“If I only thought we were going to have a feast, Davy, I ‘d have made her light a fire in the parlor,” said the old man, apologetically.
“We’re better here, sir; it’s cosier and homelier, and I know you think so. Keep your own corner, father, and I ‘ll sit here.”
With appetites sharpened by the sea air and a long fast, they seated themselves at table and eat heartily. If their eyes met, a smile of pleasant recognition was exchanged; for while the old man gazed almost rapturously on his illustrious son, Dunn bent a look of scarcely inferior admiration on that patriarchal face, whereon time seemed but to mellow the traits that marked its wisdom.
“And what name do they give this, Davy?” said he, as he held up his glass to the light.
“Burgundy, father, – the king of wines. The wine-merchant names this Chambertin, which was the favorite drinking of the great Napoleon.”
“I wonder at that, now,” said the old man, sententiously.
“Wonder at it! And why so, father? – is it not admirable wine?”
“It’s just for that reason, Davy; every sup I swallow sets me a-dreaming of wonderful notions, – things I know the next minute is quite impossible, – but I feel when the wine is on my lips as if they were all easy and practicable.”
“After all, father, just remember that you cannot imagine anything one half so strange as the change in our own actual condition. There you sit, with your own clear head, to remind you of when and how you began life, and here am I! – for I am, as sure as if I held my patent in my hand, the Right Honorable Lord Castledunn.”
“To your Lordship’s good health and long life,” said the old man, fervently.
“And now to a worthier toast, father, – Lady Castledunn that is to be.”
“With all my heart. Lady Castledunn, whoever she is.”
“I said, ‘that is to be,’ father; and I have given you her name, – the Lady Augusta Arden.”
“I never heard of her,” muttered the old man, dreamily.
“An Earl’s daughter, sir; the ninth Earl of Glengariff,” said Dunn, pompously.
“What ‘s her fortune, Davy? She ought to bring you a good fortune.”
“Say rather, sir, it is I that should make a splendid settlement, – so proud a connection should meet its suitable acknowledgment.”
“I understand little about them things, Davy; but there’s one thing I do know, there never was the woman born I ‘d make independent of me if she was my wife. It is n’t in nature, and it isn’t in reason.”
“I can only say, sir, that with
your
principles you would not marry into the peerage.”
“Maybe I ‘d find one would suit me as well elsewhere.”
“That is very possible, sir,” was the dry reply.
“And if she cost less, maybe she’d wear as well,” said the old man, peevishly; “but I suppose your Lordship knows best what suits your Lordship’s station.”
“That also is possible, sir,” said Dunn, coldly.
The old man’s brow darkened, he pushed his glass from him, and looked offended and displeased.
Dunn quickly saw the change that had passed over him, and cutting the wire of a champagne flask, he filled out a foaming tumbler of the generous wine, saying, “Drink this to your own good health, father, – to the man whose wise teachings and prudent maxims have made his son a foremost figure in the age, and who has no higher pride than to own where he got his earliest lessons.”
“Is it true, Davy, – are them words true?” asked the old man, trembling with eagerness.
“As true as that I sit here.” And Dunn drained his glass as he spoke.
The old man, partly wearied by the late sitting, partly confused by all the strange tidings he had heard, drooped his head upon his chest and breathed heavily, muttering indistinctly a few broken and incoherent words. Lost in his own reveries, Dunn had not noticed this drowsy stupor, when suddenly the old man said, —
“Davy, – are you here, Davy?”
“Yes, father, here beside you.”
“What a wonderful dream I had, Davy!” he continued; “I dreamed you were made a lord, and that the Queen sent for you, and I was looking everywhere, up and down, for the fine cloak with the ermine all over it that you had to wear before her Majesty; sorra a one of me could find it at all; at last I put my hand on it, and was going to put it on your shoulders, when what should it turn out but a shroud! – ay, a shroud!”
“You are tired, father; these late hours are bad for you. Finish that glass of wine, and I’ll say good-night.”
“I wonder what sign a shroud is, Davy?” mumbled the old man, pertinaciously adhering to the dream. “A coffin, they say, is a wedding.”
“It is not a vigorous mind like yours, father, that lends faith to such miserable superstitions.”
“That is just what they are not. Dreams is dreams, Davy.”
“Just so, sir; and, being dreams, have neither meaning nor consistency.”
“How do you know that more than me? Who told you they were miserable superstitions? I call them warnings, – warnings that come out of our own hearts; and they come to us in our sleep just because that’s the time our minds is not full of cares and troubles, but is just taking up whatever chances to cross them. What made Luke Davis dream of a paycock’s feather the night his son was lost at sea? Answer me that if you can.”
“These are unprofitable themes, father; we only puzzle ourselves when we discuss them. Difficult as they are to believe, they are still harder to explain.”
“I don’t want to explain them,” said the old man, sternly, for he deemed that the very thought of such inquiry had in it something presumptuous.
“Well, father,” said Dunn, rising, “I sincerely trust you will sleep soundly now, and be disturbed by none of these fancies. I must hasten away. I leave for Belfast by the early train, and have a mass of letters to answer before that.”
“When am I to see you again, Davy?” asked the old man, eagerly.
“Very soon, I hope, sir; as soon as I can, of that you may be certain,” said he, cordially.
“Let it be soon, then, Davy, for the meeting does me good. I feel to-night ten years younger than before you came, and it isn’t the wine either; ‘tis the sight of your face and the touch of your hand. Good-night, and my blessing be with you!” And a tear coursed down his seared cheek as he spoke.
CHAPTER XXI. A SHOCK
It was past midnight when Davenport Donn reached his own house. His return was unexpected, and it was some time before he gained admission. The delay, however, did not excite his impatience; his head was so deeply occupied with cares and thoughts for the future that he was scarcely conscious of the time he had been kept waiting.
Mr. Clowes, hurriedly summoned from his bed, came up full of apologies and excuses.
“We did not expect you till to-morrow, sir, by the late packet,” said he, in some confusion. Dunn made no answer, and the other went on: “Mr. Hankes, too, thought it not improbable you would not be here before Wednesday.”
“When was he here?”
“To-day sir; he left that oak box here this morning, and those letters, sir.”
While Dunn carelessly turned over the superscriptions, among which he found none to interest him, Clowes repeatedly pressed his master to take some supper, or at least a biscuit and a glass of dry sherry.
“Send for Mr. Hankes,” said Dunn, at last, not condescending to notice the entreaties of his butler. “Let him wait for me here when he comes.” And so saying, he took a candle and passed upstairs.
Mr. Clowes was too well acquainted with his master’s temper to obtrude unseasonably upon him, so that he glided noiselessly away till such time as he might be wanted.
When Dunn entered the drawing-room, he lighted the candles of the candelabra over the chimney and some of those which occupied the branches along the walls, and then, turning the key in the door, sat down to contemplate the new and splendid decorations of the apartment.
The task had been confided to skilful hands, and no more attempted than rooms of moderate size and recent architecture permitted. The walls, of a very pale green, displayed to advantage a few choice pictures, – Italian scenes by Turner, a Cuyp or two, and a Mieris, – all of them of a kind to interest those who had no connoisseurship to be gratified. A clever statuette of the French Emperor, a present graciously bestowed by himself, stood on a console of malachite, and two busts of Whig statesmen occupied brackets at either side of a vast mirror. Except these, there was little ornament, and the furniture seemed rather selected for the indulgence of ease and comfort than for show or display. A few bronzes, some curious carvings in ivory, an enamelled miniature, and some illuminated missals were scattered about amongst illustrated books and aquarelles, but in no great profusion; nor was there that indiscriminate litter which too frequently imparts to the salon the character of a curiosity-shop. The rooms, in short, were eminently habitable.
Over the chimney in the back drawing-room was a clever sketch, by Thorburn, of Lady Augusta Arden. She was in a riding-habit, and standing with one hand on the mane of an Arab pony, – a beautiful creature presented to her by Dunn. While he stood admiring the admirable likeness, and revolving in his mind the strange traits of that thoughtfulness which had supplied the picture, – for it was all Sybella Kellett’s doing, every detail of the decorations, the color of the walls, the paintings, even to the places they occupied, had all been supplied by her, – Dunn started, and a sudden sickness crept over him. On a little table beside the fireplace stood a small gold salver, carved by Cellini, and which served to hold a few objects, such as coins and rings and antique gems. What could it be, then, amidst these century-old relics, which now overcame and so unmanned him that he actually grew pale as death, and sank at last, trembling, into a seat, cold perspiration on his face, and his very lips livid?
Mixed up amid the articles of
virtù
on that salver was an old-fashioned penknife with a massive handle of bloodstone, to which a slip of paper was attached, containing two or three words in Miss Kellett’s hand. Now, the sight of this article in that place so overcame Dunn that it was some minutes ere he could reach out his hand to take the knife. When giving to Miss Kellett the charge of several rare and valuable objects, he had intrusted her with keys to certain drawers, leaving to her own judgment the task of selection. He had totally forgotten that this knife was amongst these; but even had he remembered the circumstance, it would not have caused alarm, naturally supposing how little worthy of notice such an object would seem amidst others of price and rarity. And yet there it was, and, by the slip of paper fastened to it, attesting a special notice.
With an effort almost convulsive he at last seized the knife, and reads the words. They were simply these: “A penknife, of which Mr. Dunn can probably supply the history.” He dropped it as he read, and lay back, with a sense of fainting sickness.
The men of action and energy can face the positive present perils of life with a far bolder heart than they can summon to confront the terrors of conscience-stricken imagination. In the one case danger assumes a shape and a limit; in the other it looms out of distance, vast, boundless, and full of mystery. She knew, then, the story of his boyish shame; she had held the tale secretly in her heart through all their intercourse, reading his nature, mayhap, through the clew of that incident, and tracing out his path in life by the light it afforded; doubtless, too, she knew of his last scene with her father, – that terrible interview, wherein the dying man uttered a prediction that was almost a curse: she had treasured up these memories, and accepted his aid with seeming frankness, and yet, all the while that she played the grateful, trusting dependant, she had been slowly pursuing a vengeance. If Paul Kellett had confided to her the story of this childish transgression, he had doubtless revealed to her how heavily it had been avenged – how, with a persistent, persecuting hate, Dunn had tracked him, through difficulty and debt, to utter ruin. She had therefore read him in his real character, and had devoted herself to a revenge deeper than his own. Ay, he was countermined!
Such was the turn of his thoughts, as he sat there wiping the cold sweat that broke from his forehead, and cursing the blindness that had so long deceived him; and he, whose deep craft had carried him triumphant through all the hardest trials of the world, the man who had encountered the most subtle intellects, the great adventurer in a whole ocean of schemes, was to be the dupe and sport of a girl!
And now, amid his self-accusings, there rose up that strange attempt at compromise the baffled heart so often clings to, that he had, at times, half suspected this deep and secret treachery, – that she had not been either so secret or so crafty as she fancied herself. “If my mind,” so reasoned he, “had not been charged with far weightier themes, I should have detected her at once; all her pretended gratitude, all her assumed thankfulness, had never deceived
me
; her insignificance was her safeguard. And yet withal, I sometimes felt, she is too deeply in our confidence, – she sees too much of the secret machinery of our plans. While I exulted over the ignoble dependence she was doomed to, – while I saw, with a savage joy, how our lots in life were reversed, – was I self-deceived?”
So impressed was he with the idea of a game in which he had been defeated, that he went over in his mind every circumstance he could recall of his intercourse with her. Passages the simplest, words of little significance, incidents the most trivial, he now charged with deepest meaning. Amidst these, there was one for which he could find no solution, – why had she so desired to be the owner of the cottage near Bantry? It was there that Driscoll had discovered the Conway papers. Was it possible – the thought flashed like lightning on him – that there was any concert between the girl and this man? This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than it took firm hold of his mind. None knew better than Dunn the stuff Driscoll was made of, and knowing, besides, how he had, by his own seeming luke-warmness, affronted that crafty schemer, it was by no means improbable that such an alliance as this existed. And this last discovery of documents, – how fortunate was it that Hankes had secured them! The papers might or might not be important; at all events, the new Lord Lackington might be brought to terms by their means; he would have come to his peerage so unexpectedly that all the circumstances of the contested claim would be strange to him. This was a point to be looked at; and as he reasoned thus, again did he go back to Sybella Kellett, and what the nature of her game might be, and how it should first display itself.
A tap at the door startled him. “Mr. Hankes is below, sir,” said Clowes.
“I will be with him in a moment,” replied Dunn; and again relapsed into his musings.
CHAPTER XXII. A MASTER AND MAN
“Is she gone? – where to?” cried Dunn, without answering Mr. Hankes’s profuse salutations and welcomes.
“Yes, sir; she sailed yesterday.”
“Sailed, and for where?”
“For Malta, sir, in the Euxine steamer. Gone to her brother in the Crimea. One of the people saw her go on board at Southampton.”
“Was she alone?”
“Quite alone, sir. My man was present when she paid the boatman. She had very little luggage, but they demanded half a guinea – ”
“What of Driscoll? Have you traced him?” asked Dunn, impatient at the minuteness of this detail.
“He left London for Havre on the 12th of last month, sir, with a passport for Italy. He carried one of Hart-well’s circulars for three hundred pounds, and was to have taken a courier at Paris, but did not.”
“And where is he now?” asked Dunn, abruptly.
“I am unable to say, sir,” said Hankes, almost abjectly, for he felt self-rebuked in the acknowledgment. “My last tidings of him came from Como, – a new Hydropathic Institution there.”
“Expecting to find the Viscount Lackington,” said Dunn, with a sardonic laugh. “Death was before you, Master Driscoll; you did not arrive in time for even the funeral. I say, Hankes,” added he, quickly, “what of the new Viscount? Has he answered our letters?”
“Not directly, sir; but there came a short note signed ‘C. Christopher,’ stating that his Lordship had been very ill, and was detained at Ems, and desiring to have a bank post-bill for two hundred forwarded to him by return.”
“You sent it?”
“Of course, sir; the letter had some details which proved it to be authentic.”
“And the sum a trifle,” broke in Dunn. “She is scarcely at Malta by this, Hankes. What am I thinking of? She ‘ll not reach it before next Friday or Saturday. Do you remember young Kellett’s regiment?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, find it out. I’ll write to the Horse Guards tomorrow to have him promoted, – to give him an Ensigncy in some regiment serving in India. Whom do you know at Malta, Hankes?”
“I know several, sir; Edmond Grant, in the Storekeeper’s Department; James Hocksley, Second Harbor-Master; Paul Wesley, in the Under-Secretary’s Office.”
“Any of them will do. Telegraph to detain her; that her brother is coming home; she must not go to the Crimea.” There was a stern fixity of purpose declared in the way these last words were spoken, which at the same time warned Hankes from asking any explanation of them. “And now for business. What news from Arigua, – any ore?”
“Plenty, sir; the new shaft has turned out admirably. It is yielding upwards of twenty-eight per cent, and Holmes offers thirty pounds a ton for the raw cobalt.”
“I don’t care for that, sir. I asked how were shares,” said Dunn, peevishly.
“Not so well as might be expected, sir. The shake at Glengariff was felt widely.”
“What do you mean? The shares fell, but they rose again; they suffered one of those fluctuations that attend on all commercial or industrial enterprises; but they rallied even more quickly than they went down. When I left town yesterday, they were at one hundred and forty-three.”
“I know it, sir. I received your telegram, and I showed it to Bayle and Childers, but they only smiled, and said, ‘So much the better for the holders.’”
“I defy any man – I don’t care what may be his abilities or what his zeal – to benefit this country!” exclaimed Dunn, passionately. “There is amongst Irishmen, towards each other, such an amount of narrow jealousy – mean, miserable, envious rivalry – as would swamp the best intentions, and destroy the wisest plans that ever were conceived. May my fate prove a warning to whoever is fool enough to follow me!”
Was it that when Dunn thus spoke he hoped to persuade Mr. Hankes that he was a noble-hearted patriot, sorrowing over the errors of an ungrateful country? Did he fancy that his subtle lieutenant, the associate of all his deep intrigues, the confidant of his darkest schemes, was suddenly to see in him nothing but magnanimity of soul and single-hearted devotedness? No, I cannot presume to say that he indulged in any such delusion. He uttered the words just to please himself, – to flatter himself! as some men drink off a cordial to give them Dutch courage. There are others that enunciate grand sentiments, high sounding and magniloquent, the very music and resonance of their words imparting a warm glow within them.
It is a common error to imagine that such “stage thunder” is confined to that after-dinner eloquence in whose benefit the canons of truth-telling are all repealed. Far from it. The practice enters into every hour of every-day life, and the greatest knave that ever rogued never cheated the world half as often as he cheated himself!
As though it had been a glass of brown sherry that he swallowed, Mr. Dunn felt “better” after he had uttered these fine words. He experienced a proud satisfaction in thinking what a generous heart beat within his own waistcoat; and thus reassured, he thought well of the world at large.
“And Ossory, Mr. Hankes, – how is Ossory?”
“A hundred and fourteen, with a look upwards,” responded Mr. Hankes. “Since the day of ‘the run’ deposits have largely increased. Indeed, I may say we are now the great country gentry bank of the midland. We discount freely, too, and we lend generously.”
“I shall want some ready money soon, Hankes,” said Dunn, as he paced the room with his hands behind his back, and his head bent forward. “You ‘ll have to sell out some of those Harbor shares.”
“Bantry’s, sir? Glumthal’s have them as securities!”
“So they have; I forgot. Well, St Columbs, or the Patent Fuel, or that humbug discovery of Patterson’s, – the Irish Asphalt There’s an American fellow, by the way, wants that.”
“They’re very low, – very low, all these, sir,” said Hankes, lugubriously. “They sank so obstinately that I just withdrew our name quietly, so that we can say any day we have long ceased any connection with these enterprises.”
“She ‘ll scarcely make any delay in Malta, Hankes. Your message ought to be there by Thursday at latest” And then, as if ashamed of showing where his thoughts were straying, he said, “All kinds of things – odds and ends of every sort – are jostling each other in my brain to-night.”
“You want rest, sir; you want nine or ten hours of sound sleep.”
“Do I look fatigued or harassed?” asked Dunn, with an eagerness that almost startled the other.
“A little tired, sir; not more than that,” cautiously answered Hankes.
“But I don’t
feel
tired. I am not conscious of any weariness,” said he, pettishly. “I suspect that you are not a very acute physiognomist, Hankes. I have told you,” added he, hastily, “I shall want some twelve or fifteen thousand pounds soon. Look out, too, for any handsome country-seat – in the South, I should prefer it – that may be in the market I ‘ll not carry out my intentions about Kellett’s Court. It is a tumble-down old concern, and would cost us more in repairs than a handsome house fit to inhabit.”
“Am I to have the honor of offering my felicitations, sir?” said Hankes, obsequiously; “are the reports of the newspapers as to a certain happy event to be relied on?”
“You mean as to my marriage? Yes, perfectly true. I might, in a mere worldly point of view, have looked higher, – not higher, certainly not, – but I might have contracted what many would have called a more advantageous connection; in fact, I might have had any amount of money I could care for, but I determined for what I deemed the wiser course. You are probably not aware that this is a very long attachment. Lady Augusta and myself have been as good as engaged to each other for – for a number of years. She was very young when we met first, – just emerging from early girlhood; but the sentiment of her youthful choice has never varied, and, on
my
part, the attachment has been as constant.”
“Indeed, sir!” said Hankes, sorely puzzled what to make of this declaration.
“I know,” said Dunn, returning rapidly to the theme, “that nothing will seem less credible to the world at large than a man of
my
stamp marrying for love! The habit is to represent us as a sort of human monster, a creature of wily, money-getting faculties, shrewd, over-reaching, and successful. They won’t give us feelings, Hankes. They won’t let us understand the ties of affection and the charms of a home. Well,” said he, after a long pause, “there probably never lived a man more mistaken, more misconceived by the world than myself.”
Hankes heaved a heavy sigh; it was, he felt, the safest thing he could do, for he did not dare to trust himself with a single word. The sigh, however, was a most profound one, and, plainly as words, declared the compassionate contempt he entertained for a world so short-sighted and so meanly minded.
“After all,” resumed Dunn, “it is the penalty every man must pay for eminence. The poor little nibblers at the rind of fortune satisfy their unsuccess when they say, ‘Look at him with all his money!’”
Another and deeper sigh here broke from Hankes, who was really losing all clew to the speaker’s reflections.
“I’m certain, Hankes, you have heard observations of this kind five hundred times.”
“Ay, have I, sir,” answered he, in hurried confusion, – “five thousand!”
“Well, and what was your reply, sir? How did you meet such remarks?” said Dunn, sternly.
“Put them down, sir, – put them down at once; that is, I acknowledged that there was a sort of fair ground; I agreed in thinking that, everything considered, and looking to what we saw every day around us in life – and Heaven knows it is a strange world, and the more one sees of it the less he knows – ”
“I ‘m curious to hear,” said Dunn, with a stern fixedness of manner, “in what quarter you heard these comments on my character.”
Hankes trembled from head to foot. He was in the witness-box, and felt that one syllable might place him in the dock.
“You never heard one word of the kind in your life, sir, and you
know
it,” said Dunn, with a savage energy of tone that made the other sick with fear. “If ever there was a man whose daily life refuted such a calumny, it was myself.”
Dunn’s emotions were powerful, and he walked the room from end to end with long and determined strides. Suddenly halting at last, he looked Hankes steadily in the face, and said, —
“It was the Kellett girl dared thus to speak of me, was it not? The truth, sir, – the truth; I
will
have it out of you!”
“Well, I must own you are right. It was Miss Kellett.”
Heaven forgive you, Mr. Hankes, for the lie, inasmuch as you never intended to tell it till it was suggested to you.
“Can you recall the circumstance which elicited this remark? I mean,” said he, with an affected carelessness of manner, “how did it occur? You were chatting together, – discussing people and events, eh?”
“Yes, sir; just so.”
“And she observed – Do you chance to remember the phrase she used?”
“I give you my word of honor I do not, sir,” said Hankes, with a sincere earnestness.
“People who fancy themselves clever – and Miss Kellett is one of that number – have a trick of eliminating every trait of a man’s character from some little bias, – some accidental bend given to his youthful mind. I am almost certain – nay, I feel persuaded – it was by some such light that young lady read me. She had heard I was remarkable as a schoolboy for this, that, or t’ other, – I saved my pocket-money, or lent it out at interest. Come, was it not with the aid of an ingenious explanation of this kind she interpret