Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 2

“But what’s to become of him, Ned? He knows nothing of the country; he ‘ll not find his way back to Glengariff.”

“Let him alone; devil a harm he ‘ll come to. ‘T is chaps like that never comes to mischief. He ‘ll wander about there till day breaks, and maybe find his way to Duffs Mill, or, at all events, the boy with the letter-bag from Caherclough is sure to see him.”

Even had this last assurance failed to satisfy Sybella, it was so utterly hopeless a task to overrule old Ned’s resolve that she said no more, but rode on in silence. Not so Ned; the theme afforded him an opportunity for reflecting on English character and habits which was not to be lost.

“I ‘d like to see your brother John turn back and leave a young lady that way,” said he, recurring to the youth whose earliest years he had watched over.

No matter how impatiently, even angrily, Bella replied to the old man’s bigoted preference of his countrymen, Ned persisted in deploring the unhappy accident by which fate had subjected the finer and more gifted race to the control and dominion of an inferior people. To withdraw him effectually from a subject which to an Irish peasant has special attraction, she began to tell him of the war in the East and of her brother Jack, the old man listening with eager delight to the achievements of one he had carried about in his arms as a child. Her mind filled with the wondrous stories of private letters, – the intrepid daring of this one, the noble chivalry of that, – she soon succeeded in winning all his attention. It was singular, however, that of all the traits she recorded, none made such a powerful appeal to the old man’s heart as the generous self-devotion of those women who, leaving home, friends, country, and all, gave themselves up to the care of the sick and wounded. He never wearied of hearing how they braved death in its most appalling shape amidst the pestilential airs of the hospital, in the midst of such horrors as no pen can picture, taking on them the most painful duties, accepting fatigue, exhaustion, and peril as the common incidents of life, braving scenes of agony such as in very recital sickened the heart, descending to all that was menial in their solicitude for some poor sufferer, and all this with a benevolence and a kindness that made them seem less human beings than ministering angels from heaven.

“Oh, Holy Joseph! is n’t it yourself ought to be there?” cried the old man, enthusiastically. “Was there ever your like to give hope to a sick heart? Who ever could equal you to cheer up the sinking spirit, and even make misery bearable? Miss Bella, darling, did you never think of going out?”

“Ay, Ned, a hundred times,” said she, sighing drearily. “I often, too, said to myself, There’s not one of these ladies – for they are ladies born and bred – who has n’t a mother, father, sisters, and brothers dear to her, and to whom she is herself dear. She leaves a home where she is loved, and where her vacant place is daily looked at with sorrow; and yet here am I, who have none to care for, none to miss me, who would carry over the sea with me no sorrows from those I was leaving, for I am friendless, – surely I am well fitted for such a task – ”

“Well,” said he, eagerly, as she seemed to hesitate, “well, and why – ”

“It was not fear held me back,” resumed she. “It was not that I shrank from the sights and sounds of agony that must have been more terrible than any death; it was simply a hope – a wish, perhaps, more than a hope – that I might be doing service to those at home here, who, if I were to leave them, would not have one on their side. Perhaps I overrated what I did, or could do; perhaps I deemed my help of more value than it really was; but every day seemed to show me that the people needed some one to counsel and to guide them, – to show them where their true interests lay, and by what little sacrifices they could oftentimes secure a future benefit.”

“That’s thrue, every word of it. Your name is in every cabin, with a blessing tacked to it. There’s not a child does n’t say a prayer for you before he goes to sleep; and there’s many a grown man never thought of praying at all till he axed a blessing for yourself!”

“With that, too,” resumed she, “was coupled power, for my Lord left much to my management. I was able to help the deserving, to assist the honest and industrious; now I aided this one to emigrate, now I could contribute a little assistance of capital. In fact, Ned, I felt they wanted me, and I knew I liked them. There was one good reason for not going away. Then there were other reasons,” said she, falteringly. “It is not a good example to give to others to leave, no matter how humble, the spot where we have a duty, to seek out a higher destiny. I speak as a woman.”

“And is it thrue, Miss Bella, that it’s Mister Dunn has it all here under his own hand, – that the Lord owns nothing only what Dunn allows him, and that the whole place down to Kenmare River is Dunn’s?”

“It is quite true, Ned, that the control and direction of all the great works here are with Mr. Dunn. All the quarries and mines, the roads, harbors, quays, ‘bridges, docks, houses, are all in his hands.”

“Blessed hour! and where does he get the money to do it all?” cried he, in amazement.

Now, natural as was the question, and easy of reply as it seemed, Sybella heard it with something almost like a shock. Had the thought not occurred to her hundreds of times? And, if so, how had she answered it? Of course there could be no difficulty in the reply; of course such immense speculations, such gigantic projects as Mr. Dunn engaged in, supplied wealth to any amount. But equally true was it, that they demanded great means; they were costly achievements, – these great lines of railroad, these vast harbors. Nor were they always successful; Mr. Hankes himself had dropped hints about certain “mistakes” that were very significant. The splendid word “Credit” would explain it all, doubtless, but how interpret credit to the mind of the poor peasant? She tried to illustrate it by the lock of a canal, in which the water is momentarily utilized for a particular purpose, and then restored, unimpaired, to the general circulation; but Ned unhappily damaged the imagery by remarking, “But what’s to be done if there’s no water?” Fortunately for her logic, the road became once more only wide enough for one to proceed at a time, and Sybella was again left to her own musings.

Scarcely conscious of the perilous path by which she advanced, she continued to meditate over the old man’s words, and wonder within herself how it was that he, the poor, unlettered peasant, should have conceived that high notion of what her mission ought to be, – when and how her energies should be employed. She had been schooling herself for years to feel that true heroism consisted in devoting oneself to some humble, unobtrusive career, whose best rewards were the good done to others, where self-denial was a daily lesson, and humility a daily creed; but, do what she could, there was within her heart the embers of the fire that burned there in childhood. The first article of that faith taught her that without danger there is no greatness, – that in the hazardous conflicts where life is ventured, high qualities only are developed. What but such noble excitement could make heroes of those men, many of whom, without such stimulus, had dropped down the stream of life unnoticed and undistinguished? “And shall I,” cried she, aloud, “go on forever thus, living the small life of petty cares and interests, confronting no dangers beyond a dark December day, encountering no other hazards than the flippant rebuke of my employer?” “There’s the yawl, Miss Bella; she’s tacking about, waiting for us,” said Ned, as he pointed to a small sailboat like a speck in the blue sea beneath; and at the same instant a little rag of scarlet bunting was run up to the peak, to show that the travellers had been seen from the water.

CHAPTER XVI. THE DISCOVERY

It is possible that my reader might not unwillingly accompany Sybella as she stepped into the little boat, and, tripping lightly over the “thwarts,” seated herself in the stern-sheets. The day was bright and breezy, the sea scarcely ruffled, for the wind was off the land; the craft, although but a fishing-boat, was sharp and clean built, the canvas sat well on her, and, last of all, she who held the tiller was a very pretty girl, whose cheek, flushed with exercise, and loosely waving hair, gave to her beauty the heightened expression of which care occasionally robbed it. The broad bay, with its mountain background and its wide sea-reach, studded with tall three-masters, was a fine and glorious object; and as the light boat heeled over to the breeze, and the white foam came rustling over the prow, Sybella swept her fair hand through the water, and bathed her brow with the action of one who dismissed all painful thought, and gave herself to the full enjoyment of the hour. Yes, my dear reader, the companionship of such a girl on such a day, in such a scene, was worth having; and so even those rude fishermen thought it, as, stretched at full length on the shingle ballast, they gazed half bashfully at her, and then exchanged more meaning looks with each other as she talked with them.

Just possible it is, too, that some curiosity may exist as to what became of Mr. Hankes. Did that great projector of industrial enterprise succeed in retracing his steps with safety? Did he fall in with some one able to guide him back to Glengariff? Did he regain the Hermitage after fatigue and peril, and much self-reproach for an undertaking so foreign to his ways and habits; and did he vow to his own heart that this was to be the last of such excursions on his part? Had he his misgivings, too, that his conduct had not been perfectly heroic; and did he experience a sense of shame in retiring before a peril braved by a young and delicate girl? Admitted to a certain share of that gentleman’s confidence, we are obliged to declare that his chief sorrows were occasioned by the loss of time, the amount of inconvenience, and the degree of fatigue the expedition had caused him. It was not till late in the afternoon of the day that he chanced upon a fisherman on his way to Bantry to sell his fish. The poor peasant could not speak nor understand English, and after a vain attempt at explanation on either side, the colloquy ended by Hankes joining company with the man, and proceeding along with him, whither he knew not.

If we have not traced the steps of Sybella’s wanderings, we are little disposed to linger along with those of Mr. Hankes, though, if his own account were to be accepted, his journey was a succession of adventures and escapes. Enough if we say that he at last abandoned his horse amid the fissured cliffs of the coast, and, as best he might, clambered over rock and precipice, through tall mazes of wet fern and deep moss, along shingly shores and sandy beaches, till he reached the little inn at Bantry, the weariest and most worn-out of men, his clothes in rags, his shoes in tatters, and he himself scarcely conscious, and utterly indifferent as to what became of him.

A night’s sound sleep and a good breakfast were already contributing much to efface the memory of past sufferings, when Sybella Kellett entered his room. She had been over to the cottage, had visited the whole locality, transacted all the business she had come for, and only diverged from her homeward route on hearing that Mr. Hankes had just arrived at Bantry. Rather apologizing for having left him than accusing him of deserting her, she rapidly proceeded to sketch out her own journey. She did not dwell upon any incidents of the way, – had they been really new or strange she would not have recalled them, – she only adverted to what had constituted the object of her coming, – the purchase of the small townland which she had completed.

“It is a dear old place,” said she, “of a fashion one so rarely sees in Ireland, the house being built after that taste known as Elizabethan, and by tradition said to have once been inhabited by the poet Spenser. It is very small, and so hidden by a dense beech-wood, that you might pass within fifty yards of the door and never see it. This rude drawing may give you some idea of it.”

“And does the sea come up so close as this?” asked Hankes, eagerly.

“The little fishing-boat ran into the cove you see there; her mainsail dropped over the new-mown hay.”

“Why, it ‘s the very thing Lord Lockewood is looking for, He is positively wild about a spot in some remote out-of-the-way region; and then, what you tell me of its being a poet’s house will complete the charm. You said Shakspeare – ”

“No, Spenser, the poet of the ‘Faërie Queene,’” broke she in, with a smile.

“It’s all the same; he ‘ll give it a fanciful name, and the association with its once owner will afford him unceasing amusement.”

“I hope he is not destined to enjoy the pleasure you describe.”

“No? – why not, pray?”

“I hope and trust that the place may not pass into his hands; in a word, I intend to ask Mr. Dunn to allow me to be the purchaser. I find that the sum is almost exactly the amount I have invested in the Allotment scheme, – these same shares we spoke of, – and I mean to beg as a great favor, – a very great favor, – to be permitted to make this exchange. I want no land, – nothing but the little plot around the cottage.”

“The cottage formerly inhabited by the poet Spenser, built in the purest Elizabethan style, and situated in a glen, – you said a glen, I think, Miss Kellett?” said Hankes, – “in a glen, whose wild enclosure, bosomed amongst deep woods, and washed by the Atlantic – ”

“Are you devising an advertisement, sir?”

“The very thing I was doing, Miss Kellett. I was just sketching out a rough outline of a short paragraph for the ‘Post.’”

“But remember, sir, I want to possess this spot. I wish to be its owner – ”

“To dispose of, of course, hereafter, – to make a clear three, four, or five thousand by the bargain, eh?”

“Nothing of the kind, Mr. Hankes. I mean to acquire enough – some one day or other – to go back and dwell there. I desire to have what I shall always, to myself at least, call mine – my home. It will be as a goal to win, the time I can come back and live there. It will be a resting-place for poor Jack when he returns to England.”

Mr. Hankes paused. It was the first time Miss Kellett had referred to her own fortunes in such a way as permitted him to take advantage of the circumstance, and he deliberated with himself whether he ought not to profit by the accident. How would she receive a word of advice from him? Would it be well taken? Might it possibly lead to something more? Would she be disposed to lean on his counsels; and, if so, what then? Ay, Mr. Hankes, it was the “what then?” was the puzzle. It was true his late conduct presented but a sorry emblem of that life-long fidelity he thought of pledging; but if she were the clear-sighted, calm-reasoning intelligence he believed, she would lay little stress upon what, after all, was a mere trait of a man’s temperament. Very rapidly, indeed, did these reflections pass through his mind; and then he stole a glance at her as she sat quietly sipping her tea, looking a very ideal of calm tranquillity. “This cottage,” thought he, “has evidently taken a hold of her fancy. Let me see if I cannot turn the theme to my purpose.” And with this intention he again brought her back to speak of the spot, which she did with all the eagerness of true interest.

“As to the association with the gifted spirit of song,” said Mr. Hankes, soaring proudly into the style he loved, “I conclude that to be somewhat doubtful of proof, eh?”

“Not at all, sir. Spenser lived at a place called Kilcoleman, from which he removed for two or three years, and returned. It was in this interval he inhabited the cottage. Curiously enough, some manuscript in his writing – part of a correspondence with the Lord-Deputy – was discovered yesterday when I was there. It was contained in a small oak casket with a variety of other papers, some in quaint French, some in Latin. The box was built in so as to form a portion of a curiously carved chimney-piece, and chance alone led to its discovery.”

“I hope you secured the documents?” cried Hankes, eagerly.

“Yes, sir; here they are, box and all. The Rector advised me to carry them away for security’ sake.” And so saying, she laid upon the table a massively bound and strong-built box, of about a foot in length.

It was with no inexperienced hand that Mr. Hankes proceeded to investigate the contents. His well-practised eye rapidly caught the meaning of each paper as he lifted it up, and he continued to mutter to himself his comments upon them. “This document is an ancient grant of the lands of Cloughrennin to the monks of the Abbey of Castlerosse, and bears date 1104. It speaks of certain rights reserved to the Baron Hugh Pritchard Conway. Conway – Conway,” mumbled he, twice or thrice; “that’s the very name I tried and could not remember yesterday, Miss Kellett. You asked me about a certain soldier whose daring capture of a Russian officer was going the round of the papers. The young fellow had but one arm too; now I remember, his name was Conway.”

“Charles Conway! Was it Charles Conway?” cried she, eagerly; “but it could be no other, – he had lost his right arm.”

“I ‘m not sure which, but he had only one, and he was called an orderly on the staff of the Piedmontese General.”

“Oh, the noble fellow! I could have sworn he would distinguish himself. Tell me it all again, sir; where did it happen, and how, and when?”

Mr. Hankes’s memory was now to be submitted to a very searching test, and he was called on to furnish details which might have puzzled “Our own Correspondent.” Had Charles Conway been rewarded for his gallantry? What notice had his bravery elicited? Was he promoted, and to what rank? Had he been decorated, and with what order? Were his wounds, as reported, only trifling? Where was he now? – was he in hospital or on service? She grew impatient at how little he knew, – how little the incident seemed to have impressed him. “Was it possible,” she asked, “that heroism like this was so rife that a meagre paragraph was deemed enough to record it, – a paragraph, too, that forgot to state what had become of its hero?”

“Why, my dear Miss Kellett,” interposed he, at length, “one reads a dozen such achievements every week.”

“I deny it, sir,” cried she, angrily. “Our soldiers are the bravest in the world; they possess a courage that asks no aid from the promptings of self-interest, nor the urgings of vanity; they are very lions in combat; but it needs the chivalrous ardor of the gentleman, the man of blood and lineage to conceive a feat like this. It was only a noble patriotism could suggest the thought of such an achievement.”

“I must say,” said Hankes, in confusion, “the young fellow acquitted himself admirably; but I would also beg to observe that there is nothing in the newspaper to lead to the conclusion you are disposed to draw. There’s not a word of his being a gentleman.”

“But I know it, sir, – the fact is known to me. Charles Conway is a man of family; he was once a man of fortune: he had served as an officer in a Lancer regiment; he had been extravagant, wild, wasteful, if you will.”

“Why, it can’t be the Smasher you’re talking of? – the great swell that used to drive the four chestnuts in the Park, and made the wager he ‘d go in at one window of Stagg and Mantle’s and out at t’other?”

“I don’t care to hear of such follies, sir, when there are better things to be remembered. Besides, he is my brother’s dearest friend, and I will not hear him spoken of but with respect. Take my word for it, sir, I am but asking what you had done, without a hint, were he only present.”

“I believe you, – by Jove, I believe you!” cried Hankes, with an honesty in the tone of his voice that actually made her smile. “And so this is Conway the Smasher!”

“Pray, Mr. Hankes, recall him by some other association. It is only fair to remember that he has given us the fitting occasion.”

“Ay, very true, – what you say is perfectly just; and, as you say, he is your brother’s friend. Who would have thought it! – who would have thought it!”.

Without puzzling ourselves to inquire what it was that thus excited Mr. Hankes’s astonishment, let us observe that gentleman, as he turns over, one by one, the papers in the box, muttering his comments meanwhile to himself: “Old title-deeds, – very old indeed, – all the ancient contracts are recited. Sir Gwellem Conway must have been a man of mark and note in those days. Here we find him holding ‘in capite’ from the king, twelve thousand acres, with the condition that he builds a strong castle and a ‘bawn.’ And these are, apparently, Sir Gwellem’s own letters. Ah! and here we have him or his descendant called Baron of Ackroyd and Bedgellert, and claimant to the title of Lackington, in which he seems successful. This is the writ of summons calling him to the Lords as Viscount Lackington. Very curious and important these papers are, – more curious, perhaps, than important, – for in all likelihood there have been at least half a dozen confiscations of these lands since this time.”

Mr. Hankes’s observations were not well attended to, for Sybella was already deep in the perusal of a curious old letter from a certain Dame Marian Conway to her brother, then Sheriff of Cardigan, in which some very strange traits of Irish chieftain life were detailed.

“I have an antiquarian friend who’d set great store by these old documents, Miss Kellett,” said Hankes, with a sort of easy indifference. “They have no value save for such collectors; they serve to throw a passing light over a dark period of history, and perhaps explain a bygone custom or an obsolete usage. What do you mean to do with them?”

“Keep them. If I succeed in my plans about the cottage, these letters of Spenser to Sir Lawrence Esmond are in themselves a title. Of course, if I fail in my request, I mean to give them to Mr. Dunn.”

“These were Welsh settlers, it would seem,” cried Hankes, still bending over the papers. “They came originally from Abergedley.”

“Abergedley!” repeated Sybella, three or four times over. “How strange!”

“What is strange, Miss Kellett?” asked Hankes, whose curiosity was eagerly excited by the expression of her features.

Instead of reply, however, she had taken a small notebook from her pocket, and sat with her eyes fixed upon a few words written in her own hand: “The Conways of Abergedley – of what family – if settled at any time in Ireland, and where?” These few words, and the day of the year when they were written, recalled to her mind a conversation she had once held with Terry Driscoll.

“What is puzzling you, Miss Kellett?” broke in Hankes; “I wish I could be of any assistance to its unravelment.”

“I am thinking of ‘long ago;’ something that occurred years back. Didn’t you mention,” asked she, suddenly, “that Mr. Driscoll had been the former proprietor of thia cottage?”

“Yes, in so far as having paid part of the purchase-money. Does his name recall anything to interest you, Miss Kellett?”

If she heard she did not heed his question, but sat deep sunk in her own musings.

If there was any mood of the human mind that had an especial fascination for Mr. Hankes, it was that frame of thought which indicated the possession of some mysterious subject, – some deep and secret theme which the possessor retained for himself alone, – a measure of which none were to know the amount, to which none were to have the key. It would be ignoble to call this passion curiosity, for, in reality, it was less exercised by any desire to fathom the mystery than it was prompted by an intense jealousy of him who thus held in his own hands the solution of some portentous difficulty. To know on what schemes other men were bent, what hopes and fears filled them, by what subtle trains of reasoning they came to this conclusion or to that, were the daily exercises of his intelligence. He was eternally, as the phrase is, putting things together, comparing events, confronting this circumstance with that, and drawing inferences from every chance and accident of life. Now, it was clear to him Miss Kellett had a secret; or, at least, had the clew to one. Driscoll was “in it,” and this cottage was “in it,” and, not impossibly too, some of these Conway s were “in it.” There was something in that note-book; how was he to obtain sight of it? The vaguest line – a word – would be enough for him. Mr. Hankes remembered how he had once committed himself and his health to the care of an unskilful physician simply because the man knew a fact which he wanted, and did worm out of him during his attendance. He had, at another time, undertaken a short voyage in a most unsafe craft, with a drunken captain, because the stewardess was possessed of a secret of which, even in his sea-sickness, he obtained the key. Over and over again had he assumed modes of life he detested, dissipation the most distasteful to him, to gain the confidence of men that were only assailable in these modes; and now he bethought him that if he only had a glimmering of his present suspicion, the precipice and the narrow path and the booming sea below had all been braved, and he would have followed her unflinchingly through every peril with this goal before him. Was it too late to reinstate himself in her esteem? He thought not; indeed, she did not seem to retain any memory of his defection. At all events, there was little semblance of it having influenced her in her manner towards him.