The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2 (of 2)

by Charles James Lever

  CHAPTER XVI. PAUL DEMPSEY'S WALK

  With the most eager desire to accomplish his mission, Paul Dempsey didnot succeed in reaching "The Corvy" until late on the day after MissDaly's visit. He set out originally by paths so secret and circuitousthat he lost his way, and was obliged to pass his night among the hills,where, warned by the deep thundering of the sea that the cliffs werenear, he was fain to await daybreak ere he ventured farther. Thetrackless waste over which his way led was no bad emblem of poor Paul'smind, as, cowering beneath a sand-hill, he shivered through the longhours of night. Swayed by various impulses, he could determine on nodefinite line of action, and wavered and doubted and hesitated, till hisvery brain was addled by its operations.

  At one moment he was disposed, like good Launcelot Gobbo, to "run forit," and, leaving Darcy and all belonging to him to their several fates,to provide for his own safety; when suddenly a dim vision of meetingMaria Daly in this world or the next, and being called to account forhis delinquency, routed such determinations. Then he revelled in theglorious opportunity for gossip afforded by the whole adventure. How heshould astonish Coleraine and its neighborhood by his revelations ofthe Knight and his family! Gossip in all its moods and tenses, fromthe vague indicative of mere innuendo, to the full subjunctive of opendefamation! Not indeed that Mr. Dempsey loved slander for itself; onthe contrary, his temperament was far more akin to kindliness than itsopposite; but the passion for retailing one's neighbor's foibles ormisfortunes is an impulse that admits no guidance; and as the gamblerwould ruin his best friend at play, so would the professed gossipcalumniate the very nearest and dearest to him on earth. There are inthe social as in the mercantile world characters who never deal in thehonest article of commerce, but have a store of damaged, injured, orsmuggled goods, to be hawked about surreptitiously, and always to besold in the "strictest secrecy." Mr. Dempsey was a pedler in this wise,and, if truth must be told, he did not dislike his trade.

  And yet, at moments, thoughts of another and more tender kind werewafted across Paul's mind, not resting indeed long enough to make anydeep impression, but still leaving behind them, as pleasant thoughtsalways will, little twilights of happiness. Paul had been touched--amere graze, skin deep, but still touched--by Helen Darcy's beauty andfascinations. She had accompanied him more than once on the piano whilehe sang, and whether the long-fringed eyelashes and the dimpled cheekhad done the mischief, or that the thoughtful tact with which shedisplayed Paul's good notes and glossed over his false ones had won hisgratitude, certain is it he had already felt a very sensible regard forthe young lady, and more than once caught himself, when thinking abouther, speculating on the speedy demise of Bob Dempsey, of Dempsey'sGrove, and all the consequences that might ensue therefrom.

  If the enjoyment Mr. Dempsey's various peculiarities afforded Helensuggested on her part the semblance of pleasure in his society, Paultook these indications all in his own favor, and even catechized himselfhow far he might be deemed culpable in winning the affections of acharming young lady, so long as his precarious condition forbid allthought of matrimony. Now, however, that he knew who the family reallywere, such doubts were much allayed; for, as he wisely remarked tohimself, "Though they are ruined, there 's always nice picking in thewreck of an Indiaman!" Such were the thoughts by which his way wasbeguiled, when late in the afternoon he reached "The Corvy."

  Lady Eleanor and her daughter were out walking when Mr. Dempsey arrived,and, having cautiously reconnoitred the premises, ventured to approachthe door. All was quiet and tranquil about the cottage; so, reassured bythis, he peered through the window into the large hall, where a cheerfulfire now blazed and shed a mellow glow over the strange decorations ofthe chamber. Mr. Dempsey had often desired an opportunity of examiningthese curiosities at his leisure. Not indeed prompted thereto by anyantiquarian taste, but, from a casual glance at the inscriptions, hecalculated on the amount of private history of the Dalys he shouldobtain. Stray and independent facts, it is true, but to be arranged bythe hand of a competent and clever commentator.

  With cautious hand he turned the handle of the door and entered.

  There he stood, in the very midst of the coveted objects; and never didhumble bookworm gaze on the rich titles of an ample library with moreenthusiastic pleasure. He drew a long breath to relieve his overburdenedheart, and glutted his eyes in ecstasy on every side. Enthusiasm takesits tone from individuality, and doubtless Mr. Dempsey felt at thatmoment something as Belzoni might, when, unexpectedly admitted withinsome tomb of the Pyramids, he found himself about to unravel some secrethistory of the Pharaohs.

  "Now for it," said he, half aloud; "let us do the thing in order; andfirst of all, what have we here?" He stooped and read an inscriptionattached to a velvet coat embroidered with silver,--

  "Coat worn by B. D. in his duel with Colonel Matthews,--62,--thepuncture under the sword-arm being a tierce outside the guard; a veryrare point, and which cost the giver seriously."

  "He killed Matthews, of course," added Dempsey; "the passage can meannothing else, so let us be accurate as to fact and date."

  So saying, he proceeded to note down the circumstance in a littlememorandum-book. "So!" added he, as he read his note over; "now for thenext. What can this misshapen lump of metal mean?"

  "A piece of brute gold, presented with twelve female slaves by thechiefs of Doolawochyeekeka on B. D.'s assuming the sovereignty of theisland."

  "Brute gold," said Mr. Dempsey; "devilish little of the real thingabout it, I'll be sworn! I suppose the ladies were about equally refinedand valuable."

  "Glove dropped by the Infanta Donna Isidore within the arena at Madrid,a few moments after Ruy Peres da Castres was gored to death."

  A prolonged low whistle from Mr. Dempsey was the only comment he made onthis inscription; while he stooped to examine the fragment of a bull'shorn, from which a rag of scarlet cloth was hanging. The inscriptionran, "Portion of horn broken as the bull fell against the barrier of thecircus. The cloth was part of Da Castres' vest."

  A massive antique helmet, of immense size and weight, lay on the floorbeside this. It was labelled, "Casque of Rudolf v. Hapsbourg, presentedto B. D. after the tilt at Regensburg by Edric Conrad Wilhelm Kur Furstvon Bavera, a.d. 1750."

  A splendid goblet of silver gilt, beautifully chased and ornamented, wasinscribed on the metal as being the gift of the Doge of Venice to hisfriend Bagenal Daly; and underneath was written on a card, "This cupwas drained to the bottom at a draught by B. D. after a long and deepcarouse, the liquor strong 'Vino di Cypro.' The Doge tried it andfailed; the mark within shows how far he drank."

  "By Jove! what a pull!" exclaimed Dempsey, who, as he peered intothe capacious vessel, looked as if he would not object to try his ownprowess at the feat.

  Wonderment at this last achievement seemed completely to have takenpossession of Mr. Dempsey; for while his eyes ranged over weaponsof every strange form and shape,--armor, idols, stuffed beasts andbirds,--they invariably came back to the huge goblet with an admiringwonder that showed that here at least there was an exploit whose meritshe could thoroughly appreciate.

  "A half-gallon can is nothing to it!" muttered he, as he replaced it onits bracket.

  The reflection was scarcely uttered, when the quick tramp of a horse andthe sound of wheels without startled him. He hastened to the window justin time to perceive a jaunting-car drive up to the wicket, from whichthree men descended. Two were common-looking fellows in dark uppercoats and glazed hats; the third, better dressed, and with ahalf-gentlemanlike air, seemed the superior. He threw off a loosetravelling-coat, and discovered, to Mr. Dempsey's horror, the featuresof his late patient at Larne, the sheriff's officer from Dublin. Yes,there was no doubt about it. That smart, conceited look, the sharp andturned-up nose, the scrubby whisker, proclaimed him as the terribleAnthony Nickie, of Jervas Street, a name which Mr. Dempsey had read onhis portmanteau before guessing how its owner was concerned in his owninterests.

  What a multitude of terrors jostled e
ach other in his mind as the menapproached the door, and what resolves did he form and abandon in thesame moment! To escape by the rear of the house while the enemy wasassailing the front, to barricade the premises and stand a siege, to armhimself--and there was a choice of weapons--and give battle, were allrapid impulses no sooner conceived than given up. A loud summons of thedoor-bell announced his presence; and ere the sounds died away, Tate'screaking footstep and winter cough resounded along the corridor. Mr.Dempsey threw a last despairing glance around, and the thought flashedacross him, how happily would he exchange his existence with any of thegrim images and uncouth shapes that grinned and glared on every side,ay, even with that saw-mouthed crocodile that surmounted the chimney!Quick as his eye traversed the chamber, he fancied that the savageanimals were actually enjoying his misery, and Sandy's counterpartappeared to show a diabolical glee at his wretched predicament. Itwas at this instant he caught sight of the loose folds of the Indianblanket, which enveloped Bagenal Daly's image. The danger was toopressing for hesitation; he stepped into the canoe, and cowering downunder the warlike figure, awaited his destiny. Scarcely had the draperyclosed around him when Tate admitted the new arrival.

  "'The Corvy? '" said Mr. Nickie to the old butler, who with decorousceremony bowed low before him. "'The Corvy,' ain't it?"

  "Yes, sir," replied Tate.

  "All right, Mac," resumed Nickie, turning to the elder of his twofollowers, who had closely dogged him to the door. "Bring thatcarpet-bag and the small box off the car, and tell the fellow he 'llhave time to feed his horse at that cabin on the road-side."

  He added something in a whisper, too low for Tate to hear, and then,taking the carpet-bag, he flung it carelessly in a corner, while hewalked forward and deposited the box on the table before the fire.

  "His honor is coming to dine, maybe?" asked Tate, respectfully; for oldhabit of his master's hospitality had made the question almost a matterof course, while age had so dimmed his eyesight that even Anthony Nickiepassed with him for a gentleman.

  "Coming to dine," repeated Nickie, with a coarse laugh; "that's abargain there 's always two words to, my old boy. I suppose you 'veheard it is manners to wait to be asked, eh?--without," added he, aftera second's pause,--"without I 'm to take this as an invitation."

  "I believe your honor might, then," said Tate, with a smile. "'Tis manya one I kept again the family came home for dinner, and sorrow word ofit they knew till they seen them dressed in the drawing-room! And thedinner-table!" said Tate, with a sigh, half in regret over the past,half preparing himself with a sufficiency of breath for a lengthenedoration,-"the dinner-table! it's wishing it I am still! After laying forten, or maybe twelve, his honor would come in and say, 'Tate, we 'll berather crowded here, for here 's Sir Gore Molony and his family. You 'llhave to make room for five more.' Then Miss Helen would come springingin with, 'Tate, I forgot to say Colonel Martin and his officers are tobe here at dinner.' After that it would be my lady herself, in her ownquiet way, 'Mr. Sullivan,'-she nearly always called me that,--'could n'tyou contrive a little space here for Lady Burke and Miss MacDonnel? Butthe captain beat all, for he 'd come in after the soup was removed, withfive or six gentlemen from the hunt, splashed and wet up to their necks;over he 'd go to the side-table, where I 'd have my knives and forks,all beautiful, and may I never but he 'd fling some here, others there,till he 'd clear a space away, and then he'd cry, 'Tate, bring back thesoup, and set some sherry here.' Maybe that wasn't the table fornoise, drinking wine with every one at the big table, and telling suchwonderful stories that the servants did n't know what they were doing,listening to them. And the master--the heavens be about him!--sending meover to get the names of the gentlemen, that he might ask them to takewine with him. Oh, dear--oh, dear, I 'm sure I used to think my heartwas broke with it; but sure it's nigher breaking now that it's all pastand over."

  "You seem to have had very jolly times of it in those days," saidNickie.

  "Faix, your honor might say so if you saw forty-eight sitting downto dinner every day in the parlor for seven weeks running; and MasterLionel--the captain that is--at the head of another table in thelibrary, with twelve or fourteen more,--nice youths they wor!"

  While Tate continued his retrospections, Mr. Nickie had unlocked hisbox, and cursorily throwing a glance over some papers, he muttered tohimself a few words, and then added aloud,--"Now for business."