He soon came to a stop in the words, but continued to sing the air, till at last he broke out in the following version of his own:—
“A bumper of wine!” sighed he. “On my conscience, it would be an ugly toast I 'd refuse to drink this minute, if the liquor was near.
“Oh, murther, murther!” screamed he, aloud, as his shins came in contact with a piece of timber, and he fell full length to the ground, sorely bruised, and perfectly enveloped in snow. It was some minutes before he could rally sufficiently to get up; and although he still shouted for help, seeing a light in a window near, no one came to his assistance, leaving poor Paul to his own devices.
It was some consolation for his sufferings to discover that the object over which he had stumbled was the shaft of a jaunting-car, such a conveyance being at that moment what he most desired to meet with. The driver at last made his appearance, and informed him that he had brought Nickie and his two companions from Larne, and was now only waiting their summons to proceed to Coleraine.
Paul easily persuaded the man that he could earn a fare in the mean time, for that Nickie would probably not leave “The Corvy” till late on the following day, and that by a little exertion he could manage to drive to Coleraine and back before he was stirring. It is but fair to add that poor Mr. Dempsey supported his arguments by lavish promises of reward, to redeem which he speculated on mortgaging his silver watch, and probably his umbrella, when he reached Coleraine.
It was yet a full hour before daybreak, as Lady Eleanor, who had passed the night in her dressing-room, was startled by a sharp tapping noise at her window; Helen lay asleep on the sofa, and too soundly locked in slumber to hear the sounds. Lady Eleanor listened, and while half fearing to disturb the young girl, wearied and exhausted as she was, she drew near to the window. The indistinct shadow of a figure was all that she could detect through the gloom, but she fancied she could hear a weak effort to pronounce her name.
There could be little doubt of the intentions of the visitor; whoever he should prove, the frail barrier of a window could offer no resistance to any one disposed to enter by force, and, reasoning thus, Lady Eleanor unfastened the casement, and cried, “Who is there?”
A strange series of gestures, accompanied by a sound between a sneeze and the crowing of a cock, was all the reply; and when the question was repeated in a louder tone, a thin quivering voice muttered, “Pau-au-l De-de-dempsey, my La-dy.”
“Mr. Dempsey, indeed!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor. “Oh! pray come round to the door at your left hand; it is only a few steps from where you are standing.”
Short as the distance was, Mr. Dempsey's progress was of the slowest, and Lady Eleanor had already time to awaken Helen, ere the half-frozen Paul had crossed the threshold.
“He has passed the night in the snow,” cried Lady Eleanor to her daughter, as she led him towards the fire.
“No, my Lady,” stammered out Paul, “only the last hour and a half; before that I was snug under old Daly's blanket.”
A very significant interchange of looks between mother and daughter seemed to imply that poor Mr. Dempsey's wits were wandering.
“Call Tate; let him bring some wine here at once, Helen.”
“It's all drunk; not a glass in the decanter,” murmured Paul, whose thoughts recurred to the supper-table.
“Poor creature, his mind is quite astray,” whispered Lady Eleanor, her compassion not the less strongly moved, because she attributed his misfortune to the exertions he had made in their behalf. By this time the group was increased by the arrival of old Tate, who, in a flannel nightcap fastened under the chin, and a very ancient dressing-gown of undyed wool, presented a lively contrast to the shivering condition of Mr. Dempsey.
“It's only Mr. Dempsey!” said Lady Eleanor, sharply, as the old butler stood back, crossing himself and staring with sleepy terror at the white figure.
“May I never! But so it is,” exclaimed Tate, in return to an attempt at a bow on Dempsey's part, which he accomplished with a brackling noise like creaking glass.
“Some warm wine at once,” said Helen, while she heaped two or three logs upon the hearth.
“With a little ginger in it, miss,” grinned Paul. But the polite attempt at a smile nearly cut his features, and ended in a most lamentable expression of suffering.
“This is the finest thing in life agin' the cowld,” said Tate, as he threw over the shivering figure a Mexican mantle, all worked and embroidered with quills, that gave the gentle Mr. Dempsey the air of an enormous porcupine. The clothing, the fire, and the wine, of which he partook heartily, soon restored him, and erelong he had recounted to Lady Eleanor the whole narrative of his arrival at “The Corvy,” his concealment in the canoe, the burning of the law papers, and even down to the discovery of the jaunting-car, omitting nothing, save the interview he had witnessed between the mother and daughter.
Lady Eleanor could not disguise her anxiety on the subject of the burned documents, but Paul's arguments were conclusive in reply,—
“Who's to tell of it? Not your Ladyship, not Miss Helen; and as to Paul, meaning myself, my discretion is quite Spanish. Yes, my Lady,” said he, with a tragic gesture that threw back the loose folds of his costume, “there is an impression abroad, which I grieve to say is widespread, that the humble individual who addresses you is one of those unstable, fickle minds that accomplish nothing great; but I deny it, deny it indignantly. Let the occasion but arise, let some worthy object present itself, or herself,”—he gave a most melting look towards Helen, which cost all her efforts to sustain without laughter,—“and then, madam, Don Paulo Dempsey will come out in his true colors.”
“Which I sincerely hope may not be of the snow tint,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling. “But pray, Mr. Dempsey, to return to a theme more selfish. You are sufficiently aware of our unhappy circumstances here at this moment, to see that we must seek some other abode, at least for the present. Can you then say where we can find such?”
“Miss Daly's neighborhood, perhaps,” broke in Helen.
“Never do,-not to be thought of,” interrupted Paul; “there's nothing for it but the Panther—”
“The what, sir?” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, in no small surprise.
“The Panther, my Lady, Mother Fum's! snug, quiet, and respectable; social, if you like,—selfish, if you please it. Solitary or gregarious; just as you fancy.”
“And where, sir, is the Panther?” said Lady Eleanor, who in her innocence supposed this to be the sign of some village inn.
“In the Diamond of Coleraine, my Lady, opposite M'Grotty's, next but one to Kitty Black's hardware, and two doors from the Post-Office; central and interesting. Mail-car from Newtown, Lim.,—takes up passengers, within view of the windows, at two every day. Letters given out at four,—see every one in the town without stirring from your window. Huston's, the apothecary, always full of people at post hour. Gibbin's tobacco-shop assembles all the Radicals at the same time to read the 'Patriot.' Plenty of life and movement.”
“Is there nothing to be found more secluded, less—”
“Less fashionable, your Ladyship would observe. To be sure there is; but there 's objections,—at least I am sure you would dislike the prying, inquisitive spirit—Eh? Did you make an observation, miss?”
“No, Mr. Dempsey,” said Helen, with some difficulty preserving a suitable gravity. “I would only remark that you are perfectly in the right, and that my mother seeks nothing more than a place where we can remain without obtrusiveness or curiosity directed towards us.”
“There will always be the respectful admiration that beauty exacts,” replied Paul, bowing courteously, “but I can answer for the delicacy of Coleraine as for my own.”
If this assurance was not quite as satisfactory to the ladies as Mr. Dempsey might have fancied it ought to be, there was really no alternative; they knew nothing of the country, which side to direct their steps, or whither to seek shelter; besides, until they had communicated with Bicknell, they could not with safety leave the neighborhood to which all their letters were addressed.
It was then soon determined to accept Mr. Dempsey's suggestion and safe-conduct, and leaving Tate for the present to watch over such of their effects as they could not conveniently carry with them, to set out for Coleraine. The arrangements were made as speedily as the resolve, and day had scarcely dawned ere they quitted “The Corvy.”
It was on the very same evening that witnessed these events, that Lord Castlereagh was conducting Mr. Con Heffernan to his hotel, after a London dinner-party. The late Secretary for Ireland had himself volunteered the politeness, anxious to hear some tidings of people and events which, in the busy atmosphere of a crowded society, were unattainable. He speedily ran over a catalogue of former friends and acquaintances, learning, with that surprise with which successful men always regard their less fortunate contemporaries, that this one was still where he had left him, and that the other jogged on his daily road as before, when he suddenly asked,—
“And the Darcys, what of them?”
Heffernan shrugged his shoulders without speaking.
“I am sorry for it,” resumed the other; “sorry for the gallant old Knight himself, and sorry for a state of society in which such changes are assumed as evidences of progress and prosperity. These upstart Hickmans are not the elements of which a gentry can be formed.”
“O'Reilly still looks to you for the baronetcy, my Lord,” replied Heffernan, with a half-sneer. “You have him with or against you on that condition,—at least, so I hear.”
“Has he not had good fortune enough in this world to be satisfied? He has risen from nothing to be a man of eminence, wealth, and county influence; would it not be more reasonable in him to mature his position by a little patience, than endanger it by fresh shocks to public opinion? Even a boa, my dear Heffernan, when he swallows a goat, takes six months to digest his meal. No! no! such men must be taught reserve, if their own prudence does not suggest it!”
“I believe you are right, my Lord,” said Heffernan, thoughtfully; “O'Reilly is the very man to forget himself in the sunshine of court favor, and mistake good luck for desert.”
“With all his money, too,” rejoined Lord Castlereagh, “his influence will just be proportioned to the degree of acceptance his constituents suppose him to possess with us here. He has never graduated as a Patriot, and his slight popularity is only 'special gratia.' His patent of Gentleman has not come to him by birth.”
“For this reason the baronetcy—”
“Let us not discuss that,” said Lord Castlereagh, quickly. “There is an objection in a high quarter to bestow honors, which would seem to ratify the downfall of an ancient house.” He seemed to have said more than he was ready to admit, and to change the theme turned the conversation on the party they had just quitted.
“Sir George Hannaper always does these things well.”
Mr. Heffernan assented blandly, but not over eagerly. London was not “his world,” and the tone of a society so very different to what he was habituated had not made on him the most favorable impression.
“And after all,” said Lord Castlereagh, musingly, “there is a great deal of tact—ability, if you will—essential to the success of such entertainments, to bring together men of different classes and shades of opinion, people who have never met before, perhaps are never to meet again, to hit upon the subjects of conversation that may prove generally interesting, without the risk of giving undue preponderance to any one individual's claims to superior knowledge. This demands considerable skill.”
“Perhaps the difficulty is not so great here, my Lord,” said Heffernan, half timidly, “each man understands his part so well; information and conversational power appear tolerably equally distributed; and when all the instruments are so well tuned, the leader of the orchestra has an easy task.”
“Ah! I believe I comprehend you,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing; “you are covertly sneering at the easy and unexciting quietude of our London habits. Well, Heffernan, I admit we are not so fond of solo performances as you are in Dublin; few among us venture on those 'obligate passages' which are so charming to Irish ears; but don't you think the concerted pieces are better performed?”
“I believe, my Lord,” said Heffernan, abandoning the figure in his anxiety to reply, “that we would call this dull in Ireland. I 'm afraid that we are barbarous enough to set more store by wit and pleasantry than on grave discussion and shrewd table-talk. It appears to me that these gentlemen carry an air of business into their conviviality.”
“Scarcely so dangerous an error as to carry conviviality into business,” said Lord Castlereagh, slyly.
“There's too much holding back,” said Heffernan, not heeding the taunt; “each man seems bent on making what jockeys call 'a waiting race.'”
“Confess, however,” said Lord Castlereagh, smiling, “there 's no struggle, no hustling at the winning-post: the best horse comes in first—-”
“Upon my soul, my Lord,” said Heffernan, interrupting, “I have yet to learn that there is such a thing. I conclude from your Lordship's observation that the company we met to-day were above the ordinary run of agreeability.”
“I should certainly say so.”
“Well, then, I can only affirm that we should call this a failure in our less polished land. I listened with becoming attention; the whole thing was new to me, and I can safely aver I neither heard one remark above the level of commonplace, nor one observation evidencing acute perception of passing events or reflection on the past. As to wit or epigram—”
“Oh, we do not value these gifts at your price; we are too thrifty a nation, Heffernan, to expend all our powder on fireworks.”
“Faith, I agree with you, my Lord; the man who would venture on a rocket would be treated as an incendiary.”
“Come, come, Heffernan, I 'll not permit you to say so. Did you ever in any society see a man more appreciated than our friend Darcy was the last evening we met him, his pleasantry relished, his racy humor well taken, and his stores of anecdote enjoyed with a degree of zest I have never seen surpassed?”
“Darcy was always too smooth for our present taste,” said Heffernan, caustically. “His school was antiquated years ago; there was a dash of the French courtier through the Irishmen of his day.”
“That made the most polished gentlemen of Europe, I've been told,” said Lord Castlereagh, interrupting. “I know your taste inclines to a less chastened and more adventurous pleasantry, shrewd insight into an antagonist's weak point, a quick perception of the ridiculous—-”
“Allied with deep knowledge of men and motives, my Lord,” said Heffernan, catching up the sentence, “a practical acquaintance with the world in its widest sense; that cultivated keenness that smacks of reading intentions before they are avowed, and divining plans before they are more than conceived. These solid gifts are all essential to the man who would influence society, whether in a social circle or in the larger sphere of active life.”
“Ah! but we were talking of merely social qualities,” said Lord Castlereagh, stealing a cautious look of half malice, “the wit that sets the table in a roar.”
“And which, like lightning, my Lord, must now and then prove dangerous, or men will cease to be dazzled by its brilliancy. Now, I rather incline to think that the Knight's pleasantry is like some of the claret we were drinking to-day, a little spoiled by age.”
“I protest strongly against the judgment,” said Lord Castlereagh, with energy; “the man who at his time of life consents to resume the toils and dangers of a soldier's career must not be accused of growing old.”
“Perhaps your Lordship would rather shift the charge of senility against the Government which appoints such an officer,” said Heffernan, maliciously.
“As to that,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughingly, “I believe the whole thing was a mistake. Some jealous but indiscreet friend of Darcy's made an application in his behalf, and without his cognizance, pressing the claim of an old and meritorious officer, and directly asking for a restitution to his grade. This was backed by Lord Netherby, one of the lords in waiting, and without much inquiry—indeed, I fancy without any—he was named colonel, in exchange from the unattached list. The Knight was evidently flattered by so signal a mark of favor, and, if I read him aright, would not change his command for a brigade at home. In fact, he has already declined prospects not less certain of success.”
“And is this really the mode in which officers are selected for an enterprise of hazard and importance?” said Heffernan, affecting a tone of startled indignation as he spoke.
“Upon my word, Heffernan,” said Lord Castlereagh, subduing the rising tendency to laugh outright, “I fear it is too true. We live in days of backstairs and court favor. I saw an application for the office of Under Secretary for Ireland, so late as yesterday—”
“You did, my Lord!” interrupted Heffernan, with more warmth than he almost ever permitted himself to feel. “You did, from a man who has rendered more unrewarded services to the Government than any individual in the kingdom.”
“The claim was a very suitable one,” said Lord Castle-reagh, mildly. “The gentleman who preferred it could point to a long list of successful operations, whose conduct rested mainly or solely on his own consummate skill and address; he could even allege the vast benefit of his advice to young and not over-informed Chief Secretaries—-”
“I would beg to observe, my Lord—-”
“Pray allow me to continue,” said Lord Castlereagh, laying his hand gently on the other's arm. “As one of that helpless class so feelingly alluded to, I am ready to evince the deepest sense of grateful acknowledgments. It may be that I would rather have been mentioned more flatteringly; that the applicant had spoken of me as an apter and more promising scholar—-”
“My Lord, I must and will interrupt you. The memorial, which was presented in my name, was sent forward under the solemn pledge that it should meet the eyes of Mr. Pitt alone; that whether its prayer was declined or accorded, none, save himself, should have cognizance of it. If, after this, it was submitted to your Lordship's critical examination, I leave it to your good taste and your sense of decorum how far you can avow or make use of the knowledge so obtained.”
“I was no party in the compact you allege, nor. I dare to say, was Mr. Pitt,” said Lord Castlereagh, proudly; but, momentarily resuming his former tone, he went on: “The Prime Minister, doubtless, knew how valuable the lesson might be to a young man entering on public life which should teach him not to lay too much store by his own powers of acuteness, not to trust too implicitly to his own qualities of shrewdness and perception; and that, by well reflecting on the aid he received from others, he might see how little the subtraction would leave for his own peculiar amount of skill. In this way I have to acknowledge myself greatly Mr. Heffernan's debtor, since, without the aid of this document, I should never have recognized how ignorant I was of every party and every public man in Ireland; how dependent on his good guidance; how I never failed save in rejecting, never succeeded save in profiting by his wise and politic counsels.”
“Is your Lordship prepared to deny these assertions?” said Heffernan, with an imperturbable coolness.
“Am I not avowing my grateful sense of them?” said Lord Castlereagh, smiling blandly. “I feel only the more deeply your debtor, because, till now, I never knew the debt,—both principal and interest must be paid together; but seriously, Heffernan, if you wanted office, was I not the proper channel to have used in asking for it? Why disparage your pupil while extolling your system?”
“You did my system but little credit, my Lord,” replied Heffernan, with an accent as unmoved as before; “you bought votes when you should have bought the voters themselves; you deemed the Bill of Union the consummation of Irish policy,—it is only the first act of the piece. You were not the first general who thought he beat the enemy when he drove in the pickets.”
“Would my tactics have been better had I made one of my spies a major-general, Mr. Heffernan?” said Lord Castlereagh, sneeringly.
“Safer, my lord,—far safer,” said Heffernan, “for he might not have exposed you afterwards. But I think this is my hotel; and I must say it is the first time in my life that I have closed an interview with your Lordship without regret.”
“Am I to hope it will be the last?” said Lord Castle-reagh, laughing.
“The last interview, my Lord, or the last occasion of regretting its shortness?” said Heffernan, with a slight anxiety of voice.
“Whichever Mr. Heffernan opines most to his advantage,” was the cool reply.
“The former, with your permission, my Lord,” said Heffernan, as a flush suffused his cheek. “I wish your Lordship a very good night.”
“Good-night, good-night! Stay, Thomas, Mr. Heffernan has forgotten his gloves.”
“Thanks, my Lord; they were not left as a gage of battle, I assure you.”
“I feel certain of it,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing. “Good-night, once more.”
The carriage rolled on, and Mr. Heffernan stood for an instant gazing after it through the gloom.
“I might have known it,” muttered he to himself; “these lords are the only people who do stick to each other nowadays.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Drogheda is right, by Jove! there 's no playing against 'four by honors.'”
And with this reflection he slowly entered the hotel, and repaired to his chamber.
Reverses of fortune might be far more easily supported, if they did not entail, as their inevitable consequence, the association with those all of whose tastes, habits, and opinions run in a new and different channel. It is a terrible aggravation to the loss of those comforts which habit has rendered necessaries, to unlearn the usages of a certain condition, and adopt those of a class beneath us,—or, what is still worse, engage in the daily, hourly conflict between our means and our requirements.
Perhaps Lady Eleanor Darcy and her daughter never really felt the meaning of their changed condition, nor understood its poignancy, till they saw themselves as residents of Mrs. Fumbally's boarding-house, whither Mr. Dempsey's polite attentions had conducted them. It was to no want of respect on that lady's part that any portion of this feeling could be traced. “The Panther” had really behaved with the most dignified consideration; and while her new guests were presented as Mrs. and Miss Gwynne, intimated, by a hundred little adroit devices of manner, that their real rank and title were regarded by her as inviolable secrets,—not the less likely to be respected that she was herself ignorant of both. Heaven knows what secret anguish the retention of these facts cost poor Paul! secrecy being with him a quality something like Acres' courage, which “oozed out of his fingers' ends.” Mr. Dempsey hated those miserly souls that can treasure up a fact for their own personal enjoyment, and yet never invite a neighbor to partake of it; and it was a very inefficient consolation to him, in this instance, to throw a mysterious cloak over the strangers, and, by an air of profound consciousness, seek to impose on the other boarders. He made less scruple about what he deemed his own share of the mystery; and scarcely had Mrs. Fumbally performed the honors of the two small chambers destined for Lady Eleanor and Helen, than Paul followed her to the little apartment familiarly termed her “den,” and shutting the door, with an appearance of deep caution, took his place opposite to her at the fire.
“Well, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mrs. Fumbally, “now that all is done and settled,—now that I have taken these ladies into the 'Establishment,'”—a very favorite designation of Mrs. Fum's when she meant to be imposing,—“I hope I am not unreasonable iu expecting a full and complete account from you of who they are, whence they came, and, in fact, every particular necessary to satisfy me concerning them.”
“Mrs. Gwynne! Miss Gwynne! mother and daughter—Captain Gwynne, the father, on the recruiting staff in the Isle of Skye, or, if you like it better, with his regiment at St. John's. Mrs. G———, a Miss Rickaby, one of the Rickabys of Pwhlmdlwmm, North Wales—ancient family—small estate—all spent—obliged to live retired—till—till—no matter what—a son comes of age—to sign something—or anything that way—”
“This is all fiddle-faddle, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mrs. Fum, with an expression that seemed to say, “Take care how you trifle with me.”
“To be sure it is,” rejoined Paul; “all lies, every word of it. What do you say, then, if we have her the Widow Gwynne—husband shot at Bergen-op-Zoom—”
“I say, Mr. Dempsey, that if you wish me to keep your secret before the other boarders—”
“The best way is never to tell it to you—eh, Mrs. Fum? Well, come, I will be open. Name, Gwynne—place of abode unknown—family ditto—means supposed to be ample—daughter charming—so very much so, indeed, that if Paul Dempsey were only what he ought—the Dempsey of Dempsey's Grove—”
“Oh, is that it?” said Mrs. Fumbally, endeavoring to smile,-“is that it?”
“That's it,” rejoined Paul, as he drew up his shirt-collar, and adjusted his cravat.
“Isn't she very young, Mr. Dempsey?” said Mrs. Fum, slyly.
“Twenty, or thereabouts, I take it,” said Paul, carelessly,—“quite suitable as regards age.”
“I never thought you 'd marry, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mrs. Fum, with a languishing look, that contrasted strangely with the habitually shrewish expression of the “Pauther's” face.
“Can't help it, Mrs. Fum. The last of the Romans! No more Dempseys when I 'm gone, if I don't. Elder branch all dropped off,—last twig of the younger myself.”
“Ah! these are considerations, indeed!” sighed the lady. “But don't you think that a person more like yourself in taste—more similar in opinion of the world? She looks proud, Mr. Dempsey; I should say, overbearingly proud.”
“Rather proud myself, if that's all,” said Dempsey, drawing himself up, and protruding his chin with a most comic imitation of dignity.
“Only becomingly so, Mr. Dempsey,—a proper sense of self-respect, a due feeling for your future position in life,—I never saw more than that, I must say. Now, I could n't help remarking the way that young lady threw herself into the chair, and the glance she gave at the room. It was number eight, Mr. Dempsey, with the chintz furniture, and the looking-glass over the chimney! Well, really you 'd say, it was poor Leonard's room, with the settee bed in the corner,—the look she gave it!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Dempsey, who really felt horrified at this undervaluing judgment of what every boarder regarded as the very sanctum of the Fumbally Temple.
“Truth, every word of it!” resumed Mrs. Fum. “I thought my ears deceived me, as she said to her mother, 'Oh, it 's all very neat and clean!'—neat and clean, Mr. Dempsey! The elegant rug which I worked myself—the pointer—and the wild duck.”
“Like life, by Jove, if it was n't that the dog has only three legs.”
“Perspective, Mr. Dempsey, don't forget its perspective; and if the bird's wings are maroon, I could n't help it, it was the only color to be had in the town.”
“The group is fine,—devilish fine!” said Paul, with the air of one whose word was final.
“'Neat and clean' were the expressions she used. I could have cried as I heard it.” Here the lady, probably in consideration for the omission, wiped her eyes, and dropped her voice to a very sympathetic key. “She meant it well, depend upon it, Mrs. Fum, she meant it well.”
“And the old lady,” resumed Mrs. Fumbally, deaf to every consolation, “lay back in her chair this way, and said, 'Oh, it will all do very well,—you 'll not find us troublesome, Mrs. Flumary!' I haven't been the head of this establishment eight-and-twenty years to be called Flumary. How these airs are to be tolerated by the other boarders, I'm sure is more than I can say.”
It appeared more than Mr. Dempsey could say also, if one might pronounce from the woe-begone expression of his face; for, up to this moment totally wrapped up in the mysterious portion of the affair, he had lost sight of all the conflicting interests this sudden advent would call into activity.
“That wasn't all,” continued Mrs. Fumbally; “for when I told them the dinner-hour was five, the old lady interrupted me with, 'For the present, with your permission, we should prefer dining at six.' Did any one ever hear the like? I 'll have a pretty rebellion in the house, when it gets out! Mrs. Mackay will have her tea upstairs every night; Mr. Dunlop will always breakfast in bed. I would n't be surprised if Miss Boyle stood out for broth in the middle of the day.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Paul, holding up both hands in horror.
“I vow and protest, I expect that next!” exclaimed Mrs. Fum, as folding her arms, and fixing her eyes rigidly on the grate, she sat, the ideal of abused and injured benevolence. “Indeed, Mr. Dempsey,” said she, after a long silence on both sides, “it would be a great breach of the regard many years of intimacy with you has formed, if I did not say, that your affections are misplaced. Beauty is a perishable gift.”
Paul looked at Mrs. Fumbally, and seemed struck with the truth of her remark.
“But the qualities of the miud, Mr. Dempsey, those rare endowments that make happy the home and hearth. You 're fond of beef hash with pickled onions,” said she, smiling sweetly; “well, you shall have one to-day.”
“Good creature!” muttered Paul, while he pressed her hand affectionately. “The best heart in the world!”
“Ah, yes,” sighed the lady, half soliloquizing, “conformity of temper,—the pliancy of the reed,—the tender attachment of the ivy.”
Paul coughed, and drew himself up proudly, and, as if a sudden thought occurred to him that he resembled the oak of the forest, he planted his feet firmly, and stood stiff and erect.
“You are not half careful enough about yourself, Mr. Dempsey,—never attend to changing your damp clothes,—and I assure you the climate here requires it; and when you come in cold and wet, you should always step in here, on your way upstairs, and take a little something warm and cordial. I don't know if you approve of this,” suiting the action to the words. Mrs. Fum had opened a small cupboard in the wall, and taken out a quaint-looking flask, and a very diminutive glass.
“Nectar, by Jove,—downright nectar!”
“Made with some white currants and ginger,” chimed in Mrs. Fum, simply, as if to imply, “See what skill can effect; behold the magic power of intelligence!”
“White currants and ginger!” echoed Paul, holding out the glass to be refilled.
“A trifle of spirits, of course.”
“Of course! could n't be comforting without it.”
“That's what poor dear Fumbally always called, 'Ye know, ye know!' It was his droll way of saying 'Noyau!'” Here Mrs. F. displayed a conflict of smiles and tears, a perfect April landscape on her features. “He had such spirits!”
“I don't wonder, if he primed himself with this often,” said Dempsey, who at last relinquished his glass, but with evident unwillingness.
“He used to say that his was a happy home!” sobbed Mrs. Fum, while she pressed her handkerchief to her face.
Paul did not well know what he should say, or if, indeed, he was called upon to utter a sentiment at all; but he thought he could have drunk another glass to the late Fum's memory, if his widow had n't kept such a tight grip of the flask.
“Oh, Mr. Dempsey, who could have thought it would come to this?” The sorrowful drooping of her eyelids, as she spoke, seemed to intimate an allusion to the low state of the decanter, and Dempsey at once replied,—
“There's a very honest glass in it still.”
“Kind—kind creature!” sobbed Mrs. Fum, as she poured out the last of the liquor. And Paul was sorely puzzled, whether the encomium applied to the defunct or himself. “Do you know, Mr. Dempsey,” here she gave a kind of hysterical giggle, that might take any turn,—hilarious, or the reverse, as events should dictate,—“do you know that as I see you there, standing before the fire, looking so pleasant and cheerful, so much at home, as a body might say, I can't help fancying a great resemblance between you and my poor dear Fum. He was older than you,” said she, rapidly, as a slight cloud passed over Paul's features;-“older and stouter, but he had the same jocose smile, the same merry voice, and even that little fidgety habit with the hands. I know you 'll forgive me,—even that was his.”
This was in all probability strictly correct, inasmuch as for several years before his demise the gifted individual had labored under a perpetual “delirium tremens.”
“He rather liked this kind of thing,” said Paul, pantomiming the action of drinking with his now empty glass.
“In moderation,-only in moderation.”
“I 've heard that it disagreed with him,” rejoined Paul, who, not pleased with his counterpart, resolved on showing a knowledge of his habits.
“So it did,” sighed Mrs. Fum; “and he gave it up in consequence.”
“I heard that, too,” said Paul; and then muttered to himself, “on the morning he died.”
A gentle tap at the door now broke in upon the colloquy, and a very slatternly servant woman, with bare legs and feet, made her appearance.
“What d'ye want, Biddy?” asked her mistress, in an angry voice. “I 'm just settling accounts with Mr. Dempsey, and you bounce in as if the house was on fire.”
“It 's just himsel 's wanted,” replied the northern maiden; “the leddie canna get on ava without him, he maun come up to number 'eight,' as soon as he can.”
“I 'm ready,” quoth Paul, as he turned to arrange his cravat, and run his hand through his hair; “I 'm at their service.”
“Remember, Mr. Dempsey, remember, that what I've spoken to you this day is in the strictest confidence. If matters have proceeded far with the young lady upstairs, if your heart, if hers be really engaged, forget everything,—forget me.”
Mrs. Fumbally's emotion had so overpowered her towards the end of her speech, that she rushed into an adjoining closet and clapped-to the door, an obstacle that only acted as a sound-board to her sobs, and from which Paul hastened with equal rapidity to escape.
An entire hemisphere might have separated the small chamber where Mr. Dempsey's late interview took place from the apartment on the first floor, to which he now was summoned, and so, to do him justice, did Paul himself feel; and not all the stimulating properties of that pleasant cordial could allay certain tremors of the heart, as he turned the handle of the door.
Lady Eleanor was seated at a writing-table, and Helen beside her, working, as Mr. Dempsey entered, and, after a variety of salutations, took a chair, about the middle of the room, depositing his hat and umbrella beside him.
“It would seem, Mr. Dempsey,” said Lady Eleanor, with a very benign smile, “it would seem that we have made a very silly mistake; one, I am bound to say, you are quite exonerated from any share in, and the confession of which will, doubtless, exhibit my own and my daughter's cleverness in a very questionable light before you. Do you know, Mr. Dempsey, we believed this to be an inn.”
“An inn!” broke in Paul, with uplifted hands.
“Yes, and it was only by mere accident we have discovered our error, and that we are actually in a boarding-house. Pray now, Helen, do not laugh, the blunder is quite provoking enough already.”
Why Miss Darcy should laugh, and what there could be to warrant the use of the epithet, “provoking,” Paul might have been broken on the wheel without being able to guess, while Lady Eleanor went on,—
“Now, it would seem customary for the guests to adopt here certain hours in common,—breakfasting, dining together, and associating like the members of one family.”
Paul nodded an assent, and she resumed.
“I need scarcely observe to you, Mr. Dempsey, how very unsuited either myself or Miss Darcy would be to such an assembly, if even present circumstances did not more than ever enjoin a life of strict retirement.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Paul in a tone of deprecation, “there never was anything more select than this. Mother Fum never admits without a reference; I can show you the advertisement in the Derry papers. We kept the Collector out for two months, till he brought us a regular bill of health, as a body might say.”
“Could you persuade them to let us remain in 'Quarantine,' then, for a few days?” said Helen, smiling.
“Oh, no! Helen, nothing of the kind; Mr. Dempsey must not be put to any troublesome negotiations, on our account. There surely must be an hotel of some sort in the town.”
“This is a nice mess!” muttered Paul, who began to anticipate some of the miseries his good nature might cost him.
“A few days, a week at furthest, I hope, will enable us to communicate with our law adviser, and decide upon some more suitable abode. Could you, then, for the meanwhile, suggest a comfortable inn, or if not, a lodging in the town?”
Paul wrung his hands in dismay, but uttered not a syllable.
“To be candid, Mr. Dempsey,” said Helen, “my father has a horror of these kind of places, and you could recommend us no country inn, however humble, where he would not be better pleased to hear of our taking refuge.”
“But, Fumbally's! the best-known boarding-house in the North.”
“I should be sincerely grieved, to be understood as uttering one syllable in its disparagement,” rejoined Lady Eleanor; “I could not ask for a more satisfactory voucher of its respectability; but ours are peculiar circumstances.”
“Only a pound a week,” struck in Paul, “with extras.”
“Nothing could be more reasonable; but pray understand me, I speak of course in great ignorance, but it would appear to me that persons living together in this fashion have a kind of right to know something of those who present themselves for the first time amongst them. Now, there are many reasons why neither my daughter nor myself would like to submit to this species of inquiry.”
“I 'll settle all that,” broke in Paul; “leave that to me, and you 'll have no further trouble about it.”
“You must excuse my reliance even on such discretion,” said Lady Eleanor, with more hauteur than before.
“Are we to understand that there is neither inn nor lodging-house to be found?” said Helen.
“Plenty of both, but full of bagmen,” ejaculated Paul, whose contrivances were all breaking down beneath him.
“What is to be done?” exclaimed Lady Eleanor to her daughter.
“Lord bless you!” cried Paul, in a whining voice, “if you only come down amongst them with that great frill round your neck you wore the first day I saw you at 'The Corvy,' you 'll scare them so, they 'll never have courage to utter a word. There was Miss Daly—when she was here—”
“Miss Daly,-Miss Maria Daly!” exclaimed both ladies together.
“Miss Maria Daly,” repeated Dempsey, with an undue emphasis on every syllable. “She spent the summer with us on the coast.”
“Where had she resided up to that time, may I ask?” said Lady Eleanor, hastily.
“At 'The Corvy'—always at 'The Corvy,' until your arrival.”
“Oh, Helen, think of this!” whispered Lady Eleanor, in a voice tremulous with agitation. “Think what sacrifices we have exacted from our friends,—and now, to learn that while we stand hesitating about encountering the inconveniences of our lot, that we have been subjecting another to that very same difficulty from which we shrink.” Then, turning to Mr. Dempsey, she added,—
“I need not observe, sir, that while I desire no mystery to be thrown around our arrival here, I will not be the less grateful for any restraint the good company may impose on themselves as to inquiries concerning us. We are really not worth the attention, and I should be sorry to impose upon kind credulity by any imaginary claim to distinction.”
“You'll dine below, then?” asked Paul, far more eager to ascertain this fact than any reasons that induced it.
Lady Eleanor bowed; and Dempsey, with a face beaming with delight, arose to withdraw and communicate the happy news to Mrs. Fumbally.