The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1

“How often have I told you,” said Miss Daly, sternly, “that I ‘ll not suffer these petty, miserable squabbles to reach me? Go back to the kitchen; and, mark me, if I hear a whisper, or muttering ever so low in your voice, I ‘ll put you to spend the night upon the rocks.”

Dan skulked from the room like a culprit remanded to jail; but no sooner had he reached the kitchen than, assuming a martial air and bearing, he strutted up to the fire and turned his back to it.

“Ay,” said he, in a stage soliloquy, “it was what it must come to sooner or later; and now she may go on her knees, and divil a foot I ‘ll stay! It’s not like the last time, sorra bit! I know what she ‘s at – ’ ‘T is my way, Danny, you must have a pound at Avster ‘ – bother! I ‘m used to that now.”

“There’s the bell again, ye auld blethering deevil.”

But Mrs. M’Kerrigan ran no risk of a reply now, for at the first tinkle Dan was back in the hall.

“There is some one knocking at the wicket without; see who it may be at this late hour of the night,” said Miss Daly, without raising her head from the book, for, strange as were such sounds in that solitary place, her attention was too deeply fixed on the page before her to admit of even a momentary distraction of thought. Dan left the room with becoming alacrity, but in reality bent on anything rather than the performance of his errand. Of all the traits of his southern origin, none had the same predominance in his nature as a superstitious fear of spirits and goblins, – a circumstance not likely to be mitigated by his present lonely abode, independently of the fact that more than one popular belief attributed certain unearthly sights and sounds to the old timbers of “the Corvy,” whose wreck was associated with tales of horror sufficient to shake stouter nerves than “Danny’s.”

When he received this order from his mistress, he heard it pretty much as a command to lead a forlorn hope, and sat himself down at the outside of the door to consider what course to take. While he was thus meditating, the sounds became plainly audible, a loud and distinct knocking was heard high above the whistling wind and drifting rain, accompanied from time to time by a kind of shout, or, as it seemed to Dan’s ears, a scream like the cry of a drowning man.

“Dinna ye hear that, ye auld daft body?” said Nancy, as, pale with fear, and trembling in every limb, Dan entered the kitchen.

“I do indeed, Mrs. Mac,” – this was the peace appellation he always conferred on Nancy, – “I hear it, and my heart ‘s beatin’ for every stroke I listen to; ‘t is n’t afeard I am, but a kind of a notion I have, like a dhrame, you know “ – (here he gave a sort of hysterical giggle) – “as if the ould French Captain was coming to look after his hand, that was chopped off with the hatchet when he grasped hold of the rock.”

“He canna hae muckle use for it noo,” responded Nancy, dryly, as she smoked away as unconcerned as possible.

“Or the mate!” said Dan, giving full vent to his store of horrors; “they say, when he got hold of the rope, that they gave it out so fast as he hauled on it, till he grew faint, and sank under the waves.”

“He’s no likely to want a piece of spunyarn at this time o’ day,” rejoined Nancy again. “He’s knocking brawly, whoever he be; had ye no better do the leddy’s bidding, and see who ‘s there?”

“Would it be plazing to you, Mrs. Mac,” said Dan, in his most melting accents, “to come as far as the little grass-plot, just out of curiosity, ye know, to say ye seen it?”

“Na, na, my bra’ wee mon, ye maun ee’n gae by your-sel’; I dinna ken mickle about sperits and ghaists, but I hae a gude knowledge of the rheumatiz without seekin’ it on a night like this. There’s the leddy’s bell again, she ‘s no pleased wi’ yer delay.”

“Say I was puttin’ on my shoes, Nancy,” said Dan, as his teeth chattered with fear, while he took down an old blunderbuss from its place above the fire, and which had never been stirred for years past.

“Lay her back agen where ye found her,” said Nancy, dryly; “is na every fule kens the like o’ them! Take your mass-book, and the gimcracks ye hae ower your bed, but dinna try mortal weapons with them creatures.”

Ironical as the tone of this counsel unquestionably was, Dan was in no mood to reject it altogether, and he slipped from its place within his breast to a more ostensible position a small blessed token, or “gospel,” as it is called, which he always wore round his neck. By this time the clank of the bell kept pace with the knocking sounds without, and poor Dan was fairly at his wits’ end which enemy to face. Some vague philosophy about the “devil you know, and the devil you don’t,” seemed to decide his course, for he rushed from the kitchen in a state of frenzied desperation, and, with the blunderbuss at full cock, took the way towards the gate.

The wicket, as it was termed, was in reality a strong oak gate, garnished at top with a row of very formidable iron spikes, and as it was hung between two jagged and abrupt masses of rock, formed a very sufficient outwork, though a very needless one, since the slightest turn to either side would have led to the cottage without any intervening barrier to pass. This fact it was which now increased Dan Nelligan’s terrors, as he reasoned that nobody but a ghost or evil spirit would be bothering himself at the wicket, when there was a neat footpath close by.

“Who’s there?” cried Dan, with a voice that all his efforts could not render steady.

“Come out and open the gate,” shouted a deep voice in return.

“Not till you tell me where you come from, and who you are, if you are ‘lucky.’”

“That I ‘m not,” cried the other, with something very like a deep groan; “if I were, I ‘d scarce be here now.”

“That’s honest? anyhow,” muttered Dan, who interpreted the phrase in its popular acceptation among the southern peasantry. “And what are you come back for, alanah?” continued he, in a most conciliating tone.

“Open the gate, and don’t keep me here answering your stupid questions.”

Though these words were uttered with a round, strong intonation that sounded very like the present world, Dan made no other reply than an endeavor to repeat a Latin prayer against evil spirits, when suddenly, and with a loud malediction on his obstinacy, Dan saw “the thing,” as he afterwards described it, take a flying leap over the gate, at least ten feet high, and come with a bang on the grass, not far from where he stood. To fire off his blunderbuss straight at the drifting clouds over his head, and to take to flight was Dan’s only impulse, screaming out, “the Captain ‘s come! he’s come!” at the very top of his lungs. The little strength he possessed only carried him to the kitchen door, where, completely overcome with terror, he dropped senseless on the ground.

While this was occurring, Miss Daly, alarmed by the report of fire-arms, but without any personal fears of danger, threw open the hall door and called out, “Who is there?” and as the dark shadow of a figure came nearer, “Who are you, sir?”

“My name is Forester, madam, – a friend of your brother’s; for I perceive I have the honor to address Miss Daly.”

By this time the stranger had advanced into the full light of the lamp within, where his appearance, tired and travel-stained as he was, corroborated his words.

“You have had a very uncourteous welcome, sir,” said Miss Daly, extending her hand and leading him within the cottage.

“The reception was near being a warm one, I fear,” said Forester, smiling; “for as I unfortunately, growing rather impatient, threw my carpet bag over the gate, intending to climb it afterwards, some one fired at me, – not with a good aim, however; for I heard the slugs rattling on a high cliff behind me.”

“Old Dan, I am certain, mistook you for a ghost or a goblin,” said Miss Daly, laughing, as if the affair were an excellent joke devoid of all hazard; “we have few visitors down here from either world.”

“Really, madam, I will confess it, if the roads are only as impassable for ghosts as for men of mortal mould, I ‘m not surprised at it. I left Coleraine at three o’clock to-day, where I was obliged to exchange my travelling carriage for a car, and I have been travelling ever since, sometimes on what seemed a highway, far oftener, however, across fields with now and then an intervening wall to throw down, – which we did, I own, unceremoniously; while lifting the horse twice out of deep holes, mending a shaft, and splicing the traces, lost some time. The driver, too, was once missing, – a fact I only discovered after leaving him half a mile behind. In fact, the whole journey was full of small adventures up to the moment when we came to a dead stand at the foot of a high cliff, where the driver told me the road stopped, and that the rest of my way must be accomplished on foot; and on my asking what direction to take, he brought me some distance off to the top of a rock, whence I could perceive the twinkling of a light, and said, ‘That’s the Corvy.’ I did my best to secure his services as a guide, but no offer of money nor persuasions could induce him to leave his horse and come any further; and now, perhaps, I can guess the reason, – there is some superstition about the place at nightfall.”

“No, no, you ‘re mistaken there, sir; few of these people, however they may credit such tales, are terrified by them. It was the northern spirit dictated the refusal: his contract was to go so far, it would have ‘put him out of his way’ to go further, and his calculation was that all the profit he could fairly derive – and he never speculated on anything unfair – would not repay him. Such are the people of this province.”

“The trait is honest, I ‘ve no doubt, but it can scarcely be the source of many amiable ones,” said Forester, smarting under the recent inconvenience.

“We ‘ll talk of that after supper,” said Miss Daly, rising, “and I leave you to make a good fire while I go to give some orders.”

“May I not have the honor to present my credentials first?” said Forester, handing Bagenal Daly’s letter to her.

“My brother is quite well, is he not?”

“In excellent health; I left him but two days since.”

“The despatch will keep, then,” said she, thrusting it into a letter-rack over the chimney-piece, while she left the room to make the arrangement she spoke of.

Miss Daly’s absence was not of long duration, but, brief as it was, it afforded Forester time enough to look around at the many strange and incongruous decorations of the apartment, nor had he ceased his wonderment when Dan, pale and trembling in every limb, entered, tray in hand, to lay the supper-table.

With many a sidelong, stealthy look, Dan performed his duties, as it was easy to see that however disposed to regard the individual before him as of this world’s company, “the thing that jumped out of the sky,” as he called it, was yet an unexplained phenomenon.

“I see you are surprised by the motley companionship that surrounds me,” said Miss Daly; “but, as a friend of Bagenal’s, and acquainted, doubtless, with his eccentric habits, they will astonish you less. Come, let me hear about him, – is he going to pay me a visit down here?”

“I fear not, at this moment,” said Forester, with an accent of melancholy; “his friendship is heavily taxed at the present juncture. You have heard, perhaps, of the unhappy event which has spread such dismay in Dublin?”

“No! what is it? I hear of nothing, and see nobody here.”

“A certain Mr. Gleeson, the trusted agent of many country gentlemen, has suddenly fled – ”

Before Forester could continue, Miss Daly arose, and tore open her brother’s letter. For a few seconds Forester was struck with the wonderful resemblance to her brother, as, with indrawn breath and compressed lips, she read; but gradually her color faded away, her hands trembled, and the paper fell from them, while, with a voice scarcely audible, she whispered: “And it has come to this!” Covering her face with the folds of her cloak, she sat for some minutes buried in deep sorrow; and when she again looked up, years seemed to have passed over, and left their trace upon her countenance: it was pale and haggard, and a braid of gray hair, escaping beneath her cap, had fallen across her cheek, and increased the sad expression.

“So is it,” said she, aloud, but speaking as though to herself, – “so is it: the heavy hand is laid on all in turn; happier they who meet misfortune early in life, when the courage is high and the heart unshrinking: if the struggle be life-long, the victory is certain; but after years of all the world can give of enjoyment – You know Maurice? – you know the Knight, sir?”

“Yes, madam, slightly; but with Lady Eleanor and her daughter I have the honor of intimate acquaintance.”

“I will not ask how he bears up against a blow like this. If his own fate only hung in the balance, I could tell that myself; but for his wife, to whom they say he is so devotedly attached – you know it was a love-match, so they called it in England, because the daughter of an Earl married the first Commoner in Ireland. And Bagenal advises their coming here! Well, perhaps he is right; they will at least escape the insolence of pity in this lonely spot. Oh! sir, believe me, there is a weighty load of responsibility on those who rule us; these things are less the faults of individuals than of a system. You began here by confiscation, you would finish by corruption. Stimulating to excesses of every kind a people ten times more excitable than your own, – now flattering, now goading, – teaching them to vie with you in display while you mocked the recklessness of their living, you chafed them into excesses of alternate loyalty or rebellion.”

However satisfied of its injustice, Forester made no reply to this burst of passion, but sat without speaking as she resumed: —

“You will say there are knaves in every country, and that this Gleeson was of our rearing; but I deny it, sir. I tell you he was a base counterfeit we have borrowed from yourselves. That meek, submissive manner, that patient drudgery of office, that painstaking, petty rectitude, make up ‘your respectable men;’ and in this garb of character the business of life goes on with you. And why? Because you take it at its worth. But here, in Ireland, we go faster; trust means full confidence, – confidence without limit or bound; and then, too often, ruin without redemption. Forgive me, sir; age and sorrow both have privileges, and I perhaps have more cause than most others to speak warmly on this theme. Now, let me escape my egotism by asking you to eat, for I see we have forgotten our supper all this time.”

From that moment Miss Daly never adverted further to the burden of her brother’s letter, but led Forester to converse about his journey and the people whom, even in his brief experience, he perceived to be so unlike the peasantry of the West.

“Yes,” said she, in reply to an observation of his, “these diversities of character observable in different places are doubtless intended, like the interminable varieties of natural productions, to increase our interest in life, and, while extending the sphere of speculation, to contribute to our own advancement. Few people, perhaps not any, are to be found without some traits of amiability; here there is much to be respected, and, when habit has dulled the susceptibility of first impressions, much also to be liked. But shall I not have the pleasure of showing you my neighbors and my neighborhood?”

“My visit must be of the shortest; I rather took than obtained my leave of absence.”

“Well, even a brief visit will do something; for my neighbors all dwell in cottages, and my neighborhood comprises the narrow strip of coast between this hut and the sea, whose plash you hear this minute. To-morrow you will be rested from your journey, and if the day permits we ‘ll try the Causeway.”

Forester accepted the invitation so frankly proffered, and went to his room not sorry to lay his head upon a pillow after two weary nights upon the road.

Forester was almost shocked as he entered the breakfast-room on the following morning to see the alteration in Miss Daly’s appearance. She had evidently passed a night of great sorrow, and seemed with difficulty to bear up against the calamitous tidings of which he was the bearer. She endeavored, it is true, to converse on matters of indifference, – the road he had travelled, the objects he had seen, and so on; but the effort was ever interrupted by broken snatches of reflection that would vent themselves in words, and all of which bore on the Knight and his fortunes.

To Forester’s account of her brother Bagenal’s devotion to his friend she listened with eager interest, asking again and again what part he had taken, whether his counsels were deemed wise ones, and if he still enjoyed to the fullest extent the confidence of his old friend.

“It is no friendship of yesterday, sir,” said she, with a heightened color and a flashing eye; “they knew each other as boys, they walked the mountains together as young men, speculated on the future paths fate might open before them, and the various ambitions which, even then, stirred within them. Bagenal was ever rash, headstrong, and impetuous, rarely firm in purpose till some obstacle seemed to defy its accomplishment. Maurice – the Knight, I mean – was not less resolute when roused, but more often so much disposed to concede to others that he would postpone his wishes to their own; and once believing himself in any way pledged to a course, would forget all, save the fulfilment of the implied promise. Such were the two dispositions, which, acting and reacting on each other, effected the ruin of both: the one wasted in eccentricity what the other squandered in listless indifference; and with abilities enough to have won distinction for humble men, they have earned no other reputation than that of singularity or convivialism.

“As for Bagenal,” she said, after a pause, “wealth was never but an incumbrance to him; he was one of those persons who never saw any use for money, save in the indulgence of mere caprice; he treated his great fortune as a spoiled child will do a toy, and never rested till he had pulled it to pieces, and perhaps derived the same moral lesson too, – astonishment at the mere trifle which once amused him. But Maurice Darcy, – whose tastes were ever costly and cultivated, who regarded splendor not as the means of vulgar display, but as the fitting accompaniment of a house illustrious by descent and deeds, and deemed that all about and around him should bear the impress of himself, generous and liberal as he was, – how is he to bear this reverse? Tell me of Lady Eleanor; and Miss Darcy, is she like the Knight, or has her English blood given the character to her beauty?”

“She is very like her father,” said Forester, “but more so even in disposition than in features.”

“How happy I am to hear it,” said Miss Daly, hastily; “and she is, then, high-spirited and buoyant? What gifts in an hour like this!”

“You say truly, madam, she will not sink beneath the stroke, believe me.”

“Well, this news has reconciled me to much of your gloomier tidings,” said Miss Daly; “and now let us wander out upon the hills; I feel as if we could talk more freely as we stroll along the beach.”

Miss Daly arose as she spoke, and led the way through the little garden wicket, which opened on a steep pathway down to the shore.

“This will be a favorite walk with Helen, I’m certain,” said she. “The caves are all accessible at low water, and the view of Fairhead finer than from any other point. I must instruct you to be a good and a safe guide. I must teach you all the art and mystery of the science, make you learned in the chronicles of Dunluce, and rake up for you legends of ghostcraft and shipwreck enough to make the fortunes of a romancer.”

“I thank you heartily,” said Forester; “but I cannot remain here to meet my friends.”

“Oh, I understand you,” said Miss Daly, who in reality put a wrong interpretation on his words; “but you shall be my guest. There is a little village about four miles from this, where I intend to take up my abode. I hope you will not decline hospitality which, if humble, is at least freely proffered.”

“I regret deeply,” said Forester, and he spoke in a tone of sorrow, “that I cannot accept your kindness. I stand in a position of no common difficulty at this moment.” He hesitated, as if doubting whether to proceed or not, and then, in a more hurried voice, resumed: “There is no reason why I should obtrude my own petty cares and trials where greater misfortunes are impending; but I cannot help telling you that I have been rash enough, in a moment of impatience, to throw up an appointment I held on the Viceroy’s Staff, and I know not how far the step may yet involve me with my relatives.”

“Tell me how came you first acquainted with the Darcys?” said Miss Daly, as if following out in her own mind a train of thought.

“I will be frank with you,” said Forester, “for I cannot help being so; there are cases where confidence is not a virtue, but a necessity. Every word you speak, every tone of your voice, is so much your brother’s that I feel as if I were confiding to him in another form. I learned to know the Knight of Gwynne in a manner which you may deem, perhaps, little creditable to myself, though I trust you will see that I neither abused the knowledge nor perverted the honor of the acquaintanceship. It was in this wise.”

Briefly, but without reserve, Forester narrated the origin of his first journey to the West, and, without implicating the honor of his relative, Lord Castlereagh, explained the nature of his mission, to ascertain the sentiments of the Knight, and the possibility of winning him to the side of the Government. His own personal adventures could not, of course, be omitted, in such a narrative; but he touched on the theme as slightly as he could, and only dwelt on the kindness he had experienced in his long and dangerous illness, and the long debt of gratitude which bound him to the family.

Of the intimacy that succeeded he could not help speaking, and, whether from his studied avoidance of her name, or that, when replying to any question of Miss Daly’s concerning Helen Darcy, his manner betrayed agitation, certain it is that when he concluded, Miss Daly’s eyes were turned towards him with an expression of deep significance that called the color to his cheek.

“And so, sir,” said she, in a slow and measured voice, “you went down to play the tempter, and were captured yourself. Come, come, I know your secret; you have told it by signs less treacherous than words; and Helen, – for I tell you freely my interest is stronger for her, – how is she disposed towards you?”

Forester never spoke, but hung his head abashed and dejected.

“Yes, yes, I see it all,” said Miss Daly, hurriedly; “you would win the affection of a generous and high-souled girl by the arts which find favor in your more polished world, and you have found that the fascinations of manner and the glittering éclat of an aide-de-camp have failed. Now, take my counsel. But first let me ask, is this affection the mere prompting of an idle or capricious moment, or do you love her with a passion round which the other objects of your life are to revolve and depend? I understand that pressure of the hand; it is enough. My advice is simple. You belong to a profession second to none in its high and great rewards: do not waste its glorious opportunities by the life of a courtier; be a soldier in feeling as well as in garb; let her whose heart you would win, feel that in loving you she is paying the tribute to qualities that make men esteem and respect you; that she is not bestowing her hand upon the mere favorite of a Court, but on one whose ambitions are high, and whose darings are generous. Oh! leave nothing, or as little as you may, to mere influence; let your boast be, and it will be a proud one, that with high blood and a noble name you have started fairly in the race, and distanced your competitors. This is my counsel. What think you of it?”

“I will follow it,” said Forester, firmly; “I will follow it, though, I own it to you, it suggests no hope, where hope would be happiness.”

“Well, then,” said Miss Daly, “you shall spend this day with me, and I will not keep you another; you have made me your friend by this confidence, and I will use the trust with delicacy and with fidelity.”

“May I write to you?” said Forester, “and will you let me hear from you again?”