THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE
By Charles James Lever
With Illustrations By Phiz.
In Two Volumes
Vol. II.
Boston: Little, Brown, And Company
1899.
CONTENTS
[ THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE ]
[ CHAPTER I. ] SOME CHARACTERS NEW TO THE KNIGHT AND THE READER
[ CHAPTER II. ] A TALE OF MR. DEMPSEY'S GRANDFATHER
[ CHAPTER III. ] SOME VISITORS AT GWYNNE ABBEY
[ CHAPTER IV. ] A SCENE AT THE ASSIZES
[ CHAPTER V. ] MR. HEFFERNAN'S COUNSELS
[ CHAPTER VI. ] AN UNLOOKED-FOR PROMOTION
[ CHAPTER VII. ] A PARTING INTERVIEW
[ CHAPTER VIII. ] THE FIRE
[ CHAPTER IX. ] BOARDING-HOUSE CRITICISM
[ CHAPTER X. ] DALY'S FAREWELL
[ CHAPTER XI. ] THE DUKE OF YORK'S LEVEE
[ CHAPTER XII. ] THE TWO SIDES OF A MEDAL
[ CHAPTER XIII. ] AN UNCEREMONIOUS VISIT
[ CHAPTER XIV. ] A TÊTE-À-TÊTE AND A LETTER
[ CHAPTER XV. ] A DINNER AT COM HEFFERNAN'S
[ CHAPTER XVI. ] PAUL DEMPSEY'S WALK
[ CHAPTER XVII. ] MR. ANTHONY NICKIE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
[ CHAPTER XVIII. ] A CONVIVIAL EVENING
[ CHAPTER XIX. ] MR. DEMPSEY BEHIND THE SCENE
[ CHAPTER XX. ] MR. HEFFERNAN OUT-MANOEUVRED
[ CHAPTER XXI. ] A BIT OF B Y-P L A Y
[ CHAPTER XXII. ] A GLANCE AT MRS. FUMBALLY'S
[ CHAPTER XXIII. ] THE COAST IN WINTER
[ CHAPTER XXIV. ] THE DOCTOR'S LAST DEVICE
[ CHAPTER XXV. ] A DARK CONSPIRACY
[ CHAPTER XXVI. ] THE LANDING AT ABOUKIR
[ CHAPTER XXVII. ] THE FRENCH RETREAT
[ CHAPTER XXVIII. ] TIDINGS OF THE WOUNDED
[ CHAPTER XXIX. ] THE DAWN OF CONVALESCENCE
[ CHAPTER XXX. ] A BOUDOIR
[ CHAPTER XXXI. ] A LESSON FOR EAVES-DROPPING
[ CHAPTER XXXII. ] A LESSON IN POLITICS
[ CHAPTER XXXIII. ] THE CHANCES OF TRAVEL
[ CHAPTER XXXIV. ] HOME
[ CHAPTER XXXV. ] AN AWKWARD DINNER-PARTY
[ CHAPTER XXXVI. ] AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL
[ CHAPTER XXXVII. ] THE LAST STRUGGLE
[ CHAPTER XXXVIII. ] CONCLUSION
THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE
CHAPTER I. SOME CHARACTERS NEW TO THE KNIGHT AND THE READER
Soon after breakfast the following morning the Knight set out to pay his promised visit to Miss Daly, who had taken up her abode at a little village on the coast, about three miles distant. Had Darcy known that her removal thither had been in consequence of his own arrival at “The Corvy,” the fact would have greatly added to an embarrassment sufficiently great on other grounds. Of this, however, he was not aware; her brother Bagenal accounting for her not inhabiting “The Corvy” as being lonely and desolate, whereas the village of Ballintray was, after its fashion, a little watering-place much frequented in the season by visitors from Coleraine, and other towns still more inland.
Thither now the Knight bent his steps by a little footpath across the fields which, from time to time, approached the seaside, and wound again through the gently undulating surface of that ever-changing tract.
Not a human habitation was in sight; not a living thing was seen to move over that wide expanse; it was solitude the very deepest, and well suited the habit of his mind who now wandered there alone. Deeply lost in thought, he moved onward, his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes downcast; he neither bestowed a glance upon the gloomy desolation of the land prospect, nor one look of admiring wonder at the giant cliffs, which, straight as a wall, formed the barriers against the ocean.
“What a strange turn of fortune!” said he, at length, as relieving his overburdened brain by speech. “I remember well the last day I ever saw her; it was just before my departure for England for my marriage. I remember well driving over to Castle Daly to say good-bye! Perhaps, too, I had some lurking vanity in exhibiting that splendid team of four grays, with two outriders. How perfect it all was! and a proud fellow I was that day! Maria was looking very handsome; she was dressed for riding, but ordered the horses back as I drove up. What spirits she had!—with what zest she seized upon the enjoyments her youth, her beauty, and her fortune gave her!—how ardently she indulged every costly caprice and every whim, as if revelling in the pleasure of extravagance even for its own sake! Fearless in everything, she did indeed seem like a native princess, surrounded by all that barbaric splendor of her father's house, the troops of servants, the equipages without number, the guests that came and went unceasingly, all rendering homage to her beauty. 'T was a gorgeous dream of life, and well she understood how to realize all its enchantment. We scarcely parted good friends on that same last day,” said he, after a pause; “her manner was almost mordant. I can recall the cutting sarcasms she dealt around her,—strange exuberance of high spirits carried away to the wildest flights of fancy; and after all, when, having dropped my glove, I returned to the luncheon-room to seek it, I saw her in a window, bathed in tears; she did not perceive me, and we never met after. Poor girl! were those outpourings of sorrow the compensation nature exacted for the exercise of such brilliant powers of wit and imagination? or had she really, as some believed, a secret attachment somewhere? Who knows? And now we are to meet again, after years of absence,—so fallen too! If it were not for these gray hairs and this wrinkled brow, I could believe it all a dream;—and what is it but a dream, if we are not fashioned to act differently because of our calamities? Events are but shadows if they move us not.”
From thoughts like these he passed on to others,—as to how he should be received, and what changes time might have wrought in her.
“She was so lovely, and might have been so much more so, had she but curbed that ever-rising spirit of mockery that made the sparkling lustre of her eyes seem like the scathing flash of lightning rather than the soft beam of tranquil beauty. How we quarrelled and made up again! what everlasting treaties ratified and broken! and now to look back on this with a heart and a spirit weary, how sad it seems! Poor Maria! her destiny has been less happy than mine. She is alone in the world; I have affectionate hearts around me to make a home beneath the humble roof of a cabin.”
The Knight was aroused from his musings by suddenly finding himself on the brow of a hill, from which the gorge descended abruptly into a little cove, around which the village of Ballintray was built. A row of whitewashed cottages, in winter inhabited by the fishermen and their families, became in the summer season the residence of the visitors, many of whom deserted spacious and well-furnished mansions to pass their days in the squalid discomfort of a cabin. If beauty of situation and picturesque charms of scenery could ever atone for so many inconveniences incurred, this little village might certainly have done so. Landlocked by two jutting promontories, the bay was sheltered both east and westward, while the rising ground behind defended it from the sweeping storms which the south brings in its seasons of rain; in front the distant island of Isla could be seen, and the Scottish coast was always discernible in the clear atmosphere of the evening.
While Darcy stood admiring the well-chosen spot, his eye rested upon a semicircular panel of wood, which, covering over a short and gravelled avenue, displayed in very striking capitals the words “Fumbally's Boarding-House.” The edifice itself, more pretentious in extent and character than the cabins around, was ornamented with green jalousies to the windows, and a dazzling brass knocker surmounting a plate of the same metal, whereupon the name “Mrs. Jones Fumbally” was legible, even from the road. Some efforts at planting had been made in the two square plots of yellowish grass in front, but they had been lamentable failures; and, as if to show that the demerit was of the soil and not of the proprietors, the dead shrubs were suffered to stand where they had been stuck down, while, in default of leaves or buds, they put forth a plentiful covering of stockings, nightcaps, and other wearables, which flaunted as gayly in the breeze as the owners were doing on the beach.
Across the high-road and on the beach, which was scarcely more than fifty yards distant, stood a large wooden edifice on wheels, whose make suggested some secret of its original destination, had not that fact been otherwise revealed, since, from beneath the significant name of “Fumbally,” an acute decipherer might read the still unerased inscription of “A Panther with only two spots from the head to the tail,” an unhappy collocation which fixed upon the estimable lady the epithet of the animal in question.
Various garden-seats and rustic benches were scattered about, some of which were occupied by lounging figures of gentlemen, in costumes ingeniously a cross between the sporting world and the naval service; while the ladies displayed a no less elegant neglige, half sea-nymph, half shepherdess.
So much for the prospect landward, while towards the waves themselves there was a party of bathers, whose flowing hair and lengthened drapery indicated their sex. These maintained through all their sprightly gambols an animated conversation with a party of gentlemen on the rocks, who seemed, by the telescopes and spy-glasses which lay around them, to be equally prepared for the inspection of near and distant objects, and alternately turned from the criticism of a fair naiad beneath to a Scotch collier working “north about” in the distance.
Darcy could not help feeling that if the cockneyism of a boarding-house and the blinds and the brass knocker were sadly repugnant to the sense of admiration the scene itself would excite, there was an ample compensation in the primitive simplicity of the worthy inhabitants, who seemed to revel in all the unsuspecting freedom of our first parents themselves; for while some stood on little promontories of the rocks in most Canova-like drapery, little frescos of naked children flitted around and about, without concern to themselves or astonishment to the beholders.
Never was the good Knight more convinced of his own prudence in paying his first visit alone, and he stood for some time in patient admiration of the scene, until his eye rested on a figure who, seated at some distance off on a little eminence of the rocky coast, was as coolly surveying Darcy through his telescope. The mutual inspection continued for several minutes, when the stranger, deliberately shutting up his glass, advanced towards the Knight.
The gentleman was short, but stoutly knit, with a walk and a carriage of his head that, to Darcy's observant eye, bespoke an innate sense of self-importance; his dress was a greatcoat, cut jockey fashion, and ornamented with very large buttons, displaying heads of stags, foxes, and badgers, and other emblems of the chase, short Russia duck trousers, a wide-leaved straw hat, and a very loose cravat, knotted sailor-fashion on his breast. As he approached the Knight, he came to a full stop about half a dozen paces in front, and putting his hand to his hat, held it straight above his head, pretty much in the way stage imitators of Napoleon were wont to perform the salutation.
“A stranger, sir, I presume?” said he, with an insinuating smile and an air of dignity at the same moment. Darcy bowed a courteous assent, and the other went on: “Sweet scene, sir,—lovely nature,—animated and grand.”
“Most impressive, I confess,” said Darcy, with difficulty repressing a smile.
“Never here before, I take it?”
“Never, sir.”
“Came from Coleraine, possibly? Walked all the way, eh?”
“I came on foot, as you have divined,” said Darcy, dryly.
“Not going to make any stay, probably; a mere glance, and go on again. Is n't that so?”
“I believe you are quite correct; but may I, in return for your considerate inquiries, ask one question on my own part? You are, perhaps, sufficiently acquainted with the locality to inform me if a Miss Daly resides in this village, and where.”
“Miss Daly, sir, did inhabit that cottage yonder, where you see the oars on the thatch, but it has been let to the Moors of Ballymena; they pay two-ten a week for the three rooms and the use of the kitchen; smart that, ain't it?”
“And Miss Daly resides at present—”
“She 's one of us,” said the little man, with a significant jerk of his thumb to the blue board with the gilt letters; “not much of that, after all; but she lives under the sway of 'Mother Fum,' though, from one caprice or another, she don't mix with the other boarders. Do you know her yourself?”
“I had that honor some years ago.”
“Much altered, I take it, since that; down in the world too! She was an heiress in those days, I 've heard, and a beauty. Has some of the good looks still, but lost all the shiners.”
“Am I likely to find her at home at this hour?” said Darcy, moving away, and anxious for an opportunity to escape his communicative friend.
“No, not now; never shows in the morning. Just comes down to dinner, and disappears again. Never takes a hand at whist—penny points tell up, you know—seem a trifle at first, but hang me if they don't make a figure in the budget afterwards. There, do you see that fat lady with the black bathing-cap?—no, I mean the one with the blue baize patched on the shoulder, the Widow Mackie,—she makes a nice thing of it,—won twelve and fourpence since the first of the month. Pretty creature that yonder, with one stocking on,—Miss Boyle, of Carrick-maclash.”
“I must own,” said Darcy, dryly, “that, not having the privilege of knowing these ladies, I do not conceive myself at liberty to regard them with due attention.”
“Oh! they never mind that here; no secrets among us.”
“Very primitive, and doubtless very delightful; but I have trespassed too long on your politeness. Permit me to wish you a very good morning.”
“Not at all; having nothing in the world to do. Paul Dempsey—that's my name—was always an idle man; Paul Dempsey, sir, nephew of old Paul Dempsey, of Dempsey Grove, in the county of Kilkenny; a snug place, that I wish the proprietor felt he had enjoyed sufficiently long. And your name, if I might make bold, is—”
“I call myself Gwynne,” said Darcy, after a slight hesitation.
“Gwynne—Gwynne—there was a Gwynne, a tailor, in Ballyragget; a connection, probably?”
“I 'm not aware of any relationship,” said Darcy, smiling.
“I 'm glad of it; I owe your brother or your cousin there—that is, if he was either—a sum of seven-and-nine for these ducks. There are Gwynnes in Ross besides, and Quins; are you sure it is not Quin? Very common name Quin.”
“I believe we spell our name as I have pronounced it.” “Well, if you come to spend a little time here, I 'll give you a hint or two. Don't join Leonard—that blue-nosed fellow, yonder, in whiskey. He 'll be asking you, but don't—at it all day.” Here Mr. Dempsey pantomimed the action of tossing off a dram. “No whist with the widow; if you were younger, I 'd say no small plays with Bess Boyle,—has a brother in the Antrim militia, a very quarrelsome fellow.”
“I thank you sincerely for your kind counsel, although not destined to profit by it. I have one favor to ask: could you procure me the means to enclose my card for Miss Daly, as I must relinquish the hope of seeing her on this occasion?”
“No, no,—stop and dine. Capital cod and oysters,—always good. The mutton rayther scraggy, but with a good will and good teeth manageable enough; and excellent malt-”
“I thank you for your hospitable proposal, but cannot accept it.”
“Well, I 'll take care of your card; you 'll probably come over again soon. You 're at M'Grotty's, ain't you?”
“Not at present; and as to the card, with your permission I'll enclose it.” This Darcy was obliged to insist upon; as, if he left his name as Gwynne, Miss Daly might have failed to recognize him, while he desired to avoid being known as Mr. Darcy.
“Well, come in here; I 'll find you the requisites. But I wish you 'd stop and see the 'Panther.'”
Had the Knight overheard this latter portion of Mr.
Dempsey's invitation, he might have been somewhat surprised; but it chanced that the words were lost, and, preceded by honest Paul, he entered the little garden in front of the house.
When Darcy had enclosed his card and committed it to the hands of Mr. Dempsey, that gentleman was far too deeply impressed with the importance of his mission to delay a moment in executing it, and then the Knight was at last left at liberty to retrace his steps unmolested towards home. If he had smiled at the persevering curiosity and eccentric communicativeness of Mr. Dempsey, Darcy sorrowed deeply over the fallen fortunes which condemned one he had known so courted and so flattered once, to companionship like this. The words of the classic satirist came full upon his memory, and never did a sentiment meet more ready acceptance than the bitter, heart-wrung confession, “Unhappy poverty! you have no heavier misery in your train than that you make men seem ridiculous.” A hundred times he wished he had never made the excursion; he would have given anything to be able to think of her as she had been, without the detracting influence of these vulgar associations. “And yet,” said he, half aloud, “a year or so more, if I am still living, I shall probably have forgotten my former position, and shall have conformed myself to the new and narrow limits of my lot, doubtless as she does.”
The quick tramp of feet on the heather behind him roused him, and, in turning, he saw a person coming towards and evidently endeavouring to overtake him. As he came nearer, the Knight perceived it was the gentleman already alluded to by Dempsey as one disposed to certain little traits of conviviality,—a fact which a nose of a deep copper color, and two bloodshot, bleary eyes, corroborated. His dress was a blue frock with a standing collar, military fashion, and dark trousers; and, although bearing palpable marks of long wear, were still neat and clean-looking. His age, as well as appearances might be trusted, was probably between fifty and sixty.
“Mr. Gwynne, I believe, sir,” said the stranger, touching his cap as he spoke. “Miss Daly begged of me to say that she has just received your card, and will be happy to see you.”
Darcy stared at the speaker fixedly, and appeared, while unmindful of his words, to be occupied with some deep emotion within him. The other, who had delivered his message in a tone of easy unconcern, now fixed his eyes on the Knight, and they continued for some seconds to regard each other. Gradually, however, the stranger's face changed; a sickly pallor crept over the features stained by long intemperance, his lip trembled, and two heavy tears gushed out and rolled down his seared cheeks.
“My G—d! can it be? It surely is not!” said Darcy, with almost tremulous earnestness.
“Yes, Colonel, it is the man you once remembered in your regiment as Jack Leonard; the same who led a forlorn hope at Quebec,—the man broke with disgrace and dismissed the service for cowardice at Trois Rivières.”
“Poor fellow!” said Darcy, taking his hand; “I heard you were dead.”
“No, sir, it's very hard to kill a man by mere shame: though if suffering could do it, I might have died.”
“I have often doubted about that sentence, Leonard,” said Darcy, eagerly. “I wrote to the commander-in-chief to have inquiry made, suspecting that nothing short of some affection of the mind or some serious derangement of health could make a brave man behave badly.”
“You were right, sir; I was a drunkard, not a coward. I was unworthy of the service; I merited my disgrace, but not on the grounds for which I met it.”
“Good Heaven! then I was right,” said Darcy, in a burst of passionate grief; “my letter to the War Office was unanswered. I wrote again, and received for reply that an example was necessary, and Lieutenant Leonard's conduct pointed him out as the most suitable case for heavy punishment.”
“It was but just, Colonel; I was a poltroon when I took more than half a bottle of wine. If I were not sober now, I could not have the courage to face you here where I stand.”
“Poor Jack!” said Darcy, wringing his hand cordially; “and what have you done since?”
Leonard threw his eyes down upon his threadbare garments, his patched boots, and the white-worn seams of his old frock, but not a word escaped his lips. They walked on for some time side by side without speaking, when Leonard said,—
“They know nothing of me here, Colonel. I need not ask you to be—cautious.” There was a hesitation before he uttered the last word.
“I do not desire to be recognized, either,” said Darcy, “and prefer being called Mr. Gwynne to the name of my family; and here, if I mistake not, comes a gentleman most eager to learn anything of anybody.”
Mr. Dempsey came up at this moment with a lady leaning on each of his arms.
“Glad to see you again, sir; hope you 've thought better of your plans, and are going to try Mother Fum's fare. Mrs. M'Quirk, Mr. Gwynne—Mr. Gwynne, Miss Drew. Leonard will do the honors till we come back.” So saying, and with a princely wave of his straw hat, Mr. Dempsey resumed his walk with the step of a conqueror.
“That fellow must be a confounded annoyance to you,” said Darcy, as he looked after him.
“Not now, sir,” said the other, submissively; “I 'm used to him; besides, since Miss Daly's arrival he is far quieter than he used to be, he seems afraid of her. But I 'll leave you now, Colonel.” He touched his cap respectfully, and was about to move away, when Darcy, pitying the confusion which overwhelmed him, caught his hand cordially, and said,—
“Well, Jack, for the moment, good-bye; but come over and see me. I live at the little cottage called 'The Corvy.'”
“Good Heaven, sir! and it is true what I read in the newspaper about your misfortunes?”
“I conclude it is, Jack, though I have not read it; they could scarcely have exaggerated.”
“And you bear it like this!” said the other, with a stare of amazement; then added, in a broken voice, “Though, to be sure, there 's a wide difference between loss of fortune and ruined character.”
“Come, Jack, I see you are not so good a philosopher as I thought you. Come and dine with me to-morrow at five.”
“Dine with you, Colonel!” said Leonard, blushing deeply.
“And why not, man? I see you have not forgotten the injustice I once did you, and I am happier this day to know it was I was in the wrong than that a British officer was a coward.”
“Oh, Colonel Darcy, I did not think this poor broken heart could ever throb again with gratitude, but you have made it do so; you have kindled the flame of pride where the ashes were almost cold.” And with a burning blush upon his face he turned away. Darcy looked after him for a second, and then entered the house.
Darcy had barely time to throw one glance around the scanty furniture of the modest parlor into which he was ushered, when Miss Daly entered. She stopped suddenly short, and for a few seconds each regarded the other without speaking. Time had, indeed, worked many changes in the appearance of each for which they were unprepared; but no less were they unprepared for the emotions this sudden meeting was to call up.
Miss Daly was plainly but handsomely dressed, and wore her silvery hair beneath a cap in two long bands on either cheek, with something of an imitation of a mode she followed in youth; the tones of her voice, too, were wonderfully little changed, and fell upon Darcy's ears with a strange, melancholy meaning.
“We little thought, Knight,” said she, “when we parted last, that our next meeting would have been as this, so many years and many sorrows have passed over us since that day!”
“And a large measure of happiness, too, Maria,” said Darcy, as, taking her hand, he led her to a seat; “let us never forget, amid all our troubles, how many blessings we have enjoyed.”
Whether it was the words themselves that agitated her, or something in his manner of uttering them, Miss Daly blushed deeply and was silent. Darcy was not slow to see her confusion, and suddenly remembering how inapplicable his remark was to her fortunes, though not to his own, added hastily, “I, at least, would be very ungrateful if I could not look back with thankfulness to a long life of prosperity and happiness; and if I bear my present reverses with less repining, it is, I hope and trust, from the sincerity of this feeling.”
“You have enjoyed the sunny path in life,” said Miss Daly, in a low, faint voice, “and it is, perhaps, as you say, reason for enduring altered fortunes better.” She paused, and then, with a more hurried voice, added: “One does not bear calamity better from habit; that is all a mistake. When the temper is soured by disappointment, the spirit of endurance loses its firmest ally. Your misfortunes will, however, be short-lived, I hope; my brother writes me he has great confidence in some legal opinions, and certain steps he has already taken in chancery.”
“The warm-hearted and the generous are always sanguine,” said Darcy, with a sad smile; “Bagenal would not be your brother if he could see a friend in difficulty without venturing on everything to rescue him. What an old friendship ours has been! class fellows at school, companions in youth, we have run our race together, to end with fortune how similar! I was thinking, Maria, as I came along, of Castle Daly, and remembering how I passed my holidays with you there. Is your memory as good as mine?”
“I scarcely like to think of Castle Daly,” said she, almost pettishly, “it reminds me so much of that wasteful, reckless life which laid the foundation of our ruin. Tell me how Lady Eleanor Darcy bears up, and your daughter, of whom I have heard so much, and desire so ardently to see; is she more English or Irish?”
“A thorough Darcy,” said the Knight, smiling, “but yet with traits of soft submission and patient trust our family has been but rarely gifted with; her virtues are all the mother's, every blemish of her character has come from the other side.”
“Is she rash and headstrong? for those are Darcy failings.”
“Not more daring or courageous than I love her to be,” said Darcy, proudly, “not a whit more impetuous in sustaining the right or denouncing the wrong than I glory to see her; but too ardent, perhaps, too easily carried away by first impressions, than is either fashionable or frequent in the colder world.”
“It is a dangerous temper,” said Miss Daly, thoughtfully.
“You are right, Maria; such people are for the most part like the gamester who has but one throw for his fortune, if he loses which, all is lost with it.”
“Too true, too true!” said she, in an accent whose melancholy sadness seemed to come from the heart. “You must guard her carefully from any rash attachment; a character like hers is strong to endure, but not less certain to sink under calamity.”
“I know it, I feel it,” said Darcy; “but my dear child is still too young to have mixed in that world which is already closed against her; her affections could never have strayed beyond the limits of our little home circle; she has kept all her love for those who need it most.”
“And Lady Eleanor?” said Miss Daly, as if suddenly desirous to change the theme: “Bagenal tells me her health has been but indifferent; how does she bear our less genial climate here?”
“She 's better than for many years past; I could even say she 's happier. Strange it is, Maria, but the course of prosperity, like the calms in the ocean, too frequently steep the faculties in an apathy that becomes weariness; but when the clouds are drifted along faster, and the waves rustle at the prow, the energies of life are again excited, and the very occasion of danger begets the courage to confront it. We cannot be happy when devoid of self-esteem, and there is but little opportunity to indulge this honest pride when the world goes fairly with us, without any effort of our own; reverses of fortune—”
“Oh, reverses of fortune!” interrupted Miss Daly, rapidly, “people think much more about them than they merit; it is the world itself makes them so difficult to bear; one can think and act as freely beneath the thatch of a cabin as the gilded roof of a palace. It is the mock sympathy, the affected condolence for your fallen estate, that tortures you; the never-ending recurrence to what you once were, contrasted with what you are; the cruelty of that friendship that is never content save when reminding you of a station lost forever, and seeking to unfit you for your humble path in the valley because your step was once proudly on the mountain-top.”
“I will not concede all this,” said the Knight, mildly; “my fall has been too recent not to remind me of many kindnesses.”
“I hate pity,” said Miss Daly; “it is like a recommendation to mercy after the sentence of an unjust judge. Now tell me of Lionel.”
“A fine, high-spirited soldier, as little affected by his loss as though it touched him not; and yet, poor boy! to all appearance a bright career was about to open before him,—well received by the world, honored by the personal notice of his Prince.”
“Ha! now I think of it, why did you not vote against the Minister?”
“It was on that evening,” said Darcy, sorrowfully,—“on that very evening—I heard of Gleeson's flight.”
“Well,”—then suddenly correcting herself, and restraining the question that almost trembled on her lip, she added, “And you were, doubtless, too much shocked to appear in the House?”
“I was ill,” said Darcy, faintly; “indeed, I believe I can say with truth, my own ruin preyed less upon my mind than the perfidy of one so long confided in.”
“And they made this accidental illness the ground of a great attack against your character, and sought to discover in your absence the secret of your corruption. How basely minded men must be, when they will invent not only actions, but motives to calumniate!” She paused, and then muttered to herself, “I wish you had voted against that Bill.”
“It would have done little good,” said the Knight, answering her soliloquy; “my vote could neither retard nor prevent the measure, and as for myself, personally, I am proud enough to think I have given sufficient guarantees by a long life of independent action, not to need this crowning test of honesty. Now to matters nearer to us both: when will you come and visit my wife and daughter? or shall I bring them here to you?”
“No, no, not here. I am not ashamed of this place for myself, though I should be so if they were once to see it.”
“But you feel less lonely,” said Darcy, in a gentle tone, as if anticipating the reason of her choice of residence.
“Less lonely!” replied she, with a haughty laugh; “what companionship or society have I with people like these? It is not that,—it is my poverty compels me to live here. Of them and of their habits I know nothing; from me and from mine they take good care to keep aloof. No, with your leave I will visit Lady Eleanor at your cottage,—that is, if she has no objection to receive me.”
“She will be but too happy,” said Darcy, “to know and value one of her husband's oldest and warmest friends.”
“You must not expect me soon, however,” said she, hastily; “I have grown capricious in everything, and never can answer for performing a pledge at any stated time, and therefore never make one.”
Abrupt and sudden as had been the changes of her voice and manner through this interview, there was a tone of unusual harshness in the way this speech was uttered; and as Darcy rose to take his leave, a feeling of sadness came over him to think that this frame of mind must have been the slow result of years of heart-consuming sorrow.
“Whenever you come, Maria,” said he, as he took her hand in his, “you will be most welcome to us.”
“Have you heard any tidings of Forester?” said Miss Daly, as if suddenly recalling a subject she wished to speak on.
“Forester of the Guards? Lionel's friend, do you mean?”
“Yes; you know that he has left the army, thrown up his commission, and gone no one knows where?”
“I did not know of that before. I am sincerely sorry for it. Is the cause surmised?”
Miss Daly made no answer, but stood with her eyes bent on the ground, and apparently in deep thought; then looking up suddenly, she said, with more composure than ordinary, “Make my compliments to Lady Eleanor, and say that at the first favorable moment I will pay my personal respects to her—kiss Helen for me—good-bye.” And, without waiting for Darcy to take his leave, she walked hastily by, and closed the door after her.
“This wayward manner,” said Darcy, sorrowfully, to himself, “has a deeper root than mere capriciousness; the heart has suffered so long that the mind begins to partake of the decay.” And with this sad reflection he left the village, and turned his solitary steps towards home.
If Darcy was grieved to find Miss Daly surrounded by such unsuitable companionship, he was more thau recompensed at finding that her taste rejected nearer intimacy with Mrs. Fumbally's household. More than once the fear crossed his mind that, with diminished circumstances, she might have lapsed into habits so different from her former life, and he could better look upon her struggling as she did against her adverse fortune than assimilating herself to those as much below her in sentiment as in station. He was happy to have seen his old friend once more, he was glad to refresh his memory of long-forgotten scenes by the sight of her who had been his playfellow and his companion, but he was not free of a certain dread that Miss Daly would scarcely be acceptable to his wife, while her wayward, uncertain temper would form no safe companionship for his daughter. As he pondered on these things, he began to feel how altered circumstances beget suspicion, and how he, who had never known the feeling of distrust, now found himself hesitating and doubting, where formerly he had acted without fear or reserve.
“Yes,” said he, aloud, “when wealth and station were mine, the consciousness of power gave energy to my thoughts, but now I am to learn how narrow means can fetter a man's courage.”
“Some truth in that,” said a voice behind him; “would cut a very different figure myself if old Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey Grove, were to betake himself to a better world.”
Darcy's cheek reddened between shame and anger to find himself overheard by his obtrusive companion, and, with a cold salute, he passed on. Mr. Dempsey, however, was not a man to be so easily got rid of; he possessed that happy temper that renders its owner insensible to shame and unconscious of rebuke; besides that, he was always “going your way,” quite content to submit to any amount of rebuff rather than be alone. If you talked, it was well; if you listened, it was better; but if you affected open indifference to him, and neither exchanged a word nor vouchsafed the slightest attention, even that was supportable, for he could give the conversation a character of monologue or anecdote, which occupied himself at least.
CHAPTER II. A TALE OF MR. DEMPSEY'S GRANDFATHER
The Knight of Gwynne was far too much occupied in his own reflections to attend to his companion, and exhibited a total unconcern to several piquant little narratives of Mrs. Mackie's dexterity in dealing the cards, of Mrs. Fumbally's parsimony in domestic arrangements, of Miss Boyle's effrontery, of Leonard's intemperance, and even of Miss Daly's assumed superiority.
“You 're taking the wrong path,” said Mr. Dempsey, suddenly interrupting one of his own narratives, at a spot where the two roads diverged,—one proceeding inland, while the other followed the line of the coast.
“With your leave, sir,” said Darcy, coldly, “I will take this way, and if you 'll kindly permit it, I will do so alone.”
“Oh, certainly!” said Dempsey, without the slightest sign of umbrage; “would never have thought of joining you had it not been from overhearing an expression so exactly pat to my own condition, that I thought we were brothers in misfortune; you scarcely bear up as well as I do, though.”
Darcy turned abruptly round, as the fear flashed across him, and he muttered to himself, “This fellow knows me; if so, the whole county will soon be as wise as himself, and the place become intolerable.” Oppressed with this unpleasant reflection, the Knight moved on, nor was it till after a considerable interval that he was conscious of his companion's presence; for Mr. Dempsey still accompanied him, though at the distance of several paces, and as if following a path of his own choosing.
Darcy laughed good-humoredly at the pertinacity of his tormentor; and half amused by the man, and half ashamed of his own rudeness to him, he made some casual observation on the scenery to open a reconciliation.
“The coast is much finer,” said Dempsey, “close to your cottage.”
This was a home-thrust for the Knight, to show him that concealment was of no use against so subtle an adversary.
“'The Corvy' is, as you observe, very happily situated,” replied Darcy, calmly; “I scarcely know which to prefer,—the coast-line towards Dunluce, or the bold cliffs that stretch away to Bengore.”
“When the wind comes north-by-west,” said Dempsey, with a shrewd glance of his greenish gray eyes, “there 's always a wreck or two between the Skerries and Portrush.”
“Indeed! Is the shore so unsafe as that?”
“Oh, yes. You may expect a very busy winter here when the homeward-bound Americans are coming northward.”
“D——n the fellow! does he take me for a wrecker?” said Darcy to himself, not knowing whether to laugh or be angry.
“Such a curiosity that old 'Corvy' is, they tell me,” said Dempsey, emboldened by his success; “every species of weapon and arm in the world, they say, gathered together there.”
“A few swords and muskets,” said the Knight, carelessly; “a stray dirk or two, and some harpoons, furnish the greater part of the armory.”
“Oh, perhaps so! The story goes, however, that old Daly—brother, I believe, of our friend at Mother Fum's—could arm twenty fellows at a moment's warning, and did so on more than one occasion too.”
“With what object, in Heaven's name?”
“Buccaneering, piracy, wrecking, and so on,” said Dempsey, with all the unconcern with which he would have enumerated so many pursuits of the chase.
A hearty roar of laughter broke from the Knight; and when it ceased he said, “I would be sincerely sorry to stand in your shoes, Mr. Dempsey, so near to yonder cliff, if you made that same remark in Mr. Daly's hearing.”
“He 'd gain very little by me,” said Mr. Dempsey; “one and eightpence, an old watch, an oyster-knife, and my spectacles, are all the property in my possession—except, when, indeed,” added he, after a pause, “Bob remits the quarter's allowance.”
“It is only just,” said Darcy, gravely, “to a gentleman who takes such pains to inform himself on the affairs of his neighbors, that I should tell you that Mr. Bagenal Daly is not a pirate, nor am I a wrecker. I am sure you will be generous enough for this unasked information not to require of me a more lengthened account either of my friend or myself.”
“You 're in the Revenue, perhaps?” interrupted the undaunted Dempsey; “I thought so when I saw you first.”
Darcy shook his head in dissent.
“Wrong again. Ah! I see it all; the old story. Saw better days—you have just come down here to lie snug and quiet, out of the way of writs and latitats—went too fast—by Jove, that touches myself too! If I hadn't happened to have a grandfather, I 'd have been a rich man this day. Did you ever chance to hear of Dodd and Dempsey, the great wine-merchants? My father was son of Dodd and Dempsey,—that is Dempsey, you know; and it was his father-Sam Dempsey—ruined him.”
“No very uncommon circumstance,” said the Knight, sorrowfully, “for an Irish father.”
“You 've heard the story, I suppose?—of course you have; every one knows it.”
“I rather think not,” said the Knight, who was by no means sorry to turn Mr. Dempsey from cross-examination into mere narrative.
“I 'll tell it to you; I am sure I ought to know it well, I 've heard my father relate it something like a hundred times.”
“I fear I must decline so pleasant a proposal,” said Darcy, smiling. “At this moment I have an engagement.”
“Never mind. To-morrow will do just as well,” interrupted the inexorable Dempsey. “Come over and take your mutton-chop with me at five, and you shall have the story into the bargain.”
“I regret that I cannot accept so very tempting an invitation,” said Darcy, struggling between his sense of pride and a feeling of astonishment at his companion's coolness.
“Not come to dinner!” exclaimed Dempsey, as if the thing was scarcely credible. “Oh, very well, only remember”—and here he put an unusual gravity into his words—“only remember the onus is now on you.”
The Knight burst into a hearty laugh at this subtle retort, and, willing as he ever was to go with the humor of the moment, replied,—
“I am ready to accept it, sir, and beg that you will dine with me.”
“When and where?” said Dempsey.
“To-morrow, at that cottage yonder: five is your hour, I believe—we shall say five.”
“Booked!” exclaimed Dempsey, with an air of triumph; while he muttered, with a scarcely subdued voice, “Knew I'd do it!—never failed in my life!”
“Till then, Mr. Dempsey,” said Darcy, removing his hat courteously, as he bowed to him,—“till then—”
“Your most obedient,” replied Dempsey, returning the salute; and so they parted.
“The Corvy,” on the day after the Knight's visit to Port Ballintray, was a scene of rather amusing bustle; the Knight's dinner-party, as Helen quizzingly called it, affording occupation for every member of the household. In former times, the only difficult details of an entertainment were in the selection of the guests,—bringing together a company likely to be suitable to each other, and endowed with those various qualities which make up the success of society; now, however, the question was the more material one,—the dinner itself.
It is always a fortunate thing when whatever absurdity our calamities in life excite should be apparent only to ourselves. The laugh which is so difficult to bear from the world is then an actual relief from our troubles. The Darcys felt this truth, as each little embarrassment that arose was food for mirth; and Lady Eleanor, who least of all could adapt herself to such contingencies, became as eager as the rest about the little preparations of the day.
While the Knight hurried hither and thither, giving directions here and instructions there, he explained to Lady Eleanor some few circumstances respecting the character of his guests. It was, indeed, a new kind of company he was about to present to his wife and daughter; but while conscious of the disparity in every respect, he was not the less eager to do the hospitalities of his humble house with all becoming honor. It is true his invitation to Mr. Dempsey was rather forced from him than willingly accorded; he was about the very last kind of person Darcy would have asked to his table, if perfectly free to choose; but, of all men living, the Knight knew least how to escape from a difficulty the outlet to which should cost him any sacrifice of feeling.
“Well, well, it is but once and away; and, after all, the talkativeness of our little friend Dempsey will be so far a relief to poor Leonard, that he will be brought less prominently forward himself, and be suffered to escape unremarked,—a circumstance which, from all that I can see, will afford him sincere pleasure.”
At length all the preparations were happily accomplished: the emissary despatched to Kilrush at daybreak had returned with a much-coveted turkey; the fisherman had succeeded in capturing a lordly salmon; oysters and lobsters poured in abundantly; and Mrs. M'Kerrigan, who had been left as a fixture at “The Corvy,” found her only embarrassment in selection from that profusion of “God's gifts,” as she phrased it, that now surrounded her. The hour of five drew near, and the ladies were seated in the hall, the doors of which lay open, as the two guests were seen making their way towards the cottage.
“Here they come, papa,” said Helen; “and now for a guess. Is not the short man with the straw hat Mr. Dempsey, and his tall companion Mr. Leonard?”
“Of course it is,” said Lady Eleanor; “who could mistake the garrulous pertinacity of that little thing that gesticulates at every step, or the plodding patience of his melancholy associate?”
The next moment the Knight was welcoming them in front of the cottage. The ceremony of introduction to the ladies being over, Mr. Dempsey, who probably was aware that the demands upon his descriptive powers would not be inconsiderable when he returned to “Mother Fum's,” put his glass to his eye, and commenced a very close scrutiny of the apartment and its contents.
“Quite a show-box, by Jove!” said he, at last, as he peered through a glass cabinet, where Chinese slippers, with models in ivory and carvings in box, were heaped promiscuously together; “upon my word, sir, you have a very remarkable collection. And who may be our friend in the boat here?” added he, turning to the grim visage of Bagenal Daly himself, who stared with a bold effrontery that would not have disgraced the original.
“The gentleman you see there,” said the Knight, “is the collector himself, and the other is his servant. They are represented in the costumes in which they made their escape from a captivity among the red men.”
“Begad!” said Dempsey, “that fellow with the tortoise painted on his forehead has a look of our old friend, Miss Daly; should n't wonder if he was a member of her family.”
“You have well guessed it; he is the lady's brother.”
“Ah, ah!” muttered Dempsey to himself, “always thought there was something odd about her,—never suspected Indian blood, however. How Mother Fum will stare when I tell her she's a Squaw! Didn't they show these things at the Rooms in Mary's Street? I think I saw them advertised in the papers.”
“I think you must mistake,” said the Knight; “they are the private collection of my friend.”
“And where may Woc-woc—confound his name!—the 'Howling Wind,' as he is pleased to call himself, be passing his leisure hours just now?”
“He is at present in Dublin, sir; and if you desire, he shall be made aware of your polite inquiries.”
“No, no—hang it, no!—don't like the look of him. Should have no objection, though, if he 'd pay old Bob Dempsey a visit, and frighten him out of this world for me.”
“Dinner, my lady,” said old Tate, as he threw open the doors into the dining-room, and bowed with all his accustomed solemnity.
“Hum!” muttered Dempsey, “my lady won't go down with me,-too old a soldier for that!”
“Will you give my daughter your arm?” said the Knight to the little man, for already Lady Eleanor had passed on with Mr. Leonard.
As Mr. Dempsey arranged his napkin on his knee, he endeavored to catch Leonard's eye, and telegraph to him his astonishment at the elegance of the table equipage which graced the board. Poor Leonard, however, seldom looked up; a deep sense of shame, the agonizing memory of what he once was, recalled vividly by the sight of those objects, and the appearance of persons which reminded him of his past condition, almost stunned him. The whole seemed like a dream; even though intemperance had degraded him, there were intervals in which his mind, clear to see and reflect, sorrowed deeply over his fallen state. Had the Knight met him with a cold and repulsive deportment, or had he refused to acknowledge him altogether, he could better have borne it than all the kindness of his present manner. It was evident, too, from Lady Eleanor's tone to him, that she knew nothing of his unhappy fortune, or that if she did, the delicacy with which she treated him was only the more benevolent. Oppressed by such emotions, he sat endeavoring to eat, and trying to listen and interest himself in the conversation around him; but the effort was too much for his strength, and a vague, half-whispered assent, or a dull, unmeaning smile, were about as much as he could contribute to what was passing.
The Knight, whose tact was rarely at fault, saw every straggle that was passing in Leonard's mind, and adroitly contrived that the conversation should be carried on without any demand upon him, either as talker or listener. If Lady Eleanor and Helen contributed their aid to this end, Mr. Dempsey was not backward on his part, for he talked unceasingly. The good things of the table, to which he did ample justice, afforded an opportunity for catechizing the ladies in their skill in household matters; and Miss Darcy, who seemed immensely amused by the novelty of such a character, sustained her part to admiration, entering deeply into culinary details, and communicating receipts invented for the occasion. At another time, perhaps, the Knight would have checked the spirit of persiflage in which his daughter indulged; but he suffered it now to take its course, well pleased that the mark of her ridicule was not only worthy of the sarcasm, but insensible to its arrow.
“Quite right,-quite right not to try Mother Fum's when you can get up a little thing like this,-and such capital sherry; look how Tom takes it in,-slips like oil over his lip!”
Leonard looked up. An expression of rebuking severity for a moment crossed his features; but his eyes fell the next instant, and a low, faint sigh escaped him.
“I ought to know what sherry is,—'Dodd and Dempsey's' was the great house for sherry.”
“By the way,” said the Knight, “did not you promise me a little narrative of Dodd and Dempsey, when we parted yesterday?”
“To be sure, I did. Will you have it now?”
Lady Eleanor and Helen rose to withdraw; but Mr. Dempsey, who took the movement as significant, immediately interposed, by saying,—
“Don't stir, ma'am,-sit down, ladies, I beg; there's nothing broad in the story,—it might be told before the maids of honor.”
Lady Eleanor and Helen were thunderstruck at the explanation, and the Knight laughed till the tears came.
“My dear Eleanor,” said he, “you really must accept Mr. Dempsey's assurance, and listen to his story now.”
The ladies took their seats once more, and Mr. Dempsey, having filled his glass, drank off a bumper; but whether it was that the narrative itself demanded a greater exertion at his hands, or that the cold quietude of Lady Eleanor's manner abashed him, but he found a second bumper necessary before he commenced his task.
“I say,” whispered he to the Knight, “couldn't you get that decanter out of Leonard's reach before I begin? He'll not leave a drop in it while I am talking.”
As if he felt that, after his explanation, the tale should be more particularly addressed to Lady Eleanor, he turned his chair round so as to face her, and thus began:—
“There was once upon a time, ma'am, a Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland who was a Duke. Whether he was Duke of Rutland, or Bedford, or Portland, or any other title it was he had, my memory does n't serve me; it is enough, however, if I say he was immensely rich, and, like many other people in the same way, immensely in debt. The story goes that he never travelled through England, and caught sight of a handsome place, or fine domain, or a beautiful cottage, that he did n't go straightway to the owner and buy it down out of the face, as a body might say, whether he would or no. And so in time it came to pass that there was scarcely a county in England without some magnificent house belonging to him. In many parts of Scotland he had them too, and in all probability he would have done the same in Ireland, if he could. Well, ma'am, there never was such rejoicings as Dublin saw the night his Grace arrived to be our Viceroy. To know that we had got a man with one hundred and fifty thousand a year, and a spirit to spend double the money, was a downright blessing from Providence, and there was no saying what might not be the prosperity of Ireland under so auspicious a ruler.
“To do him justice, he did n't balk public expectation. Open house at the Castle, ditto at the Lodge in the Park, a mansion full of guests in the county Wicklow, a pack of hounds in Kildare, twelve horses training at the Curragh, a yacht like a little man-of-war in Dunleary harbor, large subscriptions to everything like sport, and a pension for life to every man that could sing a jolly song, or write a witty bit of poetry. Well, ma'am, they say, who remember those days, that they saw the best of Ireland; and surely I believe, if his Grace had only lived, and had his own way, the peerage would have been as pleasant, and the bench of bishops as droll, and the ladies of honor as—Well, never mind, I 'll pass on.” Here Mr. Dempsey, to console himself for the abruptness of his pause, poured out and drank another bumper of sherry. “Pleasant times they were.” said he, smacking his lips; “and faith, if Tom Leonard himself was alive then, the color of his nose might have made him Commander of the Forces; but, to continue, it was Dodd and Dempsey's house supplied the sherry,-only the sherry, ma'am; old Stewart, of Belfast, had the port, and Kinnahan the claret and lighter liquors. I may mention, by the way, that my grandfather's contract included brandy, and that he would n't have given it up for either of the other two. It was just about this time that Dodd died, and my grandfather was left alone in the firm; but whether it was out of respect for his late partner, or that he might have felt himself lonely, but he always kept up the name of Dodd on the brass plate, and signed the name along with his own; indeed, they say that he once saluted his wife by the name of Mrs. Dodd and Dempsey. But, as I was saying, it was one of those days when my grandfather was seated on a high stool in the back office of his house in Abbey Street, that a fine, tall young fellow, with a blue frock-coat, all braided with gold, and an elegant cocked-hat, with a plume of feathers in it, came tramping into the room, his spurs jingling, and his brass sabre clinking, and his sabretash banging at his legs.
“'Mr. Dempsey?' said he.
“'D. and D.,' said my grandfather,—'that is, Dodd and Dempsey, your Grace,' for he half suspected it was the Duke himself.
“'I am Captain M'Claverty, of the Scots Greys,' said he, 'first aide-de-camp to his Excellency.'
“'I hope you may live to be colonel of the regiment,' said my grandfather, for he was as polite and well-bred as any man in Ireland.
“'That's too good a sentiment,' said the captain, 'not to be pledged in a glass of your own sherry.'
“'And we'll do it too,' said old Dempsey. And he opened the desk, and took out a bottle he had for his own private drinking, and uncorked it with a little pocket corkscrew he always carried about with him, and he produced two glasses, and he and the captain hobnobbed and drank to each other.
“'Begad!' said the captain, 'his Grace sent me to thank you for the delicious wine you supplied him with, but it's nothing to this,—-not to be compared to it.'
“'I 've better again,' said my grandfather. 'I 've wine that would bring the tears into your eyes when you saw the decanter getting low.'
“The captain stared at him, and maybe it was that the speech was too much for his nerves, but he drank off two glasses one after the other as quick as he could fill them out.
“'Dempsey,' said he, looking round cautiously, 'are we alone?'
“'We are,' said my grandfather.
“'Tell me, then,' said M'Claverty, 'how could his Grace get a taste of this real sherry—for himself alone, I mean? Of course, I never thought of his giving it to the Judges, and old Lord Dunboyne, and such like.'
“'Does he ever take a little sup in his own room, of an evening?'
“'I am afraid not, but I 'll tell you how I think it might be managed. You 're a snug fellow, Dempsey, you 've plenty of money muddling away in the bank at three-and-a-half per cent; could n't you contrive, some way or other, to get into his Excellency's confidence, and lend him ten or fifteen thousand or so?'
“'Ay, or twenty,' said my grandfather,—'or twenty, if he likes it'
“'I doubt if he would accept such a sum,' said the captain, shaking his head; 'he has bags of money rolling in upon him every week or fortnight; sometimes we don't know where to put them.'
“'Oh, of course,' said my grandfather; 'I meant no offence, I only said twenty, because, if his Grace would condescend, it is n't twenty, but a fifty thousand I could give him, and on the nail too.'
“'You're a fine fellow, Dempsey, a devilish fine fellow; you 're the very kind of fellow the Duke likes,—open-handed, frank, and generous.'
“'Do you really think he'd like me?' said my grandfather; and he rocked on the high stool, so that it nearly came down.
“'Like you! I'll tell you what it is,' said he, laying his hand on my grandfather's knee, 'before one week was over, he could n't do without you. You 'd be there morning, noon, and night; your knife and fork always ready for you, just like one of the family.'
“'Blood alive!' said my grandfather, 'do you tell me so?'
“'I 'll bet you a hundred pounds on it, sir.'
“'Done,' said my grandfather, 'and you must hold the stakes;' and with that he opened his black pocket-book, and put a note for the amount into the captain's hand.
“'This is the 31st of March,' said the captain, taking out his pencil and tablets. 'I 'll just book the bet.'
“And, indeed,” added Mr. Dempsey, “for that matter, if it was a day later it would have been only more suitable.
“Well, ma'am, what passed between them afterwards I never heard said; but the captain took his leave, and left my grandfather so delighted and overjoyed that he finished all the sherry in the drawer, and when the head clerk came in to ask for an invoice, or a thing of the kind, he found old Mr. Dempsey with his wig on the high stool, and he bowing round it, and calling it your Grace. There 's no denying it, ma'am, he was blind drunk.
“About ten days or a fortnight after this time, my grandfather received a note from Teesum and Twist, the solicitors, stating that the draft or the bond was already drawn up for the loan he was about to make his Grace, and begging to know to whom it was to be submitted.
“'The captain will win his bet, devil a lie in it,' said my grandfather; 'he's going to bring the Duke and myself together.'
“Well, ma'am, I won't bother you with the law business, though if my father was telling the story he would not spare you one item of it all,—who read this, and who signed the other, and the objections that was made by them thieving attorneys! and how the Solicitor-General struck out this and put in that clause; but to tell you the truth, ma'am, I think that all the details spoil, what we may call, the poetry of the narrative; it is finer to say he paid the money, and the Duke pocketed it.
“Well, weeks went over and months long, and not a bit of the Duke did my grandfather see, nor M'Claverty either; he never came near him. To be sure, his Grace drank as much sherry as ever; indeed, I believe out of love to my grandfather they drank little else. From the bishops and the chaplain, down to the battle-axe guards, it was sherry, morning, noon, and night; and though this was very pleasing to my grandfather, he was always wishing for the time when he was to be presented to his Grace, and their friendship was to begin. My grandfather could think of nothing else, daylight and dark. When he walked, he was always repeating to himself what his Grace might say to him, and what he would say to his Grace; and he was perpetually going up at eleven o'clock, when the guard was relieved in the Castle-yard, suspecting that every now and then a footman in blue and silver would come out, and, touching his elbow, whisper in his ear, 'Mr. Dempsey, the Duke 's waiting for you.' But, my dear ma'am, he might have waited till now, if Providence had spared him, and the devil a taste of the same message would ever have come near him, or a sight of the same footman in blue! It was neither more nor less than a delusion, or an illusion, or a confusion, or whatever the name of it is. At last, ma'am, in one of his prowlings about the Phoenix Park, who does he come on but M'Claverty? He was riding past in a great hurry; but he pulled up when he saw my grandfather, and called out, 'Hang it! who's this? I ought to know you.'
“'Indeed you ought,' said my grandfather. 'I 'm Dodd and Dempsey, and by the same token there's a little bet between us, and I 'd like to know who won and who lost.'
“'I think there's small doubt about that,' said the captain. 'Did n't his Grace borrow twenty thousand of you?'
“'He did, no doubt of it.'
“'And was n't it my doing?'
“'Upon my conscience, I can't deny it.'
“'Well, then, I won the wager, that's clear.'
“'Oh! I see now,' said my grandfather; 'that was the wager, was it? Oh, bedad! I think you might have given me odds, if that was our bet.'
“'Why, what did you think it was?'
“'Oh, nothing at all, sir. It's no matter now; it was another thing was passing in my mind. I was hoping to have the honor of making his acquaintance, nattered as I was by all you told me about him.'
“'Ah! that's difficult, I confess,' said the captain; 'but still one might do something. He wants a little money just now. If you could make interest to be the lender, I would n't say that what you suggest is impossible.'
“Well, ma'am, it was just as it happened before; the old story,—more parchment, more comparing of deeds, a heavy check on the bank for the amount.
“When it was all done, M'Claverty came in one morning and in plain clothes to my grandfather's back office.
“'Dodd and Dempsey,' said he, 'I 've been thinking over your business, and I'll tell you what my plan is. Old Vereker, the chamberlain, is little better than a beast, thinks nothing of anybody that is n't a lord or a viscount, and, in fact, if he had his will, the Lodge in the Phoenix would be more like Pekin in Tartary than anything else? but I 'll tell you, if he won't present you at the levee, which he flatly refuses at present, I 'll do the thing in a way of my own. His Grace is going to spend a week up at Ballyriggan House, in the county of Wicklow, and I 'll contrive it, when he 's taking his morning walk through the shrubbery, to present you. All you 've to do is to be ready at a turn of the walk. I 'll show you the place, you 'll hear his foot on the gravel, and you 'll slip out, just this way. Leave the rest to me.'
“'It's beautiful,' said my grandfather. 'Begad, that's elegant.'
“'There 's one difficulty,' said M'Claverty,—'one infernal difficulty.'
“'What's that?' asked my grandfather.
“'I may be obliged to be out of the way. I lost five fifties at Daly's the other night, and I may have to cross the water for a few weeks.'
“'Don't let that trouble you,' said my grandfather; 'there's the paper.' And he put the little bit of music into his hand; and sure enough a pleasanter sound than the same crisp squeak of a new note no man ever listened to.
“'It 's agreed upon now?' said my grandfather.
“'All right,' said M'Claverty; and with a jolly slap on the shoulder, he said, 'Good-morning, D. and D. and away he went.
“He was true to his word. That day three weeks my grandfather received a note in pencil; it was signed J. M'C, and ran thus: 'Be up at Ballyriggan at eleven o'clock on Wednesday, and wait at the foot of the hill, near the birch copse, beside the wooden bridge. Keep the left of the path, and lie still.' Begad, ma'am, it's well nobody saw it but himself, or they might have thought that Dodd and Dempsey was turned highwayman.
“My grandfather was prouder of the same note, and happier that morning, than if it was an order for fifty butts of sherry. He read it over and over, and he walked up and down the little back office, picturing out the whole scene, settling the chairs till he made a little avenue between them, and practising the way he 'd slip out slyly and surprise his Grace. No doubt, it would have been as good as a play to have looked at him.
“One difficulty preyed upon his mind,—what dress ought he to wear? Should he be in a court suit, or ought he rather to go in his robes as an alderman? It would never do to appear in a black coat, a light gray spencer, punch-colored shorts and gaiters, white hat with a strip of black crape on it,—mere Dodd and Dempsey! That wasn't to be thought of. If he could only ask his friend M'Hale, the fishmonger, who was knighted last year, he could tell all about it. M'Hale, however, would blab. He 'd tell it to the whole livery; every alderman of Skinner's Alley would know it in a week. No, no, the whole must be managed discreetly; it was a mutual confidence between the Duke and 'D. and D.' 'At all events,' said my grandfather, 'a court dress is a safe thing;' and out he went and bespoke one, to be sent home that evening, for he could n't rest till he tried it on, and felt how he could move his head in the straight collar, and bow, without the sword tripping him up and pitching him into the Duke. I 've heard my father say that in the days that elapsed till the time mentioned for the interview, my grandfather lost two stone in weight. He walked half over the county Dublin, lying in ambush in every little wood he could see, and jumping out whenever he could see or hear any one coming,—little surprises which were sometimes taken as practical jokes, very unbecoming a man of his age and appearance.
“Well, ma'am, Wednesday morning came, and at six o'clock my grandfather was on the way to Ballyriggan, and at nine he was in the wood, posted at the very spot M'Claverty told him, as happy as any man could be whose expectations were so overwhelming. A long hour passed over, and another; nobody passed but a baker's boy with a bull-dog after him, and an old woman that was stealing brushwood in the shrubbery. My grandfather remarked her well, and determined to tell his Grace of it; but his own business soon drove that out of his head, for eleven o'clock came, and now there was no knowing the moment the Duke might appear. With his watch in his hand, he counted the minutes, ay, even the seconds; if he was a thief going to be hanged, and looking out over the heads of the crowd for a fellow to gallop in with a reprieve, he could n't have suffered more: his heart was in his mouth. At last, it might be about half-past eleven, he heard a footstep on the gravel, and then a loud, deep cough,—'a fine kind of cough,' my grandfather afterwards called it. He peeped out; and there, sure enough, at about sixty paces, coming down the walk, was a large, grand-looking man,—not that he was dressed as became him, for, strange as you may think it, the Lord-Lieutenant had on a shooting-jacket, and a pair of plaid trousers, and cloth boots, and a big lump of a stick in his hand,—and lucky it was that my grandfather knew him, for he bought a picture of him. On he came nearer and nearer; every step on the gravel-walk drove out of my grandfather's head half a dozen of the fine things he had got off by heart to say during the interview, until at last he was so overcome by joy, anxiety, and a kind of terror, that he could n't tell where he was, or what was going to happen to him, but he had a kind of instinct that reminded him he was to jump out when the Duke was near him; and 'pon my conscience so he did, clean and clever, into the middle of the walk, right in front of his Grace. My grandfather used to say, in telling the story, that he verily believed his feelings at that moment would have made him burst a blood-vessel if it wasn't that the Duke put his hands to his sides and laughed till the woods rang again; but, between shame and fright, my grandfather did n't join in the laugh.
“'In Heaven's name!' said his Grace, 'who or what are you?—this isn't May-day.'
“My grandfather took this speech as a rebuke for standing so bold in his Grace's presence; and being a shrewd man, and never deficient in tact, what does he do but drops down on his two knees before him? 'My Lord,' said he, 'I am only Dodd and Dempsey.'
“Whatever there was droll about the same house of Dodd and Dempsey I never heard, but his Grace laughed now till he had to lean against a tree. 'Well, Dodd and Dempsey, if that's your name, get up. I don't mean you any harm. Take courage, man; I am not going to knight you. By the way, are you not the worthy gentleman who lent me a trifle of twenty thousand more than once?'
“My grandfather could n't speak, but he moved his lips, and he moved his bands, this way, as though to say the honor was too great for him, but it was all true.
“'Well, Dodd and Dempsey, I 've a very high respect for you,' said his Grace; 'I intend, some of these fine days, when business permits, to go over and eat an oyster at your villa on the coast.'
“My grandfather remembers no more; indeed, ma'am, I believe that at that instant his Grace's condescension had so much overwhelmed him that he had a kind of vision before his eyes of a whole wood full of Lord-Lieutenants, with about thirty thousand people opening oysters for them as fast as they could eat, and he himself running about with a pepper-caster, pressing them to eat another 'black fin.' It was something of that kind; for when he got on his legs a considerable time must have elapsed, as he found all silent around him, and a smart rheumatic pain in his knee-joints from the cold of the ground.
“The first thing my grandfather did when he got back to town was to remember that he had no villa on the sea-coast, nor any more suitable place to eat an oyster than his house in Abbey Street, for he could n't ask his Grace to go to 'Killeen's.' Accordingly he set out the next day in search of a villa, and before a week was over he had as beautiful a place about a mile below Howth as ever was looked at; and that he mightn't be taken short, he took a lease of two oyster-beds, and made every preparation in life for the Duke's visit. He might have spared himself the trouble. Whether it was that somebody had said something of him behind his back, or that politics were weighing on the Duke's mind,—the Catholics were mighty troublesome then,—or, indeed, that he forgot it altogether, clean, but so it was, my grandfather never heard more of the visit, and if the oysters waited for his Grace to come and eat them, they might have filled up Howth harbor.
“A year passed over, and my grandfather was taking his solitary walk in the Park, very nearly in the same place as before,—for you see, ma'am, he could n't bear the sight of the seacoast, and the very smell of shell-fish made him ill,—when somebody called out his name. He looked up, and there was M'Claverty in a gig.
“'Well, D. and D., how goes the world with you?'
“'Very badly indeed,' says my grandfather; his heart was full, and he just told him the whole story.
“'I'll settle it all,' said the captain; 'leave it to me. There 's to be a review to-morrow in the Park; get on the back of the best horse you can find,—the Duke is a capital judge of a nag,—ride him briskly about the field; he 'll notice you, never fear; the whole thing will come up before his memory, and you 'll have him to breakfast before the week's over.'
“'Do you think so?—do you really think so?'
“'I 'll take my oath of it. I say, D. and D., could you do a little thing at a short date just now?'
“'If it was n't too heavy,' said my grandfather, with a faint sigh.
“'Only a hundred.'
“'Well,' said he, 'you may send it down to the office. Good-bye.' And with that he turned back towards town again; not to go home, however, for he knew well there was no time to lose, but straight he goes to Dycer's,—it was old Tom was alive in those days, and a shrewder man than Tom Dycer there never lived. They tell you, ma'am, there 's chaps in London that if you send them your height, and your width, and your girth round the waist, they 'll make you a suit of clothes that will fit you like your own skin; but, 'pon my conscience, I believe if you 'd give your age and the color of your hair to old Tom Dycer, he could provide you a horse the very thing to carry you. Whenever a stranger used to come into the yard, Tom would throw a look at him, out of the corner of his eye,—for he had only one, there was a feather on the other,—Tom would throw a look at him, and he'd shout out, 'Bring out 42; take out that brown mare with the white fetlocks.' That's the way he had of doing business, and the odds were five to one but the gentleman rode out half an hour after on the beast Tom intended for him. This suited my grandfather's knuckle well; for when he told him that it was a horse to ride before the Lord-Lieutenant he wanted, 'Bedad,' says Tom, 'I'll give you one you might ride before the Emperor of Chaney.—Here, Dennis, trot out 176.' To all appearance, ma'am, 176 was no common beast, for every man in the yard, big and little, set off, when they heard the order, down to the stall where he stood, and at last two doors were flung wide open, and out he came with a man leading him. He was seventeen hands two if he was an inch, bright gray, with flea-bitten marks all over him; he held his head up so high at one end, and his tail at the other, that my grandfather said he 'd have frightened the stoutest fox-hunter to look at him; besides, my dear, he went with his knees in his mouth when he trotted, and gave a skelp of his hind legs at every stride, that it was n't safe to be within four yards of him.
“'There's action!' says Tom,—'there 's bone and figure! Quiet as a lamb, without stain or blemish, warranted in every harness, and to carry a lady.'
“'I wish he 'd carry a wine-merchant safe for about one hour and a half,' said my grandfather to himself. 'What's his price?'
“But Tom would n't mind him, for he was going on reciting the animal's perfections, and telling him how he was bred out of Kick the Moon, by Moll Flanders, and that Lord Dunraile himself only parted with him because he did n't think him showy enough for a charger. 'Though, to be sure,' said Tom, 'he's greatly improved since that. Will you try him in the school, Mr. Dempsey?' said he; 'not but I tell you that you 'll find him a little mettlesome or so there; take him on the grass, and he's gentleness itself,—he's a kid, that's what he is.'
“'And his price?' said my grandfather.
“Dycer whispered something in his ear.
“'Blood alive!' said my grandfather.
“'Devil a farthing less. Do you think you 're to get beauty and action, ay, and gentle temper, for nothing?'
“My dear, the last words, 'gentle temper,' wasn't well out of his mouth when 'the kid' put his two hind-legs into the little pulpit where the auctioneer was sitting, and sent him flying through the window behind him into the stall.
“'That comes of tickling him,' said Tom; 'them blackguards never will let a horse alone.'
“'I hope you don't let any of them go out to the reviews in the Park, for I declare to Heaven, if I was on his back then, Dodd and Dempsey would be D. D. sure enough.'
“'With a large snaffle, and the saddle well back,' says Tom, 'he's a lamb.'
“'God grant it,' says my grandfather; 'send him over to me to-morrow, about eleven.' He gave a check for the money,—we never heard how much it was,—and away he went.