The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1

Sandy’s Northern blood revolted at these brutal excesses, and the savage menaces he heard on every side; but perhaps his susceptibilities were more outraged by one trail of popular injustice than all the rest, and that was to hear Hickman O’Reilly extolled by the mob for his patriotic rejection of bribery, while the Knight of Gwynne was held up to execration by every epithet of infamy; ribald jests and low ballads conveying the theme of attack upon his spotless character.

The street lyrics of the day were divided in interest between the late rebellion and the act of Union; the former being, however, the favorite theme, from a species of irony peculiar to this class of poetry, in which certain living characters were held up to derision or execration. The chief chorist appeared to be a fiend-like old woman, with one eye, and a voice like a cracked bassoon: she was dressed in a cast-off soldier’s coat and a man’s hat, and neither from face nor costume had few feminine traits. This fair personage, known by the name of Rhoudlum, was, on her appearing, closely followed by a mob of admiring amateurs, who seemed to form both her body-guard and her chorus. When Sandy found himself fast wedged up in this procession, the enthusiasm was at its height, in honor of an elegant new ballad called “The Two Majors.” The air, should our reader be musically given, was the well-known one, “There was a Miller had Three Sons:” —

     “Says Major Sirr to Major Swan,     You have two rebels, give me one;     They pay the same for one as two,     I ‘ll get five pounds, and I ‘ll share with you.     Toi! loi! loi! lay.”

“That’s the way the blackguards sowld yer blood, boys!” said the hag, in recitative; “pitch caps, the ridin’ house, and the gallows was iligant tratement for wearin’ the green.”

“Go on, Rhoudlum, go on wid the song,” chimed in her followers, who cared more for the original text than prose vulgate.

“Arn’t I goin’ on wid it?” said the hag, as fire flashed in her eye; “is it the likes of you is to tache me how to modulate a strain?” And she resumed: —

     “Says Major Swan to Major Sirr,     One man’s a woman! ye may take her.     ‘T is little we gets for them at all —     Oh! the curse of Cromwell be an ye all!     Toi! loi! loll lay.”

The grand Demosthenic abruptness of the last line was the signal for an applauding burst of voices, whose sincerity it would be unfair to question.

“Where are you pushin’ to! bad scran to ye! ye ugly varmint!” said the lady, as Sandy endeavored to force his passage through the crowd.

“Hurroo! by the mortial, it’s Daly’s man!” screamed she, in transport, as the accidental light of a window showed Sandy’s features.

Few, if any, of those around had ever seen him; but his name and his master’s were among the favored traditions of the place, and however unwilling to acknowledge the acquaintance, Sandy had no help for it but to exchange greetings and ask the way to “the Moon,” which he found he had forgotten.

“There it is fornint ye, Mr. M’Granes,” said the lady, in the most dulcet tones; “and if it’s thinking of trating me ye are, ‘t is a ‘crapper’ in a pint of porter I ‘d take; nothing stronger would sit on my heart now.”

“Ye shall hae it,” said Sandy; “but come into the house.”

“I darn’t do it, sir; the committee is sittin’ – don’t ye see, besides, the moon lookin’ at you?” And she pointed to a rude representation of a crescent moon, formed by a kind of transparency in the middle of a large window, a signal which Sandy well knew portended that the council were assembled within.

“Wha’s the man, noo?” said Sandy, with one foot on the threshold.

“The ould stock still, darlint,” said Rhoudlum, – “don’t ye know his voice?”

“That’s Paul Donellan, – I ken him noo.”

“Be my conscience! there’s no mistake. Ye can hear his screech from the Poddle to the Pigeon House when the wind’s fair.”

Sandy put a shilling into the hag’s hand, and, without waiting for further parley, entered the little dark hall, and turning a corner he well remembered, pressed a button and opened the door into the room where the party were assembled.

“Who the blazes are you? What brings you here?” burst from a score of rude voices together, while every hand grasped some projectile to hurl at the devoted intruder.

“Ask Paul Donellan who I am, and he’ll tell ye,” said Sandy, sternly, while, with a bold contempt for the hostile demonstrations, he walked straight up to the head of the room.

The recognition on which he reckoned so confidently was not forthcoming, for the old decrepit creature who, cowering beneath the wig of some defunct chancellor, presided, stared at him with eyes bleared with age and intemperance, but seemed unable to detect him as an acquaintance.

“Holy Paul does n’t know him!” said half-a-dozen together, as, in passionate indignation, they arose to resent the intrusion.

“He may remember this better,” said Sandy, as, seizing a full bumper of whiskey from the board, he threw it into the lamp beneath the transparency, and in a moment the moon flashed forth, and displayed its face at the full. The spell was magical, and a burst of savage welcome broke from every mouth, while Donellan, as if recalled to consciousness, put his hand trumpet-fashion to his lips, and gave a shout that made the very glasses ring upon the board. Place was now made for Sandy at the table, and a wooden vessel called “a noggin” set before him, whose contents he speedily tested by a long draught.

“I may as weel tell you,” said Sandy, “that I am Bagenal Daly’s man. I mind the time it wad na hae been needful to say so much, – my master’s picture used to hang upon that wall.”

Had Sandy proclaimed himself the Prince of Wales the announcement could not have met with more honor, and many a coarse and rugged grasp of the hand attested the pleasure his presence there afforded.

“We have the picture still,” said a young fellow, whose frank, good-humored face contrasted strongly with many of those around him; “but that old divil, Paul, always told us it was a likeness of himself when he was young.”

“Confound the scoundrel!” said Sandy, indignantly; “he was no mair like my maister than a Dutch skipper is like a chief of the Delawares. Has the creature lost his senses a’togither?”

“By no manner of manes. He wakes up every now and then wid a speech, or a bit of poethry, or a sentiment.”

“Ay,” said another, “or if a couple came in to be married, see how the old chap’s eyes would brighten, and how he would turn the other side of his wig round before you could say ‘Jack Robinson.’”

This was literally correct, and was the simple manouvre by which Holy Paul converted himself into a clerical character, the back of his wig being cut in horse-shoe fashion, in rude imitation of that worn by several of the bishops.

“Watch him now – watch him now!” said one in Sandy’s ears; and the old fellow passed his hand across his eyes as if to dispel some painful thought, while his careworn features were lit up with a momentary flash of sardonic drollery.

“Your health, sir,” said he to Sandy; “or, as Terence has it, ‘Hic tibi, Dave’ – here ‘s to you, Davy.”

“A toast, Paul! a toast! Something agin the Union, – something agin old Darcy.”

“Fill up, gentlemen,” said Paul, in a clear and distinct voice. “I beg to propose a sentiment which you will drink with a bumper. Are you ready?”

“Ready!” screamed all together.

“Here, then, – repeat after me: —

     “Whether he’s out, or whether he’s in,     It does n’t signify one pin;     Here’s every curse of every sin     On Maurice Darcy, Knight of Gwynne.”

“Hold!” shouted Sandy, as he drew a double-barrelled pistol from his bosom. “By the saul o’ my body the man that drinks that toast shall hae mair in his waim than hot water and whiskey. Maurice Darcy is my maister’s friend, and a better gentleman never stepped in leather: who dar say no?”

“Are we to drink it, Paul?”

“As I live by drink,” cried Paul, stretching out both hands, “this is my alter ego, my duplicate self, Sanders M’Grane’s, ‘revisiting the glimpses of the moon,’ post totidem annos!” And a cordial embrace now followed, which at once dispelled the threatened storm.

“Mr. M’Grane’s health in three times three, gentlemen;” and, rising, Paul gave the signal for each cheer as he alone could give it.

Sandy had now time to throw a glance around the table, where, however, not one familiar face met his own; that they were of the same calling and order as his quondam associates in the same place he could have little doubt, even had that fact not been proclaimed by the names of various popular journals affixed to their hats, and by whose titles they were themselves addressed. The conversation, too, had the same sprinkling of politics, town gossip, and late calamities he well remembered of yore, interspersed with lively commentaries on public men which, if printed, would have been suggestive of libel.

The new guest soon made himself free of the guild by a proposal to treat the company, on the condition that he might be permitted to have five minutes’ conversation with their president in an adjoining room. He might have asked much more in requital for his liberality, and without a moment’s delay, or even apprising Paul of what was intended, the “Dublin Journal” and the “Free Press” took him boldly between them and carried him into a closet off the room where the carouse was held.

“I know what you are at,” said Paul, as soon as the door closed. “Daly wants a rising of the Liberty boys for the next debate, – don’t deny it, it’s no use. Well, now, listen, and don’t interrupt me. Tom Conolly came down from the Castle yesterday and offered me five pounds for a good mob to rack a house, and two-ten if they’d draw Lord Clare home; but I refused, – I did, on the virtue of my oath. There’s patriotism for ye! – yer soul, where ‘s the man wid only one shirt and a supplement to his back would do the same?”

“You ‘re wrang, – we dinna want them devils at a’; it ‘s a sma’ matter of inquiry I cam about. Ye ken Freney?”

“Is it the Captain? Whew!” said Paul, with a long whistle.

“It’s no him,” resumed Sandy, “but a wee bit of a callant they ca’ Jamie.”

“Jemmy the diver, – the divil’s own grandson, that he is.”

“Where can I find him?” said Sandy, impatiently.

“Wait a bit, and you’ll be sure to see him at home in his lodgings in Newgate.”

“I must find him out at once; put me on his track, and I ‘ll gie a goold guinea in yer hand, mon. I mean the young rascal no harm; it’s a question I want him to answer me, that’s all.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to find him for you, but I must send down to the country. I’ll have to get a man to go beyond Kilcullen.”

“We ‘ll pay any expense.”

“Sure I know that.” And here Paul began a calculation to himself of distances and charges only audible to Sandy’s ears at intervals: “Two and four, and six, with a glass of punch at Naas – half an hour at Tims’ – the coach at Athy – ay, that will do it. Have ye the likes of a pair of ould boots or shoes? I ‘ve nothing but them, and the soles is made out of two pamphlets of Roger Connor’s, and them’s the driest things I could get.”

“I’ll gie ye a new pair.”

“You ‘re the son of Fingal of the Hills, divil a less. And now if ye had a cast-off waistcoat – I don’t care for the color – orange or green, blue or yellow, Tros Tyriusve mihiy as we said in Trinity.”

“Ye shall hae a coat to cover your old bones. But let us hae nae mair o’ this – when may I expect to see the boy?”

“The evening after next, at eight o’clock, at the corner of Essex Bridge, Capel Street – ‘on the Rialto’ – eh? that’s the cue. And now let us join the revellers —per Jove, but I’m dry.” And so saying, the miserable old creature broke from Sandy, and, assisted by the wall, tottered back to the room to his drunken companions, where his voice was soon heard high above the discord and din around him.

And yet this man, so debased and degraded, had been once a scholar of the University, and carried off its prizes from men whose names stood high among the great and valued of the land.

CHAPTER XXV. BAGENAL DALY’S COUNSELS

Every hour seemed to complicate the Knight of Gwynne’s difficulties, and to increase that intricacy by which he already was so much embarrassed. The forms of law, never grateful to him, became now perfectly odious, obscuring instead of explaining the questions on which he desired information. He hated, besides, the small and narrow expedients so constantly suggested in cases where his own sense of right convinced him of the justice of his cause, nor could he listen with common patience to the detail of all those legal subtleties by which an adverse claim might be, if not resisted, at least protracted indefinitely.

His presence, far from affording any assistance, was, therefore, only an embarrassment both to Daly and the lawyer, and they heard with unmixed satisfaction of his determination to hasten down to the West, and communicate more freely with his family, for as yet his letter to Lady Eleanor, far from disclosing the impending ruin, merely mentioned Gleeson’s flight as a disastrous event in the life of a man esteemed and respected, and adverting but slightly to his own difficulties in consequence.

“We must leave the abbey, Bagenal, I foresee that,” said Darcy, as he took his friend aside a few minutes before starting.

Daly made no reply, for already his own convictions pointed the same way.

“I could not live there with crippled means and broken fortune; ‘twould kill me in a month, by Jove, to see the poor fellows wandering about idle and unemployed, the stables nailed up, the avenue grass-grown, and not hear the cry of a hound when I crossed the courtyard. But what is to be done? Humbled as I am, I cannot think of letting it to some Hickman O’Reilly or other, some vulgar upstart, feasting his low companions in those old halls, or plotting our utter ruin at our own hearthstone; could we not make some other arrangement?”

“I have thought of one,” said Daly, calmly; “my only fear is how to ask Lady Eleanor’s concurrence to a plan which must necessarily press most heavily on her.”

“What is it?” said Darcy, hastily.

“Of course, your inclination would be, for a time at least, perfect seclusion.”

“That, above all and everything.”

“Well, then, what say you to taking up your abode in a little cottage of mine on the Antrim coast? It is a wild and lonely spot, it’s true, but you may live there without attracting notice or observation. I see you are surprised at my having such a possession. I believe I never told you, Darcy, that I bought Sandy’s cabin from him the day he entered my service, and fitted it up, and intended it as an asylum for the poor fellow if he should grow weary of my fortunes, or happily survive me. By degrees, I have added a room here and a closet there, till it has grown into a dwelling that any one, as fond of salmon-fishing as you and I were, would not despise; come, will you have it?” Darcy grasped his friend’s hand without speaking, and Daly went on: “That’s right; I’ll give orders to have everything in readiness at once; I’ll go down, too, and induct you. Ay, Darcy, and if the fellows could take a peep at us over our lobster and a glass of Isla whiskey, they ‘d stare to think those two jovial old fellows, so merry and contented, started, the day they came of age, with the two best estates in Ireland.”

“If I had not brought ruin on others, Bagenal – ”

“No more of that, Darcy; the most scandal-loving gossip of the Club will never impute, for he dare not, more than carelessness to your conduct, and I promise you, if you ‘ll only fall back on a good conscience, you ‘ll not be unhappy under the thatched roof of my poor shieling. My sincerest regards to Lady Eleanor and Helen. I see there is a crowd collecting at the sight of the four posters, so don’t delay.”

Darcy could do no more than squeeze the cordial hand that held his own, and, passing hastily out, he stepped into the travelling-carriage at the door, not unobserved, indeed, for about a hundred ragged creatures had now assembled, who saluted his appearance with groans and hisses, accompanied with ruffianly taunts about bribery and corruption; while one, more daring than the rest, mounted on the step, and with his face to the window, cried out: “My Lord, my Lord, won’t you give us a trifle to drown your new coronet?”

The words were scarcely out, when, seizing him by the neck with one hand, and taking a leg in the other, Daly hurled the fellow into the middle of the mob, who, such is their consistency, laughed loud and heartily at the fellow’s misfortunes; meanwhile, the postilions plied whip and spur, and ere the laughter had subsided, the carriage was out of sight.

“There is a gentleman in the drawing-room wishes to speak to you, sir,” said a servant to Daly, who had just sat down to a conference with the lawyer.

“Present my respectful compliments, and say that I am engaged on most important and pressing business.”

“Had you not better ask his name?” said the lawyer.

“No, no, there is nothing but interruptions here; at one moment it is Heffernan, with a polite message from Lord Castlereagh; then some one from the Club, to know if I have any objection to waive a standing order, and have that young O’Reilly balloted for once more; and here was George Falkner himself a while ago, asking if the Knight had really taken office, with a seat in the Cabinet. I said it was perfectly correct, and that he was at liberty to state it in his paper.”

“You did!”

“Yes; and that he might add that I myself had refused the see of Llandaff, preferring the command of the West India Squadron. But, what’s this? What do you want now, Richard?”

“The gentleman upstairs, sir, insists on my presenting his card.”

“Oh, indeed! – Captain Forester! – I ‘ll see him at once.” And, so saying, Daly hastened upstairs to the drawing-room, where the young officer awaited him.

Daly was not in a mood to scrutinize very closely the appearance of his visitor, but he could not fail to feel struck at the alteration in his looks since last they met; his features were paler and marked by sorrow, so much so that Daly’s first question was, “Have you been ill?” and as Forester answered in the negative, the old man fixed his eyes steadily on him, and said, “You have heard of our misfortune, then?”

“Misfortune! no. What do you mean?”

Daly hesitated, uncertain how to reply, whether to leave to time and some other channel to announce the Knight’s ruin, or at once communicate it with his own lips.

“Yes, it is the better way,” said he, half aloud, while, taking Forester’s hand, he led him over to a sofa, and pressed him down beside him. “I seldom have made an error in guessing a man’s character, throughout a long and somewhat remarkable life. I think I am safe in saying that you feel a warm interest in my friend Darcy’s family?”

“You do me but justice; gratitude alone, if I had no stronger motive, secures them every good wish of mine.”

“But you have stronger motives, young man,” said Daly, looking at him with a piercing glance; “if you had not, I ‘d think but meanly of you, nor did I want that blush to tell me so.”

Forester looked down in confusion. The abruptness of the address so completely unmanned him that he could make no answer. While Daly went on: “I force no confidences, young man, nor have I any right to ask them; enough for my present purpose that I know you care deeply for this family; now, sir, but a week back the ambition to be allied with them had satisfied the proudest wish of the proudest house – to-day they are ruined.”

Overwhelmed with surprise and sorrow, Forester sat silently, while Daly rapidly, but circumstantially, narrated the story of the Knight’s calamity, and the total wreck of his once princely fortune.

“Yes,” said Daly, as with flashing eyes he arose and uttered aloud, – “yes, the broad acres won by many a valiant deed, the lands which his ancestors watered with their blood, lost forever; not by great crimes, not forfeited by any bold but luckless venture, for there is something glorious in that, – but stolen, filched away by theft. By Heaven! our laws and liberties do but hedge round crime with so many defences that honesty has nothing left but to stand shivering outside. Better were the days when the strong hand avenged the deep wrong, or, if the courage were weak, there was the Throne to appeal to against oppression. Forester, I see how this news afflicts you; I judged you too well to think that your own dashed hopes entered into your sorrow. No, no, I know you better. But come, we have other duties than to mourn over the past. Has Lord Castlereagh received Darcy’s note, resigning his seat in Parliament?”

“He has; a new writ is preparing for Mayo.” “Sharp practice; I think I can detect the fair round hand of Mr. Heffernan there, – no matter, a few days more and the world will know all; ay, the world, so full of honorable sentiments and noble aspirations, will smile and jest on Darcy’s ruin, that they may with better grace taunt the vulgar assumption of Hickman O’Reilly. I know it well, – some would say I bought the knowledge dearly. When I set out in life, my fortune was nearly equal to the Knight’s, my ideas of living and expenditure based on the same views as his own, – that same barbaric taste for profusion which has been transmitted to us from father to son. Ay, we retained everything of feudalism save its chivalry! Well, I never knew a day nor an hour of independence till the last acre of that great estate was sold, and gone from me forever. Fawning flattery, intrigue, and trickery beset me wherever I went; ruined gamblers, match-making mothers, bankrupt speculators, plotting political adventurers, dogged me at every step; nor could I break through the trammels by which they fettered me, except at the price of my ruin; when there was no longer a stake to play for, they left the table. Poor Darcy, however, is not a lonely stem, like me, riven and lightning-struck; he has a wife and children; but for that, I would not fear to grasp his stout hand and say, ‘Come on to fortune.’ Poor Maurice, whose heart could never stand the slightest wrong done the humblest cottier on his land, how will he bear up now? Forester, you can do me a great service. Could you obtain leave for a day or two?”

“Command me how and in what way you please,” said the youth, eagerly.

“I understand that proffer, and accept it as freely as it is given.”

“Nay, you are mistaken,” said Forester, faltering. “I will be candid with you; you have a right to all my confidence, for you have trusted in me. Your suspicions are only correct in part; my affection is indeed engaged, but I have received none in return: Miss Darcy has rejected me.”

“But not without hope?”

“Without the slightest hope.”

“By Heaven, it is the only gleam of light in all the gloomy business,” said Daly, energetically; “had Helen’s love been yours, this calamity had been ten thousand times worse. Nay, nay, this is not the sentiment of cold and selfish old age; you wrong me, Forester, but the hour is come when every feeling within that noble girl’s heart is due to those who have loved and cherished her from childhood. Now is the time to repay the watchful care of infancy, and recompense the anxious fears that spring from parental affection; not a sentiment, not a thought, should be turned from that channel now. It would be treason to win one smile, one passing look of kind meaning from those eyes, every beam of which is claimed by ‘Home.’ Helen is equal to her destiny, – that I know well; and you, if you would strive to be worthy of her, do not endeavor to make her falter in her duty. Trust me, there is but one road to a heart like hers, – the path of high and honorable ambition.”

“You are right,” said Forester, in a sad and humble voice, – “you are right; I offered her a heart before it was worthy of her acceptance.”

“That avowal is the first step towards rendering it such one day,” said Daly, grasping his hand in both his own. “Now to my request: you can obtain this leave, can you?”

“Yes, yes; how can I make it of any service to you?”

“Simply thus: I have offered, and Darcy has accepted, a humble cottage on the northern coast, as a present asylum for the family. The remote and secluded nature of the place will at least withdraw them from the impertinence of curiosity, or the greater impertinence of vulgar sympathy. A maiden sister of mine is the present occupant, and I wish to communicate the intelligence to her, that she may make any preparations which may be necessary for their coming, and also provide herself with some other shelter. Maria is as great a Bedouin as myself, and with as strong a taste for vagabondage; she ‘ll have no difficulty in housing herself, that’s certain. The only puzzle is how to apprise her of the intended change: there is not a post-office within eight or ten miles of the place, nor, if there were, would she think of sending to look for a letter; there ‘s nothing for it but a special envoy: will you be the man?”