Kitabı oku: «The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1», sayfa 3
“I ‘ll no do it,” said Sandy, “nor will I let you either.” And as he spoke, he leaned forward to take the oar from Daly’s hand. The young man, irritated at the attempt, rudely repulsed him, and Sandy, whose temper, if not as violent, was at least as determined, grappled with him at once.
“You’ll upset the boat – curse the fellow!” said Daly, who now found that he had met his match in point of strength and daring.
“Let go the oar, man,” cried Sandy, savagely.
“Never,” said Daly, with a violent effort to free his hands.
“Then swim for it, if ye like better,” said Sandy; and, placing one foot on the gunwale, he gave a tremendous push, and the next instant they were both struggling in the sea. For a long time they continued, almost side by side, to buffet the dark water; but at last Daly began to falter, his efforts became more labored, and his strength seemed failing; Sandy turned his head, and seized him in the very struggle that precedes sinking. They were still far from shore, but the hardy Northern never hesitated; he held him by the arm, and after a long and desperate effort succeeded in gaining the land.
“Ye got a bra wetting for your pains, anyhow,” said Sandy; “but I ‘m no the best off either: I ‘ll never see the cobble mair.”
Such were the first words Bagenal Daly heard when consciousness returned to him; the rest of the story is soon told. Daly took Sandy into his service, not without all due thought and consideration on the latter’s part, for he owned a small fishing-hut, for which he expected and received due compensation, as well as for the cobble and the damage to his habiliments by salt water, – all matters of which, as they were left to his own uncontrolled valuation, he was well satisfied with the arrangement; and thus began a companionship which had lasted to the very moment we have presented him to our readers.
It is but fair to say that in all this time no one had ever heard from Sandy’s lips one syllable of the adventure we have related, nor did he ever, in the remotest degree, allude to it in intercourse with his master. Sandy was little disposed to descant either on the life or the character of his master; the Scotch element of caution was mingled strongly through his nature, and he preferred any other topic of conversation than such as led to domestic events. Whether that he was less on his guard on this evening, or that, esteeming Tate’s perceptions at no very high rate, so it is, he talked more freely and unadvisedly than was his wont.
“Ye hae a bra berth o’ it here, Maister Sullivan,” said he, as he smacked his lips after the smoking compound, whose odor pronounced it mulled port; “I maun say, that a man wha has seen a good deal of life might do far war’ than settle down in a snug little nook like this; maybe, ye hae no journeyed far in your time either.”
“Indeed, ‘tis true for you, Mr. M’Grane, I had not the opportunities you had of seeing the world, and the strange people in foreign parts; they tell me you was in Jericho, and Jerusalem, and Gibraltar.”
“Further than that, Maister Sullivan. I hae been in very curious places wi’ Mr. Daly; this day nine years we were in the Rocky Mountains, among the Red Indians.”
“The Red Indians! blood alive! them was dangerous neighbors.”
“Not in our case. My master was a chief among them, I was the doctor of the tribe, – the ‘Great Mystery Man,’ they cau’d me; my master’s name was the ‘Howling Wind.’”
“Sorra doubt, but it was not a bad one, – listen to him now;” and Tate lifted his hand to enforce silence, while a cheer loud and sonorous rang out, and floated in rich cadence along the arched corridors of the old abbey; “‘tis singing he is,” added Tate, lower, while he opened the door to listen.
“That’s no a sang, that’s the war-cry of the Manhattas,” said Sandy, gravely.
“The saints be praised it’s no worse!” remarked Tate, with pious horror in every feature. “I thought he was going to raise the divil. And who was the man-haters, Mr. M’Grane?” added he, meekly.
“A vara fine set o’ people; a leetle fond o’ killing and eating their neighbors, but friendly and ceevil to strangers; I hae a wife amang them mysel.”
“A wife! Is she a Christian, then?”
“Nae muck le o’ that, but a douce, good-humored lassie for a’ that.”
“And she’sa black?”
“Na, na; she was a rich copper tint, something deeper than my waistcoat here, but she had twa yellow streaks over her forehead, and the tip o’ her nose was blue.”
“The mother of Heaven be near us! she was a beauty, by all accounts.”
“Ay, that she was; the best-looking squaw of the tribe, and rare handy wi’ a hatchet.”
“Divil fear her,” muttered Tate, between his teeth. “And what was her name, now?”
“Her name was Orroawaccanaboo, the ‘Jumping Wild Cat.’”
“Oh, holy Moses!” exclaimed Tate, unable any longer to subdue his feelings, “I would n’t be her husband for a mine of goold.”
“You are no sae far wrong there, my auld chap,” said Sandy, without showing any displeasure at this burst of feeling.
“And Mr. Daly, had he another – of these craytures?” said Tate, who felt scruples in applying the epithet of the Church in such a predicament.
“He had twa,” said Sandy, “forbye anein the mountains, that was too auld to come down; puir lone body, she was unco’ fond of a child’s head and shoulders wi’ fish gravy!”
“To ate it! Do you mane for ating, Mr. M’Grane?”
“Ay, just so; butchers’ shops is no sae plenty down in them parts. But what’s that! dinna ye hear a ringing o’ the bell at the gate there?”
“I hear nothing, I can think of nothing! sorra bit! with the thought of that ould baste in my head, bad luck to her!” exclaimed Tate, ruefully. “A child’s head and shoulders! Sure enough, that’s the bell, and them that’s ringing it knows the way, too.” And with these words Tate lighted his lantern and issued forth to the gate tower, the keys of which were each night deposited in his care.
As the massive gates fell back, four splashed and heated horses drew forward a calèche, from which, disengaging himself with speed, Dick Forester descended, and endeavored, as well as the darkness would permit, to survey the great pile of building around him.
“Coming to stop, yer honor?” said Tate, courteously uncovering his white head.
“Yes. Will you present these letters and this card to your master?”
“I must show you your room first, – that’s my orders always. – Tim, bring up this luggage to 27. – Will yer honor have supper in the hall, or in your own dressing-room?”
There is nothing more decisive as to the general tone of hospitality pervading any house than the manner of the servants towards strangers; and thus, few and simple as the old butler’s words were, they were amply sufficient to satisfy Forester that his reception would be a kindly one, even though less ably accredited than by Lionel Darcy’s introduction; and he followed Tate Sullivan with the pleasant consciousness that he was to lay his head beneath a friendly roof.
“Never mind the supper,” said he; “a good night’s rest is what I stand most in need of. Show me to my room, and to-morrow I ‘ll pay my respects to the Knight.”
“This way then, sir,” said Tate, entering a large hall, and leading the way up a wide oak staircase, at the top of which was a corridor of immense extent. Turning short at the head of this, Tate opened a small empanelled door, and with a gesture of caution moved forwards. Forester followed, not a little curious to know the meaning of the precaution, and at the same instant the loud sounds of merry voices laughing and talking reached him, but from what quarter he could not guess, when, suddenly, his guide drew back a heavy cloth curtain, and he perceived that they were traversing a long gallery, which ran along the entire length of a great room, in the lower part of which a large company was assembled. So sudden and unexpected was the sight that Forester started with amazement, and stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, while Tate Sullivan, as if enjoying his surprise, leaned his hands on his knees and stared steadily at him.
The scene below was indeed enough to warrant his astonishment. In the great hail, which had once been the refectory of the abbey, a party of about thirty gentlemen were now seated around a table covered with drinking vessels of every shape and material, as the tastes of the guests inclined their potations. Claret, in great glass jugs holding the quantity of two or three ordinary bottles; port, in huge square decanters, both being drunk from the wood, as was the fashion of the day; large china bowls of mulled wine, in which the oranges and limes floated fragrantly; and here and there a great measure made of wood and hooped with silver, called the “mether,” contained the native beverage in all its simplicity, and supplied the hard drinker with the liquor he preferred to all, – “poteen.” The guests were no less various than the good things of which they partook. Old, young, and middle-aged; some men stamped with the air and seeming of the very highest class; others as undeniably drawn from the ranks of the mere country squire; a few were dressed in all the accuracy of dinner costume; some wore the well-known livery of Daly’s Club, and others were in the easy negligence of morning dress; while, scattered up and down, could be seen the red coat of a hunter, whose splashed and stained scarlet spoke rather for the daring than the dandyism of its wearer. But conspicuous above all was a figure who, on an elevated seat, sat at the head of the table and presided over the entertainment. He was a tall – a very tall – and powerfully built man, whose age might have been guessed at anything, from five-and-forty to seventy; for though his frame and figure indicated few touches of time, his seared and wrinkled forehead boded advanced life. His head was long and narrow, and had been entirely bald, were it not for a single stripe of coal-black hair which grew down the very middle of it, and came to a point on the forehead, looking exactly like the scalplock of an Indian warrior. The features were long and melancholy in expression, – a character increased by a drooping moustache of black hair, the points of which descended below the chin. His eyes were black as a raven’s wing, and glanced with all the brilliancy and quickness of youth, while the incessant motion of his arched eyebrows gave to their expression a character of almost demoniac intelligence. His voice was low and sonorous, and, although unmistakably Irish in accent, occasionally lapsed into traits which might be called foreign, for no one that knew him would have accused him of the vice of affectation. His dress was a claret-colored coat edged with narrow silver lace, and a vest of white satin, over which, by a blue ribbon, hung the medal of a foreign order; white satin breeches and silk stockings, with shoes fastened by large diamond buckles, completed a costume which well became a figure that had lost nothing of its pretension to shapeliness and symmetry. His hands, though remarkably large and bony, were scrupulously white and cared for, and more than one ring of great value ornamented his huge and massive fingers. Altogether, he was one whom the least critical would have pronounced not of the common herd of humanity, and yet whose character was by no means so easy to guess at from external traits.
Amid all the tumult and confusion of the scene, his influence seemed felt everywhere, and his rich, solemn tones could be heard high above the crash and din around. As Forester stood and leaned over the balcony, the noise seemed to have reached its utmost; one of the company – a short, square, bull-faced little squire – being interrupted in a song by some of the party, while others – the greater number – equally loud, called on him to proceed. It was one of the slang ditties of the time, – a lyric suggested by that topic which furnished matter for pamphlets and speeches and songs, dinners, debates, and even duels, – the Union.
“Go on, Bodkin; go on, man! You never were in better voice in your life,” mingled with, “No, no; why introduce any party topic here?” – with a murmured remark: “It’s unfair, too. Hickman O’Reilly is with the Government.”
The tumult, which, without being angry, increased every moment, was at last stilled by the voice of the chairman, saying, —
“If the song have a moral, Bodkin – ”
“It has, I pledge my honor it has, your ‘Grandeur.’” said Bodkin.
“Then finish it. Silence there, gentlemen.” And Bodkin resumed his chant: —
“‘Trust me, Squire,’ the dark man cried,
‘I ‘ll follow close and mind you,
Nor however high the fence you ride,
I ‘ll ever be far behind you.’
“And true to his word, like a gentleman
He rode, there ‘a no denying;
And though full twenty miles they ran,
He took all his ditches flying.
“The night now came, and down they sat,
And the Squire drank while he was able;
But though glass for glass the dark man took,
He left him under the table.
“When morning broke, the Squire’s brains,
Though racking, were still much clearer.
‘I know you well,’ said he to his guest,
‘Now that I see you nearer.
“‘You ‘ve play’d me a d – d scurvy trick:
Come, what have I lost – don’t tease me.
Is it my soul?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Nick;
‘Just vote for the Union, to please me.’”
Amid the loud hurrahs and the louder laughter that fol-lowed this rude chant Forester hurried on to his room, fully convinced that his mission was not altogether so promising as he anticipated.
Undeniable in every respect as was the accommodation of his bed-chamber, Forester lay awake half the night, the singular circumstances in which he found himself occupied his thoughts, while at intervals came the swelling sounds of some loud cheers from the party below, whose boisterous gayety seemed to continue without interruption.
CHAPTER IV. THE DINNER-PARTY
It was late on the following day when Forester awoke, nor was it for some time that he could satisfy himself how far he had been an actor, or a mere spectator in the scene he had witnessed the preceding night. The room and the guests were vividly impressed upon his memory, and the excitement of the party, so different in its character from anything he had seen in his own country, convinced him that the sea, narrow as it was, separated two races very unlike in temperament.
What success should he have in this, his first, mission? was the question ever rising to his mind; how should he acquit himself among persons to whose habits of life, thought, and expression he felt himself an utter stranger? Little as he had seen of the party, that little showed him that the anti-Union feeling was in the ascendant, and that, if a stray convert to the Ministerial doctrines was here and there to be found, he was rather ashamed of his new convictions than resolute to uphold and defend them. From these thoughts he wandered on to others, about the characters of the party, and principally of the host himself, who in every respect was unlike his anticipations. He opened his friend Lionel’s letter, and was surprised to find how filial affection had blinded his judgment, – keen enough when exercised without the trammels of prejudice. “If this,” thought he, “be a fair specimen of Lionel’s portrait-painting, I must take care to form no high-flown expectations of his mother and sister; and as he calls one somewhat haughty and reserved in manner, and the other a blending of maternal pride with a dash of his father’s wilful but happy temperament, I take it for granted that Lady Eleanor is a cold, disagreeable old lady, and her daughter Helen a union of petted vanity and capriciousness, pretty much what my good friend Lionel himself was when he joined us, but what he had the good sense to cease to be very soon after.”
Having satisfied himself that he fairly estimated the ladies of the house, he set himself, with all the ingenuity of true speculation, to account for the traits of character he had so good-naturedly conferred on them. “Living in a remote, half-civilized neighborhood,” thought he, “without any intercourse save with some country squires and their wives and daughters, they have learned, naturally enough, to feel their own superiority to those about them; and possessing a place with such claims to respect from association, as well as from its actual condition, they, like all people who have few equals and no superiors, give themselves a license to think and act independent of the world’s prescription, and become, consequently, very intolerable to every one unaccustomed to acknowledge their sovereignty. I heartily wish Lionel had left these worthy people to my own unassisted appreciation of them; his flourish of trumpets has sadly spoiled the effect of the scene for me;” and with this not over gracious reflection he proceeded to dress for the day.
“The squire has been twice at the door this morning, sir,” said Lin wood, as he arranged the dressing apparatus on the table; “he would not let me awake you, however, and at last said, ‘Present my cordial respects to Mr. Forester, and say, that if he should like to ride with the hounds, he’ll find a horse ready for him, and a servant who will show him the way.’”
“And are they out already?” said Forester.
“Yes, sir, gone two hours ago; they breakfasted at eight, and I heard a whipper-in say they ‘d twelve miles to go to the first cover.”
“Why, it appeared to me that they were up all night.”
“They broke up at four, sir, and except two gentlemen that are gone over to Westport on business, but to be back for dinner, they’re all mounted to-day.”
“And what is the dinner-hour, Linwood?”
“Six, sir, to the minute.”
“And it’s now only eleven,” said Forester to himself, with a wearied sigh; “how am I to get through the rest of the day? Are the ladies in the drawing-room, Linwood?”
“Ladies! no, sir; there are no ladies in the house as I hear of.”
“So much the better, then,” thought his master; “passive endurance is better any day than active boredom, and with all respect for Lady Eleanor and her daughter, I ‘d rather believe them such as Lionel paints them, than have the less flattering impression nearer acquaintance would as certainly leave behind it.”
“The old butler wishes to know if you will breakfast in the library, sir?” asked Linwood.
“Yes, that will do admirably; delighted I am to hear there is such a thing here,” muttered he; for already he had suffered the disappointment the host’s appearance had caused him to tinge all his thoughts with bitterness, and make him regard his visit as an act of purgatorial endurance.
In a large and well-furnished library, with a projecting window offering a view over the entire of Clue Bay, Forester found a small breakfast-table laid beside the fireplace. From the aspect of comfort in everything around, to the elegance of the little service of Dresden, with its accompaniment of ancient silver, the most fastidious critic would not have withheld his praise, and the young Englishman fell into a puzzled revery how so much of taste for the refinements of daily life could consort with the strange specimen of society he had witnessed the preceding evening. The book-shelves, too, in all their later acquisitions, exhibited judgment in the works selected, and as Forester ran his eye over the titles, he was more than ever at fault to reconcile such readings with such habits. On the tables lay scattered the latest of those political pamphlets which the great contested question of the day evoked, many of them ably and powerfully written, and abounding in strong sarcasm; of these, the greater number were attacks on the meditated Union; some of them, too, bore pencil-marks and annotations, from which Forester collected that the Knight’s party leanings were by no means to the Government side of the question.
“It will be hard, however,” thought he, “but some inducement may be found to tempt a man whose house and habits evidence such a taste for enjoyment; he must have ambitions of one kind or other, and if not for himself, his son, at least, must enter into his calculations. Your ascetic or your anchorite may be difficult to treat with, but show me the man with a good cook, a good stable, a good cellar, and the odds are there is a lurking void somewhere in his heart, to discover which is to have the mastery over him forever.” Such were the conclusions the young aide-de-camp came to after long and mature thought, nor were they very unnatural in one whose short experience of life had shown him few, if any, exceptions to his theory. He deemed it possible, besides, that, although the Knight’s politics should incline to the side of Opposition, there might be no very determined or decided objection to the plans of Government, and that, while proof against the temptations of vulgar bribery, he might be won over by the flatteries and seductions of which a Ministry can always be the dispensers. To open the negotiation with this view was then the great object with Forester, to sound the depth of the prejudices with which he had to deal, to examine their bearings and importance, to avoid even to ruffle the slightest of national susceptibilities, and to make it appear that, while Government could have little doubt of the justice of their own views, they would not permit a possibility of misconstruction to interfere with the certainty of securing the adhesion of one so eminent and influential as the Knight of Gwynne.
The old adage has commemorated the facility of that arithmetic which consists in reckoning “without one’s host,” and there are few men of warm and generous temperament who have not fallen, some time or other, into the error. Forester was certainly not the exception; and so thoroughly was he imbued with the spirit of his mission, and so completely captivated by the force of his own argument, that he walked up and down the ample apartment, repeating aloud, in broken and disjointed sentences, some of those irrefutable positions and plausible inducements by which he speculated on success. It was already the dusk of the evening, the short hours of a wintry day had hurried to a close, and, except where the bright glare of the wood fire was reflected on the polished oaken floor, all was shrouded in shadow within that spacious library. Now pushing aside some great deep-cushioned chair, now removing from his path the projecting end of a table, Forester succeeded in clearing a space in which, as he walked, he occasionally gave vent to such reflections as these: —
“The necessities of the Empire, growing power and influence of England, demand a consolidation of her interests and her efforts – this only to be effected by the Act of Union – an English Parliament, the real seat of legislation, and, as such, the suitable position for you, Sir Knight, whose importance will now increase with the sphere in which you exercise your abilities. I do not venture,” said he, aloud, and with a voice attuned to its most persuasive accents, – “I do not venture to discuss with you a question in which your opportunities and judgment have given you every advantage over me; I would merely direct your attention to those points on which my relative, Lord Castlereagh, founds the hopes of obtaining your support, and those views by which, in the success of the measure, a more extended field of utility will open before you. If I do not speak more fully on the gratitude which the Ministry will feel for your co-operation, and the pledges they are most ready and willing to advance, it is because I know – that is, I am certain that you – in fact, it is the conviction that – in short – ”
“In short, it is because bribery is an ugly theme, sir, and, like a bad picture, only comes out the worse the more varnish you lay on it.” These words, uttered in a low, solemn voice from a corner of the apartment, actually stunned Forester, who now stood peering through the gloom to where the indistinct figure of a man was seen seated in the recess of a large chair.
“Excuse me, Captain Forester,” said he, rising, and coming forward with his hand out; “but it has so seldom been my fortune to hear any argument in defence of this measure that I could not bring myself to interrupt you before. Let me, however, perform a more pleasing task, in bidding you welcome to Gwynne Abbey. You slept well, I trust, for I left you in a happy unconsciousness of this world and its cares.” It required all Forester’s tact to subdue the uncomfortable sensations his surprise excited, and receive the proffered welcome with becoming cordiality. But in this he soon succeeded, not less from his own efforts than from the easy and familiar tone of the speaker. “I have to thank you for a very pleasant note you were kind enough to bring me,” continued he, as he seated himself beside the fire. “And how have you left Dublin? Is the popular excitement as great as some weeks ago? or are the people beginning to see that they have nothing to say to a measure which, like venison and turtle, is a luxury only to be discussed by their betters?”
“I should say that there is more of moderation in the tone of all parties of late,” said Forester, diffidently, for he felt all the awkwardness of alluding to a topic in which his own game had been so palpably discovered.
“In that case, your friends have gained the victory. Patriotism, as we call it in Ireland, requires to be fed by mob adulation; and when the ‘canaille’ get hoarse, their idols walk over to the Treasury benches. – But there ‘s the bell to dress; and I may as well tell you that we are the models of punctuality in this house, and you have only fifteen minutes for your toilet.” With these words the old gentleman arose and strode out of the room, while Forester hastened, on his side, to prepare for the dinner-hour.
When the aide-de-camp had accomplished his dressing, he found the party at table, where a vacant place was left for himself at the right hand of the host.
“We gave you three minutes’ grace, Captain Forester. I knew a candidate lose his election in the county by very little more,” – and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, only audible to Forester, – “and I’d rather contract to keep the peace in a menagerie full of tigers than hold in check the passions of twenty hungry fox-hunters while waiting for dinner.”
Forester cast his eyes over the table, and thought he perceived that his delay had not prepossessed the company in his favor. The glances which met his own round the board bore an expression of very unmistakable dissatisfaction, and although the conversation was free and unrestrained, he felt all the awkwardness of his position.
There was at the time we speak of – has it quite disappeared even yet? – a very prevalent notion in most Irish circles that Englishmen in general, and English officials in particular, assumed airs of superiority over the natives of the country, treating them as very subordinate persons in all the relations in which good-breeding and social intercourse are concerned; and this impression, whether well or ill founded, induced many to suspect intentional insult in those chance occurrences which arise out of thoughtlessness and want of memory.
If the party now assembled manifested any portion of this feeling, it was not sufficient to interrupt the flow of conversation, which took its course in channels the most various and dissimilar. The individuals were intimate, or, at least, familiar with each other, and, through all the topics of hunting, farming, politics, and horse-racing, ran a tone of free and easy raillery that kept a laugh moving up and down the table, or occasionally occupying it entirely. The little chill which marked Forester’s first entrance into the room wore off soon, and ere the dinner was over he had drunk wine with nearly every man of the party, and accepted invitations to hunt, course, and shoot in at least a dozen different quarters. Lionel Darcy’s friend, as he was soon known to be, was speedily made the object of every attention and civility among the younger members of the company, while even the older and less susceptible reserved their judgments on one they had at first received with some distrust.
Forester had seen in the capital some specimens of those hard-drinking habits which characterized the period, but was still unprepared for the determined and resolute devotion to the bottle which at once succeeded to the dinner. The claret-jugs coursed round the table with a rapidity that seemed sleight of hand, and few refrained from filling a bumper every time. With all his determination to preserve a cool head and a calm judgment, Forester felt that, what between the noisy tumult of the scene, the fumes of wine, and the still more intoxicating excitement of this exaggerated conviviality, he could listen to tales of miraculous performances in the hunting-field, or feats of strength and activity more than mortal, with a degree of belief, or, at least, sufferance, he could scarcely have summoned a few hours earlier.
If wine expands the heart, it has a similar influence on the credulity; and belief, when divested of the trammels of cool judgment, takes a flight which even imagination might envy. It was in a frame of mind reduced to something like this, amid the loud voices of some, the louder laughter of others, strange and absurd bets as eagerly accepted as proffered, that he became suddenly mindful of his own wager made with the stranger at Kilbeggan, and the result of which he had pledged himself to test at the very first opportunity.
No sooner had he mentioned the fact than the interests of the company, directed before into so many different channels, became centred upon the circumstance, and questions and inquiries were rapidly poured in upon him to explain the exact nature of the wager, which in the then hallucination of the party was not an over-easy task.
“You are to describe the stranger, Captain Forester, and we are to guess his name: that I take it is the substance of the bet,” said a thin-faced, dark-eyed man, with a soft silkiness of accent very unlike the others. This was Mr. Hickman O’Reilly, member for the county, and colleague of “the Knight” himself.
