Kitabı oku: «Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1», sayfa 17
It was now near eight o’clock; and so acute had her hearing become by intense anxiety that she could detect the sounds of a footfall coming along the plashy road. She did not venture to move, lest she should lose the sound, and she dreaded, too, lest it should pass on. She bent down her head to hear; and now, oh, ecstasy of relief! she heard the latch of the little wicket raised, and the step upon the gravel-walk within. She rushed at once to the door, and, dashing out into the darkness, threw herself wildly upon his breast, saying, “Thank God you are come! Oh, how I have longed for you, dearest, dearest father!” And then as suddenly, with a shriek, cried out, “Who is it? Who is this?”
“Conway, – Charles Conway. A friend, – at least, one who would wish to be thought so.”
With a wild and rapid utterance she told him of her long and weary watch, and that her fears – mere causeless fears, she said she knew they were – had made her nervous and miserable. Her father’s habits, always so regular and homely, made even an hour’s delay a source of anxiety. “And then he had not been well for some days back, – circumstances had occurred to agitate him; things preyed upon him more heavily than they had used. Perhaps it was the dreary season – perhaps their solitary kind of life – had rendered them both more easily depressed. But, somehow – ” She could not go on; but hastening towards the window, pressed her hands to her face.
“If you could tell me where I would be likely to hear of him, – what are his haunts in town – ”
“He has none, – none whatever. He has entirely ceased to visit any of his former friends; even Mr. Beecher he has not called on for months long.”
“Has he business engagements in any quarter that you know of?”
“None now. He did hold an office in the Customs, but he does so no longer. It is possible – just possible – he might have called at Mr. Dunn’s, but he could not have been detained there so late as this. And if he were – ” She stopped, confused and embarrassed.
“As to that,” said he, catching at her difficulty with ready tact, “I could easily pretend it was my own anxiety that caused the visit. I could tell him it was likely I should soon see Jack again, and ask of him to let me be the bearer of some kind message to him.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Bella, half vacantly; for he had only given to his words the meaning of a mere pretext.
“I think you may trust to me that I will manage the matter delicately. He shall never suspect that he has given any uneasiness by his absence.”
“But even this,” said she, eagerly, “condemns me to some hours longer of feverish misery. You cannot possibly go back to town and return here in less than two – perhaps three hours.”
“I ‘ll try and do it in half the time,” said Conway, rising, and taking his cap. “Where does Mr. Dunn live?”
“In Menion Square. I forget the number, but it does not matter; every one knows his house. It is on the north side.”
“You shall see me before – What o’clock is it now?”
“Half-past eight,” said she, shuddering, as she saw how late it was.
“Before eleven, I promise you confidently, – and earlier if I can.”
“You know my father so very little – so very recently,” said Sybella, with some confusion, “that it may be necessary to guard you, – that is, you ought to be made aware that on this day the estate our family has held for centuries was sold. It is true we are no poorer than we were yesterday; the property we called our own, and from habit believed to be such, had been mortgaged this many a year. Why or how we ever fancied that one day or other we should be in a position to pay off the encumbrances, I cannot tell you; but it is true that we did so fancy, and used to talk of that happy event as of one we felt to be in store for us. Well, the blow has fallen at last, and demolished all our castle-building! Like storm-tossed vessels, we saw ships sinking on every side, and yet caught at hope for ourselves. This hope has now left us. The work of this morning has obliterated every trace of it. It is of this, then, I would ask you to be mindful when you see my poor father. He has seen ruin coming this many a year; it never came face to face with him till to-day. I cannot tell how he may brave it, though there was a time I could have answered for his courage.”
“Jack Kellett’s father could scarcely be deficient in that quality,” said Conway, whose flashing eyes showed that it was Jack’s sister was uppermost in his mind as he spoke.
“Oh,” said she, sorrowfully, “great as the heroism is that meets death on the field of battle, it is nothing to the patient and enduring bravery that confronts the daily ills of life, – confronts them nobly, but in humility, neither buoyed up by inordinate hope, nor cast down by despondency, but manfully resolved to do one’s best, and, come what may, to do it without sacrifice of self-respect. Thus meeting fate, and with a temper that all the crosses of life have not made irritable nor suspectful, makes a man to my eyes a greater hero than any of those who charge in forlorn hopes, or single-handed rush up the breach torn by grape-shot.” Her cheek, at first pale, grew deeper and deeper red, and her dark eyes flashed till their expression became almost wild in brilliancy, when, suddenly checking her passionate mood, she said, “It were better I should go along with you, – better, at least, I were at hand. He will bear much from me that he would not endure from another, and I will go.” So saying, she hastened from the room, and in a moment came back shawled and ready for the road.
“What a night for you to venture out,” said Conway; “and I have got no carriage of any kind.”
“I am well accustomed to brave bad weather, and care nothing for it.”
“It is raining fearfully, and the waves are washing clear over the low sea-wall,” said he, trying to dissuade her.
“I have come out here on many such nights, and never the worse for it. Can’t you fancy Jack Kellett’s sister equal to more than this?” said she, smiling through all her sadness, as she led the way to the door.
And now they were upon the road, the wild rain and the gusty wind beating against them, and almost driving them back. So loud the storm that they did not try to speak, but with her arm close locked within his own, Conway breasted the hurricane with a strange sensation of delight he had never known before.
Scarcely a word passed between them as they went; as the rain beat heavily against her he would try as well as he could to shelter her; when the cutting wind blew more severely, he would draw her arm closer within his own; and yet, thus in silence, they grew to each other like friends of many a year. A sense of trustfulness, a feeling of a common object too, sufficed to establish between them a sentiment to be moulded by the events of after-life into anything. Ay, so is it! Out of these chance affinities grow sometimes the passion of a life, and sometimes the disappointments that embitter existence!
“What a good fortune it was that brought you to my aid to-night,” said she; “I had not dared to have come this long road alone.”
“What a good fortune mine to have even so humble a service to render you! Jack used to talk to me of you for hours long. Nights just like this have we passed together; he telling me about your habits and your ways, so that this very incident seems to fit into the story of your life as an every-day occurrence. I know,” continued he, as she seemed to listen attentively, “how you used to ride over the mountains at home, visiting wild and out-of-the-way spots; how you joined him in his long fishing excursions, exploring the deep mountain gorges while he lingered by the riverside. The very names you gave these desolate places – taken from old books of travel – showed me how a spirit of enterprise was in your heart.”
“Were they not happy days!” murmured she, half to herself.
“They must have been,” said he, ardently; “to hear of them has charmed the weariest watches of the night, and made me long to know you.”
“Yes; but I am not what I was,” said she, hastily. “Out of that dreamy, strange existence I have awakened to a world full of its own stern realities. That pleasant indolence has ill prepared me for the road I must travel; and it was selfish too! The vulgarest cares of every-day life are higher aims than all the mere soarings of imagination, and of this truth I am only now becoming aware.”
“But it was for never neglecting those very duties Jack used to praise you; he said that none save himself knew you as other than the careful mistress of a household.”
“Poor fellow! ours was an humble retinue, and needed little guidance.”
“I see,” said Conway, “you are too proud to accept of such esteem as mine; but yet you can’t prevent me offering it.”
“Have I not told you how I prize your kindness?” said she, gently.
“Will you let me think so?” cried Conway, pressing her arm closely; and again they were silent Who knows with what thoughts?
How dreary did the streets seem as they entered Dublin! The hazy lamps, dulled by the fast-falling rain, threw a misty light through the loaded atmosphere; the streets, deserted by all but the very poorest were silent and noiseless, save for the incessant plash of the rain; few lights were seen on any side, and all was darkness and gloom. Wearily they plodded onward, Sybella deeply sunk in her own thoughts as to the future, and Conway, too respectful of her feelings to interrupt her, never uttered a word as they went. At last they reached Merrion Square, and after some little search stood at the door of Mr. Davenport Dunn. Sybella drew a heavy sigh as Conway knocked loudly, and muttered to herself, “Heaven grant me good tidings of my father!”
CHAPTER XXII. AFTER A DINNER-PARTY
Mr. Davenport Dunn had a dinner-party, – he entertained the notables of the capital; and a chief secretary, a couple of judges, a poor-law commissioner, and some minor deities, soldier and civilian, formed his company. They were all social, pleasant, and conversational. The country was growing governable, calendars were light, military duty a mere pastime, and they chatted agreeably over reminiscences of a time – not very remote neither – when Rockites were rife, jails crammed, and the fatigues and perils of a soldier not inferior to those of actual warfare.
“To our worthy host here!” said the Chief Baron, eying his claret before the light, – and it was a comet vintage, – “to our worthy host here are we indebted for most of this happy change.”
“Under Providence,” whispered the oily Dean of the Chapel Royal.
“Of course, so I mean,” said the judge, with that kind of impatience he would have met a needless suggestion in court. “Great public works, stupendous enterprises, and immense expenditure of capital have encountered rebellion by the best of all methods, – prosperity!”
“Is it really extinct, – has Lazarus died, or is he only sleeping?” interposed a small dark-eyed man, with a certain air of determination and a look of defiance that seemed to invite discussion.
“I should, at all events, call it a trance that must lead to perfect recovery,” said the Chief Secretary. “Ireland is no longer a difficulty.”
“She may soon become something more,” said the dark man; “instead of embarrassing your counsels, she may go far towards swaying and controlling them. The energies that were once wasted in factious struggles at home here, may combine to carry on a greater combat in England; and it might even happen that your statesmen might look back with envy to days of orange-and-green memory.”
“She would gladly welcome the change you speak of.” said the Secretary.
“I’m not so sure of that, sir; you have not already shown yourselves so very tolerant when tried. It is but a few years ago, and your bar rebelled at the thought of an Irishman being made Master of the Rolls in England, and that Irishman, Plunkett.”
“I must say,” burst in the Attorney-General, fresh from his first session in Parliament, and, more still, his first season in town, “this is but a prejudice, – an unjust prejudice. I can assert for myself that I never rose in the House without experiencing a degree of attention, – a deference, in short – ”
“Eminently the right of one whose opinions were so valuable,” said the Secretary, bowing blandly, and smiling.
“You did not lash them too often nor too much, Hutchard,” said the dark man. “If I remember aright, you rose once in the session, and that was to move an adjournment.”
“Ah, Lindley,” said the other, good-humoredly, “you are an unforgiving enemy.” Then, turning to the Chief Secretary, he said: “He cannot pardon my efforts, successful as they have been, to enable the Fellows of the University to marry. He obtained his fellowship as a safe retirement, and now discovers that his immunity is worth nothing.”
“I beg pardon,” said Lindley; “I have forgiven you long ago. It was from your arguments in its favor the measure was so long resisted. You are really blameless in the matter!”
The sharp give and take of these sallies – the fruit of those intimacies which small localities produce – rather astonished the English officials, and the Secretary and the Commissioner exchanged glances of significant import; nor was this lost on the Chief Baron, who, to change the topic, suddenly asked, —
“Who bought that estate – Kellett’s Court, I think they call it – was sold this morning?”
“I purchased it in trust,” said Dunn, “for an English peer.”
“Does he intend ever to reside there?”
“He talks of it, my Lord,” said Dunn, “the way men talk of something very meritorious that they mean to do – one day or other.”
“It went, I hear, for half its value,” remarked some one.
“A great deal above that, I assure you,” said Dunn. “Indeed, as property is selling now, I should not call the price a bad one.”
“Evidently Mr. Kellett was not of your mind,” said the former speaker, laughing.
“I ‘m told he burst into court to-day and abused every one, from the Bench to the crier, called the sale a robbery, and the judge a knave.”
“Not exactly that. He did, it is true, interrupt the order of the Court, but the sale was already concluded. He used very violent language, and so far forgot his respect for the Bench as to incur the penalty of a committal.”
“And was he committed?” asked the Secretary.
“He was; but rather as a measure of precaution than punishment. The Court suspected him to be insane.” Here Dunn leaned over and whispered a few words in the Secretary’s ear. “Nor was it without difficulty,” muttered he, in a low tone. “He continued to inveigh in the most violent tone against us all; declared he ‘d never leave the Jail without a public apology from the Bench; and, in fact, conducted himself so extravagantly that I half suspected the judge to be right, and that there was some derangement in the case.”
“I remember Paul Kellett at the head of the grand jury of his county,” said one.
“He was high sheriff the first year I went that circuit,” said the judge.
“And how has it ended? – where is he now?” whispered the Secretary.
“I persuaded him to come home here with me, and after a little calming down he became reasonable and has gone to his own house, but only within the last hour. It was that my servant whispered me, when he last brought in the wine.”
“And I suppose, after all,” said the Poor-Law Commissioner, “there was nothing peculiar in this instance; his case was one of thousands.”
“Quite true, sir,” said Lindley. “Statistical tables can take no note of such-like applicants for out-door relief; all are classified as paupers.”
“It must be acknowledged,” said the Secretary, in a tone of half rebuke, “that the law has worked admirably; there is but one opinion on that subject in England.”
“I should be greatly surprised were it otherwise,” said Lindley; “I never heard that the Cornish fishermen disparaged shipwrecks!”
“Who is that gentleman?” whispered the Secretary to Dunn.
“A gentleman very desirous to be Crown Prosecutor at Melbourne,” said Dunn, with a smile.
“He expresses himself somewhat freely,” whispered the other.
“Only here, sir, – only here, I assure you. He is our stanchest supporter in the College.”
“Of course we shall take Sebastopol, sir,” said a colonel from the end of the table. “The Russians are already on half rations, and their ammunition is nigh exhausted.” And now ensued a lively discussion of military events, wherein the speakers displayed as much confidence as skill.
“It strikes me,” said Lindley, “we are at war with the Emperor Nicholas for practising pretty much the same policy we approve of so strenuously for ourselves. He wanted to treat Turkey like an encumbered estate. There was the impoverished proprietor, the beggared tenantry, the incapacity for improvement, – all the hackneyed arguments, in fact, for selling out the Sultan that we employ so triumphantly against the Irish gentleman.”
“Excuse me,” said the Attorney-General, “he wanted to take forcible possession.”
“Nothing of the kind. He was as ready to offer compensation as we ourselves are when we superannuate a clerk or suppress an office. His sole mistake was that he proposed a robbery at the unlucky moment that the nation had taken its periodical attack of virtue, – we were in the height of our honest paroxysm when he asked us to be knaves; and hence all that has followed.”
“You estimate our national morality somewhat cheaply, sir,” said the Commissioner.
“As to morals, I think we are good political economists. We buy cheaply, and endeavor, at least, to sell in the dearest markets.”
“No more wine, thank you,” said the Secretary, rising. “A cup of coffee, with pleasure.”
It was a part of Davenport Dunn’s policy to sprinkle his dinner company with men like Lindley. They were what physicians call a sort of mild irritants, and occasionally very useful in their way; but, in the present instance, he rather suspected that the application had been pushed too far, and he approached the Secretary in the drawing-room with a kind of half apology for his guest.
“Ireland,” said he, “has always possessed two species of place-hunters: the one, patiently supporting Government for years, look calmly for the recognition of their services as a debt to be paid; the other, by an irritating course of action, seem to indicate how vexatious and annoying they may prove if not satisfactorily dealt with. Lindley is one of these, and he ought to be provided for.”
“I declare to you, Dunn,” said the Secretary, as he drew his arm within the other’s, and walked with him into the back drawing-room, “these kind of men make government very difficult in Ireland. There is no reserve – no caution about them. They compromise one at every step. You are the only Irishman I ever met who would seem to understand the necessity of reserve.”
Dunn bowed twice. It was like the acknowledgment of what he felt to be a right.
“I go further,” said the other, warming; “you are the only man here who has given us real and effective support, and yet never asked for anything.”
“What could I wish for better than to see the country governed as it is?” said Dunn, courteously.
“All are not inspired so patriotically, Dunn. Personal advantages have their influence on most men.”
“Of course, – naturally enough. But I stand in no need of aid in this respect I don’t want for means. I could n’t, if you offered it, take office; my hands are too full already, and of work which another might not be able to carry out. Rank, of course – distinction – ” and he stopped, and seemed confused.
“Well, come, we might meet you there, Dunn,” said the other, coaxingly. “Be frank with me. What do you wish for?”
“My family is of humble origin, it is true,” said Dunn; “but, without invidious reflection, I might point to some others – ” Again he hesitated.
“That need not be an obstacle,” said the Secretary.
“Well, then, on the score of fortune, there are some poorer than myself in – in – ” He stopped again.
“Very few as wealthy, I should say, Dunn, – very few, indeed. Let me only know your wishes. I feel certain how they will be treated.”
“I am aware,” said Dunn, with some energy, “that you incur the risk of some attack in anything you would do for me. I am necessarily in scant favor with a large party here. They would assail you, they would vilify me; but that would pass over. A few weeks – a few months at furthest – ”
“To be sure, – perfectly correct It would be mere momentary clamor. Sir Davenport Dunn, Baronet, would survive – ”
“I beg pardon,” said Dunn, in a voice tremulous with emotion. “I don’t think I heard you aright; I trust, at least, I did not.”
The Secretary looked quickly in his face, and saw it pale, the lips slightly quivering, and the brow contracted.
“I was saying,” said he, in a voice broken and uncertain, “that I ‘m sure the Premier would not refuse to recommend you to her Majesty for a baronetcy.”
“May I make so bold as to ask if you have already held any conversation with the Minister on this subject?”
“None, whatever. I assure you, most solemnly, that I have no instructions on the subject, nor have I ever had any conversation with him on the matter.”
“Then let me beg you to forget what has just passed between us. It is, after all, mere chit-chat. That’s a Susterman’s, that portrait you are looking at,” said he, eager to change the topic. “It is said to be a likeness of Bianca Capello.”
“A very charming picture, indeed; purchased, I suppose, in your last visit abroad.”
“Yes; I bought it at Verona. Its companion, yonder, was a present from the Archduke Stephen, in recognition, as he was gracious enough to call it, of some counsels I had given the Government engineers about drainage in Hungary. Despotic governments, as we like to term them, have this merit, at least, – they confer acts of munificent generosity.”
The Secretary muttered an assent, and looked confused.
“I reaped a perfect harvest of crosses and decorations,” continued Dunn, “during my tour. I have got cordons from countries I should be puzzled to point out on the map, and am a noble in almost every land of Europe but my own.”
“Ours is the solitary one where the distinction is not a mere title,” said the other, “and, consequently, there are graver considerations about conferring it than if it were a mere act of courtesy.”
“Where power is already acquired there is often good policy in legitimatizing it,” said Dunn, gravely. “They say that even the Church of Rome knows how to affiliate a heresy. – Well, Clowes, what is it?” asked he of the butler, who stood awaiting a favorable moment to address him. He now drew nigh, and whispered some words in his ear.
“But you said I was engaged – that I had company with me?” said Dunn, in reply.
“Yes, sir, but she persisted in saying that if I brought up her name you would certainly see her, were it but for a moment This is her card.”
“Miss Kellett,” said Dunn to himself. “Very well. Show her into the study, I will come down. – It is the daughter of that unfortunate gentleman we were speaking of awhile ago,” said he, showing the card. “I suppose some new disaster has befallen him. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
As Dunn slowly descended the stairs, a very strange conflict was at work within him. From his very boyhood there had possessed him a stern sentiment of vengeance against the Kellett family. It was the daily lesson his father repeated to him. It grew with his years, and vague and unmeaning as it appeared, it had the force of an instinct. His own memory failed him as to all the circumstances of an early insult, but enough remained to make him know that he had been ignominiously treated and expelled from the house. In the great career of his life, with absorbing cares and high interests around him, he had little time for such memories, but in moments of solitude or of depression the thought would come up, and a sense of vindictive pleasure fill him, as he remembered, in the stern words of his father, where was he, and where were they? In the protection he had that very day assumed to throw over Kellett in the Court, there was the sentiment of an insolent triumph; and here was again the daughter of the once proud man supplicating an interview with him.
These were his thoughts as he entered the room where Sybella Kellett was standing near the fire. She had taken off her bonnet, and as her long hair fell down, and her dripping clothes clung to her, the picture of poverty and destitution her appearance conveyed revolted against the sentiment which had so lately filled him, and it was in a voice of gentle meaning he asked her to be seated.
“Can you tell me of my father, sir?” said she, eagerly, and not heeding his words; “he left home early this morning, and has never returned.”
“I can tell you everything, Miss Kellett,” said he, in a kind voice. “It will reassure you at once when I say he is well. Before this he is at home again.”
The young girl clasped her hands closely, and her pale lips murmured some faint words.
“In a moment of excitement this morning he said something to offend the Court. It was an emergency to try a calmer temper, perhaps, than his; indeed, he ought not to have been there; at all events, he was betrayed into expressions which could not be passed over in mere silence, and he was committed – ”
“To prison?” said she, faintly.
“Yes, he was taken into custody, but only for a few hours. I obtained his release soon after the Court rose. The difficulty was to make him accept of his liberation. Far from having calmed down, his passion had only increased, and it was only after much entreaty that he consented to leave the jail and come here with me. In fact, it was under the pretence of drawing up a formal protest against his arrest that he did come, and he has been employed in this manner till about an hour ago, when one of my clerks took charge of him to convey him home. A little quietness and a little rest will restore him perfectly, however, and I have no doubt to-morrow or next day will leave no trace of this excitement.”
“You have been most kind,” said she, rising, “and I am very grateful for it. We owe much to you already, and this last but increases the debt.”
Dunn stood silently contemplating her, as she replaced her bonnet and prepared for the road. At last he said, “Have you come all this way on foot and alone?”
“On foot, but not alone; a comrade of my brother’s – a fellow-soldier of his – kindly gave me his escort. He is waiting for me now without.”
“Oh, then, the adventure has had its compensation to a certain degree,” said Dunn, with a smile of raillery.
“Either I do not understand you, or you mistake me, – which is it?” said she, boldly.
“My dear young lady,” said Dunn, hastily, “do not let me offend you. There is everything in what you have done this night to secure you respect and esteem. We live in a time when there is wonderfully little of personal devotion; and commonplace men like myself may well misjudge its sacrifices.”
“And yet it is precisely from you I should have expected the reverse. If great minds are tainted with littleness, where are we to look for high and noble sentiments?” She moved towards the door as she spoke; and Dunn, anticipating her, said, —
“Do not go for a moment; let me offer you some refreshment, even a glass of wine. Well, then, your friend? It is scarcely courteous to leave him outside in such weather.”
“Pray forgive me not accepting your offer; but I am impatient to be at home again. My father, too, will be distressed at my absence.”
“But I will send my carriage with you; you shall not walk,” said he, ringing the bell.
“Do not think me ungrateful, but I had rather return as I came. You have no idea, sir, how painfully kindness comes to hearts like ours. A sense of pride sustains us through many a trial; break down this, and we are helpless.”
“Is it that you will accept nothing at my hands, – even the most commonplace of attentions? Well, I’ll try if I cannot be more fortunate elsewhere;” and so saying, he hurried at once from the room. Before Sybella could well reflect on his words, he was back again, followed by Charles Conway.
“Miss Kellett was disposed to test your Crimean habits again, my good fellow,” said Dunn, “by keeping you out there under this terrible rain, and I perceive you have got some rough treatment already;” and he looked at the armless sleeve of his jacket.
“Yes,” said Conway, laughing, “a piece of Russian politeness!”
Few as were the words, the tone and manner of the speaker struck Dunn with astonishment, and he said, —
“Have you been long in the service?”
“Some years,” was the short reply.
“It’s very strange,” said Dunn, regarding him fixedly, “but your features are quite familiar to me. You are very like a young officer who cut such a dash here formerly, – a spendthrift fellow, in a Lancer regiment.”
“Pray don’t involve yourself in any difficulty,” said Conway, “for, perhaps – indeed, I ‘m convinced – you are describing myself.”
“Conway, of the Twelfth?”
“The same, at your service, – at least, in so far as being ruined and one-armed means the same with the fellow who had a good fortune, and two hands to scatter it.”
“I must go. I ‘m impatient to be away,” said Sybella, eagerly.
“Then there is the carriage at the door,” said Dunn. “This time I have resolved to have my way;” and he gave her his arm courteously to conduct her.
“Could you call upon me to-morrow – could you breakfast with me, Mr. Conway?” said Dunn, as he gave him his hand at parting; “my request is connected with a subject of great importance to yourself.”
“I ‘m your man,” said Conway, as he followed Sybella into the carriage. And away they drove.
