Kitabı oku: «The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2», sayfa 13

“You do not seem, sir, to take into account an habitually expensive mode of living,” insinuated O’Reilly, quietly.

“An item, of course, but only an item in the sum total,” replied St. George. “No man can eat and drink above ten thousand a year, and Darcy had considerably more. No; he might have lived as he pleased, had he escaped the acquaintance of honest Tom Gleeson. By the by, Con, is there any truth in the story they tell about this fellow, and that he really was more actuated by a feeling of revenge towards Darcy than a desire for money?”

“I never heard the story. Did you, Mr. O’Reilly?” asked Heffernan.

“Never,” said O’Reilly, affecting an air of unconcern, very ill consorting with his pale cheek and anxious eye.

“The tale is simply this: that, as Gleeson waxed wealthy, and began to assume a position in life, he one day called on the Knight to request him to put his name up for ballot at ‘Daly’s.’ Darcy was thunderstruck, for it was in those days when the Club was respectable; but still the Knight had tact enough to dissemble his astonishment, and would doubtless have got through the difficulty had it not been for Bagenal Daly, who was present, and called out, ‘Wait till Tuesday, Maurice, for I mean to propose M’Cleery, the breeches-maker, and then the thing won’t seem so remarkable!’ Gleeson smiled and slipped away, with an oath to his own heart, to be revenged on both of them. If there be any truth in the story, he did ruin Daly, by advising some money-lender to buy up all his liabilities.”

“I must take the liberty to correct you, sir,” said O’Reilly, actually trembling with anger. “If your agreeable anecdote has no better foundation than the concluding hypothesis, its veracity is inferior to its ingenuity. The gentleman you are pleased to call a money-lender is my father; the conduct you allude to was simply the advance of a large sum on mortgage.”

“Foreclosed, like Darcy’s, perhaps,” said St. George, his irascible face becoming blood-red with passion.

“Come, come, Giles, you really can know nothing of the subject you are talking of; besides, to Mr. O’Reilly the matter is a personal one.”

“So it is,” muttered St. George; “and if report speaks truly, as unpleasant as personal.”

This insulting remark was not heard by O’Reilly, who was deeply engaged in explaining to the lawyer beside him the minute legal details of the circumstance.

“Shrewd a fellow as Gleeson was,” said St. George, interrupting O’Reilly, by addressing the lawyer, “they say he has left some flaw open in the matter, and that Darcy may recover a very large portion of the lost estate.”

“Yes; if for instance this bond should be destroyed. He might move in Equity – ”

“He ‘d move heaven and earth, sir, if it’s Bagenal Daly you mean,” said St. George, who had stimulated his excitement by drinking freely. “Some will tell you that he is a steadfast, firm friend; but I ‘ll vouch for it, a more determined enemy never drew breath.”

“Very happily for the world we live in, sir,” said O’Reilly, “there are agencies more powerful than the revengeful and violent natures of such men as Mr. Daly.”

“He’s every jot as quick-sighted as he’s determined; and when he wagered a hogshead of claret that Darcy would one day sit again at the head of his table in Gwynne Abbey – ”

“Did he make such a bet?” asked O’Reilly, with a faint laugh.

“Yes; he walked down the club-room, and offered it to any one present, and none seemed to fancy it; but young Kelly, of Kildare, who, being a new member just come in, perhaps thought there might be some éclat in booking a bet with Bagenal Daly.”

“Would you like to back his opinion, sir?” said O’Reilly, with a simulated softness of voice; “or although I rarely wager, I should have no objection to convenience you here, leaving the amount entirely at your option.”

“Which means,” said St. George, as his eyes sparkled with wine and passion, “that the weight of your purse is to tilt the beam against that of my opinion. Now, I beg leave to tell you – ”

“Let me interrupt you, Giles; I never knew my Burgundy disagree with any man before, but I d smash every bottle of it to-morrow if I thought it could make so pleasant a fellow so wrong-headed and unreasonable. What say you if we qualify it with some cognac and water?”

“Maurice Darcy is my relative,” said St. George, pushing his glass rudely from him, “and I have yet to learn the unreasonableness of wishing well to a member of one’s own family. His father and mine were like brothers! Ay, by Jove! I wonder what either of them would think of the changes time has wrought in their sons’ fortunes.” His voice dropped into a low, muttering sound, while he mumbled on, “One a beggar and an exile, the other” – here his eye twinkled with a malicious intelligence as he glanced around the board – “the other the guest of Con Heffernan.” He arose as he spoke, and fortunately the noise thus created prevented his words being overheard. “You ‘re right, Con,” said he, “that Burgundy has been too much for me. The wine is unimpeachable, notwithstanding.”

The others rose also; although pressed in all the customary hospitality of the period to have “one bottle more,” they were resolute in taking leave, doubtless not sorry to escape the risk of any unpleasant termination to the evening’s entertainment.

The lawyer and the commissioner agreed to see St. George home; for although long seasoned to excesses, age had begun to tell upon him, and his limbs were scarcely more under control than his tongue. O’Reilly had dropped his handkerchief, he was not sure whether in the drawing or the dinner room, and this delayed him a few moments behind the rest; and although he declared, at each moment, the loss of no consequence, and repeated his “good-night,” Heffernan held his hand and would not suffer him to leave.

“Try under Mr. O’Reilly’s chair, Thomas. – Singular specimen of a by-gone day, the worthy baronet!” said he, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Would you believe it, he and Darcy have not been on speaking terms for thirty years, and yet how irritable be showed himself in his behalf!”

“He seems to know something of the family affairs, however,” said O’Reilly, cautiously.

“Not more than club gossip; all that about Daly and his wager is a week old.”

“I hope my father may never hear it,” said O’Reilly, compassionately; “he has all the irritability of age, and these reports invariably urge him on to harsh measures, which, by the least concession, he would never have pursued. The Darcys, indeed, have to thank themselves for any severity they have experienced at our hands. Teasing litigation and injurious reports of us have met all our efforts at conciliation.”

“A compromise would have been much better, and more reputable for all parties,” said Heffernan, as he turned to stir the fire, and thus purposely averted his face while making the remark.

“So it would,” said O’Reilly, hurriedly; then stopping abruptly short, he stammered out, “I don’t exactly know what you mean by the word, but if it implies a more amicable settlement of all disputed points between us, I perfectly agree with you.”

Heffernan never spoke: a look of cool self-possession and significance was all his reply. It seemed to say, “Don’t hope to cheat me; however, you may rely on my discretion.”

“I declare my handkerchief is in my pocket all this while,” said O’Reilly, trying to conceal his rising confusion with a laugh. “Good-night, once more – you ‘re thinking of going over to England to-morrow evening?”

“Yes, if the weather permits, I ‘ll sail at seven. Can I be of any service to you?”

“Perhaps so: I may trouble you with a commission. Good-night.”

“So, Mr. Hickman, you begin to feel the hook! Now let us see if we cannot play the fish without letting him know the weakness of the tackle!” said Heffernan, as he looked after him, and then slowly retraced his steps to the now deserted drawing-room.

“How frequently will chance play the game more skilfully for us than all our cleverness!” said he, while he paced the room alone. “That old bear, St. George, who might have ruined everything, has done me good service. O’Reilly’s suspicions are awakened, his fears are aroused; could I only find a clew to his terror, I could hold him as fast by his fears as by this same baronetcy. This baronetcy,” added he, with a sneering laugh, “that I am to negotiate for, and – be refused!”

With this sentiment of honest intentions on his lips, Mr. Heffernan retired to rest, and, if this true history is to be credited, to sleep soundly till morning.

CHAPTER XVI. PAUL DEMPSEY’S WALK

With the most eager desire to accomplish his mission, Paul Dempsey did not succeed in reaching “The Corvy” until late on the day after Miss Daly’s visit. He set out originally by paths so secret and circuitous that he lost his way, and was obliged to pass his night among the hills, where, warned by the deep thundering of the sea that the cliffs were near, he was fain to await daybreak ere he ventured farther. The trackless waste over which his way led was no bad emblem of poor Paul’s mind, as, cowering beneath a sand-hill, he shivered through the long hours of night. Swayed by various impulses, he could determine on no definite line of action, and wavered and doubted and hesitated, till his very brain was addled by its operations.

At one moment he was disposed, like good Launcelot Gobbo, to “run for it,” and, leaving Darcy and all belonging to him to their several fates, to provide for his own safety; when suddenly a dim vision of meeting Maria Daly in this world or the next, and being called to account for his delinquency, routed such determinations. Then he revelled in the glorious opportunity for gossip afforded by the whole adventure. How he should astonish Coleraine and its neighborhood by his revelations of the Knight and his family! Gossip in all its moods and tenses, from the vague indicative of mere innuendo, to the full subjunctive of open defamation! Not indeed that Mr. Dempsey loved slander for itself; on the contrary, his temperament was far more akin to kindliness than its opposite; but the passion for retailing one’s neighbor’s foibles or misfortunes is an impulse that admits no guidance; and as the gambler would ruin his best friend at play, so would the professed gossip calumniate the very nearest and dearest to him on earth. There are in the social as in the mercantile world characters who never deal in the honest article of commerce, but have a store of damaged, injured, or smuggled goods, to be hawked about surreptitiously, and always to be sold in the “strictest secrecy.” Mr. Dempsey was a pedler in this wise, and, if truth must be told, he did not dislike his trade.

And yet, at moments, thoughts of another and more tender kind were wafted across Paul’s mind, not resting indeed long enough to make any deep impression, but still leaving behind them, as pleasant thoughts always will, little twilights of happiness. Paul had been touched – a mere graze, skin deep, but still touched – by Helen Darcy’s beauty and fascinations. She had accompanied him more than once on the piano while he sang, and whether the long-fringed eyelashes and the dimpled cheek had done the mischief, or that the thoughtful tact with which she displayed Paul’s good notes and glossed over his false ones had won his gratitude, certain is it he had already felt a very sensible regard for the young lady, and more than once caught himself, when thinking about her, speculating on the speedy demise of Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey’s Grove, and all the consequences that might ensue therefrom.

If the enjoyment Mr. Dempsey’s various peculiarities afforded Helen suggested on her part the semblance of pleasure in his society, Paul took these indications all in his own favor, and even catechized himself how far he might be deemed culpable in winning the affections of a charming young lady, so long as his precarious condition forbid all thought of matrimony. Now, however, that he knew who the family really were, such doubts were much allayed; for, as he wisely remarked to himself, “Though they are ruined, there ‘s always nice picking in the wreck of an Indiaman!” Such were the thoughts by which his way was beguiled, when late in the afternoon he reached “The Corvy.”

Lady Eleanor and her daughter were out walking when Mr. Dempsey arrived, and, having cautiously reconnoitred the premises, ventured to approach the door. All was quiet and tranquil about the cottage; so, reassured by this, he peered through the window into the large hall, where a cheerful fire now blazed and shed a mellow glow over the strange decorations of the chamber. Mr. Dempsey had often desired an opportunity of examining these curiosities at his leisure. Not indeed prompted thereto by any antiquarian taste, but, from a casual glance at the inscriptions, he calculated on the amount of private history of the Dalys he should obtain. Stray and independent facts, it is true, but to be arranged by the hand of a competent and clever commentator.

With cautious hand he turned the handle of the door and entered.

There he stood, in the very midst of the coveted objects; and never did humble bookworm gaze on the rich titles of an ample library with more enthusiastic pleasure. He drew a long breath to relieve his overburdened heart, and glutted his eyes in ecstasy on every side. Enthusiasm takes its tone from individuality, and doubtless Mr. Dempsey felt at that moment something as Belzoni might, when, unexpectedly admitted within some tomb of the Pyramids, he found himself about to unravel some secret history of the Pharaohs.

“Now for it,” said he, half aloud; “let us do the thing in order; and first of all, what have we here?” He stooped and read an inscription attached to a velvet coat embroidered with silver, —

“Coat worn by B. D. in his duel with Colonel Matthews, – 62, – the puncture under the sword-arm being a tierce outside the guard; a very rare point, and which cost the giver seriously.”

“He killed Matthews, of course,” added Dempsey; “the passage can mean nothing else, so let us be accurate as to fact and date.”

So saying, he proceeded to note down the circumstance in a little memorandum-book. “So!” added he, as he read his note over; “now for the next. What can this misshapen lump of metal mean?”

“A piece of brute gold, presented with twelve female slaves by the chiefs of Doolawochyeekeka on B. D.‘s assuming the sovereignty of the island.”

“Brute gold,” said Mr. Dempsey; “devilish little of the real thing about it, I’ll be sworn! I suppose the ladies were about equally refined and valuable.”

“Glove dropped by the Infanta Donna Isidore within the arena at Madrid, a few moments after Ruy Peres da Castres was gored to death.”

A prolonged low whistle from Mr. Dempsey was the only comment he made on this inscription; while he stooped to examine the fragment of a bull’s horn, from which a rag of scarlet cloth was hanging. The inscription ran, “Portion of horn broken as the bull fell against the barrier of the circus. The cloth was part of Da Castres’ vest.”

A massive antique helmet, of immense size and weight, lay on the floor beside this. It was labelled, “Casque of Rudolf v. Hapsbourg, presented to B. D. after the tilt at Regensburg by Edric Conrad Wilhelm Kur Furst von Bavera, a.d. 1750.”

A splendid goblet of silver gilt, beautifully chased and ornamented, was inscribed on the metal as being the gift of the Doge of Venice to his friend Bagenal Daly; and underneath was written on a card, “This cup was drained to the bottom at a draught by B. D. after a long and deep carouse, the liquor strong ‘Vino di Cypro.’ The Doge tried it and failed; the mark within shows how far he drank.”

“By Jove! what a pull!” exclaimed Dempsey, who, as he peered into the capacious vessel, looked as if he would not object to try his own prowess at the feat.

Wonderment at this last achievement seemed completely to have taken possession of Mr. Dempsey; for while his eyes ranged over weapons of every strange form and shape, – armor, idols, stuffed beasts and birds, – they invariably came back to the huge goblet with an admiring wonder that showed that here at least there was an exploit whose merits he could thoroughly appreciate.

“A half-gallon can is nothing to it!” muttered he, as he replaced it on its bracket.

The reflection was scarcely uttered, when the quick tramp of a horse and the sound of wheels without startled him. He hastened to the window just in time to perceive a jaunting-car drive up to the wicket, from which three men descended. Two were common-looking fellows in dark upper coats and glazed hats; the third, better dressed, and with a half-gentlemanlike air, seemed the superior. He threw off a loose travelling-coat, and discovered, to Mr. Dempsey’s horror, the features of his late patient at Larne, the sheriff’s officer from Dublin. Yes, there was no doubt about it. That smart, conceited look, the sharp and turned-up nose, the scrubby whisker, proclaimed him as the terrible Anthony Nickie, of Jervas Street, a name which Mr. Dempsey had read on his portmanteau before guessing how its owner was concerned in his own interests.

What a multitude of terrors jostled each other in his mind as the men approached the door, and what resolves did he form and abandon in the same moment! To escape by the rear of the house while the enemy was assailing the front, to barricade the premises and stand a siege, to arm himself – and there was a choice of weapons – and give battle, were all rapid impulses no sooner conceived than given up. A loud summons of the door-bell announced his presence; and ere the sounds died away, Tate’s creaking footstep and winter cough resounded along the corridor. Mr. Dempsey threw a last despairing glance around, and the thought flashed across him, how happily would he exchange his existence with any of the grim images and uncouth shapes that grinned and glared on every side, ay, even with that saw-mouthed crocodile that surmounted the chimney! Quick as his eye traversed the chamber, he fancied that the savage animals were actually enjoying his misery, and Sandy’s counterpart appeared to show a diabolical glee at his wretched predicament. It was at this instant he caught sight of the loose folds of the Indian blanket, which enveloped Bagenal Daly’s image. The danger was too pressing for hesitation; he stepped into the canoe, and cowering down under the warlike figure, awaited his destiny. Scarcely had the drapery closed around him when Tate admitted the new arrival.

“‘The Corvy? ‘” said Mr. Nickie to the old butler, who with decorous ceremony bowed low before him. “‘The Corvy,’ ain’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tate.

“All right, Mac,” resumed Nickie, turning to the elder of his two followers, who had closely dogged him to the door. “Bring that carpet-bag and the small box off the car, and tell the fellow he ‘ll have time to feed his horse at that cabin on the road-side.”

He added something in a whisper, too low for Tate to hear, and then, taking the carpet-bag, he flung it carelessly in a corner, while he walked forward and deposited the box on the table before the fire.

“His honor is coming to dine, maybe?” asked Tate, respectfully; for old habit of his master’s hospitality had made the question almost a matter of course, while age had so dimmed his eyesight that even Anthony Nickie passed with him for a gentleman.

“Coming to dine,” repeated Nickie, with a coarse laugh; “that’s a bargain there ‘s always two words to, my old boy. I suppose you ‘ve heard it is manners to wait to be asked, eh? – without,” added he, after a second’s pause, – “without I ‘m to take this as an invitation.”

“I believe your honor might, then,” said Tate, with a smile. “‘Tis many a one I kept again the family came home for dinner, and sorrow word of it they knew till they seen them dressed in the drawing-room! And the dinner-table!” said Tate, with a sigh, half in regret over the past, half preparing himself with a sufficiency of breath for a lengthened oration, – “the dinner-table! it’s wishing it I am still! After laying for ten, or maybe twelve, his honor would come in and say, ‘Tate, we ‘ll be rather crowded here, for here ‘s Sir Gore Molony and his family. You ‘ll have to make room for five more.’ Then Miss Helen would come springing in with, ‘Tate, I forgot to say Colonel Martin and his officers are to be here at dinner.’ After that it would be my lady herself, in her own quiet way, ‘Mr. Sullivan,’-she nearly always called me that, – ‘could n’t you contrive a little space here for Lady Burke and Miss MacDonnel? But the captain beat all, for he ‘d come in after the soup was removed, with five or six gentlemen from the hunt, splashed and wet up to their necks; over he ‘d go to the side-table, where I ‘d have my knives and forks, all beautiful, and may I never but he ‘d fling some here, others there, till he ‘d clear a space away, and then he’d cry, ‘Tate, bring back the soup, and set some sherry here.’ Maybe that wasn’t the table for noise, drinking wine with every one at the big table, and telling such wonderful stories that the servants did n’t know what they were doing, listening to them. And the master – the heavens be about him! – sending me over to get the names of the gentlemen, that he might ask them to take wine with him. Oh, dear – oh, dear, I ‘m sure I used to think my heart was broke with it; but sure it’s nigher breaking now that it’s all past and over.”

“You seem to have had very jolly times of it in those days,” said Nickie.

“Faix, your honor might say so if you saw forty-eight sitting down to dinner every day in the parlor for seven weeks running; and Master Lionel – the captain that is – at the head of another table in the library, with twelve or fourteen more, – nice youths they wor!”

While Tate continued his retrospections, Mr. Nickie had unlocked his box, and cursorily throwing a glance over some papers, he muttered to himself a few words, and then added aloud, – “Now for business.”