The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1

The caution came too late – MacDonough was gone.

CHAPTER V. AN AFTER-DINNER STORY

The unhappy event which so suddenly interrupted the conviviality of the party scarcely made a more than momentary impression. Altercations which ended most seriously were neither rare nor remarkable at the dinner-tables of the country gentlemen, and if the present instance caused an unusual interest, it was only because one of the parties was an Englishman.

As for Forester himself, his first burst of anger over, he forgot all in his astonishment that the host was not “the Knight” himself, but only his representative and friend, Bagenal Daly.

“Come, Captain Forester,” said he, “I owe you an amende for the mystification I have practised upon you. You shall have it. Your travelling acquaintance at Kilbeggan was the ‘Knight of Gwynne;’ and the few lines he sent through your hands contained an earnest desire that your stay here might be sufficiently prolonged to admit of his meeting you at his return.”

“I shall be extremely sorry,” said Forester, in a low voice, “if anything that has occurred to-night shall deprive me of that pleasure.”

“No, no – nothing of the kind,” said Daly, with a significant nod of his head. “Leave that to me.” Then, raising his voice, he added: “What do you say to that claret, Conolly?”

“I agree with you,” replied a rosy-cheeked old squire in a hunting-dress, “it ‘s too old, – there’s little spirit left in it.”

“Quite true, Tom. Wine has its dotage, like the rest of us. All that the best can do is to keep longest; and, after all, we scarcely can complain of the vintage that has a taste of its once flavor at our age. It’s a long time since we were schoolfellows.”

“It is not an hour less than – ”

“Stop, Tom, – no more of that. Of all scores to go back upon, that of years past is the saddest.”

“By Jove! I don’t think so,” said the hearty old squire, as he tossed off a bumper. “I never remember riding better than I did to-day. Ask Beecham O’Reilly there which of us was first over the double ditch at the red barn.”

“You forget, sir,” said the young gentleman referred to, “that I was on an English-bred mare, and she doesn’t understand these fences.”

“Faith, she wasn’t worse off, in that respect, than the man on her back,” said old Conolly, with a hearty chuckle. “If to look before you leap be wisdom, you ought to be the shrewdest fellow in the country.”

“Beecham, I believe, keeps a good place in Northamptonshire,” said his father, half proudly.

“Another argument in favor of the Union, I suppose,” whispered a guest in Conolly’s ear.

“Well, well,” sighed the old squire, “when I was a young man, we ‘d have thought of bringing over a dromedary from Asia as soon as an English horse to cross the country with.”

“Dick French was the only one I ever heard of backing a dromedary,” said a fat old farmer-like man, from the end of the table.

“How was that, Martin?” said Daly, with a look that showed he either knew the story or anticipated something good.

“And by all accounts, it ‘s the devil to ride,” resumed the old fellow; “now it’s the head down and the loins up, and then a roll to one side, and then to the other, and a twist in the small of your back, as if it were coming in two. Oh, by the good day! Dick gave me as bad as a stitch in the side just telling me about it.”

“But where did he get his experience, Martin? I never heard of it before,” said Daly.

“He was a fortnight in Egypt, sir,” said the old farmer. “He was in a frigate, or a man-of-war of one kind or another, off – the devil a one o’ me knows well where it was, but there was a consul there, a son of one of his father’s tenants – indeed, ould French got him the place from the Government – and when he found out that Dick was on board the ship, what does he do but writes him an invitation to pass a week or ten days with him at his house, and that he ‘d show him some sport. ‘We ‘ve elegant hunting,’ says he; ‘not foxes or hares, but a big bird, bigger nor a goose, they call – ‘By my conscience, I ‘ll forget my own name next, for I heard Dick tell the story at least twenty times.”

“Was it an ostrich?” said Tom.

“No; nor an oyster either, Mr. Conolly,” said the old fellow, who thought the question was meant to quiz him.

“‘T was an ibis, Martin,” cried Daly, – “an ibis.”

“The devil a doubt of it, – that’s the name. A crayture with legs as long as Mr. Beecham O’Reilly’s, and a way of going – half-flying, half-walking – almost impossible to catch; and they hunt him on dromedaries. Dick liked the notion well, and as he was a favorite on board, he got lave for three days to go on shore and have his fun; though the captain said, at parting, ‘It’s not many dromedaries you’ll see, Dick, for the Pasha has them all up the country at this time.’ This was true enough; sorra a bit of a camel or dromedary could be seen for miles round. But however it was, the consul kept his word, and had one for Dick the next morning, – a great strapping baste, all covered with trappings of one kind or other; elegant shawls and little hearthrugs all over him.

“The others were mounted on mules or asses, any way they could, and away they went to look after the goose – the ‘ibis,’ I mean. Well, to be short with it, they came up with one on the bank of the river, and soon gave chase; he was a fine strong fellow, and well able to run. I wish you heard Dick tell this part of it; never was there such sport in the world, blazing away all together as fast as they could prime and load, at one time at the goose, more times at each other; the mules kicking, the asses braying, and Dick cantering about on his dromedary, upsetting every one near him, and shouting like mad. At last he pinned the goose up in a narrow corner among some old walls, and Dick thought he ‘d have the brush; but sorra step the dromedary would stir; he spurred and kicked, and beat away with a stick as hard as he could, but it was all no good, – it was the carpets maybe, that saved him; for there he stood fast, just for all the world as if he was made of stone.

“Dick pulled out a pistol and fired a shot in his ear, but all to no use; he minded it no more than before. ‘Bad luck to you for a baste,’ says Dick, ‘what ails you at all – are you going to die on me? Get along now.’ The divil receave the step I ‘ll go till I get some spirits and wather!’ says the dromedary, ‘for I ‘m clean smothered with them b – y blankets;’ and with them same words the head of the baste fell off, and Dick saw the consul’s own man wiping the perspiration off his face, and blowing like a porpoise. ‘How the divil the hind legs bears it I can’t think,’ says he; ‘for I ‘m nigh dead, though I had a taste of fresh air.’

“The murther was out, gentlemen, for ye see the consul could n’t get a raal dromedary, and was obliged to make one out of a Christian and a black fellow he had for a cook, and sure enough in the beginning of the day Dick says he went like a clipper; ‘twas doubling after the goose destroyed him.”

Whether the true tale had or had not been familiar to most of the company before, it produced the effect Bagenal Daly desired, by at first creating a hearty roar of laughter, and then, as seems the consequence in all cases of miraculous narrative, set several others upon recounting stories of equal credibility. Daly encouraged this new turn of conversation with all the art of one who knew how to lead men’s thoughts into a particular channel without exciting suspicion of his intentions by either abruptness or over zeal: to any ordinary observer, indeed, he would have now appeared a mere enjoyer of the scene, and not the spirit who gave it guidance and direction.

In this way passed the hours long after midnight, when, one by one, the guests retired to their rooms; Forester remaining at the table in compliance with a signal which Daly had made him, until at length Hickman O’Reilly stood up to go, the last of all, save Daly and the young guardsman.

Passing round the table, he leaned over Forester’s chair, and in a low, cautious whisper, said, “You have put down the greatest bully in this country, Captain Forester; do not spoil your victory by being drawn into a disreputable quarrel! Good night, gentlemen both,” said he, aloud, and with a polite bow left the room.

“What was that he whispered?” said Daly, as the door closed and they were left alone together.

Forester repeated the words.

“Ah, I guessed why he sat so late; he sees the game clearly enough. You, sir, have taken up the glaive that was thrown down for his son’s acceptance, and he knows the consequence – clever fellow that he is! Had you been less prompt, Beecham’s poltroonery might have escaped notice; and even now, if you were to decline a meeting – ”

“But I have no intention of doing any such thing.”

“Of course, I never supposed you had; but were you to be swayed by wrong counsels and do so, Master Beecham would be saved even yet. Well, well, I am sorry, Captain Forester, you should have met such a reception amongst us, and my friend Darcy will be deeply grieved at it. However, we have other occupation now than vain regret, so to bed as fast as you can, and to sleep; the morning is not very far off, and we shall have some one from MacDonough here by daybreak.”

With a cordial shake-hands, like men who already knew and felt kindly towards each other, they separated for the night.

While Forester was thus sensible of the manliness and straightforward resolution that marked Bagenal Daly’s character, he was very far from feeling satisfied with the position in which he found himself placed. A duel under any circumstances is scarcely an agreeable incident in one’s life; but a meeting whose origin is at a drinking-bout, and where the antagonist is a noted fire-eater, and by that very reputation discreditable, is still a great aggravation of the evil.

To have embroiled himself in a quarrel of this kind would, he well knew, greatly prejudice him in the estimation of his cold-tempered relative, Lord Castlereagh, who would not readily forgive an indiscretion that should mar his own political views. As he sat in his dressing-room revolving such unpleasant reflections, there came a gentle tap at the door; he had but time to say, “Come in,” when Mr. Hickman O’Reilly entered.

“Will you excuse this intrusion, Captain Forester?” said he, with an accent in which the blandest courtesy was mingled with a well-affected cordiality; “but I really could not lay my head on a pillow in tranquillity until I had seen and spoken to you in confidence. This foolish altercation – ”

“Oh, pray don’t let that give you a moment’s uneasiness! I believe I understand the position the gentleman you allude to occupies in your country society: that license is accorded him, and freedoms taken with him, not habitually the case in the world at large.”

“You are quite right, your views are strictly accurate. MacDonough is a low fellow of very small fortune, no family, – indeed, what pretension he has to associate with the gentry I am unable to guess, nor would you have ever seen him under this roof had the Knight been at home; Mr. Daly, however, who, being an old schoolfellow and friend of Darcy’s, does the honors here in his absence, is rather indiscriminate in his hospitalities. You may have remarked around the table some singular-looking guests, – in fact, he not only invites the whole hunting-field, but half the farmers over whose ground we ‘ve ridden, and, were it not that they have sense and shame enough to see their own place with truer eyes, we should have an election mob here every day of the week; but this is not exactly the topic which led to my intruding upon you. I wished, in the first place, to rest assured that you had no intention of noticing the man’s impertinence, or of accepting any provocation on his part; in fact, were he admissible to such a privilege, my son Beecham would have at once taken the whole upon himself, it being more properly his quarrel than yours.”

Forester, with all his efforts, was unable to repress a slight smile at these words. O’Reilly noticed it, and colored up, while he added: “Beecham, however, knew the impossibility of such a course, – in fact, Captain Forester, I may venture to say, without any danger of being misunderstood by you, that my son has imbibed more correct notions of the world and its habits at your side of St. George’s Channel than could have fallen to him had his education been merely Irish.”

This compliment, if well meant, was scarcely very successful, for Forester bit his lip impatiently, but never made any answer. Whether O’Reilly perceived the cause of this, or that, like a skilful painter, he knew when to take his brush off the canvas, he arose at once and said, “I leave you, then, with a mind much relieved. I feared that a mistaken estimate of MacDonough’s claims in society, and probably some hot-brained counsels of Mr. Bagenal Daly – ”

“You are quite in error there; let me assure you, sir, his view of the matter is exactly my own,” interrupted Forester, calmly.

“I am delighted to hear it, and have now only one request: will you favor us with a few days’ visit at Mount O’Reilly? I may say, without vanity, that my son is more likely to be a suitable companion to you than the company here may afford; we ‘ve some good shooting and – ”

“I must not suffer you to finish the catalogue of temptations,” said Forester, smiling courteously; “my hours are numbered already, and I must be back in Dublin within a few days.”

“Beecham will be sorely disappointed; in fact, we came back here to-day for no other reason than to meet you at dinner. Daly told us of your arrival. May we hope to see you at another opportunity? are your engagements formed for Christmas yet?”

“I believe so, – Dorsetshire, I think,” muttered Forester, with a tone that plainly indicated a desire to cushion the subject at once; and Mr. O’Reilly, with a ready tact, accepted the hint, and, wishing him a most cordial goodnight, departed.

CHAPTER VI. A MESSAGE

While Forester slept soundly and without a dream, his long, light breathing scarce audible within the quiet chamber, a glance within the room of Bagenal Daly would have shown that, whatever the consequences of the past night’s troubles, he, at least, was not likely to be taken unprepared. On the table in the middle of the apartment two wax candles burned, two others, as yet unlighted, stood ready on the chimney-piece, a pistol case lay open, displaying the weapons, whose trim and orderly appearance denoted recent care, a fact attested by certain cloths and flannels which lay about; a mould for bullets, and about a dozen newly-cast balls most carefully filed and rubbed smooth with sandpaper, were flanked by a small case of surgical instruments, with an ample supply of lint and ligatures such as are used to secure bleeding vessels, in the use of which few unprofessional persons could vie with Bagenal Daly. A few sheets of paper lay also there, on which appeared some recent writing; and in a large, deep armchair, ready dressed for the day, sat Daly himself, sound asleep; one arm hung listlessly over the chair, the other was supported in the breast of his waistcoat. The strong, stern features, unrelaxed by repose, had the same impassive expression of cold defiance as when awake, and if his lips muttered, the accents were not less determined and firm than in his moments of self-possession. He awoke from time to time and looked at his watch, and once threw open the sash, and held out his hand to ascertain if it were raining; but these interruptions did not interfere with his rest, for, the minute after, he slept as soundly as before. Nor was he the only one within that house who counted the hours thus anxiously. A lantern in the stable beamed brightly, showing three horses ready saddled, the bridles on the neck of each, and ready at a moment’s notice to be bitted; while pacing slowly to and fro, like a sentinel on his post, was the tall figure of Sandy M’Grane, wrapped in a long cloth cloak, and his head covered by a cap, whose shape and material spoke of a far-off land and wild companionship; for it was the skin of a black fox, and the workmanship the product of a squaw’s fair fingers.

Sandy’s patrol was occasionally extended to the gateway, where he usually halted for a few seconds to listen, and then resumed his path as leisurely as before. At last, he remained somewhat longer at the gate, and bent his head more cautiously to hear; then, noiselessly unbarring and unlocking the door, he leaned out. To an ear less practised than his own the silence would have been complete. Not so with Sandy, whose perceptions had received the last finish of an Indian education. He retired hastily, and, approaching that part of the court beneath his master’s window, gave a long, low whistle. The next moment the casement was opened, and Daly’s head appeared.

“What now, Sandy? It is but a quarter past five.”

“It may be so; but there ‘s a horse coming fast up the lower road.”

“Listen again, and try if you hear it still.”

Sandy did so, and was back in a few moments. “He’s crossing the bridge at ‘the elms’ now, and will be here in less than three minutes more.”

“Watch the gate, then – let there be no noise – and come up by the back stairs.” With these words Daly closed the sash, and Sandy returned to his post.

Ere many minutes elapsed, the door of Mr. Daly’s chamber was opened, and Sandy announced Major Hackett of Brough. As Bagenal Daly rose to meet him, an expression of more than ordinary sternness was stamped upon his bold features.

“Your servant informed me that I should find you in readiness to receive me, Mr. Bagenal Daly,” said the Major, a coarse-looking, carbuncled-face man of about forty; “but perhaps the object of my visit would be better accomplished if I could have a few minutes’ conversation with a Captain Forester who is here.”

“If you can show me no sufficient cause to the contrary, sir,” replied Daly, proudly, “I shall act for him on this occasion.”

“I beg pardon,” said Hackett, smiling dubiously. “The business I came upon induced me to suspect that, at your time of life – ”

“Go on, sir, – finish your speech,” said Daly, with’ a fixed and steady stare which, very far from reassuring, seemed only to increase the Major’s confusion.

“After all, Mr. Daly,” resumed he, more hurriedly, “I have nothing whatever to do with that. My duty is to convey a message from Mr. Alexander MacDonough to a gentleman named Forester, here. If you will accept the proposition, and assist in the necessary arrangements – ”

“We are ready, sir, – quite ready. One of the consequences of admitting dubious acquaintances to the intimacy of the table is such a case as the present. I was guilty of one fault in this respect, but I shall show you I was not unprepared for what might follow it.” And as he spoke he threw open the window and called out, “Sandy! awaken Captain Forester. I suppose you are ready, Major Hackett, with your friend?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. MacDonough expects us at Cluan Point.”

“And bridle the horses, Sandy,” continued Daly, speaking from the window.

“I conclude, from what I see,” said Hackett, “that your friend is not only decided against offering an apology for his offence, but desirous of a meeting.”

“Who said so, sir? – or what right have you to suppose that any gentleman of good family and good prospects should indulge such an unnatural caprice as to wish to risk character and life in a quarrel with Mr. Alexander MacDonough?”

“Circumstanced as that gentleman is at this moment, your observations are unsuitable, sir,” replied the Major.

“So they are,” said Daly, hastily; “or, rather, so they would have been, if not provoked by your remark. But, hang me! if I think it signifies much; if it were not that some of our country neighbors were good-natured enough to treat this same Mr. MacDonough on terms of equality before, I ‘d have advised Captain Forester not to mind him. My maxim is, there are always low fellows enough to shoot one another, and never come trespassing among the manors of their betters.”

“I must confess myself unprepared, sir, to hear language like this,” said Hackett, sternly.

“Not a whit more than I feel at seeing myself negotiating a meeting with a man turned out of the army with disgrace,” said Daly, as his face grew purple with anger. “Were it not that I would not risk a hint of dishonor on this young Englishman’s fame, I ‘d never interchange three words with Major Hackett.”

“You shall answer for this, sir, and speedily too, by G – d!” said Hackett, moving towards the door.

Daly burst into an insolent laugh, and said, “Your friend waits us at Cluan?” The other bowed. “Well, within an hour we’ll be there also,” continued the old man; and Hackett retired without adding a syllable.

“We ‘ve about five miles to ride, Captain Forester,” said Daly, as they issued forth beneath the deeply arched gate of the abbey; “but the road is a mountain one, and will not admit of fast riding. A fine old place it is,” said he, as, halting his horse, he bestowed a gaze of admiration on the venerable building, now dimly visible in the gray of the breaking dawn. “The pious founders little dreamt of men leaving its portals on such an errand as ours.” Then, suddenly, with a changed voice, he added, “Men are the same in every age and country; what our ancestors did in steel breastplates, we do now in broadcloth; the law, as they call it, must always be subservient to human passions, and the judge and the jury come too late, since their function is penalty, and not prevention.”

“But surely you do not think the world was better in the times when might was right?” said Forester.

“The system worked better than we suspect,” said the old man, gravely; “there was such a thing as public opinion among men in those days, although its exponents were neither pamphlets nor scurrilous newspapers. The unjust and the cruel were held in reprobation, and the good and the charitable had a fame as pure, although their deeds were not trumpeted aloud or graven on marble. Believe me, sir, we are not by any means so much wiser or better than those who went before us, and even if we were both, we certainly are not happier. This eternal warfare, this hand to hand and foot to foot straggle for rank, apd wealth, and power, that goes on amongst us now, had no existence then, when a man’s destiny was carved out for him, and he was all but powerless to alter or control it.”

“That alone was no small evil,” said Forester, interrupting him; “the humbly born and the lowly were debarred from all the prizes of life, no matter how great their deserts or how shining their abilities.”

“Every rank and class had wherewithal to supply its own requirements,” answered Daly, proudly, “and the menial had more time to indulge affection for his master, when removed from the temptation to rival him. That strong bond of attachment has all but disappeared from amongst us.” As he spoke, he turned in his saddle and called out, “Can we cross the sands now, or is the tide making, Sandy?”

“It’s no just making yet,” said the servant, cautiously; “but when the breakers are so heavy off the Point, it’s aye safer to keep the road.”

“The road be it, then,” muttered Daly to himself; “men never are so chary of life as when about to risk it.”

The observation, although not intended, reached Forester’s ears, and he smiled and said, “Naturally enough, perhaps we ought not to be too exacting with fortune.”

Daly turned suddenly round, and, after a brief pause, asked, “What skill have you with the pistol?”

“When the mark is a shilling I can hit it, three times out of four, at twenty paces; but I never fired at a man.”

“That does make a difference,” said Daly, musingly; “nothing short of an arrant coward could look calmly on a fellow-creature while he pointed a loaded pistol at his heart. A brave man will always have self-possession enough to feel the misery of his position. Had the feat been one of vengeance, and not of love, Tell had never hit the apple, sir. But there, – is not that a fire yonder?”

“Yes, I see a red glare through the mist.”

“There’s a fire on Cluan Point,” said Sandy, riding up to his master’s side; “I trow it’s a signal.”

“Ah! meant to quicken us, perhaps; some fear of being surprised,” said Daly, hastily; “let us move on faster.” And they spurred their horses to a sharp trot as they descended the gentle slope, which, projecting far out to sea, formed the promontory of Cluan.