The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2

The stranger, dividing his time between his meal and a newspaper, – which he devoured more eagerly than the viands before him, – paid no attention to Forester’s entrance; nor did he once look round. As the waiter approached, he asked hastily, “What chance there was of getting forward?”

“Indeed, sir, to tell the truth,” drawled out the man, “the storm seems getting worse, instead of better. Miles Finerty’s new house, at the end of the street, is just blown down.”

“Never mind Miles Finerty, my good friend, for the present,” rejoined the old gentleman, mildly, “but just tell me, are horses to be had?”

“Faith! and to tell your honor no lie, I ‘m afraid of it.” Here he dropped to a whisper. “The sick-looking gentleman, yonder, has four waiting for him, since nine o’clock; and we ‘ve only a lame mare and a pony in the stable.”

“Am I never to get this bill?” cried out Forester, in a tone that illness had rendered peculiarly querulous. “I have asked, begged for it, for above an hour, and here I am still.”

“He’s bringing it now, sir,” cried the waiter, stepping hastily out of the room, to avoid further questioning. Forester, whose impatience had now been carried beyond endurance, paced the room with hurried strides, muttering, between his teeth, every possible malediction on the whole race of innkeepers, barmaids, waiters, – even down to Boots himself. These imprecating expressions had gradually assumed a louder and more vehement tone, of which he was by no means aware, till the old gentleman, at the pause of a somewhat wordy denunciation, gravely added, —

“Insert a clause upon postboys, sir, and I ‘ll second the measure.”

Forester wheeled abruptly round. He belonged to a class, a section of society, whose cherished prestige is neither to address nor be addressed by an unintroduced stranger; and had the speaker been younger, or of any age more nearly his own, it is more than likely a very vague stare of cool astonishment would have been his only acknowledgment of the speech. The advanced age, and something in the very accent of the stranger, were, however, guarantees against this conventional rudeness, and he remarked, with a smile, “I have no objection to extend the provisions of my bill in the way you propose, for perhaps half an hour’s experience may teach me how much they deserve it.”

“You are fortunate, however, to have secured horses. I perceive that the stables are empty.”

“If you are pressed for time, sir,” said Forester, on whom the quiet, well-bred manners of the stranger produced a strong impression, “it would be a very churlish thing of me to travel with four horses while I can spare a pair of them.”

“I am really very grateful,” said the old gentleman, rising, and bowing courteously; “if this be not a great inconvenience – ”

“By no means; and if it were,” rejoined Forester, “I have a debt to acquit to my own heart on this subject. I remember once, when travelling down to the west of Ireland, I reached a little miserable country town at nightfall, and, just as here, save that then there was no storm – ” The entrance of the long-expected landlord, with his bill, here interrupted Forester’s story. As he took it, and thus afforded time for the stranger to fix his eyes steadfastly upon him, unobserved, Forester quickly resumed: “I was remarking that, just as here, there were only four post-horses to be had, and that they had just been secured by another traveller a few moments before my arrival. I forget the name of the place – ”

“Perhaps I can assist you,” said the other, calmly. “It was Kilbeggan.”

Had a miracle been performed before his eyes, Forester could not have been more stunned; and stunned he really was, and unable to speak for some seconds. At length, his surprise yielding to a vague glimmering of belief, he called out, “Great heavens! it cannot be – it surely is not – ”

“Maurice Darcy, you would say, sir,” said the Knight, advancing with an offered hand. “As surely as I believe you to be my son Lionel’s brother officer and friend, Captain Forester.”

“Oh, Colonel Darcy! this is, indeed, happiness,” exclaimed the young man, as he grasped the Knight’s hand in both of his, and shook it affectionately.

“What a strange rencontre,” said the Knight, laughing; “quite the incident of a comedy! One would scarcely look for such meetings twice, – so like in every respect. Our parts are changed, however; it is your turn to be generous, if the generosity trench not too closely on your convenience.”

Forester could but stammer out assurances of delight and pleasure, and so on, for his heart was too full to speak calmly or collectedly.

“And Lionel, sir, how is he, – when have you heard from him?” said the young man, anxious, by even the most remote path, to speak of the Knight’s family.

“In excellent health. The boy has had the good fortune to be employed in a healthy station, and, from a letter which I found awaiting me at my army agent’s, is as happy as can be. But to recur to our theme: will you forgive my selfishness if I say that you will add indescribably to the favor if you permit me to take these horses at once? I have not seen my family for some time back, and my impatience is too strong to yield to ceremony.”

“Of course, – certainly; my carriage is, however, all ready, and at the door. Take it as it is, you ‘ll travel faster and safer.”

“But you yourself,” said Darcy, laughing, – “you were about to move forward when we met.”

“It’s no matter; I was merely travelling for the sake of change,” said Forester, confusedly.

“I could not think of such a thing,” said Darcy. “If our way led together, and you would accept of me as a travelling companion, I should be but too happy; but to take the long-boat, and leave you on the desolate rock, is not to be thought of.” The Knight stopped; and although he made an effort to continue, the words faltered on his lips, and he was silent. At last, and with an exertion that brought a deep blush to his cheek, he said: “I am really ashamed, Captain Forester, to acknowledge a weakness which is as new to me as it is unmanly. The best amends I can make for feeling is to confess it. Since we met that same night, circumstances of fortune have considerably changed with me. I am not, as you then knew me, the owner of a good house and a good estate. Now, I really would wish to have been able to ask you to come and see me; but, in good truth, I cannot tell where or how I should lodge you if you said ‘yes.’ I believe my wife has a cabin on this northern shore, but, however it may accommodate us, I need not say I could not ask a friend to put up with it. There is my confession; and now that it is told, I am only ashamed that I should hesitate about it.”

Forester once more endeavored, in broken, disjointed phrases, to express his acknowledgment, and was in the very midst of a mass of contradictory explanations, hopes, and wishes, when Linwood entered with, “The carriage is ready, my Lord.”

The Knight heard the words with surprise, and as quickly remarked that the young man was dressed in deep mourning. “I have been unwittingly addressing you as Captain Forester,” said he, gravely; “I believe I should have said – ”

“Lord Wallincourt,” answered Forester, with a slight tremor in his voice; “the death of my brother – ” Here he hesitated, and at length was silent.

The Knight, who read in his nervous manner and sickly appearance the signs of broken health and spirits, resolved at once to sacrifice mere personal feeling in a cause of kindness, and said: “I see, my Lord, you are scarcely as strong as when I had the pleasure to meet you first, and I doubt not that you require a little repose and quietness. Come along with me then; and if even this cabin of ours be inhospitable enough not to afford you a room, we ‘ll find something near us on the coast, and I have no doubt we ‘ll set you on your legs again.”

“It is a favor I would have asked, if I dared,” said Forester, feebly. He then added: “Indeed, sir, I will confess it, my journey had no other object than to present myself to Lady Eleanor Darcy. Through the kindness of my relative, Lord Castlereagh, I was enabled to send her some tidings of yourself, of which my illness prevented my being the bearer, and I was desirous of adding my own testimony, so far as it could go.” Here again he faltered.

“Pray continue,” said the Knight, warmly; “I am never happier than when grateful, and I see that I have reason for the feeling here.”

“I perceive, sir, you do not recognize me,” said the young man, thoughtfully, while he fixed his deep, full eyes upon the Knight’s countenance.

Darcy stared at him in turn, and, passing his hand across his brow, looked again. “There is some mystification here,” said he, quickly, “but I cannot see through it.”

“Come, Colonel Darcy,” said Forester, with more animation than before. “I see that you forget me-, but perhaps you remember this.” So saying, he walked over to a table where a number of cloaks and travelling-gear were lying, and taking up a pistol, placed it in Darcy’s hand. “This you certainly recognize?”

“It is my own!” exclaimed the Knight; “the fellow of it is yonder. I had it with me the day we landed at Aboukir.”

“And gave it to me when a French dragoon had his sabre at my throat,” continued Forester.

“And is it to your gallantry that I owe my life, my brave boy?” cried the old man, as he threw his arm around him.

“Not one half so much as I owe my recovery to your kindness,” said Forester. “Remember the wounded Volunteer you came to see on the march. The surgeon you employed never left me till the very day I quitted the camp; although I have had a struggle for life twice since then, I never could have lived through the first attack but for his aid.”

“Is this all a dream,” said the Knight, as he leaned his head upon his band, “or are these events real? Then you were the officer whose exchange was managed, and of which I heard soon after the battle?”

“Yes, I was exchanged under a cartel, and sailed for England the day after. And you, sir, – tell me of your fate.”

“A slight wound and a somewhat tiresome imprisonment tells the whole story, – the latter a good deal enlivened by seeing that our troops were beating the French day after day, and the calculation that my durance could scarcely last till winter. I proved right, for last month came the capitulation, and here I am. But all these are topics for long evenings to chat over. Come with me; you can’t refuse me any longer. Lady Eleanor has the right to speak her gratitude to you; I see you won’t listen to mine.”

The Knight seized the young man’s arm, and led him along as he spoke. “Nay,” said he, “there is another reason for it. If you suffered me to go off alone, nothing would make me believe that what I have now heard was not some strange trick of fancy. Here, with you beside me, feeling your arm within my own, and hearing your voice, it is all that I can do to believe it. Come, let me be convinced again. Where did you join us?”

Forester now went over the whole story of his late adventures, omitting nothing from the moment he had joined the frigate at Portsmouth to the last evening, when as a prisoner, he had sent for Darcy to speak to him before he died. “I thought then,” said he, “I could scarcely have more than an hour or two to live; but when you came and stood beside me, I was not able to utter a word, I believe, at the time. It was rather a relief to me than otherwise that you did not know me.”

“How strange is this all!” said the Knight, musing. “You have told me a most singular story; only one point remains yet unelucidated. How came you to volunteer, – you were in the Guards?”

“Yes,” said Forester, blushing and faltering; “I had quitted the Guards, intending to leave the army, some short time previous; but – but – ”

“The thought of active service brought you back again. Out with it, and never be ashamed. I remember now having heard from an old friend of mine, Miss Daly, how you had left the service; and, to say truth, I was sorry for it, – sorry for your sake, but sorrier because it always grieves me when men of gentle blood are not to be found where hard knocks are going. None ever distinguish themselves with more honor, and it is a pity that they should lose the occasion to show the world that birth and blood inherit higher privileges than stars and titles.”

While the miles rolled over, they thus conversed; and as each became more intimately acquainted and more nearly interested in the other, they drew towards the journey’s end. It was late on the following night when they reached Port Ballintray; and as the darkness threatened more than once to mislead them, the postilion halted at the door of a little cabin to procure a light for his lamps.

While the travellers sat patiently awaiting the necessary preparation, a voice from within the cottage struck Darcy’s ear; he threw open the door as he heard it, and sprang out, and rushing forward, the moment afterwards pressed his wife and daughter in his arms.

Forester, who in a moment comprehended the discovery, hastened to withdraw from a scene where his presence could only prove a constraint, and leaving a message to say that he had gone to the little inn and would wait on the Knight next morning, he hurried from the spot, his heart bursting with many a conflicting emotion.

CHAPTER XXXIV. HOME

Perhaps in the course of a long and, till its very latter years, a most prosperous life, the Knight of Gwynne had never known more real unbroken happiness than now that he had laid his head beneath the lowly thatch of a fisherman’s cottage, and found a home beside the humble hearth where daily toil had used to repose. It was not that he either felt, or assumed to feel, indifferent to the great reverse of his fortune, and to the loss of that station to which all his habits of life and thought had been conformed. Nor had he the innate sense that his misfortunes had been incurred without the culpability of, at least, neglect on his own part. No; he neither deceived nor exonerated himself. His present happiness sprang from discovering in those far dearer to him than himself powers of patient submission, traits of affectionate forbearance, signs of a hopeful, trusting spirit, that their trials were not sent without an aim and object, – all gifts of heart and mind, higher, nobler, and better than the palmiest days of prosperity had brought forth.

It was that short and fleeting season, the late autumn, a time in which the climate of Northern Ireland makes a brief but brilliant amende for the long dreary months of the year. The sea, at last calm and tranquil, rolled its long waves upon the shore in measured sweep, waking the echoes in a thousand caves, and resounding with hollow voice beneath the very cliffs. The wild and fanciful outlines of the Skerry Islands were marked, sharp and distinct, against the dark blue sky, and reflected not less so in the unruffled water at their base. The White Rocks, as they are called, shone with a lustre like dulled silver; and above them the ruined towers of old Dunluce hung balanced over the sea, and even in decay seemed to defy dissolution.

The most striking feature of the picture was, however, the myriad of small boats, amounting in some instances to several hundreds, which filled the little bay at sunset. These were the fishermen from Innisshowen, coming to gather the seaweed on the western shore their eastern aspect denied them, – a hardy and a daring race, who braved the terrible storms of that fearful coast without a thought of fear. Here were they now, their little skiffs crowded with every sail they could carry, – for it was a trial of speed who should be first up after the turn of the ebb-tide, – their taper masts bending and springing like whips, the white water curling at the bows and rustling over the gunwales; while the fishermen themselves, with long harpoon spears, contested for the prizes, – large masses of floating weed, which not unfrequently were seized upon by three or four rival parties at the same moment.

A more animated scene cannot be conceived than the bay thus presented: the boats tacking and beating in every direction, crossing each other so closely as to threaten collision, – sometimes, indeed, carrying off a bowsprit or a rudder; while, from the restless motion of those on board, the frail skiffs were at each instant endangered, – accidents that occurred continually, but whose peril may be judged by the hearty cheers and roars of laughter they excited. Here might be seen a wide-spreading surface of tangled seaweed, vigorously towed in two different directions by contending crews, whose exertions to secure it were accompanied by the wildest shouts and cries. There a party were hauling in the prey, while their comrades, with spars and spears, kept the enemy aloof; and here, on the upturned keel of a capsized boat, were a dripping group, whose heaviest penalty was the ridicule of their fellows.

Seated in front of the little cottage, the Darcys and Forester watched this strange scene with all the interest its moving, stirring life could excite; and while the ladies could enjoy the varying picture only for itself, to the Knight and the youth it brought back the memory of a more brilliant and a grander display, one to which heroism and danger had lent the most exciting of all interests.

“I see,” said Darcy, as he watched his companion’s countenance, – “I see whither your thoughts are wandering. They are off to the old castle of Aboukir, and the tall cliffs at Marmorica.” Forester slightly nodded an assent, but never spoke, while the Knight resumed: “I told you it would never do to give up the service. The very glance of your eye at yonder picture tells me how the great original is before your miud. Come, a few weeks more of rest and quiet, you will be yourself again. Then must you present yourself before the gallant Duke, and ask for a restitution to your old grade. There will be sharp work erelong. Buonaparte is not the man to forgive Alexandria and Cairo. If I read you aright, you prefer such a career to all the ambition of a political life.”

Forester was still silent; but his changing color told that the Knight’s words had affected him deeply, but whether as they were intended, it was not so plain to see. The Knight went on: “I am not disposed to vain regrets; but if I were to give way to such, it would be that I am not young enough to enter upon the career I now see opening to our arms. Our insular position seems to have moulded our destiny in great part; but, rely on it, we are as much a nation of soldiers as of sailors.” Warming with this theme, Darcy continued, while sketching out the possible turn of events, to depict the noble path open to a young man who to natural talents and acquirements added the high advantages of fortune, rank, and family influence.

“I told you,” said he, smiling, “that I blamed you once unjustly, as it happened, because, as a Guardsman, you did not seize the occasion to exchange guard-mounting for the field; but now I shall be sorely grieved if you suffer yourself to be withdrawn from a path that has already opened so brightly, by any of the seductions of your station, or the fascinations of mere fashion.”

“Are you certain,” said Lady Eleanor, speaking in a voice shaken by agitation, – “are you certain, my dear, that these same counsels of yours would be in strict accordance with the wishes of Lord Wallincourt’s friends, or is it not possible that their ambitions may point very differently for his future?”

“I can but give the advice I would offer to Lionel,” said Darcy, “if my son were placed in similarly fortunate circumstances. A year or two, at least, of such training will be no bad discipline to a young man’s mind, and help to fit him to discuss those terms which, if I see aright, will be rife in our assemblies for some years to come – ” Darcy was about to continue, when Tate advanced with a letter, whose address bespoke Bicknell’s hand. It was a long-expected communication, and, anxious to peruse it carefully, the Knight arose, and making his excuses, re-entered the cottage.

The party sat for some time in silence. Lady Eleanor’s mind was in a state of unusual conflict, since, for the first time in her life, had she practised any concealment with her husband, having forborne to tell him of Forester’s former addresses to Helen. To this course she had been impelled by various reasons, the most pressing among which were the evident change in the young man’s demeanor since he last appeared amongst them, and, consequently, the possibility that he had outlived the passion he then professed; and secondly, by observing that nothing in Helen betrayed the slightest desire to encourage any renewal of those professions, or any chagrin at the change in his conduct. As a mother and as a woman, she hesitated to avow what should seem to represent her daughter as being deserted, while she argued that if Helen were as indifferent as she really seemed, there was no occasion whatever for the disclosure. Now, however, that the Knight had spoken his counsels so strongly, the thought occurred to her, that Forester might receive the advice in the light of a rejection of his former proposal, and suppose that these suggestions were only another mode of refusing his suit. Hence a struggle of doubt and uncertainty arose within her, whether she should at once make everything known to Darcy, or still keep silence, and leave events to their own development. The former course seemed the most fitting; and entirely forgetful of all else, she hastily arose, and followed her husband into the cabin.

Forester was now alone with Helen, and for the first time since that well-remembered night when he had offered his heart and been rejected. The game of dissimulating feelings is almost easiest before a numerous audience; it is rarely possible in a tête-à-tête. So Forester soon felt; and although he made several efforts to induce a conversation, they were all abrupt and disjointed, as were Helen’s own replies to them. At length came a pause; and what a thing is a pause at such a moment! The long lingering seconds in which a duellist watches his adversary’s pistol, wavering over the region of his heart or brain, is less torturing than such suspense. Forester arose twice, and again sat down, his face pale and flushed alternately. At length, with a thick and rapid utterance, he said, —

“I have been thinking over the Knight’s counsels, – dare I ask if they have Miss Darcy’s concurrence?”

“It would be a great, a very great presumption in me,” said Helen, tremulously, “to offer an opinion on such a theme. I have neither the knowledge to distinguish between the opposite careers, nor have I any feeling for those sentiments which men alone understand in warfare.”

“Nor, perhaps,” added Forester, with a sudden irony, “sufficient interest in the subject to give it a thought.”

Helen was silent; her slightly compressed lips and heightened color showed that she was offended at the speech, but she made no reply.

“I crave your pardon, Miss Darcy,” said he, in a low, submissive accent, that told how heartfelt it was. “I most humbly ask you to forgive my rudeness. The very fact that I had no claim to that interest should have protected you from such a speech. But see what comes of kindness to those who are little used to it; they get soon spoiled, and forget themselves.”

“Lord Wall incourt will have to guard himself well against flattery, if such humble attentions as ours disturb his judgment.”

“I will get out of the region of it,” said he, resolutely; “I will take the Knight’s advice. It is but a plunge, and all is over.”

“If I dare to say so, my Lord,” said Helen, archly, “this is scarcely the spirit in which my father hoped his counsels would be accepted. His chivalry on the score of a military life may be overstrained, but it has no touch of that recklessness your Lordship seems to lend it.”

“And why should not this be the spirit in which I join the army?” said he, passionately; “the career has not for me those fascinations which others feel. Danger I like, for its stimulus, as other men like it; but I would rather confront it when and where and how I please, than at the dictate of a colonel and by the ritual of a despatch.”

“Rather be a letter of marque, in fact, than a ship-of-the-line, – more credit to your Lordship’s love of danger than discipline.”

Forester smiled, but not without anger, at the quiet persiflage of her manner. It took him some seconds ere he could resume.