The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2

“Delighted – charmed to see you – my dear young friend,” said Lord Netherby, who having, in his own person, some experience of the sway and influence her Ladyship was habituated to exercise, calculated largely on the effect of an interview between her and her son. “I don’t believe you could possibly propose anything more gratifying nor more likely to serve her. She is very weak and very nervous; but to see you will, I know, be of immense service. I ‘m sure you ‘ll not agitate her,” added he, after a pause. If the words had been “not contradict,” they would have been nearer his meaning.

“You may trust me, for both our sakes,” said Forester, smiling. “By the by, you mentioned a letter from a law-agent of the Darcys, Mr. Bicknell; was it expressive of any hope of a favorable termination to the suit, or did he opine that the case was a bad one?”

“If I remember aright, a very bad one, – bad, from the deficiency of evidence; worse, from the want of funds to carry it on. Of course I only speak from memory; and the epistle was so cramp, so complex, and with such a profusion of detail intermixed, that I could make little out of it, and retain even less. I must say that as it was written without my cousin’s knowledge or consent, I paid no attention to it. It was, so to say, quite unauthorized.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Forester, in an accent whose scorn was mistaken by the hearer, as he resumed.

“Just so; a mere lawyer’s ruse, to carry on a suit. He proposed, I own, a kind of security for any advance I should make, in the person of Miss Daly, whose property, amounting to some three or four thousand pounds, was to be given as security! There always is some person of this kind on these occasions – some tame elephant – to attract the rest; but I paid no attention to it. The only thing, indeed, I could learn of the lady was, that she had a fire-eating brother who paid bond debts with a pistol, and small ones with a horsewhip.”

“I know Mr. Daly and his sister too. He is a most honorable and high-minded gentleman; of her I only needed to hear the trait your Lordship has just mentioned, to say that she is worthy to be his sister in every respect.”

“I was not aware that they were acquaintances of yours.”

“Friends, my Lord, would better express the relationship between us, – friends, firm and true, I sincerely believe them. Pray, if not indiscreet, may I ask the date of this letter?”

“Some day of June last, I think. The case was to come on for trial next November in Westport, and it was for funds to carry on the suit, it would seem, they were pressed.”

“You did n’t hear a second time?”

“No, I ‘ve told you that I never answered this letter. I was quite willing, I am so at this hour, to be of any service to my dear cousin, Lady Eleanor Darcy, and to aid her to the fullest extent; but to prosecute a hopeless lawsuit, to throw away some thousands in an interminable Equity investigation, – to measure purses, too, against one of the richest men in Ireland, as I hear their antagonist is, – this, I could never think of.”

“But who has pronounced this claim hopeless?” said Forester, impatiently.

A cold shrug of the shoulders was all Lord Netherby’s reply.

“Not Miss Daly, certainly,” rejoined Forester, “who was willing to peril everything she possessed in the world upon the issue.”

The sarcasm intended by this speech was deeply felt by Lord Netherby, as with an unwonted concession to ill-humor, he replied, —

“There is nothing so courageous as indigence!”

“Better never be rich, then,” cried Forester, “if cowardice be the first lesson it teaches. But I think better of affluence than this. I saw that same Knight of Gwynne when at the head of a princely fortune; and I never, in any rank of life, under any circumstances, saw the qualities which grace and adorn the humblest more eminently displayed.”

“I quite agree with you; a more perfectly conducted household it is impossible to conceive.”

“I speak not of his retinue, nor of his graceful hospitalities, my Lord, nor even of his generous munificence and benevolence; these are rich men’s gifts everywhere. I speak of his trusting, confiding temper; the hopeful trust he entertained of something good in men’s natures at the moment he was smarting from their perfidy and ingratitude; the forgiveness towards those that injured, the unvarying kindness towards those that forgot him.”

“I declare,” said Lord Netherby, smiling, “I must interdict a continuance of this panegyric, now that we have arrived, for you know Colonel Darcy was a first love of Lady Netherby.”

Nothing but a courtier of Lord Netherby’s stamp could have made such a speech; and while Forester became scarlet with shame and anger, a new light suddenly broke upon him, and the rancor of his mother respecting the Knight and his family was at once explained.

“Now to announce you,” said Lord Netherby, gayly; “let that be my task.” And so saying, he lightly tripped up the stairs before Forester.

CHAPTER XXX. A BOUDOIR

When, having passed through a suite of gorgeously furnished rooms, Forester entered the dimly lighted boudoir where his lady-mother reclined, his feelings were full of troubled emotion. The remembrance of the last time he had been there was present to his mind, mingled with anxious fears as to his approaching reception. Had he been more conversant with the “world,” he needed not to have suffered these hesitations. There are few conditions in life between which so wide a gulf yawns as that of the titled heir of a house and the younger brother. He was, then, as little prepared for the affectionate greeting that met him as for the absence of all trace of illness in her Ladyship’s appearance. Both were very grateful to his feelings as he drew his chair beside her sofa, and a soft remembrance of former days of happiness stole over his pleased senses. Lord Netherby, with a fitting consideration, had left them to enjoy this interview alone, and thus their emotions were unrestrained by the presence of the only one who had witnessed their parting. Perhaps the most distinguishing trait of the closest affection is that the interruptions to its course do not involve the misery of reconciliation to enable us to return to our own place in the heart; but that, the moment of grief or anger or doubt over, we feel that we have a right to resume our influence in the breast whose thoughts have so long mingled with our own. The close ties of filial and parental love are certainly of this nature, and it must be a stubborn heart whose instincts do not tend to that forgiveness which as much blots out as it pardons past errors. Such was not Lady Netherby’s. Pride of station, the ambition of leadership in certain circles, had so incorporated themselves with the better dictates of her mind that she rarely, if ever, permitted mere feeling to influence her; but if for a moment it did get the ascendancy, her heart could feel as acutely as though it had been accustomed to such indulgence. In a word, she was as affectionate as the requirements of her rank permitted. Oh, this Rank, this Rank! how do its conventionalities twine and twist themselves round our natures till love and friendship are actually subject to the cold ordinance of a fashion! How many hide the dark spots of their heart behind the false screen they call their “Rank”! The rich man, in the Bible, clothed in his purple, and faring sumptuously, was but acting in conformity with his “Rank;” nay, more, he was charitable as became his “Rank,” for the poor were fed with the crumbs from his table.

Forester was well calculated by natural advantages to attract a mother’s pride. He was handsome and well-bred; had even more than a fair share of abilities, which gained credit for something higher from a native quickness of apprehension; and even already the adventurous circumstances of his first campaign had invested his character with a degree of interest that promised well for his success in the world. If her manner to him was then kind and affectionate, it was mingled also with something of admiration, which her woman’s heart yielded to the romantic traits of the youth.

She listened with eager pleasure to the animated description he gave of the morning at Aboukir, and the brilliant panorama of the attack; nor was the enjoyment marred by the mention of the only name that could have pained her, the last words of Lord Netherby having sealed Forester’s lips with respect to the Knight of Gwynne.

The changeful fortunes of his life as a prisoner were mingled with the recital of the news by which his exchange was effected; and this brought back once more the subject by which their interview was opened, – the death of his elder brother. Lady Netherby perhaps felt she had done enough for sorrow, for she dwelt but passingly on the theme, and rather addressed herself to the future which was now about to open before her remaining son, carefully avoiding, however, the slightest phrase that should imply dictation, and only seeming to express the natural expectation “the world” had formed of what his career should be. “Lord Netherby tells me,” said she, “that the Duke of York will, in all likelihood, name you as an extra aide-decamp, in which case you probably would remain in the service. It is an honor that could not well be declined.”

“I scarcely like to form fixed intentions which have no fixed foundations,” said Forester; “but if I might give way to my own wishes, it would be to indulge in perfect liberty, – to have no master.”

“Nor any mistress, either, to control you, for some time, I suppose,” rejoined she, smiling, as if carelessly, but watching how her words were taken. Forester affected to partake in the laugh, but could not conceal a slight degree of confusion. Lady Netherby was too clever a tactician to let even a momentary awkwardness interrupt the interview, and resumed: “You will be dreadfully worried by all the ‘lionizing’ in store for you, I’m certain; you are to be feasted and feted to any extent, and will be fortunate if the gratulations on your recovery do not bring back your illness.”

“I shall get away from it all at once,” said Forester, rising, and walking up and down, as if the thought had suggested the impatient movement.

“You cannot avoid presenting yourself at the levee,” said Lady Netherby, anxiously; for already a dread of her son’s wilful temper came over her. “His Royal Highness’s inquiries after you do not leave an option on this matter.”

“What if I’m too ill?” said he, doggedly; “what if I should not be in town?”

“But where else could you be, Richard?” said she, with a resumption of her old imperiousness of tone and manner.

“In Ireland, madam,” said Forester, coldly.

“In Ireland! And why, for any sake, in Ireland?”

Forester hesitated, and grew scarlet; he did not know whether to evade inquiry by a vague reply, or at once avow his secret determination. At length, with a faltering, uncertain voice, he said: “A matter of business will bring me to that country; I have already conversed with Lord Castlereagh on the subject. Lord Netherby was present.”

“I’m sure he could never concur, – I’m certain.” So far her Ladyship had proceeded, when a sudden fear came over her that she had ventured too far, and turning hastily, she rang the bell beside her. “Davenport,” said she to the grave-looking groom of the chambers, who as instantaneously appeared, “is my Lord at home?”

“His Lordship is in the library, my Lady.”

“Alone?”

“No, my Lady, a gentleman from Ireland is with his Lordship.”

“A gentleman from Ireland!” repeated she, half aloud, as though the very mention of that country were destined to persecute her; then quickly added, “Say I wish to speak with him here.”

The servant bowed and withdrew; and now a perfect silence reigned in the apartment. Forester felt that he had gone too far to retreat, even were he so disposed, and although dreading nothing more than a “scene,” awaited, without speaking, the course of events. As much yielding to an involuntary impatience as to relieve the awkwardness of the interval, he arose and walked into the adjoining drawing-room, carelessly tossing over books and prints upon the tables, and trying to affect an ease he was very far from experiencing.

It was while he was thus engaged that Lord Netherby entered the boudoir, and seeing her Ladyship alone, was about to speak in his usual tone, when, at a gesture from her, he was made aware of Forester’s vicinity, and hastily subdued his voice to a whisper. “Whatever the nature of the tidings which in a hurried and eager tone his Lordship retailed, her manner on hearing evinced a mingled astonishment and delight, if the word dare be applied to an emotion whose source was in anything rather than an amiable feeling.

“It seems too absurd, too monstrous in every way,” exclaimed she, at the end of an explanation which took several minutes to recount. “And why address himself to you? That seems also inexplicable.”

“This,” rejoined Lord Netherby, aloud, – “this was his own inspiration. He candidly acknowledges that no one either counselled or is even aware of the step he has taken.”

“Perhaps the à propos may do us good service,” whispered she, with a glance darted at the room where Forester was now endeavoring, by humming an air, to give token of his vicinity as well as assume an air of indifference.

“I thought of that,” said Lord Netherby, in the same low voice. “Would you see him? A few moments would be enough.”

Lady Netherby made no answer, but with closed eyes and compressed lips seemed to reflect deeply for several minutes. At last she said: “Yes, let him come. I’ll detain Richard in the drawing-room; he shall hear everything that is said. If I know anything of him, the insult to his pride will do far more than all our arguments and entreaties.”

“Don’t chill my little friend by any coldness of manner,” said his Lordship, smiling, as he moved towards the door; “I have only got him properly thawed within the last few minutes.”

“My dear Richard,” said she, as the door closed after Lord Netherby, “I must keep you prisoner in the drawing-room for a few minutes, while I receive a visitor of Lord Netherby’s. Don’t close the doors; I can’t endure heat and this room becomes insupportable without a slight current of air. Besides, there is no secret, I fancy, in the communication. As well as I understand the matter, it does not concern us; but Netherby is always doing some piece of silly good-nature, for which no one thanks him!”

The last reflection was half soliloquy, but said so that Forester could and did hear every word of it. While her Ladyship, therefore, patiently awaited the arrival of her visitor in one room, Forester threw himself into a chair, and taking up a book at hazard, endeavored to pass the interval without further thought about the matter.

Sitting with his back towards the door of the boudoir. Forester accidentally had placed himself in such a position that a large mirror between the windows reflected to him a considerable portion of the scene within. It was then with an amount of astonishment far above ordinary that he beheld the strange-looking figure who followed Lord Netherby into the apartment of his mother. He was a short, dumpy man, with a bald head, over which the long hairs of either side were studiously combed into an ingenious kind of network, and meeting at an angle above the cranium, looked like the uncovered rafters of a new house. Two fierce-looking gray eyes that seemed ready for fun or malice, rolled and revolved unceasingly over the various decorations of the chamber, while a large thick-lipped mouth, slightly opened at either end, vouched for one who neglected no palpable occasion for self-indulgence or enjoyment. There was, indeed, throughout his appearance, a look of racy satisfaction and contentment, that consorted but ill with his costume, which was a suit of deep mourning; his clothes having all the gloss and shine of a recent domestic loss, and made, as seems something to be expected on these occasions, considerably too large for him, as though to imply that the defunct should not be defrauded in the full measure of sorrow. Deep crape weepers encircled his arms to the elbows, and a very banner of black hung mournfully from his hat.

“Mr. – ” Here Lord Netherby hesitated, forgetful of his name.

“Dempsey, Paul Dempsey, your Grace,” said the little man, as, stepping forward, he performed the salutation before Lady Netherby, by which he was accustomed to precede an invitation to dance.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Dempsey. I have just briefly mentioned to her Ladyship the circumstances of our interesting conversation, and with your permission will proceed with my recital, begging that if I fall into any error you will kindly set me right. This will enable Lady Netherby, who is still an invalid, to support the fatigue of an interview wherein her advice and counsel will be of great benefit to us both.”

Mr. Dempsey bowed several times, not sorry, perhaps, that in such an awful presence he was spared the office of chief orator.

“I told you, my dear,” said Lord Netherby, turning towards her Ladyship, “that this gentleman had for a considerable time back enjoyed the pleasure of intimacy with our worthy relative Lady Eleanor Darcy – ”

The fall of a heavy book in the adjoining room interrupted his Lordship, between whom and Lady Netherby a most significant interchange of glances took place. He resumed, however, without a pause, —

“Lady Eleanor and her accomplished daughter. If the more urgent question were uot now before us, it would gratify you to learn, as I have just done, the admirable patience she has exhibited under the severe trials she has met; the profound insight she obtained into the condition, hopeless as it proves to be, of their unhappy circumstances; and the resignation in which, submitting to changed fortune, she not only has at once abandoned the modes of living she was habituated to, but actually descended to what I can fancy must have been the hardest infliction of all, – vulgar companionship, and the society of a boarding-house.”

“A most respectable establishment, though,” broke in Paul; “Fumbally’s is known all over Ulster – ”

A very supercilious smile from Lady Netherby cut short a panegyric Mr. Dempsey would gladly have extended.

“No doubt, sir, it was the best thing of the kind,” resumed his Lordship; “but remember who Lady Eleanor Darcy was, – ay, and is. Think of the station she had always held, and then fancy her in daily intercourse with those people – ”

“Oh, it is very horrid, indeed!” broke in Lady Netherby, leaning back, and looking overcome even at the bare conception of the enormity.

“The little miserable notorieties of a fishing-village – ”

“Coleraine, my Lord, – Coleraine,” cried Dempsey.

“Well, be it so. What is Coleraine?”

“A very thriving town on the river Bann, with a smart trade in yarn, two breweries, three meeting-houses, a pound, and a Sunday-school,” repeated Paul, as rapidly as though reading from a volume of a topographical dictionary.

“All very commendable and delightful institutions, on which I beg heartily to offer my congratulations, but, you will allow me to remark, scarcely enough to compensate for the accustomed appliances of a residence at Gwynne Abbey. But I see we are trespassing on Lady Netherby’s strength. You seem faint, my dear.”

“It’s nothing, – it will pass over in a moment or so. This sad account of these poor people has distressed me greatly.”

“Well, then, we must hasten on. Mr. Dempsey became acquainted with our poor friends in this their exile; and although from his delicacy and good taste he will not dwell on the circumstance, it is quite clear to me, has shown them many attentions; I might use a stronger word, and say kindnesses.”

“Oh! by Jove, I did nothing. I could do nothing – ”

“Nay, sir, you are unjust to yourself; the very intentions by which you set out on your present journey are the shortest answer to that question. It would appear, my dear, that my fair relative, Miss Darcy, has not forfeited the claim she possessed to great beauty and attraction; for here, in the gentleman before us, is an evidence of their existence. Mr. Dempsey, who ‘never told his love,’ as the poet says, waited in submission himself for the hour of his changing fortune; and until the death of his mother – ”

“No, my Lord; my uncle, Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey’s Grove.”

“His uncle, I mean. Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey’s Hole.”

“Grove, – Dempsey’s Grove,” interpolated Paul, reddening.

“Grove, I should say,” repeated Lord Netherby, unmoved. “By which he has succeeded to a very comfortable independence, and is now in a position to make an offer of his hand and fortune.”

“Under the conditions, my Lord, – under the conditions,” whispered Paul.

“I have not forgotten them,” resumed Lord Netherby, aloud. “It would be ungenerous not to remember them, even for your sake, Mr. Dempsey, seeing how much my poor, dear relative, Lady Eleanor, is beut on prosecuting this unhappy suit, void of all hope, as it seems to be, and not having any money of her owu – ”

“Ready money, – cash,” interposed Paul.

“So I mean – ready money to make the advances necessary – Mr. Dempsey wishes to raise a certain sum by loan, on the security of his property, which may enable the Darcys to proceed with their claim; this deed to be executed on his marriage with Miss Darcy. Am I correct, sir?”

“Quite correct, my Lord; you’ve only omitted that, to save expensive searches, lawyers’ fees, and other devilments of the like nature, that your Lordship should advance the blunt yourself?”

“I was coming to that point. Mr. Dempsey opines that, taking the interest it is natural we should do in our poor friends, he has a kind of claim to make this proposition to us. He is aware of our relationship – mine, I mean – to Lady Eleanor. She spoke to you, I believe, on that subject, Mr. Dempsey?”

“Not exactly to me,” said Paul, hesitating, and recalling the manner in which he became cognizant of the circumstance; “but I heard her say that your Lordship was under very deep obligation to her own father, – that you were, so to say, a little out at elbows once, very like myself before Bob died, and that then – ”

“We all lived together like brothers and sisters,” said his Lordship, reddening. “I ‘m sure I can’t forget how happily the time went over.”

“Then Lady Eleanor, I presume, sir, did not advert to those circumstances as a reason for your addressing yourself to Lord Netherby?” said her Ladyship, with a look of stern severity.

“Why, my Lady, she knows nothing about my coming here. Lord bless us! I wouldn’t have told her for a thousand pounds!”

“Nor Miss Darcy, either?”

“Not a bit of it! Oh, by Jove! if you think they ‘re not as proud as ever they were, you are much mistaken; and, indeed, on this very same subject I heard her say that nothing would induce her to accept a favor from your Lordship, if even so very improbable an event should occur as your offering one.”

“So that we owe the honor of your visit to the most single-minded of motives, sir,” said Lady Netherby, whose manner had now assumed all its stateliness.

“Yes, my Lady, I came as you see, —Dempsius cum Dempsio, – so that if I succeed, I can say like that fellow in the play, ‘Alone, I did it.’”

Lord Netherby, who probably felt that the interview had lasted sufficiently long for the only purpose he had destined or endured it, was now becoming somewhat desirous of terminating the audience; nor was his impatience allayed by those sportive sallies of Mr. Dempsey in allusion to his own former condition as a dependant.

At length he said, “You must be aware, Mr. Dempsey, that this is a matter demanding much time and consideration. The Knight of Gwynne is absent.”

“That’s the reason there is not an hour to lose,” interposed Paul.

“I am at a loss for your meaning.”

“I mean that if he comes home before it ‘s all settled, that the game is up. He would never consent, I ‘m certain.”

“So you think that the ladies regard you with more favorable eyes?” said her Ladyship, smiling a mixture of superciliousness and amusement.

“I have my own reasons to think so,” said Paul, with great composure.

“Perhaps you take too hopeless a view of your case, sir,” resumed Lord Netherby, blandly. “I am, unhappily, very ignorant of Irish family rank; but I feel assured that Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey’s Hole – ”