Kitabı oku: «Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1», sayfa 18

CHAPTER XXIII. A BREAKFAST-TABLE

When, punctual to the appointed time, Charles Conway presented himself at Mr. Dunn’s door, he learned to his astonishment that that gentleman had gone out an hour before to breakfast with the Chief Secretary in the Park.

“But I came by invitation to breakfast with your master,” said he.

“Possibly so,” said Clowes, scanning the simply clad soldier before him. “He never mentioned it to me; that’s all I know.”

Conway stood for a moment, half uncertain what to say; then, with a quiet smile, he said, “Pray tell him that I was here, – my name is Conway.”

“As to the breakfast part of the matter,” said Clowes, who felt “rather struck” by something in the soldier’s manner, as he afterwards expressed it, “I ‘m just about to take mine; you might as well join me.”

Conway looked him full in the face, – such a stare was it as a man gives when he questions the accuracy of his own senses; a slight flush then rose to his cheek, and his lip curled, and then, with a saucy laugh that seemed to combat the passing irritation he was suffering, he said, “It’s not a bad notion, after all; I’m your man.”

Now, though Mr. Clowes had anticipated a very different reception to his politeness, he said nothing, but led the way into his sanctum, trusting to the locality and its arrangement to have their due effect upon his guest. Indeed, in this respect, he did but fair justice to the comforts around him.

The breakfast-table, placed close to a cheerful fire, was spread with every luxury of that meal. A small spirit lamp burned under a dish of most appetizing cutlets, in the midst of various kinds of bread, and different sorts of preserves. The grateful odor of mocha mingled with the purer perfume of fresh flowers, which, although in midwinter, were never wanting at Mr. Clowes’s breakfast-table, while in the centre rose a splendid pineapple, the first of the season, duly offered by the gardener to the grand vizier of Davenport Dunn.

“I can promise you a better breakfast than he would have given you,” said Clowes, as he motioned his guest to a seat, while he significantly jerked his thumb towards Dunn’s study. “He takes tea and dry toast, and he quite forgets to order anything else. He has some crank or other about beginning the day with a light meal; quite a mistake, – don’t you think so?”

“This is not the most favorable moment to make me a convert to that opinion,” said Conway, laughing. “I must confess I incline to your side of the controversy.”

“There are herrings there,” said Clowes, “and a spatchcock coming. You see,” continued he, returning to the discussion, “he overworks – he does too much – taxes his powers beyond their strength – beyond any man’s strength;” and here Mr. Clowes threw himself back in his chair, and looked pompously before him, as though to say, Even Clowes would n’t have constitution for what he does. – “A man must have his natural rest, sir, and his natural support;” and in evidence of the last, he re-helped himself to the Strasburg pâté.

“Your words are wisdom, and washed down with such Bordeaux I ‘d like to see who ‘d gainsay them,” said Conway, with a droll twinkle of the eye.

“Better coffee, that, I fancy, than you got in the Crimea,” said Clowes, pointing to the coffee-pot.

“I suspect Lord Raglan himself never saw such a breakfast as this. May I ask if it be your every-day meal?”

“We change slightly with the seasons. Oysters and Sauterne suit spring; and then, when summer sets in, we lean towards the subacid fruits and claret-cup. Dash your pineapple with a little rum, – it’s very old, and quite a liqueur.”

“This must be a very jolly life of yours,” said Conway, as he lighted his cigarette and placed his feet on the fender.

“You ‘d prefer it to the trenches or the rifle-pits, I suspect,” said Clowes, laughing, “and small blame to you. It was out there you lost your arm, I suppose?”

Conway nodded, and puffed on in silence.

“A bad business, – a bad business we ‘re making of it all! The Crimea was a mistake; we should have marched direct to Moscow, – Moscow or St Petersburg, – I don’t care which.”

“Nor should I, if we could get there,” said Conway, quietly.

“Get there, – and why not? Fifty thousand British bayonets are a match for the world in arms. It is a head we want, sir, – capacity to deal with the great questions of strategy. Even you yourself must have remarked that we have no generalship, – no guidance – ”

“I won’t say that,” said Conway, quietly. “We’re knocking hard at Sebastopol, and all we can say is we have n’t found the weak spot yet.”

“The weak spot! Why, it ‘s all weak, – earthworks, nothing but earthworks! Now, don’t tell me that Wellington would have minded earthworks! Ah, we have fallen upon sad times!” sighed he, piteously. “Our land commanders say earthworks are impregnable; our admirals say stone walls can’t be attacked.”

Conway laughed again, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

“And what pension have you for that?” asked Clowes, glancing at the empty sleeve.

“A mere trifle; I can’t exactly tell you, for I have not applied for it”

“I would, though; I ‘d have it out of them, and I ‘d have whatever I could, besides. They ‘d not give you the Bath; that they keep for gentlemen – ”

Conway took his cigar from his lips, and while his cheek burned, he seemed about to reply; then, resuming his smoking, he lay back and said nothing.

“After all,” said Clowes, “there must be distinctions of rank. One regrets, one deplores, but can’t help it Look at all the attempts at equality, and see their failures. No, sir, you have your place in the social scale, and I have mine.”

Now, when Mr. Clowes had enunciated this sentiment, he seemed suddenly to be struck by its severity; for he added, “Not but that every man is respectable in his own rank; don’t imagine that I look down upon you.”

Conway’s eyes opened widely as he stared at him, and he puffed his cigar a little more energetically, but never spoke.

“You ‘ve done with the service, I suppose?” said Clowes, after a while.

“I’m afraid so,” said Conway, sighing.

“Well, he” – and he jerked his thumb towards Dunn’s room – “he is the man to help you to something snug. He can give away places every hour of the day. Ay, sir,” said he, warming, “he can make anything, from an archbishop to a barony constable.”

“I rather fear that my capacity for employment might not be found very remarkable. I have idle habits and ways,” said Conway, smiling.

“Bad things, my friend, – bad things for any man, but especially for a poor one. I myself began life in an humble way, – true, I assure you; but with industry, zeal, and attention, I am what you see me.”

“That is encouraging, certainly,” said Conway, gravely.

“It is so, and I mention it for your advantage.”

Charles Conway now arose, and threw the half-smoked cigar into the fire. The movement betokened impatience, and, sooth to say, he was half angry with himself; for, while disposed to laugh at the vanity and conceit of the worthy butler, he still felt that he was his guest, and that such ridicule was ill applied to one whose salt he had eaten.

“You’re not going without seeing him?” said Clowes. “He ‘s sure to be in before noon. We are to receive the Harbor Commissioners exactly at twelve.”

“I have a call to make, and at some distance off in the country, this morning.”

“Well, if I can be of any use to you, just tell me,” said Clowes, good-naturedly. “My position here – one of trust and confidence, you may imagine – gives me many an opportunity to serve a friend; and I like you. I was taken with your manner as you came into the hall this morning, and I said to myself, ‘There ‘s good stuff in that young fellow, whoever he is.’ And I ain’t wrong. You have some blood in you, I’ll be bound.”

“We used to be rather bumptious about family,” said Conway, laughing; “but I suspect the world has taught us to get rid of some of our conceit.”

“Never mind the world. Pride of birth is a generous prejudice. I have never forgotten that my grandfather, on the mother’s side, was a drysalter. But can I be of any use to you? that’s the question.”

“I ‘m inclined to think not; though I ‘m just as grateful to you. Mr. Dunn asked me here this morning, I suspect, to talk over the war with me. Men naturally incline to hear what an eyewitness has to say, and he may have fancied I could have mentioned some new fact, or suggested some new expedient, which in these days seems such a fashionable habit, when everybody has his advice to proffer.”

“No, no,” said Clowes, shaking his head; “it could n’t be that. We have been opposed to this war from the beginning. It was all a mistake, a dead mistake. Aberdeen agreed with us, but we were outvoted. They would have a fight. They said we wanted something to get cotton-spinning out of our blood; and, egad! I suspect they’ve got it.

“Our views,” continued Clowes, pompously, “were either a peace or a march to St. Petersburg. This French alliance is a rotten thing, sir. That Corsican will double on us. The very first moment any turn of fortune gives France an advantage, he ‘ll make peace, and leave us all the obloquy of a reluctant assent. That’s his view, – that’s mine, too; and we are seldom mistaken.”

“For all that, I wish I were back there again,” said Conway. “With every one of its hardships – and they were no trifles – it was a better life than this lounging one I lead now. Tell Mr. Dunn that I was here. Say that I enjoyed your excellent hospitality and pleasant company; and accept my hearty thanks for both.” And with a cordial shake of the hand, Conway wished him “Good-bye,” and departed.

“That’s just the class of men we want in our army,” said Clowes, as he followed him with his eyes. “A stamp somewhat above the common, – a very fine young fellow too.”

In less than a quarter of an hour after Conway’s departure, Davenport Dunn’s carriage drew up at his door, and Mr. Clowes hastened to receive his master.

“Are they out, sir, – are they out?” said he, eagerly, as he followed him into the study.

“Yes,” said Dunn; “but everything is still at sixes and sevens. Lord Derby has been sent for, and Lord John sent for, and Lord Palmerston sent for, but nothing decided on, – nothing done.”

“And how will it end?” asked Clowes, like one waiting for the solution of a difficulty.

“Who has called this morning?” said Dunn, curtly. “Has Lord Glengariff been here?”

“No, sir. Sir Jacob Harris and the Drumsna Directors are all in waiting, and a rather promiscuous lot are in the back parlor. A young soldier, too, was here. He fancied you had asked him to breakfast, and so I made him join mine.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Dunn. “I forgot all about that engagement. How provoking! Can you find out where he is stopping?”

“No. But he’s sure to drop in again: I half promised him a sort of protection; and he looks a shrewd sort of fellow, and not likely to neglect his hits.”

A strange twinkle shone in Dunn’s eyes as he heard this speech, and a queer motion at the angle of his mouth accompanied it, but he never spoke a word.

As for Conway, meanwhile, he was briskly stepping out towards Clontarf, to inquire after poor Kellett, whose state was one to call for much anxiety. To the intense excitement of the morning there had succeeded a dull and apathetic condition, in which he seemed scarcely to notice anything or anybody. A look half weary, half vacant, was in his eye; his head was drooped; and a low muttering to himself was the only sign he gave of any consciousness whatever. Such was his state when Conway left the cottage late on the night before, with a promise to be back there again early the next morning.

Conway saw that the shutters of the little drawing-room were half closed as he entered the garden, and his quiet, cautious knock at the door denoted the fear at his heart. From the window, partly open, came a low, moaning sound, which, as he listened, he discovered to be the sick man’s voice.

“He was just asking if you had come,” said Bella. “He has been talking of poor Jack, and fancies that you have some tidings of him.” And so saying, she led him into the house.

Seated before the fire, in a low chair, his hands resting on his knees, and his gaze fixed on the embers, Kellett never turned his head round as they entered, nor did he notice Bella, as, in a soft, low voice, she mentioned Conway’s name.

“He has come out to see you, dear papa; to sit with you and keep you company, and talk about dear Jack.”

“Ay!” said the sick man, in a vague, purposeless tone; and Conway now took a seat at his side, and laid one of his hands over his.

“You are better to-day, Captain Kellett, ain’t you?” said he, kindly.

“Yes,” said he, in the same tone as before.

“And will be still better to-morrow, I trust, and able to come out and take this long walk with me we have so often promised ourselves.”

Kellett turned and looked him full in the face. The expression of his features was that of one vainly struggling with some confusion of ideas, and earnestly endeavoring to find his way through difficulties, and a faint, painful sigh at last showed that the attempt was a failure.

“What does this state mean? Is it mere depression, or is it serious illness?” whispered Bella.

“I am not skilful enough to say,” replied Conway, cautiously; “but I hope and trust it is only the effect of a shock, and will pass off as it came.”

“Ay,” said Kellett, in a tone that startled them, and for a moment they fancied he must have overheard them; but one glance at his meaningless features showed that they had no ground for their fears.

“The evil is deeper than that,” whispered Bella, again. “This cold dew on his forehead, those shiverings that pass over him from time to time, and that look in his eye, such as I have never seen before, all betoken a serious malady. Could you fetch a doctor, – some one in whom you place confidence?”

“I do know of one, in whom I have the fullest reliance,” said Conway, rising hastily. “I’ll go for him at once.”

“Lose not a moment, then,” said Bella, as she took the place he had just vacated, and placed her hand on her father’s, as Conway had done.

Kellett’s glance slowly followed Conway to the door, and then turned fully in Bella’s face, while, with a voice of a thrilling distinctness, he said, “Too late, darling, – too late!”

The tears gushed from Bella’s eyes, and her lips trembled; but she never uttered a word, but sat silent and motionless as before.

Kellett’s eyes were now bent upon her fixedly, with an expression of deep and affectionate interest; and he slowly drew his hand from beneath hers, and placed his arm around her.

“I wish he was come, darling,” said he, at last.

“Who, papa? – the doctor?” asked Bella.

“The doctor! – no, not the doctor,” said he, sighing heavily.

“It is poor Jack you are thinking of,” said she, affectionately.

“Poor, sure enough,” muttered he; “we’re all poor now.” And an inexpressible misery was in his face as he spoke.

Bella wished to speak words of comfort and encouragement; she longed to tell him that she was ready and willing to devote herself to him; that in a little time, and by a little effort on their part, their changed fortunes would cease to fret them; that they would learn to see how much of real happiness can consist with narrow means, but she knew not in what spirit her words might be accepted; a chance phrase, an accidental expression, might jar upon some excited feeling, and only irritate where it was meant to soothe, and so she only pressed her lips to his hand and was silent.

The sick man’s head gradually declined lower and lower, his breathing grew heavier, and he slept. The long dreary day dragged on its weary hours, and still Sybella sat by her father’s side watching and waiting. It was already dusk, when a carriage stopped at the little gate and Conway got out, and was quickly followed by another. “The doctor, at last,” muttered Sybella, gently moving from her place; and Kellett awoke and looked at him.

Conway had barely time to whisper the name of the physician in Bella’s ear, when Sir Maurice Dashwood entered. There was none of the solemn gravity of the learned doctor, none of the catlike stealthiness of the fashionable practitioner, in his approach. Sir Maurice advanced like a man entering a drawing-room before a dinner-party, easy, confident, and affable. He addressed a few words to Miss Kellett, and then placing his chair next her father’s, said, —

“I hope my old brother officer does n’t forget me. Don’t you remember Dashwood of the 43d?”

“The wildest chap in the regiment,” muttered Kellett, “though he was the surgeon. Did you know him, sir?”

“I should think I did,” said the doctor, smiling; “he was a great chum of yours, was n’t he? You messed together in the Pyrenees for a whole winter.”

“A wild chap, – could never come to any good,” went on Kellett to himself. “I wonder what became of him.”

“I can tell you, I think. Meanwhile, let me feel your pulse. No fixed pain here,” said he, touching the region of the heart. “Look fully at me. Ah, it is there you feel it,” said he, as he touched the other’s forehead; “a sense of weight rather than pain, isn’t it?”

“It’s like lead I feel it,” said Kellett; “and when I lay it down, I don’t think I ‘ll ever be able to lift it up again.”

“That you will, and hold it high too, Kellett,” said the doctor, warmly. “You must just follow my counsels for a day or two, and we shall see a great change in you.”

“I ‘ll do whatever you bid me, but it’s no use, doctor; but I ‘ll do it for her sake there.” And the last words were in a whisper.

“That’s spoken like yourself, Kellett,” said the other, cheerily. “Now let me have pen and ink.”

As the doctor sat down to a table, he beckoned Bella to his side, and writing a few words rapidly on the paper before him, motioned to her to read them.

She grasped the chair as she read the lines, and it shook beneath her hand, while an ashy pallor spread over her features.

“Ask him if I might have a little brandy-and-water, Bella,” said the sick man.

“To be sure you may,” said Sir Maurice; “or, better still, a glass of claret; and it so happens I have just the wine to suit him. Conway, come back with me, and I ‘ll give you a half-dozen of it.”

“And is there nothing – is there no – ” Bella could utter no more, when a warning of the doctor’s hand showed that her father’s eyes were on her.

“Come here, Bella,” said he, in a low tone, – “come here to me. There’s a pound in my waistcoat-pocket, in my room; put a shilling inside of it, for it’s a guinea he ought to have, and gold, by rights, if we had it. And tell him we ‘ll send for him if we want to see him again. Do it delicately, darling, so as not to let him know. Say I ‘m used to these attacks; say they’re in the family; say – But there, they are driving away, – they’re off! and he never waited for his fee! That’s the strangest thing of all.” And so he fell a-thinking over this curious fact, muttering from time to time to himself, “I never heard of the like before.”

CHAPTER XXIV. THE COTTAGE

Davenport Dunn had but little leisure to think about Conway or poor Kellett. A change of Ministry had just occurred in England, and men’s minds were all eagerly speculating who was “to come in.” Crowds of country gentlemen flocked up to Dublin, and “rising men” of all shades of opinion anxiously paraded their own claims to notice. Dunn’s house was besieged from morning to night by visitors, all firmly persuaded that he must know more of the coming event than any one. Whether such was really the case, or that he deemed it good policy to maintain the delusion, Dunn affected a slight indisposition, and refused to admit any visitor. Mr. Clowes, indeed, informed the inquirers that it was a mere passing ailment, – “a slight derangement in the bronchi,” he said; but be rigidly maintained the blockade, and suffered none to infringe it.

Of course, a hundred rumors gave their own version of this illness. It was spleen; it was indignation; the Government had thrown him over: he had been refused the secretaryship which he had formerly applied for. Others averred that his attack was most serious, – an ossification or a scirrhus of some cartilage, a thing always fatal and dreadfully painful. Some went further. It was his prosperity was in peril. Over-speculation had jeopardized him, and he was deep in the “Crédit Mobilier.” Now, all this while, the disappointed politician, the hopeless invalid, and the ruined speculator ate and drank well, received and wrote replies to innumerable confidential notes from those in power, and carefully drew up a list of such as he desired to recommend to the Government for place and employment.

Every morning Sir Maurice Dashwood’s well-appointed cab drew up at his door, and the lively baronet would dash up the stairs to Dunn’s room with all the elasticity of youth, and more real energy than is the fortune of one young fellow in a thousand. With a consummate knowledge of men and the world, he was second to none in his profession. He felt he could afford to indulge the gay and buoyant spirits with which Nature had blessed him, and even, doctor that he was, take his share in all the sports of the field and all the pleasures of society.

“Well, Dunn,” cried he, gayly, one morning, as he entered the carefully darkened room where the other sat, surrounded with papers and deep in affairs, “I think you may accept your bill of health, and come out of dock tomorrow. They are gazetted now, and the world as wise as yourself.”

“So I mean to do,” said Dunn. “I intend to dine with the Chancellor. What is said about the new Government?”

“Very little. There is really little to say. They are nearly the same pieces, only placed differently on the board. This trumpery cry about ‘right men in right places’ will lead to all kinds of confusion, since it will eternally suggest choice, which, in plain words, means newspaper dictation.”

“As good as any other dictation: better in one respect, for it so often recants its judgments,” said Dunn, sarcastically.

“Well, they are unanimous about you this morning. They are all eagerly inquiring in what way the Government propose to recognize the services of one of the ablest men and most disinterested patriots of our day.”

“I don’t want anything from them,” said Dunn, testily, and walking to the window to avoid the keen, sharp glance the other bent upon him.

“The best way to get it when you do want,” said Dash-wood. “By the way, what’s our new Viceroy like?”

“A very good appointment, indeed,” said Dunn, gravely.

“Oh, I don’t mean that. I want to know what he is personally: is he stiff, haughty, grave, gay, stand-off, or affable?”

“I should say, from what I have seen of Lord Allington, that he is one of those men who are grave without sadness – ”

“Come, come, never mind the antithesis; does he care for society, does he like sport, is he free-handed, or has he only come here with the traditional policy to ‘drain Ireland’?”

“You ‘ll like him much,” said Dunn, in his natural voice, “and he ‘ll like you.”

Sir Maurice smiled, as though to say, “I could answer as much for myself;” and then asked, “Have you known him long?”

“No; that is, not very long,” said Dunn, hesitating, “nor very intimately. Why do you ask?”

“Just because I want to get something, – at once too. There’s a poor fellow, a patient of mine now, – we were brother officers once, – in a very sad way. Your friends of the Encumbered Court have Just been selling him out, and by the shock they have so stunned him that his brain has been attacked; at present it does not seem so formidable, but it will end in softening, and all the rest of it. Now, if they ‘d make him something at once, – quickly it must be, – he could drop out on some small retired allowance, – anything, in short, that would support him.”

“But what is it to be?” asked Dunn.

“Whatever you like to make him. It can scarcely be a bishop, for he’s not in orders; nor a judge, for he was not called to the bar; but why not a commissioner of something? You have them for all purposes and of all degrees.”

“You take a low estimate of commissionerships, I perceive,” said Dunn, smiling.

“They are row-boats, where two or three pull, and the rest only dip their oars. But come, promise me you ‘ll look to this; take a note of the name, – Paul Kellett a man of excellent family, and once with a large landed property.”

“I know him,” said Dunn, with a peculiar significance.

“And know nothing to his disadvantage, I’m certain. He was a good officer and a kind-hearted fellow, whom we all liked. And there he is now,” added he, after a pause, “with a charming girl – his daughter – and I really don’t believe they have a five-pound note in the world. You must do this for me, Dunn. I ‘m bent upon it!”

“I’ll see what can be done about it. Anything like a job is always a difficulty.”

“And everything is a job here, Dunn, and no man knows better how to deal with one.” And so saying, and with a pleasant laugh, the gay-hearted doctor hurried away, to carry hope, and some portion at least of his own cheery nature, into many a darkened sick-room.

Though several names were announced with pressing entreaties for an audience, Dunn would see no one. He continued to walk up and down the room deep in thought, and seemed resolved that none should interrupt him. There were events enough to occupy, cases enough to engage him, – high questions of policy, deep matters of interest, all that can stimulate ambition, all that can awaken energy, – and yet, amidst all, where were his thoughts straying? They were away to the years of his early boyhood, when he had been Paul Kellett’s playfellow, and when he was admitted – a rare honor – to the little dinner of the nursery! What a strange thing it was that it was “there and then” his first studies of life and character should have been made; that it was there and then he first moulded himself to the temper and ways of another, conforming to caprices and tending to inclinations not his own. Stern tyrants were these child masters! How they did presume upon their high station, how severely did they make him feel the distance between them, and what arts did they teach him, – what subtle devices to outwit their own imperiousness and give him the mastery over them! To these memories succeeded others more painful still; and Dunn’s brow contracted and his lips became tight-drawn as he recollected them.

“I suppose even my father would allow that the debt is acquitted now,” muttered he to himself. “I ‘ll go and see them!” said he, after a moment; “such a sight will teach me how far I have travelled in life.”

He gently descended a private stair that led to the garden, and, passing out by the stables, soon gained the street Walking rapidly on to the first stand, he engaged a car, and started for Clontarf.

If Davenport Dunn never gave way to a passion for revenge in life, it was in some sort because he deemed it a luxury above his means. He often fancied to himself that the time might come when he could indulge in this pleasure, just as now he revelled in a thousand others, which once had seemed as remote. His theory was that he had not yet attained that eminence whence he could dispense with all aid, and he knew not what man’s services at any moment might be useful to him. Still, with all this, he never ceased to enjoy whatever of evil fortune befell those who even in times past had injured him. To measure their destiny with his now, was like striking a balance with Fate, – a balance so strong in his favor; and when he had not actually contributed to their downfall, he deemed himself high-minded, generous, and pure-hearted.

It was reflecting in this wise he drove along, and at last drew up at Kellett’s door; his knock was answered by Sybella herself, whose careworn features and jaded look scarcely reminded him of her appearance when first he saw her, flushed and excited by exercise.

“I thought I’d come myself and ask after him,” said Dunn, as he explained the object of his visit.

“He has scarce consciousness enough to thank you,” said she, mournfully, “but I am very grateful to you;” and she preceded him into the room, where her father sat in the selfsame attitude as before.

“He doesn’t know me,” whispered Dunn, as the sick man’s gaze was turned to him without the slightest sign of recognition, – “he does n’t know me!”

“I do. I know you well, Davenport Dunn, and I know why you come here,” said Kellett, with a distinctness that startled them both. “Leave us alone together, Bella darling; we want to talk privately.”

Sybella was so astounded at this sudden show of intelligence that she scarcely knew how to take it, or what to do; but at a gesture from Dunn, she stepped noiselessly from the room, and left them together.

“You must not excite yourself, Kellett, nor prejudice your prospect of recovery by any exertion; there will be time enough for matters of business hereafter – ”

“No, there won’t; that’s the reason I want to talk to you now,” said Kellett, sharply. “I know well enough my life is short here.”

Dunn began some phrase of cheering meaning; but the other stopped him abruptly, and said, —

“There, there, don’t be losing time that way. Is that the touch of a man long for this world?” and he laid on the other’s hand his own hot and burning fingers. “I said I knew why you came here, Dunn,” continued he, more strongly; “it was to look at your work. Ay, just so. It was you brought me to this, and you wanted to see it. Turn your eyes round the room, and you ‘ll see it’s poor enough. Look in at that bedroom there, and you ‘ll say it could n’t be much more humble! I pawned my watch yesterday; there’s all that’s out of it;” and he showed some pieces of silver and copper mixed together in the palm of his hand; “there’s not a silver spoon left, so that you see you ‘ve done it well!”

“My dear Kellett, these words of yours have no meaning in them – ”

“Maybe not; but maybe you understand them, for all that! Look here, now, Dunn,” said he, clutching his hand in his own feverish grasp; “what the Child begins the Man finishes! I know you well, and I ‘ve watched you for many a year. All your plans and schemes never deceived me; but it’s a house of cards you ‘re building, after all! What I knew about you as a boy others may know as a man; and I would n’t believe St. Peter if he told me you only did it once!”