The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1

For several years long he pursued this course without deviating, and in that space had become the owner of estated property to a very great extent, not only in his own, but in three neighboring counties. How much longer he might have persisted in growing rich by stealth it is difficult to say, when accident compelled him to change his tactique. A very large property had been twice put up for sale in the county Mayo, under the will of its late owner, the trustees being empowered to make a great reduction in the price to any purchaser of the whole, – a condition which, from the great value of the estates, seemed of little avail, no single individual being supposed able to make such a purchase.

At last, and as a final effort to comply with the wishes of the testator, the estate was offered at ten thousand pounds below the original demand, when a bidder made his appearance, the offer was accepted, and the apothecary of Lough-rea became the owner of one of the most flourishing properties of the West, with influence sufficient to return a member for the county.

The murder was now out, and the next act was to build a handsome but unpretentious dwelling-house on a part of the estate, to which he removed with his son, a widower with one child. The ancient family of O’Reilly had been the owners of the property, and the name was still retained to grace the new demesne, which was called Mount O’Reilly, while Tom Hickman became Hickman O’Reilly, under the plea of some relationship to the defunct, – a point which gained little credence in the county, and drew from Bagenal Daly the remark “that he trusted that they had a better title to the acres than the arms of the O’Reillys.” When old Peter had made this great spring, he would gladly have retired to Loughrea once more, and pursued his old habits; but, like a blackleg who has accidentally discovered his skill at the game, no one would play with him again, and so he was fain to put up with his changed condition, and be a “gentleman,” as he called it, in spite of himself.

He it was who, under the pretence of a friendly call to see the Knight, now drove into the courtyard of Gwynne Abbey. His equipage was a small four-wheeled chair close to the ground, and drawn by a rough mountain pony which, in size and shape, closely resembled a water-dog. The owner of this unpretending conveyance was a very diminutive, thin old man, with a long, almost transparent nose, the tip of which was of a raspberry red; a stiff queue, formed of his wiry gray hair carefully brushed back, even from the temples, made a graceful curve on his back, or occasionally appeared in front of his left shoulder. His voice was a feeble treble, with a tremulous quiver through all he said, while he usually finished each sentence with a faint effort content with his opinion; and this, on remarkable occasions, at a laugh, a kind of acknowledgment to himself that he was would be followed by the monosyllable “ay,” – a word which, brief as it was, struck terror into many a heart, intimating, as it did, that old Peter had just satisfied himself that he had made a good bargain, and that the other party was “done.”

The most remarkable circumstance of his appearance was his mode of walking, and even here was displayed his wonted ingenuity. A partial paralysis had for some years affected his limbs, and particularly the muscles which raise and flex the legs; to obviate this infirmity, he fastened a cord with a loop to either foot, and by drawing them up alternately he was enabled to move forward, at a slow pace, to be sure, and in a manner it was rather difficult to witness for the first time with becoming gravity. This was more remarkable when he endeavored to get on faster, for then the flexion, a process which required a little time, was either imperfectly performed or altogether omitted, and consequently he remained stationary, and only hopped from one leg to the other after the fashion of a stage procession. His dress was a rusty black coat with a standing collar, black shorts, and white cotton stockings, over which the short black gaiters reached half way up the leg; on the present occasion he also wore a spencer of light gray cloth, as the day was cold and frosty, and his hat was fastened under his chin by a ribbon.

“And so he is n’t at home, Tate,” said he, as he sat whipping the pony from habit, – a process which the beast seemed to regard with a contemptuous indifference.

“No, Docther,” for by this title the old man was always addressed by preference, “the Knight’s up in Dublin; he went on Monday last.”

“And this is the seventh of the month,” muttered the other to himself. “Faith, he takes it easy, anyhow! And you don’t know when he’ll be home?”

“The sorra know I know, Docther; ‘t is maybe to-night he ‘d come – maybe to-morrow – maybe it would be three weeks or a month; and it’s not but we want him badly this day, if it was God’s will he was here!” These words were uttered in a tone that Tate intended should provoke further questioning, for he was most eager to tell of the duel and its consequences; but the “doctor” never noticed them, but merely muttered a short “Ay.”

“How do you do, Hickman?” cried out the deep voice of Bagenal Daly at the same moment. “You did n’t chance to see Mulville on the road, did you?”

“How d’ye do, Mister Daly? I hope I see you well. I did n’t meet Dr. Mulville this morning, – is there anything that’s wrong here? Who is it that’s ill?”

“A young fellow, a stranger, who has been burning powder with Mr. MacDonough up at Cluan, and has been hit under the rib here.”

“Well, well, what folly it is, and all about nothing, I ‘ll engage.”

“So your grandson would tell you,” said Daly, sternly; “for if he felt it to be anything, this quarrel should have been his.”

“Faix, and I’m glad he left it alone,” said the other, complacently; “‘t is little good comes of the same fighting. I ‘ll be eighty-five if I live to March next, and I never drew sword nor trigger yet against any man.”

“One reason for which forbearance is, sir, that you thereby escaped a similar casualty to yourself. A laudable prudence, and likely to become a family virtue.”

The old doctor felt all the severity of this taunt against his grandson, but he merely gave one of his half-subdued laughs, and said, in a low voice, “Did you get a note from me, about a fortnight ago? Ay!”

“I received one from your attorney,” said Daly, carelessly, “and I threw it into the fire without reading it.”

“That was hasty, that was rash, Mr. Daly,” resumed the other, calmly; “it was about the bond for the four thousand six hundred – ”

“D – n me if I care what was the object of it! I happened to have some weightier things to think of than usury and compound interest, as I, indeed, have at this moment. By the by, if you have not forgotten the old craft, come in and see this poor fellow. I ‘m much mistaken, or his time will be but short.”

“Ay, ay, that’s a debt there’s no escaping!” muttered the old man, combining his vein of moralizing with a sly sarcasm at Daly, while he began the complicated series of manouvres by which he usually effected his descent from the pony carriage.

In the large library, and on a bed hastily brought down for the purpose, lay Forester, his dress disordered, and his features devoid of all color. The glazed expression of his eye, and his pallid, half-parted lips showed that he was suffering from great loss of blood, for, unhappily, Mr. Daly’s surgery had not succeeded in arresting this symptom. His breathing was short and irregular, and in the convulsive movement of his fingers might be seen the evidence of acute suffering. At the side of the bed, calm, motionless, and self-possessed, with an air as stern as a soldier at his post, stood Sandy M’Grane; he had been ordered by his master to maintain a perfect silence, and to avoid, if possible, even a reply to Forester’s questions, should he speak to him. The failure of the first few efforts on Forester’s part to obtain an infraction of this rule ended in his submitting to his destiny, and supplying by signs the want of speech; in this way he had just succeeded in procuring a drink of water, when Daly entered, followed by Hickman. As with slow and noiseless steps they came forward, Forester turned his head, and, catching a glance of the mechanism by which old Peter regulated his progression, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“Ye mauna do it, ye mauna do it, sir,” said Sandy, sternly; “ye are lying in a pool of blood this minute, and it’s no time for a hearty laugh. Ech! ech! sir,” continued he, turning towards his master, “if we had that salve the Delawares used to put on their wounds, I wadna say but we ‘d stap it yet.”

By this time old Peter had laid his hand on the sick man’s wrist, and, with a large watch laid before him on the bed, was counting his pulse aloud.

“It’s a hundred and fifty,” said he, in a whisper, which, although intended for Daly’s ear, was overheard by Forester; “but it’s thin as a thread, and looks like inward bleeding.”

“What’s to be done, then? have you anything to advise?” said Daly, almost savagely.

“Very little,” said Hickman, with a malignant grin, “except writing to his friends. I know nothing else to serve him.”

A brief shudder passed over Daly’s stern features, rather like the momentary sense of cold than proceeding from any mental emotion, and then he said, “I spoke to you as a doctor, sir; and I ask you again, is there nothing can be done for him?”

“Well, well, we might plug up the wound, to be sure, and give him a little wine, for he’s sinking fast. I ‘ve got a case of instruments and some lint in the gig – never go without the tools, Mr. Daly – there’s no knowing when one may meet a little accident like this.”

“In Heaven’s name, then, lose no time!” said Daly. “Whatever you can do, do it at once.”

The tone of command in which he spoke seemed to act like a charm on the old doctor, for he turned at once to hobble from the room.

“My servant will bring what you want,” said Daly, impatiently.

“No, no,” said Peter, shaking his head, “I have them under lock and key in the driving-box; there’s no one opens that but myself.”

Daly turned away with a muttered execration at the miser’s suspicions, and then, fixing his eyes steadily on Sandy’s face, he gave a short and significant nod. The servant instinctively looked after the doctor; then, slowly moving across the floor, the nod was repeated, and Sandy, wheeling round, made three strides, and, catching the old man round the body with his remaining arm, carried him out of the room with the same indifference to his struggles or his cries as a nurse would bestow on a misbehaving urchin.

When Sandy deposited his burden beside the pony-carriage, old Peter’s passion had reached its climax, and assuredly, if the will could have prompted the act, he would have stamped as roundly as he swore.

“It’s an awfu’ thing,” observed Sandy, quaintly, “to see an auld carle, wi’ his twa legs in the grave, blaspheming that gate; but come awa’, tak’ your gimcracks, and let’s get back again, or, by the saul of my body, I ‘ll pit you in the fountain!”

Reasoning on that excellent principle of analogy, that what had happened might happen again even in a worse form, old Hickman unlocked the box and delivered into Sandy’s hands a black leather case, bearing as many signs of long years and service as his own.

“Let me walk I let me walk!” cried he, in a supplicating tone.

“Av you ca’ it walking,” said Sandy, grimly; “but it’s mair, far mair, like the step o’ a goose than a Christian man.”

What success might have attended Peter’s request it is difficult to say, for at this moment the noise of a horse was heard galloping up the avenue, and, immediately after, Mulville, the surgeon sent for by Mr. Daly, entered the courtyard. Without deigning a look towards Hickman, or paying even the slightest attention to his urgent demands for the restoration of his pocket-case, Sandy seized Mulville by the arm and hurried him away to the house.

The newly arrived doctor was an army surgeon, and proceeded, with all the readiness experience had taught him, to examine Forester’s wound; while Sandy, to save time, opened old Hickman’s case on the bed, and arranged the instruments.

“Look here, Mr. Daly,” said the doctor, as he drew some lint from the antiquated leather pocket, – “look here, and see how our old friend practises the art of medicine.” He took up, as he spoke, a roll of paper, and held it towards Daly: it was a packet of bill stamps of various value, for old Peter could never suffer himself to be taken short, and was always provided with the ready means of transacting money affairs with his patients.

“Here’s my d – d old bond,” said Daly, laughing, as he drew forth a much-crumpled and time-discolored parchment; “I’d venture to say the man would deserve well of his country who would throw this confounded pocket-book, and its whole contents, into that fire.”

“Ye maybe want some o’ the tools yet,” said Sandy, dryly, for, taking his master’s observations in the light of a command, he was about to commit the case and the paper to the flames.

“Take care! take care!” said Mulville, in a whisper; “it might be a felony.”

“It’s devilish little Sandy would care what name they would give it,” replied Daly; “he ‘d put the owner on the top of them, and burn all together, on a very brief hint;” then, lowering his voice, he added, “What’s his chance?”

“The chance of every young fellow of two or three-and-twenty to live through what would kill any man of my time of life. With good care and quiet, but quiet above all, he may rub through it. We must leave him now.”

“You ‘ll remain here,” said Daly; “you ‘ll not quit this, I hope?”

“For a day or two at least, I ‘ll not leave him.” And with this satisfactory assurance Daly closed the door, leaving Sandy on guard over the patient.

“Here’s your case of instruments, Hickman,” said Daly, as the old doctor sat motionless in his gig, awaiting their reappearance; for, in his dread of further violence, he had preferred thus patiently to await their return, than venture once more into the company of Sandy M’Grane. “We ‘ve robbed you of nothing except some lint; and,” added he in a whisper to Muiville, “I very much doubt if that case were ever opened and closed before with so slight an offence against the laws of property.”

Old Hickman by this time had opened the pocket-book, and was busily engaged inspecting its contents.

“Ay, that’s the bond!” said Daly, laughing; “you may well think how small the chance of repayment is, when I did not think it worth while burning it.”

“It will be paid in good time,” said Hickman, in a low cackle, “and the interest too, maybe – ay!” And with sundry admonitions from the whip, and successive chucks of the rein, the old pony threw up his head, shook his tail crossly, and, with a step almost as measured as that of his master, moved slowly out of the courtyard.

“So much for our century and our civilization!” said Daly, as he looked after him; “the old miser that goes there has more power over our country and its gentry than ever a feudal chief wielded in the days of vassalage.”

CHAPTER IX. “DALY’S.”

It was upon one of the very coldest evenings of the memorably severe January of 1800 that the doors of Daly’s Club House were besieged by carriages of every shape and description: some brilliant in all the lustre of a perfect equipage; others more plainly denoting the country gentleman or the professional man; and others, again, the chance occupants of the various coach-stands, displayed every variety of that now extinct family whose members went under the denominations of “whiskeys,” “jingles,” and “noddies.”

A heavy fall of sleet, accompanied with a cutting north wind, did not prevent the assemblage of a considerable crowd, who, by the strange sympathy of gregarious curiosity, were drawn up in front of the building, satisfied to think that something unusual, of what nature they knew not, was going forward within, and content to gaze on the brilliant glare of the lustres as seen through the drawn curtains, and mark the shadowy outlines of figures as they passed and repassed continually.

Leaving the mob, for it was in reality such, to speculate on the cause of this extraordinary gathering, we shall at once proceed up the ample stair and enter the great saloon of the Club, which, opening by eight windows upon College Green, formed the conversation-room of the members.

Here were now assembled between three and four hundred persons, gathered in groups and knots, and talking with all the eagerness some engrossing topic could suggest. In dress, air, and manner they seemed to represent sections of every social circle of the capital: some, in full Castle costume, had just escaped from the table of the Viceroy; others, in military uniform or the dress of the Club, contrasted with coats of country squires or the even more ungainly quaintness of the lawyers’ costume. They were of every age, from the young man emerging into life, to the old frequenter of the Club, who had occupied his own place and chair for half a century, and in manner and style as various, many preserving the courteous observances of the old school in all its polished urbanity, and the younger part of the company exhibiting the traits of a more independent, but certainly less graceful, politeness. Happily for the social enjoyments of the time, political leanings had not contributed their bitterness to private life, and men of opinions the most opposite, and party connections most antagonistic, were here met, willing to lay aside for a season the arms of encounter, or to use them with only the sportive pleasantry of a polished wit. If this manly spirit of mutual forbearance did not characterize the very last debates of the Irish Parliament, it may in a great measure be attributed to the nature of that influence by which the measure of the Union was carried; for bribery not only corrupted the venal, but it soured and irritated the men who rejected its seductions; and in this wise a difference was created between the two parties, wider and more irreconcilable than all which political animosity or mere party dislike could effect.

On the present occasion, however, the animating spirit of the assemblage seemed to partake of nothing less than a feature of political acrimony; and amid the chance phrases which met the ear, and the hearty bursts of laughter that every moment broke forth, it was easy to collect that no question of a party nature occupied their attention.

At the end of the room a group of some twenty persons stood or sat around a chair in which a thin elderly gentleman was seated, his fine and delicately marked features far more unequivocally proclaiming rank than even the glittering star he wore on his breast. Without being in reality very old, Lord Drogheda seemed so, for, partly from delicacy of health, and partly, as some affirmed, from an affectation of age (a more frequent thing than is expected), he had contracted a stoop, and walked with every sign of debility.

“Well, gentlemen, how does time go?” said he, with an easy smile. “Are we not near the hour?”

“Yes; it wants but eleven minutes of ten now, my Lord,” said one of the group. “Do you mean to hold him sharp to time?”

“Egad, I should think so,” interrupted a red-whiskered squire, in splashed top-boots. “I’ve ridden in from Kildare to-night to see the match, and I protest against any put-off.”

Lord Drogheda turned his eyes towards the speaker with a look in which mildness was so marked, it could not be called reproof, but it evidently confused him, as he added, “Of course, if the gentlemen who have heavy wagers on it are content I must be also.”

“I, for one, say ‘sharp time,’” cried out a dapperly dressed young fellow, with an open pocket-book in his hand; “play or pay is the only rule in these cases.”

“I ‘ve backed my Lord at eight to ten, in hundreds,” said another, “and certainly I ‘ll claim my bet if the Knight is one minute late.”

“Then you have just three to decide that question,” said one at his side. “My watch is with the Post-office.”

“Quite, time enough left to order my carriage,” said Lord Drogheda, rising with an energy very different from his ordinary indolent habit. “If the Knight of Gwynne should be accidentally delayed, gentlemen, I, for my part, prefer being also absent. It will then be a matter of some difficulty for the parties betting to say who is the delinquent.” He took his hat as he spoke, and was moving through the crowd, when a sudden cheer from without was heard, and then, almost the instant after, a confused sound of acclamation as the Knight of Gwynne entered, leaning on the arm of Con Heffernan. Making his way with difficulty through the crowd of welcoming friends and acquaintances, the Knight approached the end of the room where Lord Drogheda now awaited him, standing.

“Not late, my Lord, though very near it,” said he, extending his hand. “If I should apologize, however, I have an excuse you will not reject, – Con Heffernan’s Burgundy is hard to part with.”

“Very true, Knight,” said his Lordship, smiling. “With a friend one sees so seldom, a little dalliance is most pardonable.”

This sarcasm was met by a ready laugh, for Heffernan was better known as a guest at other tables than a host at his own; nor did he, at whose expense the jest was made, refrain from joining in the mirth, while he added, —

“The Burgundy, like one of your Lordship’s bons mots, is perhaps appreciated the more highly because of its rarity.”

“Very true, Heffernan,” replied Lord Drogheda; “we should keep our wit and wine only for our best friends.”

“Faith, then,” whispered the red-whiskered squire who spoke before, “if the liquor does not gain more by keeping than the wit, I’d recommend Con to drink it off a little faster.”

“Or, better still,” interposed the Knight, “only give it to those who understand its flavor. But we are, if I mistake not, losing very valuable time. What say you to the small room off the library, or will your Lordship remain here?”

“Here, if equally agreeable to you. We are both of us too old in the harness to care much for being surrounded by spectators.”

“Is it true, Con,” said a friend in Heffernan’s ear, “that Darcy has laid fifty thousand on this party?”

“I believe you are rather under than over the mark,” whispered Heffernan. “The wager has been off and on these last eight or ten years. It was made at Hutchinson’s one evening when we all had drunk a good deal of wine. At first, whist was talked of; but Drogheda objected to Darcy’s naming Vicars as his partner.”

“More fool he! Vicars is a first-rate player, but confoundedly unlucky.”

“Be that as it may, they fixed on piquet as the game, and, if accounts be true, all the better for Darcy. They say he has beaten the best players in France.”

“And what is really the stake? One hears so many absurd versions of it.”

“The Ballydermot property.”

“The whole of it?”

“Every acre, with the demesne, house, plate, pictures, carriages, wine, – begad! I ‘m not sure if the livery servants are not included, – against fifty thousand pounds. You know Drogheda has lent him a very large sum on a mortgage of that property already, and this will make the thing about double or quits.”

“Well, Heffernan,” cried the Knight, “are you making your book there? When you’ve quite finished, let me have a pinch of that excellent snuff of yours.”

“Why not try mine?” said Lord Drogheda, pushing a magnificently jewelled box, containing a miniature, across the table.

“‘T would be a bad augury, my Lord,” said Darcy, laughing. “If I remember aright, you won this handsome box from the Duke de Richelieu.”

“Ah! you know that story, then?”

“I was present at the time, and remember the circumstance perfectly. The King was leaning over the Duke’s chair, watching the game – ”

“Quite true. The Duke affected not to know that his Majesty was there, and when he placed the box on the table, cried, ‘A thousand louis against the portrait of the King!’ There was no declining such a wager at such a moment, although, intrinsically, the box was not worth half the sum. I accepted, and won it.”

“And the Duke then offered to give you twice the money for it back again?”

“He did so, and I refused. I shall not readily forget the sweet, sad smile of the King as he tapped the wily courtier on the shoulder, and said, ‘Ah! Monsieur le Duc, do you only value your King when you’ve lost him?’ They were prophetic words! Well, well! we ‘ve got upon a sorrowful theme; let’s change it.”