Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“Just as likely,” said Kellett, carelessly.

“Now, would your son be able to make him out for me? – not for the sake of the money, for I would n’t speak of it, but out of regard for him, for I took a liking to him; he was a fine, handsome fellow, and bold as a lion.”

“He mightn’t be in Jack’s battalion, or he might, and Jack not know him. What was his name?” said Kellett, in some confusion.

“I ‘ll tell you if you ‘ll pledge your word you ‘ll never say a syllable about the money, for I can’t think but he forgot it.”

“I ‘ll never breathe a word about it.”

“And will you ask your son all about him, – if he likes the sarvice, or if he ‘d rather be at home, and how it agrees with him?” “And the name?”

“The name? – I wrote it down on a bit of paper just for my own memory’s sake, for I forget everything; the name is Conway, – Charles Conway.”

“Why, that’s the very – ” When he got so far, a warning look from Bella arrested Kellett’s voice, and he ceased speaking, looking eagerly at his daughter for some explanation. Had he not been so anxious for some clew to her meaning, he could scarcely have failed to be struck by the intense keenness of the glance Driscoll turned from the countenance of the father to that of the daughter. She, however, marked it, and with such significance that a deathlike sickness crept suddenly over her, and she sank slowly down into a seat.

“You ware saying, ‘That’s the very – ‘” said Driscoll, repeating the words, and waiting for the conclusion.

“The very name we read in a newspaper,” said Bella, who, with a sort of vague instinct of some necessity for concealment, at once gave this evasive reply. “He volunteered for somewhere, or was first inside a battery, or did something or other very courageous.”

“It was n’t killed he was?” said Driscoll, in his habitual tone.

“No, no,” cried Kellett, “he was all safe.”

“Isn’t it a queer thing? but I’d like to hear of him! There was some Conway s connections of my mother’s, and I can’t get it out of my head but he might be one of them. It’s not a common name, like Driscoll.”

“Well, Jack will, maybe, be able to tell you about him,” said Kellett, still under the spell of Bella’s caution.

“If you would tell me on what points you want to be informed,” said Bella, “I shall be writing to my brother in a day or two. Are there any distinct questions you wish to be answered?”

The calm but searching glance that accompanied these few words gradually gave way to an expression of pity as Bella gazed at the hopeless imbecility of poor Driscoll’s face, wherein not a gleam of intelligence now lingered. It was as if the little struggle of intellect had so exhausted him that he was incapable of any further effort of reason. And there he sat, waiting till the returning tide of thought should flow back upon his stranded intelligence.

“Would you like him to be questioned about the family?” said she, looking good-naturedly at him.

“Yes, miss, – yes,” said he, half dreamily; “that is, I would n’t like my own name, poor crayture as I am, to be mentioned; but if you could anyways find out if he was one of the Conway s of Abergedley, – they were my mother’s people, – if you could find out that for me, it would be a great comfort.”

“I’ll charge myself with the commission,” said Bella, writing down the words “Conway of Abergedley.”

“Now there was something else, if my poor head could only remember it,” said Driscoll, whose countenance displayed the most complete picture of a puzzled intelligence.

“Mix yourself another tumbler, and you’ll think of it by and by,” said Kellett, courteously.

“Yes,” muttered Driscoll, accepting the suggestion at once. “It was something about mustard-seed, I think,” added he, after a pause; “they say it will keep fresh for two years if you put it in a blue-paper bag, – deep blue is best” A look of sincere compassion passed between Kellett and his daughter, and Driscoll went on, “I don’t think it was that, though, I wanted to remember.” And he fell into deep reflection for several minutes, at the end of which he started abruptly up, finished off his glass, and began to button up his coat in preparation for the road.

“Don’t go till I see what the night looks like,” cried Kellett, as he left the room to examine the state of the weather.

“If I should be fortunate enough to obtain any information, how shall I communicate with you?” asked Bella, addressing him hastily, as if to profit by the moment of their being alone.

Driscoll looked fixedly at her for a second or two, and gradually the expression of his face settled down into its habitual cast of unmeaning imbecility, while he merely muttered to himself, “No evidence; throw out the bills.”

She repeated her question, and in a voice to show that she believed herself well understood.

“Yes!” said he, with a vacant grin, – “yes! but they don’t agree with everybody.”

“There’s a bit of a moon out now, and the rain has stopped,” said Kellett, entering, “so that it would n’t be friendly to detain you.”

“Good-night, good-night,” said Driscoll, hurriedly; “that spirit is got up to my head. I feel it. A pleasant journey to you both, and be sure to remember me to Mrs. Miller.” And with these incoherent words he hastened away, and his voice was soon heard singing cheerily as he plodded his way towards Dublin. “That’s the greatest affliction of all,” said Kellett, as he sat down and sipped his glass. “There ‘s nothing like having one’s faculties, one’s reason, clear and unclouded. I would n’t be like that poor fellow there to be as rich as the Duke of Leinster.”

“It is a strange condition,” said Bella, thoughtfully. “There were moments when his eyes lighted up with a peculiar significance, as if, at intervals, his mind had regained all its wonted vigor. Did you remark that?”

“Indeed, I did not. I saw nothing of the kind,” said Kellett, peevishly. “By the way, why were you so cautious about Conway?”

“Just because he begged that his name might not be mentioned. He said that some trifling debts were still hanging over him, from his former extravagance; and though all in course of liquidation, he dreaded the importunate appeals of creditors so certain to pour in if they heard of his being in Dublin.”

“Every one has his troubles!” muttered Kellett, as he sank into a moody reflection over his own, and sipped his liquor in silence.

Let us now follow Driscoll, who, having turned the corner of the lane, out of earshot of the cottage, suddenly ceased his song, and walked briskly along towards town. Rapidly as he walked, his lips moved more rapidly still, as he maintained a kind of conversation with himself, bursting out from time to time with a laugh, as some peculiar conceit amused him. “To be sure, a connection by the mother’s side,” said he. “One has a right to ask after his own relations! And, for all I know, my grandmother was a Conway. The ould fool was so near pokin’ his foot in it, and letting out that he knew him well. She’s a deep one, that daughter; and it was a bould stroke the way she spoke to me when we were alone. It was just as much as to say, ‘Terry, put your cards down, for I know your hand.’ ‘No, miss,’ says I, ‘I’ve a thrump in the heel of my fist that ye never set eyes on. Ha, ha, ha!’ but she’s deep for all that, – mighty deep; and if it was safe, I wish we had her in the plot! Ay! but is it safe, Mr. Driscoll? By the virtue of your oath, Terry Driscoll, do you belave she wouldn’t turn on you? She’s a fine-looking girl, too,” added he, after an interval. “I wish I knew her sweetheart, for she surely has one. Terry, Terry, ye must bestir yourself; ye must be up early and go to bed late, my boy. You ‘re not the man ye were before ye had that ‘faver,’ – that spotted faver!” – here he laughed till his eyes ran over. “What a poor crayture it has left ye; no memory, no head for anything!” And he actually shook with laughter at the thought. “Poor Terry Driscoll, ye are to be pitied!” said he, as he wiped the tears from his face. “Is n’t it a sin and a shame there’s no one to look after ye?”

CHAPTER XIX. DRISCOLL IN CONFERENCE

“Not come in yet, sir; but he is sure to be back soon,” said Mr. Clowes, the butler, to Terry Driscoll, as he stood in the hall of Mr. Davenport Dunn’s house, about eleven o’clock of the same night we have spoken of in our last chapter.

“You’re expecting him, then?” asked Driscoll, in his own humble manner.

“Yes, sir,” said Clowes, looking at his watch; “he ought to be here now. We have a deal of business to get through to-night, and several appointments to keep; but he’ll see you, Mr. Driscoll. He always gives directions to admit you at once.”

“Does he really?” asked Driscoll, with an air of perfect innocence.

“Yes,” said Clowes, in a tone at once easy and patronizing, “he likes you. You are one of the very few who can amuse him. Indeed, I don’t think I ever heard him laugh, what I ‘d call a hearty laugh, except when you ‘re with him.”

“Isn’t that quare, now!” exclaimed Driscoll. “Lord knows it’s little fun is in me now!”

“Come in and take a chair; charge you nothing for the sitting,” said Clowes, laughing at his own smartness as he led the way into a most comfortably furnished little room which formed his own sanctum.

The walls were decorated with colored prints and drawings of great projected enterprises, – peat fuel manufactories of splendid pretensions, American packet stations on the west coast, of almost regal architecture, vied with ground-plans of public parks and ornamental model farms; fish-curing institutions, and smelting-houses, and beetroot-sugar buildings, graced scenes of the very wildest desolation, and, by an active representation of life and movement, seemed to typify the wealth and prosperity which enterprise was sure to carry into regions the very dreariest and least promising.

“A fine thing, that, Mr. Driscoll!” said Clowes, as Terry stood admiring a large and highly colored plate, wherein several steam-engines were employed in supplying mill-streams with water from a vast lake, while thousands of people seemed busily engaged in spade labor on its borders. “That is the ‘Lough Corrib Drainage and Fresh Strawberry Company,’ capital eight hundred thousand pounds! Chemical analysis has discovered that the soil of drained lands, treated with a suitable admixture of the alkaline carbonates, is peculiarly favorable to the growth of the strawberry, – a fruit whose properties are only now receiving their proper estimate. The strawberry, you are perhaps not aware, is a great anti-scorbutic. Six strawberries, taken in a glass of diluted malic acid of a morning, fasting, would restore the health of those fine fellows we are now daily losing in such numbers in the Crimea. I mean, of course, a regular treatment of three months of this regimen, with due attention to diet, cleanliness, and habit of exercise, – all predisposing elements removed, all causes of mental anxiety withdrawn. To this humane discovery this great industrial speculation owes its origin. There you see the engines at full work; the lake is in process of being drained, the water being all utilized by the mills you see yonder, some of which are compressing the strawberry pulp into a paste for exportation. Here are the people planting the shoots; those men in blue, with the watering-pots, are the alkaline feeders, who supply the plant with the chemical preparation I mentioned, the strength being duly marked by letters, as you see. B. C. P. means bi-carbonate of potash; S. C. S., sub-carbonate of soda; and so on. Already, sir,” said he, raising his voice, “we have contracts for the supply of twenty-eight tons a week, and we hope,” added he, with a tremulous fervor in his voice, “to live to see the time when the table of the poorest peasant in the land will be graced by the health-conducing condiment.”

“With all my heart and soul I wish you success,” said Driscoll; while he muttered under his breath what sounded like a fervid prayer for the realization of this blessed hope.

“Of that we are pretty certain, sir,” said Clowes, pompously; “the shares are now one hundred and twelve, – paid up in two calls, thirty-six pounds ten shillings, He,” said Clowes, with a jerk of his thumb towards Mr. Dunn’s room, meant to indicate its owner, – “he don’t like it; calls it a bubble, and all that, but I have, known him mistaken, sir, – ay, and more than once. You may remember that vein of yellow marble – giallo antico, they call it – found on Martin’s property – That’s his knock; here he comes now,” cried he, hurrying away to meet his master, and leaving the story of his blunder unrelated. “All right,” said Clowes, re-entering, hastily; “you can go in now. He seems in a precious humor to-night,” added he, in a low whisper; “something or other has gone wrong with him.”

Driscoll had scarcely closed the inner door of cloth that formed the last security of Davenport Dunn’s privacy, when he perceived the correctness of Mr. Clowes’s information. Dunn’s brow was dark and clouded, his face slightly flushed, and his eye restless and excited.

“What is it so very pressing, Driscoll, that could n’t wait till to-morrow?” said he, peevishly, and not paying the slightest attention to the other’s courteous salutation.

“I thought this was the time you liked best,” said Driscoll, quietly; “you always said, ‘Come to me when I’ve done for the day – ‘”

“But who told you I had done for the day? That pile of letters has yet to be answered; many of them I have not even read. The Attorney-General will be here in a few minutes about these prosecutions too.”