The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1

For several years past he had managed all the Knight’s estates; and such was the complication and entanglement of the property, loaded with mortgages and rent-charges, embarrassed with dowries and annuities, that nothing short of his admirable skill could have supported the means of that expensive and wasteful mode of life which the Knight insisted on pursuing, and all restriction on which he deemed unfitting his station. If Gleeson represented the urgent necessity of retrenchment, the very word was enough to cut short the negotiation; until, at last, the agent was fain to rest content with the fruits of good management, and merely venture from time to time on a cautious suggestion regarding the immense expense of the Knight’s household.

With all his guardedness and care, these representations were not always safe; for though the Knight would sometimes meet them with some jocular or witty reply, or some bantering allusion to the agent’s taste for money-getting, at other times he would receive the advice with impatience or ill-humor, so that, at last, Gleeson limited all complaints on this score to his letters to Lady Eleanor, with whom he maintained a close and confidential correspondence.

This reserve on Gleeson’s part had its effects on the Knight, who felt a proportionate delicacy in avowing any act of extravagance that should demand a fresh call for money, and thus embarrass the negotiation by which the agent was endeavoring to extricate the property.

If Darcy felt the loss of the preceding night, it was far more from the necessity of avowing it to Gleeson than from the amount of the money, considerable as it was; and he, therefore, set out to call upon him, in a frame of mind far less at ease than he desired to persuade himself he enjoyed.

Mr. Gleeson lived about three miles from Dublin, so that the Knight had abundant time to meditate as he went along, and think over the interview that awaited him. His revery was only broken by a sudden change from the high-road to the noiseless quiet of the neat avenue which led up to the house.

Mr. Gleeson’s abode had been an ancient manor-house in the Gwynne family, a building of such antiquity as to date from the time of the Knights Templars; and though once a favored residence of the Darcys, had, from the circumstances of a dreadful crime committed beneath its roof, – the murder of a servant by his master, – been at first deserted, and subsequently utterly neglected by the owners, so that at last it fell into ruin and decay. The roof was partly fallen in, the windows shattered and broken, the rich ceilings rotten and discolored with damp; it presented an aspect of desolation, when Mr. Gleeson proposed to take it on lease. Nor was the ruin only within doors, but without; the ornamental planting had been torn up, or used as firewood; the gardens pillaged and overrun with cattle; and the large trees – among which were some rare and remarkable ones – were lopped and torn by the country people, who trespassed and committed their depredations without fear or impediment. Now, however, the whole aspect was changed; the same spirit of order that exercised its happy influence in the management of distant properties had arrested the progress of destruction here, and, happily, in sufficient time to preserve some of the features which, in days past, had made this the most beautiful seat in the county.

It was not without a feeling of astonishment that the Knight surveyed the change. An interval of twelve years – for such had been the length of time since he was last there – had worked magic in all around. Clumps had sprung up into ornamental groups, saplings become graceful trees, sickly evergreens that leaned their frail stems against a stake were now richly leaved hollies or fragrant laurustinas; and the marshy pond, that seemed stagnant with rank grass and duckweed, was a clear lake fed by a silvery cascade which descended in quaint but graceful terraces from the very end of the neat lawn.

In Darcy’s eyes, the only fault was the excessive neatness perceptible in everything; the very gravel seemed to shine with a peculiar lustre, the alleys were swept clean, not even a withered leaf was suffered to disfigure them, while the shrubs had an air of trim propriety, like the self-satisfied air of a Sunday citizen.

The brilliant lustre of the heavy brass knocker, the white and spotless flags of the stone hall, and the immaculate accuracy of the staid footman who opened the door, were types of the prevailing tastes and habits of the proprietor. A mere glance at the orderly arrangement of Mr. Gleeson’s study would have confirmed the impression of his strict notions and regularity of discipline: not a book was out of place; the boxes, labelled with high and titled names, were ranged with a drill-like precision upon the shelves; the very letters that lay in the baskets beside the table fell with an attention to staid decorum becoming the rigid habits of the place.

The Knight had some minutes to bestow in contemplation of these objects before Gleeson entered; he had only that morning arrived from a distant journey, and was dressing when the Knight was announced. With a bland, soft manner, and an air compounded of diffidence and self-importance, Mr. Gleeson made his approaches.

“You have anticipated me, sir,” said he, placing a chair for the Knight; “I had ordered the carriage to call upon you. May I beg you to excuse the question, but my anxiety will not permit me to defer it: there is no truth, or very little, I trust, in the paragraph I ‘ve just read in Carrick’s paper – ”

“About a party at piquet with Lord Drogheda?” interrupted Darcy.

“The same.”

“Every word of it correct, Gleeson,” said the Knight, who, notwithstanding the occasion, could not control the temptation to laugh at the terrified expression of the agent’s face.

“But surely the sum was exaggerated; the paper says, the lands and demesne of Ballydermot, with the house, furniture, plate, wine, equipage, garden utensils – ”

“I ‘m not sure that we mentioned the watering-pots,” said Darcy, smiling; “but the wine hogsheads are certainly included.”

“A rental of clear three thousand four hundred and seventy-eight pounds, odd shillings, on a lease of lives renewable forever – pepercorn fine!” exclaimed Gleeson, closing his eyes, and folding his hands upon his breast, like a martyr resigning himself to the torture.

“So much for going on spades without the head of the suit!” observed the Knight; “and yet any man might have made the same blunder; and then, Heffernan, with his interruption, – altogether, Gleeson, the whole was mismanaged sadly.”

“The greater, part of the land tithe free,” moaned Gleeson to himself; “it was a grant from the Crown to your ancestor, Everard Darcy.”

“If it was the king gave it, Gleeson, it was the queen lost it.”

“The lands of Corrabeg, Dunragheedaghan, and Muscarooney, let at fifteen shillings an acre, with a right to cut turf on the Derryslattery bog! not to speak of Knocksadowd! lost, and no redemption!”

“Yes, Gleeson, that’s the point I’m coming to; there is a proviso in favor of redemption, whenever your grief will permit you to hear it.”

Gleeson gave a brief cough, blew his nose with considerable energy, and with an air of submissive sorrow apologized for yielding to his feelings. “I have been so many years, sir, the guardian – if I may so say – of that property that I cannot think of being severed from its interests without deep, very deep, regret.”

“By Jove! Gleeson, so do I! you have no monopoly of the sorrow, believe me. I acknowledge, readily, the full extent of my culpability. This foolish bet came to pass at a dinner at Hutchison’s, – it was the crowning point of a bragging conversation about play, – and Drogheda, it seems, booked it, though I totally forgot all about it. I’m certain he never intended to push the wager on me, but when reminded of it, of course I had nothing else for it but to express my readiness to meet him. I must say he behaved nobly all through; and even when Heffer-nan’s stupid interruption had somewhat ruffled my nerves, he begged I would reconsider the card – he saw I had made a mistake – very handsome that! – his backers, I assure you, did not seem as much disposed to extend the courtesy. I relieved their minds, however, I stood by my play, and – ”

“And lost an estate of three thousand – ”

“Quite correct; I’m sure no man knows the rental better. And now, let us see how to keep it in the family.”

The stare of amazement with which Gleeson heard these words might have met a proposition far more extravagant still, and he repeated the speech to himself, as if weighing every syllable in a balance.

“Yes, Gleeson, that was exactly what I said; now that we are engaged in liquidating, let us proceed with the good work. If I have given you enlarged occasion for the exercise of your abilities, I ‘m only acting like Peter Henessy, – old Peter, that held the mill at Brown’s Barn.”

The agent looked up with an expression in which all interest to learn the precedent alluded to was lost in astonishment at the levity of a man who could jest at such a moment.

“I see you never heard it, and, as the lawyers say, the rule will apply. I ‘ll tell it to you. When Peter was dying, he sent for old Rush of the Priory to give him absolution; he would not have the parish priest, for he was a ‘hard man,’ as Peter said, with little compassion for human weakness, never loved pork nor ‘poteen,’ but seemed to have a relish for fasts and vigils. ‘Rush will do,’ said he to all the family applications in favor of the other, – ‘I ‘ll have Father Rush;’ and so he had, and Rush came, and they were four hours at it, for Peter had a long score of reminiscences to bring up, and it was not without considerable difficulty, it is said, that Rush could apply the remedies of the Church to the various infractions of the old sinner. At last, however, it was arranged, and Peter lay back in bed very tired and fatigued; for, I assure you, Gleeson, whatever you may think of it, confessing one’s iniquities is excessively wearying to the spirits. ‘Is it all right, Father?’ said he, as the good priest counted over the roll of ragged bank-notes that were to be devoted to the purchase of different masses and offerings. ‘It will do well,’ said Rush; ‘make your mind easy, your peace is made now.’ ‘And are you sure it’s quite safe?’ said Peter; ‘a pound more or less is nothing now compared to – what you know,’ – for Peter was polite, and followed the poet’s counsel. ‘’Tis safe and sure both,’ said Rush; ‘I have the whole of the sins under my thumb now, and don’t fret yourself.’ ‘Take another thirty shillings then, Father,’ said he, pushing the note over to him, ‘and let Whaley have the two barrels of seed oats – the smut is in them, and they ‘re not worth sixpence; but, when we are at it, Father, dear, let us do the thing complete: what signifies a trifle like that among the rest?’ Such was Peter’s philosophy, Gleeson, and, if not very laudable as he applied it, it would seem to suit our present emergency remarkably well.”

Gleeson vouchsafed but a very sickly smile as the Knight finished, and, taking up a bundle of papers from the table, proceeded to search for something amongst them.

“This loss was most inopportune, sir – ”

“No doubt of it, Gleeson; it were far better had I won my wager,” said the Knight, half testily; but the agent, scarce noticing the interruption, went on: —

“Mr. Lionel has drawn on me for seven hundred, and so late as Wednesday last I was obliged to meet a bill of his amounting to twelve hundred and eighty pounds. Thus, you will perceive that he has this year overdrawn his allowance considerably. He seems to have been as unlucky as yourself, sir.”

Soft and silky as the accents were, there was a tincture of sarcasm in the way these words were uttered that did not escape Darcy’s notice; but he made no reply, and appeared to listen attentively as the other resumed: —

“Then, the expenses of the abbey have been enormous this year; you would scarcely credit the outlay for the hunting establishment; and, as I learn from Lady Eleanor that you rarely, if ever, take the field yourself – ”

“Never mind that, Gleeson,” broke in the Knight, suddenly. “I ‘ll not sell a horse or part with a dog amongst them. My income must well be able to afford me the luxuries I have always been used to. I ‘m not to be told that, with a rental of eighteen thousand a year – ”

“A rental, sir, I grant you,” said Gleeson, interrupting him; “you said quite correctly, – the rental is even more than you stated; but consider the charges on that rental, – the heavy sums raised on mortgages, the debt incurred by building, the two contested elections, your losses on the turf: these make sad inroads in the amount of your income.”

“I tell you frankly, Gleeson,” said the Knight, starting up and pacing the room with hasty steps, “I ‘ve neither head nor patience for details of this kind. I was induced to believe that my embarrassments, such as they are, were in course of liquidation; that by raising two hundred and fifty thousand pounds at four-and-a-half, or even five per cent, we should be enabled to clear off the heavy debts, for which we are paying ten, twelve, – ay, by Jove! I believe fifteen per cent.”

“Upon my word, I believe you do not exaggerate,” said Gleeson, in a conciliating accent. “Hickman’s bond, though nominally bearing six per cent, is actually treble that sum. He holds ‘The Grove’ at the rent of a cottier’s tenure, and with the right of cutting timber in Clon-a-gauve wood, – a right he is by no means chary of exercising.”

“That must be stopped, and at once,” broke in Darcy, with a heightened color. “The old man is actually making a clearing of the whole mountain side; the last time I was up there, Lionel and I counted two hundred and eighteen trees marked for the hatchet. I ordered Finn not to permit one of them to be touched; to go with a message from me to Hickman, saying that there was a wide difference between cutting timber for farm purposes and carrying on a trade in rivalry with the Baltic. Oaks of twenty, eighty, ay, a hundred and fifty years’ growth, the finest trees on the property, were among those I counted.”

“And did he desist, sir?” asked Gleeson, with a half cunning look.

“Did he? – what a question you ask me! By Heavens! if he barked a sapling in that wood after my warning, I ‘d have sent the Derrahinchy boys down to his place, and they would not have left a twig standing on his cockney territory. Devilish lucky he ‘d be if they stopped there, and left him a house to shelter him.”

“He’s a very unsafe enemy, sir,” observed Gleeson, timidly.

“By Jove! Gleeson, I think you are bent on driving me distracted this morning. You have hit upon perhaps the only theme on which I cannot control my irritability, and I beg of you, once and for all, to change it.”

“I should never have alluded to Mr. Hickman, sir, but that I wished to remark to you that he is in a position which requires all our watchfulness; he has within the last three weeks bought up Drake’s mortgage, and also Belson’s bond for seventeen thousand, and, I know from a source of unquestionable accuracy, is at this moment negotiating for the purchase of Martin Hamilton’s bond, amounting to twenty-one thousand more; so that, in fact, with the exception of that small debt to Batty and Rowe, he will remain the sole creditor.”

“The sole creditor!” exclaimed Darcy, growing pale as marble, – “Peter Hickman the sole creditor!”

“To be sure, this privilege he will not long enjoy,” said Gleeson, with a degree of alacrity he had not assumed before; “when our arrangements are perfected with the London house of Bicknell and Jervis, we can pay off Hickman at once; he shall have a check for the whole amount the very same day.”

“And how soon may we hope for this happy event, Gleeson?” cried the Knight, recovering his wonted voice and manner.

“It will not be distant now, sir; one of the deeds is ready at this moment, or at least will be to-morrow. On your signing it, we shall have some very trifling delays, and the money can be forthcoming by the end of the next week. The other will be perfected and compared by Wednesday week.”

“So that within three weeks, or a month at furthest, Gieeson, we shall have cut the cable with the old pirate?”

“Three weeks, I trust, will see all finished; that is, if this affair of Ballydermot does not interfere.”

“It shall not do so,” cried the Knight, resolutely; “let it go. Drogheda is a gentleman at least, and if our old acres are to fall into other hands, let their possessor have blood in his veins, and he will not tyrannize over the people; but Hickman – ”

“Very right, sir, Hickman might foreclose on the 24th of this month.”

“Gieeson, no more of this; I ‘m not equal to it,” said the Knight, faintly; and he sat down with a wearied sigh, and covered his face with his hands. The emotion, painful as it was, passed over soon, and the Knight, with a voice calm and measured as before, said, “You will take care, Gieeson, that my son’s bills are provided for; London is an expensive place, and particularly for a young fellow situated like Lionel; you may venture on a gentle – mind, a very gentle – remonstrance respecting his repeated calls for money; hint something about arrangements just pending, which require a little more prudence than usual. Do it cautiously, Gieeson; be very guarded. I remember when I was a young fellow being driven to the Jews by an old agent of my grandfather’s; he wrote me a regular homily on thrift and economy, and to show I had benefited by the lesson, I went straightway and raised a loan at something very like sixty per cent.”

“You may rely upon my prudence, sir,” said Gieeson. “I think I can promise that Mr. Lionel will not take offence at my freedom. May I say Tuesday to wait on you with the deeds, – Tuesday morning?”

“Of course, whenever you appoint, I ‘ll be ready. I hoped to have left town this week; but these are too important matters to bear postponement. Tuesday, then, be it.” And with a friendly shake-hands, they parted, – Gleeson, to the duties of his laborious life; the Knight, with a mind less at ease than was his wont, but still bearing no trace of discomposure on his manly and handsome countenance.

CHAPTER XII. A FIRST VISIT

“Whenever Captain Forester is quite able to bear the fatigue, Sullivan, – mind that you say ‘quite able,’ – it will give me much pleasure to receive him.”

Such was the answer Lady Eleanor Darcy returned to a polite message from the young officer, expressing his desire to visit Lady Eleanor and thank her for the unwearied kindness she had bestowed on him during his illness.

Lady Eleanor and her daughter were seated in the same chamber in which they have already been introduced to the reader. It was towards the close of a dark and gloomy day, the air heavy and overcast towards the land, while, over the sea, masses of black, misshapen cloud were drifted along hurriedly, the presage of a coming storm. The pine wood blazed brightly on the wide hearth, and threw its mellow lustre over the antique carvings and the porcelain ornaments of the chamber, contrasting the glow of in-door comfort with the bleak and cheerless look of all without, where the crashing noise of breaking branches mingled with the yet sadder sound of the swollen torrent from the mountain.

It may be remarked that persons who have lived much on the seaside, and near a coast abounding in difficulties or dangers, are far more susceptible of the influences of weather than those who pass their lives inland. Storm and shipwreck become, in a measure, inseparably associated. The loud beating of the waves upon the rocky shore, the deafening thunder of the swollen breakers, speak with a voice to their hearts, full of most meaning terror. The moaning accents of the spent wind, and the wailing cry of the petrel, awake thoughts of those who journey over “the great waters,” amid perils more dreadful than all of man’s devising.

Partly from these causes, partly from influences of a different kind, both mother and daughter felt unusually sad and depressed, and had sat for a long interval without speaking, when Forester’s message was delivered, requesting leave to pay his personal respects.

Had the visit been one of mere ceremony, Lady Eleanor would have declined it at once; her thoughts were wandering far away, engrossed by topics of dear and painful interest, and she would not have constrained herself to change their current and direction for an ordinary matter of conventional intercourse. But this was a different case; it was her son Lionel’s friend, his chosen companion among his brother officers, the guest, too, who, wounded and almost dying beneath her roof, had been a charge of intense anxiety to her for weeks past.

“There is something strange, Helen, is there not, in this notion of acquaintanceship with one we have never seen; but now, after weeks of watching and inquiry, after nights of anxiety and days of care, I feel as if I ought to be very intimate with this same friend of Lionel’s.”

“It is more for that very reason, Mamma, and simply because he is Lionel’s friend.”

“No, my dear child, not so; it is the tie that binds us to all for whom we have felt interested, and in whose sorrows we have taken a share. Lionel has doubtless many friends in his regiment, and yet it is very unlikely any of them would cause me even a momentary impatience to see and know what they are like.”

“And do you confess to such in the present case?” said Helen, smiling.

“I own it, I have a strange feeling of half curiosity, and should be disappointed if the real Captain Forester does not come up to the standard of the ideal one.”

“Captain Forester, my Lady,” said Sullivan, as he threw open the door of the apartment, and, with a step which all his efforts could not render firm, and a frame greatly reduced by suffering, he entered. So little was he prepared for the appearance of the ladies who now stood to receive him, that, despite his habitual tact, a slight expression of surprise marked his features, and a heightened color dyed his cheek as he saluted them in turn.

With an air which perfectly blended kindliness and grace, Lady Eleanor held out her hand, and said, “My daughter, Captain Forester;” and then, pointing to a chair beside her own, begged of him to be seated. The unaccustomed exertion, the feeling of surprise, and the nervous irritability of convalescence, all conspired to make Forester ill at ease, and it was with a low, faint sigh he sank into the chair.

“I had hoped, madam,” said he, in a weak and tremulous accent, – “I had hoped to be able to speak my gratitude to you, – to express at least some portion of what I feel for kindness to which I owe my life; but the greatness of the obligation would seem too much for such strength as mine. I must leave it to my mother to say how deeply your kindness has affected us.”

The accents in which these few words were uttered, particularly that which marked the mention of his mother, seemed to strike a chord in Lady Eleanor’s heart, and her hand trembled as she took from Forester a sealed letter which he withdrew from another.

“Julia Wallincourt,” said Lady Eleanor, unconsciously reading half aloud the signature on the envelope of the letter.

“My mother, madam,” said Forester, bowing.

“The Countess of Wallincourt!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, with a heightened color and a look of excited and even anxious import.

“Yes, madam, the widowed Countess of the Earl of Wallincourt, late Ambassador at Madrid; am I to have the happiness of hearing that my mother is known to you?”

“I had, sir, the pleasure, – the honor of meeting Lady Julia D’Esterre; to have enjoyed that pleasure, even once, is quite enough never to forget it.” Then, turning to her daughter, she added: “You have often heard me speak of Lady Julia’s beauty, Helen; she was certainly the most lovely person I ever saw, but the charm of her appearance was even inferior to the fascination of her manner.”

“She retains it all, madam,” cried Forester, as his eyes sparkled with enthusiastic delight; “she has lost nothing of that power of captivating; and as for beauty, I confess I know nothing higher in that quality than what conveys elevation of sentiment, with purity and tenderness of heart: this she possesses still.”

“And your elder brother, Captain Forester?” inquired Lady Eleanor, with a manner intended to express interest, but in reality meant to direct the conversation into another channel.