Kitabı oku: «The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1», sayfa 27

CHAPTER XXXIV. A GLANCE AT PUBLIC OPINION IN THE YEAR 1800

Among the arrangements for the departure of the family from the abbey, all of which were confided to Bagenal Daly, was one which he pressed with a more than ordinary zeal and anxiety; this was, that they should set out at a very early hour of the morning, – at dawn of day, if possible. Lady Eleanor’s habits made such a plan objectionable, and it was only by representing the great sacrifice of feeling a later departure would exact, when crowds of country people would assemble to take their farewells of them forever, that she consented. While Daly depicted the unnecessary sorrow to which they would expose themselves by the sight of their old and attached tenantry, he strenuously preserved silence on the real reason which actuated him, and to explain which a brief glance at the state of public feeling at the period is necessary.

To such a pitch of acrimony and animosity were parties borne by the agitation which preceded the carrying of the “Union,” that all previous character and conduct of those who voted on the question were deemed as nothing in comparison with the line they adopted on the one absorbing subject. If none who advocated the Ministerial plan escaped the foulest animadversions, all who espoused the opposite side were exalted to the dignity of patriots; argument and reason went for little, principle for still less: a vote was deemed the touchstone of honesty. Such rash and hasty judgments suited the temper of the times, and, it may be said in extenuation, were not altogether without some show of reason. Each day revealed some desertion from the popular party of men who, up to that moment, had rejected all the seductions of the Crown; country gentlemen, hitherto supposed inaccessible to all the temptations of bribery, were found suddenly addressing speculative letters to their constituencies, wherein they ingeniously discussed all the contingencies of a measure they had once opposed without qualification. Noblemen of high rank and fortune were seen to pay long visits at the Castle, and, by a strange fatality, were found to have modified their opinions exactly at the period selected by the Crown to bestow on them designations of honor or situations of trust and dignity. Lawyers in high practice at the bar, men esteemed by their profession, and held in honor by the public, were seen to abandon their position of proud independence, and accept Government appointments, in many cases inferior both in profit and rank to what they had surrendered.

There seemed a kind of panic abroad. Men feared to walk without the protective mantle of the Crown being extended over them; the barriers of shame were broken down by the extent to which corruption had spread. The examples of infamy were many, and several were reconciled to the ignominy of their degradation by their associates in disgrace. That in such general corruption the judgments of the public should have been equally wholesale, is little to be wondered at; the regret is rather that they were so rarely unjust and ill-bestowed.

Public confidence was utterly uprooted; there was a national bankruptcy of honor, and none were trusted; all the guarantees for high principle and rectitude a lifetime had given, all the hostages to good faith years of unimpeached honor bestowed, were forgotten in a moment, and such as opposed the Government measure with less of acrimony or activity than their neighbors, were set down “as waiting for or soliciting the bribery of the Crown.”

To this indiscriminating censure the Knight of Gwynne was a victim. It may be remarked that in times of popular excitement, when passions are rife and the rude enthusiasm of the mass has beaten down the more calmly weighed opinion of the few, that there is a strange pleasure felt in the detection of any real or supposed lapse of one once esteemed. It were well if this malignant delight were limited to the mere mob, but it is not so; men of education and position are not exempt from its taint. It would seem as if society were so thoroughly disorganized that every feeling was perverted, and all the esteem for what is good and great had degenerated into a general cry of exultation over each new instance of tarnished honor.

Accustomed as we now are to the most free and unfettered criticisms of all public men and their acts, it would yet astonish any one not conversant with that period, to look back to the newspapers of the time, and see the amount of violence and personality with which every man obnoxious to a party was visited; coarse invective stood in the place of argument, a species of low humor had replaced the light brilliancy of wit. The public mind, fed on grosser materials, had lost all appetite for the piquancy of more highly flavored food, and the purveyors were not sorry to find a market for a commodity which cost them so little to procure. In this spirit was it that one of the most popular of the Opposition journals announced for the amusement of its readers a series of sketches under the title of “The Gallery of Traitors,” – a supposed collection of portraits to be painted for the Viceroy, and destined to decorate one of the chambers of the Castle.

Not satisfied with aspersing the reputation, and mistaking the views of any who sided with the Minister, the attack went further, and actually ascribed the casualties which occurred to such persons or their families as instances of divine vengeance. In this diabolical temper the Knight of Gwynne was held up to reprobation; it was a bold thought to venture on calumniating a man every action of whose life had placed him above even slander, but its boldness was the warranty of success. The whole story of his arrival in Dublin, his dinner with the Secretary, his intimacy with Heffernan, was related circumstantially. The night on which Heffernan entrapped him by the trick already mentioned, was quoted as the eventful moment of his change. Then came the history of his appearance in the House on the evening of the second reading: his hesitation to enter, his doubts and waverings were all described, ending with a minute detail of his compact with Lord Castlereagh, by which his voting was dispensed with, and his absence from the division deemed enough.

Gleeson’s flight and its consequences were soon known. The ruin of Darcy’s large fortune was a circumstance not likely to lose by public discussion, particularly when the daily columns of a newspaper devoted a considerable space to the most minute details of that catastrophe. It was asserted that the Knight had sold himself for a Marqui-sate and a seat in the English peerage; that his vote was deemed so great a prize by the Minister that he might have made even higher terms, but in the confidence of possessing a large fortune he had only bargained for rank, and rejected every offer of mere emolument; and now came the dreadful retribution on his treachery, the downfall of his fortune by the villany of his agent. To assume a title when the very expense of the patent could not be borne, was an absurdity, and this explained why Maurice Darcy remained ungazetted. Such was the plausible calumny generally circulated, and, alas for the sake of charity! scarcely less generally believed.

There are epidemics of credulity as of infidelity, and such a plague raged at this period. Anything was believed, were it only bad enough. While men, therefore, went about deploring, with all the sanctity of self-esteem, the fall of Maurice Darcy, public favor, by one of those caprices all its own, adopted the cause of his colleague, Hickman O’Reilly. His noble refusal of every offer (and what a catalogue of seductions did they not enumerate!) was given in the largest type. They recounted, with all the eloquence of their calling, the glittering coronets rejected, the places of honor and profit declined, the dignities proffered in vain, preferring as he did the untitled rank of a country gentleman, and the unpurchasable station of a true friend to Ireland.

He was eulogized in capital letters, and canonized among the martyrs of patriotism; public orators belabored him with praises, and ballad-singers chanted his virtues through the streets. Nor was this turn of feeling a thing to be neglected by one so shrewd in worldly matters. His sudden accession to increased fortune and the position attendant on it, would, he well knew, draw down upon him many a sneer upon his origin, and some unpleasant allusions to the means by which the wealth was amassed. To anticipate such an ungrateful inquiry, he seized the lucky accident of his popularity, and turned it to the best account.

Whole “leaders” were devoted to the laudation of his character: the provincial journals, less scrupulous than the metropolitan, boldly asserted their knowledge of the various bribes tendered to him, and threw out dark hints of certain disclosures which, although at present refrained from out of motives of delicacy, should Mr. O’Reilly ultimately be persuaded to make, the public would be horrified at the extent to which corruption had been carried.

The O’Reilly liveries, hitherto a modest snuff color, were now changed to an emerald green; an Irish motto ornamented the garter of the family crest; while the very first act of his return to the West was a splendid donation to the chapel of Ballyraggan, or, as it was subsequently and more politely named, the Church of St. Barnabas of Treves: all measures dictated by a high-spirited independence, and a mind above the vulgar bigotry of party.

Had O’Reilly stopped here; had he contented himself with the preliminary arrangements for being a patriot, it is probable that Bagenal Daly had never noticed them, or done so merely with some passing sarcasm; but the fact was otherwise. Daly discovered, in the course of his journey westward, that the rumors of the Knight’s betrayal of his party were generally disseminated in exact proportion with the new-born popularity of O’Reilly; that the very town of Westport, where Darcy’s name was once adored, was actually placarded with insulting notices of the Knight’s conduct, and scandalous aspersions on his character: jeering allusions to his altered fortunes were sung in the villages as he passed along, and it was plain that the whole current of popular opinion had set strong against him.

To spare his friend Darcy a mortification which Daly well knew would be one of the greatest to his feelings, the early departure was planned and decided on. It must not be inferred that because the Knight would have felt deeply the unjust censure of the masses, he was a man to care or bend beneath the angry menace of a mob; far from it. The ingratitude towards himself would have called forth the least of his regrets; it was rather a heartfelt sorrow at the hopeless ignorance and degradation of those who could be so easily deceived, – at that populace whose fickleness preferred the tinsel and trappings of patriotism to the acts and opinions of one they had known and respected for years.

Long before day broke, Daly was stirring and busied with all the preparations of the journey; the travelling carriage, covered with its various boxes and imperials, stood before the door in the courtyard; the horses were harnessed and bridled in the stables; everything was in readiness for a start; and yet, save himself and the stablemen, all within the abbey seemed buried in slumber.

Although it was scarcely more than five o’clock, Daly’s impatience at the continued quietude around him began to manifest itself; he walked hastily to and fro, endeavoring to occupy his thoughts by a hundred little details, till at last he found himself returning to the same places and with the self-same objects again and again, while he muttered broken sentences of angry comments on people who could sleep so soundly at such a time.

It was in one of those fretful moods he had approached the little flower-garden of the sub-prior’s house, when the twinkling of a light attracted him: it came from the window of Lady Eleanor’s favorite drawing-room, and glittered like a star in the gloom of the morning. Curious to see who was stirring in that part of the house, he drew near, and, opening the wicket, noiselessly approached the window. He there beheld Lady Eleanor, who, supported by Helen’s arm, moved slowly along the room, stopping at intervals, and again proceeding; she seemed to be taking a last farewell of the various well-known objects endeared to her by years of companionship; her handkerchief was often raised to her eyes as she went, but neither uttered a syllable. Ashamed to have obtruded even thus upon a scene of private sorrow, Daly turned back again to the courtyard, where now the loud voice of the Knight was heard giving his orders to the servants.

The first greetings over, the Knight took Daly’s arm and walked beside him.

“I have been thinking over the matter in the night, Bagenal,” said he, “and am convinced it were far better that you should remain with Lionel; we can easily make our journey alone, – the road is open, and no difficulty in following it; but that poor boy will need advice and counsel. You will probably receive letters from Dublin by the post, with some instructions how to act; in any case my heart fails me at leaving Lionel to himself.”

“I ‘ll remain, then,” replied Daly; “I’ll see you the first stage out of Westport, and then return here. It is, perhaps, better as you say.”

“There is another point,” said Darcy, after a pause, and with evident hesitation in his manner; “it is perfectly impossible for me to walk through this labyrinth without your guidance, Bagenal, – I have neither head nor heart for it, – you must be the pilot, and if you quit the helm for a moment – ”

“Trust me, Maurice, I’ll not do it,” said Daly, grasping his hand with a firm grip.

“I know that well,” said the Knight, as his voice trembled with agitation; “I never doubted the will, Bagenal, it was the power only I suspected. I see you will not understand me. Confound it! why should old friends, such as we are, keep beating about the bush, or fencing like a pair of diplomatists? I wanted to speak to you about that bond of yours: there is something like seven thousand pounds lying to my credit at Henshaw’s; take what is necessary, and get rid of that scoundrel Hickman’s claim. If they should arrest you – ”

“I wish he had done so yesterday, – my infernal temper, that never will let matters take due course, stopped the fellow; you can’t see why, but I’ll tell you. I paid the money to Hickman’s law-agent, in Dublin, the morning I started from town, and they had not time to stop the execution of the writ down here. Yes, Darcy, there was one drop more in the stoup, and I drained it! The last few acres I possessed in the world, the old estate of Hardress Daly, is now in the ownership of one Samuel Kerney, grocer of Bride Street. I paid off Hickman, however, and found something like one hundred and twenty-eight pounds afterwards in my pocket – but let us talk of something else: you must not yield to these people without a struggle; Bicknell says there are abundant grounds for a trial at bar in the affair. If collusion between Hickman and Gleeson should be proved, that many of the leases were granted with false signatures annexed – ”

“I ‘ll do whatever men of credit and character counsel me,” said the Knight; “if there be any question of right, I ‘ll neither compromise nor surrender it: I can promise no more. But here comes Lionel, – to announce breakfast, perhaps.”

And so it was; the young man came towards them with an easy smile, presenting a hand to each. If sorrow had sunk deeply into his heart, few traces of grief were apparent in his manly, handsome countenance.

Notwithstanding the efforts of the party, the breakfast did not pass over as lightly as the dinner of the previous day; the eventful moment of parting was now too near not to exclude every other subject, and even when by an exertion some allusion to a different topic would be made, a chance question, the entrance of a servant for orders, or the tramp of horses in the courtyard, would suddenly bring back the errant thoughts, and place the sad reality in all its force before them.

Breakfast was over, and yet no one stirred; a heavy, dreary revery seemed to have settled on all except Daly, – and he, from delicacy, restrained the impatience that was working within him. In vain he sought to catch Darcy’s eye, and then Lionel’s, – both were bent downward. Lady Eleanor at last looked up, and at once seemed to read what was passing in his mind.

“I am ready,” said she, in a low, gentle voice, “and I see Mr. Daly is not sorry at it. Helen, dearest, fetch me my gloves.”

She arose, and the others with her. The calmness in which she spoke on the theme that none dared approach, seemed also to electrify them, when suddenly a low sob was heard, and the mother fell, in a burst of anguish, into the arms of her son.

“Eleanor, my dearest Eleanor!” said Darcy, as his pale cheek shook and his lip trembled. As if recalled to herself by the words, she raised her head, and, with a smile of deep-meaning sorrow, said, —

“It’s the first tear I have yet shed; it shall be the last.” Then, taking Daly’s arm, she walked steadily forward.

“I have often wondered,” said she, “at the prayer of a condemned felon for a few hours longer of life; but I can understand it now. I feel as if I could give life itself for another day within these walls, where often I have pined with ennui. You will watch over Lionel for me, Mr. Daly. When the world went fairly with us, calamities came softened, – as the summer rain falls lighter in sunshine; but now, now that we have lost so much, we cannot afford more.”

Daly’s stern features grew sterner and darker; his lips were compressed more firmly; he tried to say a few words, but a low, indistinct muttering was all that came.

The next moment the carriage door was closed on the party – they were gone.

Lionel stood gazing after them till they disappeared, and then, with a slow step, re-entered the abbey.

CHAPTER XXXV. BAGENAL DALY’S RETURN

Lionel Darcy bore up manfully against his altered fortunes so long as others were around him, and that the necessity for exertion existed; but once more alone within that silent and deserted house, all his courage failed him at once, and he threw himself upon a seat and gave way to grief. Never were the brighter prospects of opening life more cruelly dashed, and yet his sorrow was for others. Every object about brought up thoughts of that dear mother and sister, to whom the refinements of life were less luxuries than wants. How were they to engage in the stern conflict with daily poverty, – to see themselves bereft of all the appliances which filled up the hours of each day? Could his mother, frail and delicate as she was, much longer sustain the effort by which she first met the stroke of fortune? Would not the reaction, whenever it came, be too terrible to be borne? And Helen, too, – his sweet and lovely sister, – she whom he had loved to think of as the admired of a splendid Court; on whose appearance in the world he had so often speculated, castle-building over the sensations her beauty and her gracefulness would excite, – what was to be her lot? Deep and heartfelt as his sorrow was for them, it was only when he thought of his father that Lionel’s anguish burst its bounds, and he broke into a torrent of tears. From very boyhood he had loved and admired him; but never had the high features of his character so impressed Lionel Darcy as when the reverse of fortune called up that noble spirit whose courage displayed itself in manly submission and the generous effort to support the hearts of others. How cruel did the decrees of fate seem to him, that such a man should be visited so heavily, while vice and meanness prospered on every side. He knew not that virtue has no nobler attribute than its power of sustaining unmerited affliction, and that the destiny of the good man is never more nobly carried out than when he points the example of patience in suffering.

Immersed in such gloomy thoughts, he wandered on from room to room, feeding, as it were, the appetite for sorrow, by the sight of every object that could remind him of past happiness; nor were they few. There was the window-seat he loved to sit in as a boy, when all the charm of some high-wrought story could not keep his eyes from wandering at intervals over the green hills where the lambs were playing, or adown by that dark stream where circling eddies marked the leaping trout. Here was Helen’s favorite room, a little octagon boudoir, from every window of which a different prospect opened; it seemed to breathe of her sweet presence even yet; the open desk, from which she had taken some letter, lay there upon the table, the pen she had last touched, the chair she sat upon, all, even to the little nosegay of scarce-faded flowers, the last she had plucked, teemed with her memory. He walked on with bent-down head and tardy step, and entered the little room which, opening on the lawn, was used by the Knight to receive such of the tenantry as came to him for assistance or advice; many an hour had he sat there beside his father, and, while listening with the eager curiosity of youth to the little stories of the poor man’s life, his trials and his difficulties, imbibed lessons of charity and benevolence never to be forgotten.

The great square volume in which the Knight used to record his notes of the neighboring poor, lay on the table; his chair was placed near it; all was in readiness for his coming who was to come there no more! As Lionel stood in silent sorrow, surveying these objects, the shadow of a man darkened the window. He turned suddenly, and saw the tall, scarecrow figure of Flury the madman. A large placard decorated the front of his hat, on which the words “Down with the Darcys!” were written in capital letters, and he carried in his hand a bundle of papers, like handbills, which he shook with a menacing air at Lionel.

“What is this, Flury?” said the youth, opening the window, and at the same time snatching one of the papers from his hand.

“It’s the full account of the grand auction of Government hacks,” said Flury, with the sing-song intonation of a street-crier, “no longer needed for the services of the Crown, and to be sowld without resarve.”

“And who sent you here with this?” said the young man, moderating his tone, to avoid startling the other.

“Connor Egan, Hickman’s man, gave me a pint and a noggin of spirits to cry the auction, and tould me to come up here and maybe you’d like to hear of it ye’selves.”

Lionel threw his eyes over the offensive lines, where in coarse ribaldry names the most venerable were held up to scorn and derision. If it was some satisfaction to find that his father was linked in the ruffianly attack with men of honor as unblemished as his own, he was not less outraged at the vindictive cowardice that had suggested this insult.

“There’ll be a fine sight of people there, by all accounts,” said Flury, gravely, “for the auction-bills is far and near over the country, and the Castlebar coach has one on each door.”

“Is popular feeling always as corrupt a thing as this?” muttered Lionel, with a bitter sneer, while at the same time the door of the room was opened, and Daly entered. His face was marked by a severe cut on one cheek, from which the blood had flowed freely; a dark blue stain, as of a blow, was on his chin, and one hand he carried enveloped in his handkerchief; his clothes were torn besides in many places, and bore traces of a severe personal conflict.

“What has happened?” said Lionel, as he looked in alarm at the swollen and blood-stained features. “Did you fall?”

“Fall! no such thing, boy,” replied Daly, sternly; “but some worthy folk in Castlebar planned a little surprise for me this morning. They heard, it seems, that we passed through the town by daybreak, but that I was to return before noon; and so they placed some cars and turf creels in the main street, opposite the inn, in such a way that, while seeming merely accident, would effectually stop a horseman from proceeding. When I arrived at the spot, I halted, and called out to the fellows to move on, and let me pass. They took no heed of my words, and then I saw in a moment what was intended. I had no arms; I had purposely left my pistols behind me, for I feared something might provoke me, though not anticipating such as this. So I got down and drew this wattle from the side of a turf creel, – you see it is a strong blackthorn, and good stuff too. Before I was in the saddle the word was passed, and the whole street was full of people, and I now perceived that, by the same manouvre as they employed in front, they had also closed the rear upon me, and cut off my retreat. ‘Now for it! now for it!’ they shouted. ‘Where’s Bully Dodd? – Where’s the Bully?’ I suppose you know the fellow?”

“The man that was transported?”

“The same. The greatest ruffian the country was cursed with. He came at the call, without coat or waistcoat, his shirt-sleeves tucked up to his shoulders, and a handkerchief round his waist ready for a fight. There was an old quarrel between us, for it was I captured the fellow the day after he burnt down Dawson’s house. He came towards me, the mob opening a way for him, with a pewter pot of porter in his hand.

“‘We want you to dhrink a toast for us, Mr. Daly,’ said he, with a marked courtesy, and a grin that amused the fellows around him. ‘You were always a patriot, and won’t make any objections to it.’

“‘What is the liquor?’ said I.

“‘Good porter, – divil a less,’ cried the mob; ‘Mol Heavyside’s best.’ And so I took the vessel in my hands, and before they could say a syllable, drained it to the bottom; for I was very thirsty with the ride, and in want of something to refresh myself.

“‘But you did n’t dhrink the toast,’ said Dodd savagely.

“‘Where was the toast? He didn’t say the words,’ shouted the mob.

“‘Off with his hat, and make him drink it,’ cried out several others from a distance. They saved me one part of the trouble, for they knocked off my hat with a stone.

“‘Here’s health and long life to Hickman O’Reilly!’ cried out Dodd, – ‘that’s the toast.’

“‘And what have I to wish him either?’ said I, while at the same time I tore open the pewter measure, and then with one strong dash of my band drove it down on the ruffian’s head, down to the very brows. I lost no time afterwards, but, striking right and left, plunged forwards; the mob fled as I followed, and by good luck the carthorses, getting frightened, sprang forward also, and so I rode on with a few slight cuts; a stone or two struck me, nothing more; but they ‘ll need a plumber to rid my friend Dodd of his helmet.”

“And we used to call this town our own,” said Lionel, bitterly.

“Nothing is a man’s own but his honor, sir. That base cowardice yonder believes itself honest and independent, as if a single right feeling, a single good or virtuous thought, could consort with habits like theirs; but they are less base than those who instigate them. The real scoundrels are the Hickmans of this world, the men who compensate for low birth and plebeian origin by calumniating the wellborn and the noble. – What is Flury wanting here?” said he, as, attracted by Daly’s narrative, the poor fellow had drawn near to listen.

“‘I ‘m glad you put the pewter pot on the Bully’s head, he ‘s a disgrace to the town,” said Flury, with a laugh; and he turned away, as if enjoying the downfall of an enemy.

“Oh! I see,” said Daly, taking up one of the papers that had fallen to the ground, “this is the first act of the drama. Come along, Lionel, let us talk of matters nearer to our hearts.”

They walked along together to the library, each silently following his own train of thought, and for some time neither seemed disposed to speak. Lionel at length broke silence, as he said, —

“I have been thinking over it, and am convinced my father will never be able to endure this life of inactivity before him.”

“That is exactly the fear I entertain myself for him; altered fortunes will impress themselves more in the diminished sphere to which his influence and utility will be reduced, than in anything else: but how to remedy this?”

“I have been considering that also; but you must advise me if the plan be a likely one. He held the rank of colonel once – ”

“To be sure he did, and with good right, – he raised the regiment himself. Darcy’s Light Horse were as handsome a set of fellows as the service could boast of.”

“Well, then, my notion is, that although the Government did not buy his vote on the Union, there would be no just reason why they should not appoint him to some one of those hundred situations which the service includes. His former rank, his connection and position, his unmerited misfortunes, are, in some sense, claims. I can scarcely suppose his opposition in Parliament would be remembered against him at such a moment.”

“I hardly think it would,” said Daly, musingly; “there is much in what you propose. Would Lord Netherby support such a request if it were made?”

“He could not well decline it; almost the last thing he said at parting was, that whatever favor he enjoyed should be gladly employed in our behalf. Besides, we really seek nothing to which we may not lay fair and honest claim. My intention would be to write at once to Lord Netherby. acquainting him briefly with our altered fortunes.”

“The more briefly on that topic the better,” said Daly, dryly.

“To mention my father’s military rank and services, to state that, having raised and equipped a company at his own expense, without accepting the slightest aid from the Government, now, in his present change of condition, he would be proud of any recognition of those services which once he was but too happy to render unrewarded by the Crown. There are many positions, more or less lucrative, which would well become him, and which no right-minded gentleman could say were ill-bestowed on such a man.”