The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1

“Can this dreadful story be true, Helen?” said Lady Eleanor, as the faint color left her features. “Call Margaret; or, stay – Sullivan, is Mr. Daly here?”

“That he is, never fear him. He’s looking at his morning’s work – he’s in the room where they carried the corpse; and the fine corpse it is.”

“Go tell Mr. Daly that Lady Eleanor desires to see him at once.”

“Go, and lose no time, Tate,” said Helen, as, almost fainting with terror, she half pushed the old man on his errand.

The mother and daughter sat silently gazing on each other for several minutes, terror and dismay depicted in the face of each, nor were they conscious of the lapse of time, when the door opening presented Mr. Bagenal Daly before them. He was dressed in his usual suit of dark brown, and with all his accustomed neatness. His long cravat, which, edged with deep lace, hung negligently over his waistcoat, was spotless in color and accurate in every fold, while his massive features were devoid of the slightest signs of emotion or excitement.

For an instant Lady Eleanor was deceived by all these evidences of tranquillity, but a glance at old Tate’s face, as he stood near the door, assured her that from such signs she had nothing to hope. Twice had Mr. Bagenal Daly performed his courteous salutations, which, in the etiquette of a past time, he made separately to each lady, and still Lady Eleanor had not summoned courage to address him. At last he said, —

“Have I been mistaken, and must I apologize for a visit at an hour so unseemly? But I heard that your Ladyship wished to see me.”

“Quite true, Mr. Daly,” interrupted Lady Eleanor, her habitual tact supplying a courage her heart was far from feeling. “Will you be seated? Leave the room, Sullivan. My daughter and I,” continued she, speaking with increased rapidity, to cover the emotion of the moment, “have just heard something of a dreadful event which is said to have occurred this morning. Old Sullivan so often exaggerates that we indulge the hope that there may be little or no foundation for the story. Is it true, sir, there has been a duel fought near this?” Her voice grew fainter as she spoke, and at last became a mere whisper.

“Yes, madam,” replied Daly, with an air of perfect calmness. “Two gentlemen met this morning at Cluan Point, and both were wounded.”

“Neither of them killed?”

“Wounded, madam,” reiterated Daly, as if correcting a misconstruction.

“Are the wounds deemed dangerous, sir?”

“Mr. MacDonough’s, madam, is not so. The inconvenience of using his left hand on any similar occasion, in future, will be probably the extent of the mishap. The other gentleman has not been equally fortunate, – his life is in peril.” Mr. Daly paused for a second, and then, perceiving that Lady Eleanor still awaited a further explanation, added, with gravity, “When taking his position on the ground, madam, instead of standing half-front, as I took pains to point out to him, Captain Forester – ”

“Forester! – is that his name, sir?” interrupted Helen, as, in a hand trembling with terror, she held out Lionel’s letter towards her mother.

“A friend of my son’s, – is he in the same regiment with Lionel?” asked Lady Eleanor, eagerly.

Daly bowed, and answered, “The same, madam.”

A low, faint sigh broke from Lady Eleanor, and, covering her eyes with her hand, she sat for some moments without speaking.

“Has any one seen him, sir?” asked Helen, suddenly, and in a voice that showed energy of character had the mastery over every feeling of grief, – “is there a surgeon with him?”

“No, Miss Darcy,” said Daly, with a certain haughtiness of manner. “I believe, however, that, although not a professional person, my knowledge of a gunshot wound is scarcely inferior to most men’s. I have sent in two directions for a surgeon; meanwhile, with my servant’s aid, I have succeeded in extracting the ball – I beg pardon, ladies, I think I heard the noise of wheels; it is probably the doctor.” And, with a deep bow and a measured step, Mr. Bagenal Daly withdrew, leaving Lady Eleanor and her daughter speechless, between grief and terror.

CHAPTER VIII. THE “HEAD” OF A FAMILY

When Bagenal Daly reached the courtyard, he was disappointed at finding that, instead of the surgeon whose arrival was so anxiously looked for, the visitor was no other than old Dr. Hickman, the father of Hickman O’Reilly, M. P. for the county, and grandfather of that very promising young gentleman slightly presented to our reader in an early chapter.

If the acorn be a very humble origin for the stately oak of the forest, assuredly Peter Hickman, formerly of Loughrea, “Apothecary and Surgeon,” was the most unpretending source for the high and mighty house of O’Reilly. More strictly speaking, the process was only a “graft,” and it is but justice to him to say, that of this fact no one was more thoroughly convinced than old Peter himself. Industry and thrift had combined to render him tolerably well off in the world, when the death of a brother who had sought his fortunes in the East – when fortunes were to be found in that region – put him in possession of something above two hundred thousand pounds. Even before this event, he had been known as a shrewd contriver of small speculations, a safe investor of little capital, was conversant, from the habits of his professional life, with the private circumstances of every family of the country where money was wanting, and where repayment was sure; the very temperament of his patients suggested to him the knowledge by which he guided his operations, and he could bring his skill as a medical man into his service, and study his creditors with the eye of a physiologist. When this great accession of wealth so suddenly occurred, far from communicating his good fortune to his friends and neighbors, he merely gave out that poor Tom had left him “his little savings,” “though God knows, in that faraway country, if he’d ever see any of it.” His guarded caution on the subject, and the steady persistence with which he maintained his former mode of life, gave credence to the story, and the utmost estimate of his wealth would not have gone beyond being a snug old fellow “that might give up his business any day.” This was, however, the very last thing in his thoughts; the title of “Doctor,” so courteously bestowed in Ireland on the humbler walks of medicine, was a “letter of marque” enabling him to cruise in latitudes otherwise inaccessible. Any moneyed embarrassment of the country gentry, any severe pressure to be averted by an opportune loan or the sale of landed property, was speedily made available by him as a call to see whether “the cough was easier;” or “how was the gouty ankle;” if the “mistress was getting better of the nerves,” “and the children gaining strength by the camomile.” And in this way he made one species of gain subservient to another, while his character for kindness and benevolence was the theme of the whole neighborhood.

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?”