Kitabı oku: «The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XIII. AN UNCEREMONIOUS VISIT

As winter drew near, with its dark and leaden skies, and days and nights of storm and hurricane, so did the worldly prospect of Lady Eleanor and her daughter grow hourly more gloomy. Bicknell’s letters detailed new difficulties and embarrassments on every hand. Sums of money supposed to have been long since paid and acknowledged by Gleeson, were now demanded with all the accruing interest; rights hitherto unquestioned were now threatened with dispute, as Hickman O’Reilly’s success emboldened others to try their fortune. Of the little property that still remained to them, the rents were withheld until their claim to them should be once more established by law. Disaster followed disaster, till at length the last drop filled up the measure of their misery, as they learned that the Knight’s personal liberty was at stake, and more than one writ was issued for his arrest.

The same post that brought this dreadful intelligence brought also a few lines from Darcy, the first that had reached them since his departure.

His note was dated from the “‘Hermione’ frigate, off the Needles,” and contained little more than an affectionate farewell. He wrote in health, and apparently in spirits, full of the assurance of a speedy and happy meeting; nor was there any allusion to their embarrassments, save in the vague mention of a letter he had written to Bicknell, and who would himself write to Lady Eleanor.

“It is not, dearest Eleanor,” wrote he, “the time we would have selected for a separation, when troubles thicken around us; yet who knows if the incident may not fall happily, and turn our thoughts from the loss of fortune to the many blessings we enjoy in mutual affection and in our children’s love, all to thicken around us at our meeting? I confess, too, I have a pride in being thought worthy to serve my country still, not in the tiresome monotony of a depot, but in the field, – among the young, the gallant, and the brave! Is it not enough to take off half this load of years, and make me fancy myself the gay colonel you may remember cantering beside your carriage in the Park – I shame to say how long ago! I wonder what the French will think of us, for nearly every officer in command might be superannuated, and Abercrombie is as venerable in white hairs as myself! There are, however, plenty of young and dashing fellows to replace us, and the spirit of the whole army is admirable.

“Whither we are destined, what will be our collective force, and what the nature of the expedition, are profound secrets, with which even the generals of brigades are not intrusted; so that all I can tell you is, that some seven hundred and fifty of us are now sailing southward, under a steady breeze from the north-northwest; that the land is each moment growing fainter to my eyes, while the pilot is eagerly pressing me to conclude this last expression of my love to yourself and dearest Helen. Adieu.

“Ever yours,

“Maurice Darcy.”

As with eyes half dimmed by tears Lady Eleanor read these lines, she could not help muttering a thanksgiving that her husband was at least beyond the risk of that danger of which Bicknell spoke, – an indignity, she feared, he never could have survived.

“And better still,” cried Helen, “if a season of struggle and privation awaits us, that we should bear it alone,’ and not before his eyes, for whom such a prospect would be torture. Now let us see how to meet the evil.” So saying, she once more opened Bicknell’s letter, and began to peruse it carefully; while Lady Eleanor sat, pale and in silence, nor even by a gesture showing any consciousness of the scene.

“What miserable trifling do all these legal subtleties seem!” said the young girl, after she had read for some time; “how trying to patience to canvass the petty details by which a clear and honest cause must be asserted! Here are fees to counsel, briefs, statements, learned opinions, and wise consultations multiplied to show that we are the rightful owners of what our ancestors have held for centuries, while every step of usurpation by these Hickmans would appear almost unassailable. With what intensity of purpose, too, does that family persecute us! All these actions are instituted by them; these bonds are all in their hands. What means this hate?”

Lady Eleanor looked up; and as her eyes met Helen’s, a faint flush colored her cheek, for she thought of her interview with the old doctor, and that proposal by which their conflicting interests were to be satisfied.

“We surely never injured them,” resumed the young girl, eagerly; “they were always well and hospitably received by us. Lionel even liked Beecham, when they were boys together, – a mild and quiet youth he was.”

“So I thought him, too,” said Lady Eleanor, stealing a cautious glance at her daughter. “We saw them,” continued she, more boldly, “under circumstances of no common difficulty, – struggling under the embarrassment of a false social position, with such a grandfather!”

“And such a father! Nay, mamma, of the two you must confess the doctor was our favorite. The old man’s selfishness was not half so vulgar as his son’s ambition.”

“And yet, Helen,” said Lady Eleanor, calmly, “such are the essential transitions by which families are formed; wealthy in one generation, aspiring in the next, recognized gentry – mayhap titled – in the third. It is but rarely that the whole series unfolds itself before our eyes at once, as in the present instance, and consequently it is but rarely that we detect so palpably all its incongruities and absurdities. A few years more,” added she, with a deep sigh, “and these O’Reillys will be regarded as the rightful owners of Gwynne Abbey by centuries of descent; and if an antiquary detect the old leopards of the Darcys frowning from some sculptured keystone, it will be to weave an ingenious theory of intermarriage between the houses.”

“An indignity they might well have spared us,” said Helen, proudly.

“Such are the world’s changes,” continued Lady Eleanor, pursuing her own train of thought. “How very few remember the origin of our proudest houses, and how little does it matter whether the foundations have been laid by the rude courage of some lawless baron of the tenth century, or the crafty shrewdness of some Hickman O’Reilly of the nineteenth!”

If there was a tone of bitter mockery in Lady Eleanor’s words, there was also a secret meaning which, even to her own heart, she would not have ventured to avow. By one of those strange and most inexplicable mysteries of our nature, she was endeavoring to elicit from her daughter some expression of dissent to her own recorded opinion of the O’Reillys and seeking for some chance word which might show that Helen regarded an alliance with that family with more tolerant feelings than she did herself.

Her intentions on this head were uot destined to be successful. Helen’s prejudices on the score of birth and station were rather strengthened than shaken by the changes of fortune; she cherished the prestige of their good blood as a source of proud consolation that no adversity could detract from. Before, however, she could reply, the tramp of a horse’s feet – a most unusual sound – was heard on the gravel without; and immediately after the heavy foot of some one, as if feeling his way in the dark towards the door. Without actual fear, but not without intense anxiety, both mother and daughter heard the heavy knocking of a loaded horsewhip on the door; nor was it until old Tate had twice repeated his question that a sign replied he might open the door.

“Look to the pony there!” cried a voice, as the old man peered out into the dark night. And before he could reply or resist, the speaker pushed past him and entered the room. “I crave your pardon, my Lady Eleanor,” said she, – for it was Miss Daly, who, drenched with rain and all splashed with mud, now stood before them, – “I crave your pardon for this visit of so scant ceremony. Has the Knight returned yet?”

The strong resemblance to her brother Bagenal, increased by her gesture and the tones of her voice, at once proclaimed to Lady Eleanor who her visitor was; and as she rose graciously to receive her, she replied that “the Knight, so far from having returned, had already sailed with the expedition under General Abercrombie.”

Miss Daly listened with breathless eagerness to the words, and as they concluded, she exclaimed aloud, “Thank God!” and threw herself into a chair. A pause, which, if brief, was not devoid of embarrassment, followed; and while Lady Eleanor was about to break it, Miss Daly again spoke, but with a voice and manner very different from before: “You will pardon, I am certain, the rudeness of my intrusion, Lady Eleanor, and you, too, Miss Darcy, when I tell you that my heart was too full of anxiety to leave any room for courtesy. It was only this afternoon that an accident informed me that a person had arrived in this neighborhood with a writ to arrest the Knight of Gwynne. I was five-and-twenty miles from this when I heard the news, and although I commissioned my informant to hasten thither with the tidings, I grew too full of dread, and had too many fears of a mischance, to await the result, so that I resolved to come myself.”

“How full of kindness!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, while Helen took Miss Daly’s hand and pressed it to her lips. “Let our benefactress not suffer too much in our cause. Helen, dearest, assist Miss Daly to a change of dress. You are actually wet through.”

“Nay, nay, Lady Eleanor, you must not teach me fastidiousness. It has been my custom for many a year not to care for weather, and in the kind of life I lead such training is indispensable.” Miss Daly removed her hat as she spoke, and, pushing back her dripping hair, seemed really insensible to the discomforts which caused her hosts so much uneasiness.

“I see clearly,” resumed she, laughing, “I was right in not making myself known to you before; for though you may forgive the eccentricities that come under the mask of good intentions, you ‘d never pardon the thousand offences against good breeding and the world’s prescription which spring from the wayward fancies of an old maid who has lived so much beyond the pale of affection she has forgotten all the arts that win it.”

“If you are unjust to yourself, Miss Daly, pray be not so to us; nor think that we can be insensible to friendship like yours.”

“Oh, as for this trifling service, you esteem it far too highly; besides, when you hear the story, you’ll see how much more you have to thank your own hospitality than my promptitude.”

“This is, indeed, puzzling me,” exclaimed Lady Eleanor.

“Do you remember having met and received at your house a certain Mr. Dempsey?”

“Certainly, he dined with us on one occasion, and paid us some three or four visits. A tiresome little vulgar man, with a most intense curiosity devouring him to know everything of everybody.”

“To this gift, or infirmity, whichever it be, we are now indebted. Since the breaking-up of the boarding-house at Port Ballintray, which this year was somewhat earlier than usual,” – here Miss Daly smiled slightly, as though there lay more in the words than they seemed to imply, – “Mr. Dempsey betook himself to a little village near Glenarm, where I have been staying, and where the chief recommendation as a residence lay possibly in the fact that the weekly mail-car to Derry changed horses there. Hence an opportunity of communing with the world he valued at its just price. It so chanced that the only traveller who came for three weeks, arrived the night before last, drenched to the skin, and so ill from cold, hunger, and exhaustion that, unable to prosecute his journey farther, he was carried from the car to his bed. Mr. Dempsey, whose heart is really as kind as inquisitive, at once tendered his services to the stranger, who after some brief intercourse commissioned him to open his portmanteau, and taking out writing-materials, to inform his friends in Dublin of his sudden indisposition, and his fears that his illness might delay, or perhaps render totally abortive, his mission to the north. Here was a most provoking mystery for Mr. Dempsey. The very allusion to a matter of importance, in this dubious half-light, was something more than human nature should be tried with; and if the patient burned with the fever of the body, Mr. Dempsey suffered under the less tolerable agony of mental torment, – imagining every possible contingency that should bring a stranger down into a lonely neighborhood, and canvassing every imaginable inducement, from seduction to highway robbery. Whether the sick man’s sleep was merely the heavy debt of exhausted nature, or whether Mr. Dempsey aided his repose by adding a few drops to the laudanum prescribed by the doctor, true it is, he lay in a deep slumber, and never awoke till late the following day; meanwhile Mr. Dempsey recompensed his Samaritanism by a careful inspection of the stranger’s trunk and its contents, and, in particular, made a patient examination of two parchment documents, which, fortunately for his curiosity, were not sealed, but simply tied with red tape.

Great was his surprise to discover that one of these was a writ to arrest a certain Paul Dempsey, and the other directed against the resident of ‘The Corvy,’ whom he now, for the first time, learned was the Knight of Gwynne.

“Self-interest, the very instinct of safety itself, weighed less with him than his old passion for gossip; and no sooner had he learned the important fact of who his neighbor was, than he set off straight to communicate the news to me. I must do him the justice to say, that when I proposed his hastening off to you with the tidings, the little man acceded with the utmost promptitude; but as his journey was to be performed on foot, and by certain mountain paths not always easily discovered in our misty climate, it is probable he could not reach this for some hours.”

When Miss Daly concluded, Lady Eleanor and her daughter renewed their grateful acknowledgments for her thoughtful kindness. “These are sad themes by which to open our acquaintance,” said Lady Eleanor; “but it is among the prerogatives of friendship to share the pressure of misfortune, and Mr. Daly’s sister can be no stranger to ours.”

“Nor how undeserved they were,” added Miss Daly, gravely.

“Nay, which of us can dare say so much?” interrupted Lady Eleanor; “we may well have forgotten ourselves in that long career of prosperity we enjoyed, – for ours was, indeed, a happy lot! I need not speak of my husband to one who knew him once so well. Generous, frank, and noble-hearted as he always was, – his only failing the excessive confidence that would go on believing in the honesty of others, from the prompting of a spirit that stooped to nothing low or unworthy, – he never knew suspicion.” “True,” echoed Miss Daly, “he never did suspect!” There was such a plaintive sadness in her voice that it drew Helen’s eyes towards her; nor could all her efforts conceal a tear that trickled along her cheek.

“And to what an alternative are we now reduced!” continued Lady Eleanor, who, with all the selfishness of sorrow, loved to linger on the painful theme, – “to rejoice at separation, and to feel relieved in thinking that he is gone to peril life itself rather than endure the lingering death of a broken heart!”

“Yes, young lady,” said Miss Daly, turning towards Helen, “such are the recompenses of the most endearing affection, such the penalties of loving. Would you not almost say, ‘It were better to be such as I am, unloved, uncared for, without one to share a joy or grief with?’ I half think so myself,” added she, suddenly rising from her chair. “I can almost persuade myself that this load of life is easier borne when all its pressure is one’s own.”

“You are not about to leave us?” said Lady Eleanor, taking her hand affectionately.

“Yes,” replied she, smiling sadly, “when my heart has disburdened itself of an immediate care, I become but sorry company, and sometimes think aloud. How fortunate I have no secrets! – Bring my pony to the door,” said she, as Tate answered the summons of the bell.

“But wait at least for daylight,” said Helen, eagerly; “the storm is increasing, and the night is dark and starless. Remember what a road you ‘ve come.”

“I often ride at this hour and with no better weather,” said she, adjusting the folds of her habit; “and as to the road, Puck knows it too well to wander from the track, daylight or dark.”

“For our sakes, I entreat you not to venture till morning,” cried Lady Eleanor.

“I could not if I would,” said Miss Daly, steadily. “By to-morrow, at noon, I have an engagement at some distance hence, and much to arrange in the mean time. Pray do not ask me again. I cannot bear to refuse you, even in such a trifle; and as to me or my safety, waste not another thought about it. They who have so little to live for are wondrous secure from accident.”

“When shall we see you? Soon, I hope and trust!” exclaimed both mother and daughter together.

Miss Daly shook her head; then added hastily, “I never promise anything. I was a great castle-builder once, but time has cured me of the habit, and I do not like, even by a pledge, to forestall the morrow. Farewell, Lady Eleanor. It is better to see but little of me, and think the better, than grow weary of my waywardness on nearer acquaintance. Adieu, Miss Darcy; I am glad to have seen you; don’t forget me.” So saying, she pressed Helen’s hands to her lips; but ere she let them drop, she squeezed a letter into her grasp; the moment after, she was gone.

“Oh, then, I remember her the beauty wonst!” said Tate, as he closed the door, after peering out for some seconds into the dark night: “and proud she was too, – riding a white Arabian, with two servants in scarlet liveries after her! The world has quare changes; but hers is the greatest ever I knew!”

CHAPTER XIV. A TÊTE-À-TÊTE AND A LETTER

Long after Miss Daly’s departure, Lady Eleanor continued to discuss the eccentricity of her manners and the wilful abruptness of her address; for although deeply sensible and grateful for her kindness, she dwelt on every’ peculiarity of her appearance with a pertinacity that more than once surprised her daughter. Helen, indeed, was very far from being a patient listener, not only because she was more tolerant in her estimate of their visitor, but because she was eager to read the letter so secretly intrusted to her hands. A dread of some unknown calamity, some sad tidings of her father or Lionel, was ever uppermost in her thoughts, nor could she banish the impression that Miss Daly’s visit had another and very different object than that which she alleged to Lady Eleanor.

It may be reckoned among the well-known contrarieties of life, that our friends are never more disposed to be long-winded and discursive than at the very time we would give the world to be alone and to ourselves. With a most malicious intensity they seem to select that moment for indulging in all those speculations by which people while away the weary hours. In such a mood was Lady Eleanor Darcy. Not only did she canvass and criticise Miss Daly, as she appeared before them, but went off into long rambling reminiscences of all she had formerly heard about her; for although they had never met before, Miss Daly had been the reigning Belle of the West before her own arrival in Ireland.

“She must have been handsome, Helen, don’t you think so?” said she, at the end of a long enumeration of the various eccentricities imputed to her.

“I should say very handsome,” replied Helen.

“Scarcely feminine enough, perhaps,” resumed Lady Eleanor, – “the features too bold, the expression too decided; but this may have been the fault of a social tone, which required everything in exaggeration, and would tolerate nothing save in excess.”

“Yes, mamma,” said Helen, vaguely assenting to a remark she had not attended to.

“I never fancied that style, either in beauty or in manner,” continued Lady Eleanor. “It wants, in the first place, the great element of pleasing; it is not natural.”

“No, mamma!” rejoined Helen, mechanically as before.

“Besides,” continued Lady Eleanor, gratified at her daughter’s ready assent, “for one person to whom these mannerisms are becoming, there are at least a hundred slavish imitators ready to adopt without taste, and follow without discrimination. Now, Miss Daly was the fashion once. Who can say to what heresies she has given origin, to what absurdities in dress, in manner, and in bearing?”

Helen smiled, and nodded an acquiescence without knowing to what.

“There is one evil attendant on all this,” said Lady Eleanor, who, with the merciless ingenuity of a thorough poser, went on ratiocinating from her own thoughts; “one can rarely rely upon even the kindest intentions of people of this sort, so often are their best offices but mere passing, fitful impulses; don’t you think so?”

“Yes, mamma,” said Helen, roused by this sudden appeal to a more than usual acquiescence, while totally ignorant as to what.

“Then, they have seldom any discretion, even when they mean well.”

“No, mamma.”

“While they expect the most implicit compliance on your part with every scheme they have devised for your benefit.”

“Very true,” chimed in Helen, who assented at random.

“Sad alternative,” sighed Lady Eleanor, “between such rash friendship and the lukewarm kindness of our courtly cousin.”

“I think not!” said Helen, who fancied she was still following the current of her mother’s reflections.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, iu astonishment, while she looked at her daughter for an explanation.

“I quite agree with you, mamma,” cried Helen, blushing as she spoke, for she was suddenly recalled to herself.

“The more fortunate is the acquiescence, my dear,” said Lady Eleanor, dryly, “since it seems perfectly instinctive. I find, Helen, you have not been a very attentive listener, and as I conclude I must have been a very unamusing companion, I’ll even say good-night; nay, my sweet child, it is late enough not to seek excuse for weariness – goodnight.”

Helen blushed deeply; dissimulation was a very difficult task to her, and for a moment seemed more than her strength could bear. She had resolved to place the letter in her mother’s hands, when the thought flashed across her, that if its contents might occasion any sudden or severe shock, she would never forgive herself. This mental struggle, brief as it was, brought the tears to her eyes, – an emotion Lady Eleanor attributed to a different cause, as she said, —

“You do not suppose, my dearest Helen, that I am angry because your thoughts took a pleasanter path than my owu.”

“Oh, no, – no!” cried Helen, eagerly, “I know you are not. It is my own – ” She stopped; another word would have revealed everything, and with an affectionate embrace she hurried from the room.

“Poor child!” exclaimed her mother; “the courage that sustained us both so long is beginning to fail her now; and yet I feel as if our trials were but commencing.”

While Lady Eleanor dwelt on these sad thoughts, Helen sat beside her bed weeping bitterly.

“How shall I bear up,” thought she, “if deprived of that confiding trust a mother’s love has ever supplied, – without one to counsel or direct me?”

Half fearing to open the letter, lest all her resolves should be altered by its contents, she remained a long time balancing one difficulty against another. Wearied and undecided, she turned at last to the letter itself, as if for advice. It was a strange hand, and addressed to “Miss Daly.” With trembling fingers she unfolded the paper, and read the writer’s name, – “Richard Forester.”

A flood of grateful tears burst forth as she read the words; a sense of relief from impending calamity stole over her mind, while she said, “Thank God! my father and Lionel – ” She could say no more, for sobbing choked her utterance. The emotions, if violent, passed rapidly off; and as she wiped away her tears, a smile of hope lit up her features. At any other time she would have speculated long and carefully over the causes which made Forester correspond with Miss Daly, and by what right she herself should be intrusted with his letter. Now her thoughts were hurried along too rapidly for reflection. The vague dread of misfortune, so suddenly removed, suggested a sense of gratitude that thrilled through her heart like joy. In such a frame of mind she read the following lines: —

At Sea. My dear Miss Daly, – I cannot thank you enough for your letter, so full of kindness, of encouragement, and of hope. How much I stand in need of them! I have strictly followed every portion of your counsel, – would that I could tell you as successfully as implicitly! The address of this letter will, however, be the shortest reply to that question. I write these lines from the “Hermione” frigate. Yes, I am a volunteer in the expedition to the Mediterranean; and only think who is my commanding officer, – the Knight himself. I had enrolled myself under the name of Conway; but when called up on deck this morning for inspection, such was my surprise on seeing the Knight of Gwynne, or, as he is now called, Colonel Darcy, I almost betrayed myself. Fortunately, however, I escaped unnoticed, – a circumstance I believe I owe chiefly to the fact that several young men of family are also volunteers, so that my position attracted no unusual attention. It was a most anxious moment for me as the colonel came down the line, addressing a word here and there as he went; he stopped within one of me, and spoke for some seconds to a young fellow whose appearance indicated delicate health. How full of gentleness and benevolence were his words! But when he turned and fixed his eyes on me, my heart beat so quick, my head grew so dizzy, I thought I should have fainted. He remained at least half a minute in front of me, and then asked the orderly for my name – “Conway! Conway!” repeated he more than once. “A very old name. I hope you’ll do it credit, sir,” added he, and moved on, – how much to my relief I need not say. What a strange rencontre! Often as I wonder at the singular necessity that has made me a private soldier, all my astonishment is lost in thinking of the Knight of Gwynne’s presence amongst us; and yet he looks the soldier even as much as he did the country gentleman when I first saw him, and, strangely too, seems younger and more active than before. To see him here, chatting with the officers under his command, moving about, taking interest in everything that goes on, who would suspect the change of fortune that has befallen him! Not a vestige of discontent, not even a passing look of impatience on his handsome features; and yet, with this example before me, and the consciousness that my altered condition is nothing in comparison with his, I am low-spirited and void of hope! But a few weeks ago I would have thought myself the luckiest fellow breathing, if told that I were to serve under Colonel Darcy, and now I feel ashamed and abashed, and dread a recognition every time I see him. In good truth, I cannot forget the presumption that led me first to his acquaintance. My mind dwells on that unhappy mission to the West, and its consequences. My foolish vanity in supposing that I, a mere boy, uninformed, and without reflection, should be able to influence a man so much my superior in every way! and this, bad as it is, is the most favorable view of my conduct, for I dare not recall the dishonorable means by which I was to buy his support. Then, I think of my heedless and disreputable quarrel. What motives and what actions in the eyes of her whose affection I sought! How worthily am I punished for my presumption!

I told you that I strictly followed the advice of your last letter. Immediately on receiving it I wrote a few lines to my mother, entreating her permission to see and speak with her, and expressing an earnest hope that our interview would end in restoring me to the place I so long enjoyed in her affection. A very formal note, appointing the following day, was all the reply.

On arriving at Berkeley Square, and entering the drawing-room, I found, to my great astonishment, I will not say more, that a gentleman, a stranger to me, was already there, seated at the fire, opposite my mother, and with that easy air that bespoke his visit was not merely accidental, but a matter of pre-arrangement.

Whatever my looks might have conveyed, I know not, but I was not given the opportunity for a more explicit inquiry, when my mother, in her stateliest of manners, arose and said, —

“Richard, I wish to present you to my esteemed friend, Lord Netherby; a gentleman to whose kindness you are indebted for any favorable construction I can put upon your folly, and who has induced me to receive you here to-day.”

“If I knew, madam, that such influence had been necessary, I should have hesitated before I laid myself under so deep an obligation to his Lordship, to whose name and merits I confess myself a stranger.”

“I am but too happy, Captain Forester,” interposed the Earl, “if any little interest I possess in Lady Wallincourt’s esteem enables me to contribute to your reconciliation. I know the great delicacy of an interference, in a case like the present, and how officious and impertinent the most respectful suggestions must appear, when offered by one who can lay no claim, at least to your good opinion.”

A very significant emphasis on the word “your,” a look towards my mother, and a very meaning smile from her in reply, at once revealed to me what, till then, I had not suspected, – that his Lordship meditated a deeper influence over her Ladyship’s heart than the mere reconciliation of a truant son to her esteem.

“I believe, my Lord,” said I, hastily, and I fear not without some anger, – “I believe I should not have dared to decline your kind influence in my behalf, had I suspected the terms on which you would exert it. I really was not aware before that you possessed, so fully, her Ladyship’s confidence.”