine with him. Oh, dear—oh, dear, I 'm sure I used to think my heart was broke with it; but sure it's nigher breaking now that it's all past and over.”
“You seem to have had very jolly times of it in those days,” said Nickie.
“Faix, your honor might say so if you saw forty-eight sitting down to dinner every day in the parlor for seven weeks running; and Master Lionel—the captain that is—at the head of another table in the library, with twelve or fourteen more,—nice youths they wor!”
While Tate continued his retrospections, Mr. Nickie had unlocked his box, and cursorily throwing a glance over some papers, he muttered to himself a few words, and then added aloud,—“Now for business.”