Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“But remember, father – ”

“There, now,” said he, rising from the table, “if you talked till you were tired, I ‘d go still. My mind is made up on it.”

Bella turned away her head, and stole her handkerchief to her eyes.

“I know very well,” burst he in, bitterly, “that the blackguard newspapers to-morrow will just be as ready to abuse me for it. It would have been more dignified, or more decent, or something or other, if Mr. Kellett had not appeared at the sale; but I ‘ll go, nevertheless, if it was only to see the man that’s to take our place there! Wait dinner for me till six, – that is, if there ‘s any dinner at all.” And, with a laugh of bitterest meaning, he left the room, and was soon seen issuing from the little garden into the road.

What a sad day, full of gloomy forebodings, was that for her! She knew well how all the easy and careless humor of her father had been changed by calamity into a spirit fierce and resentful; that, suspectful of insult on every hand, he held himself ever prepared to meet the most harmless remark with words of defiance. An imaginary impression that the world had agreed to scorn him, made him adopt a bearing at once aggressive and offensive; and he who was once a proverb for good temper became irritable and savage to a degree.

What might not come of such a temperament, tried in its tenderest spot? What might occur to expose him to the heartless sneers of those who neither knew his qualities nor his trials? These were her thoughts as she walked to and fro in her little room, unable to read, unable to write, though she made several attempts to begin a letter to her brother. The dark future also lowered before, without one flicker of light to pierce its gloom. How were they to live? In a few days more they would be at the end of their frail resources, – something less than two pounds was all that they had in the world. How she envied those in some foreign land who could stoop to the most menial labor, unseen and unremembered by their own. How easily, she thought, poverty might be borne, if divested of the terrible contrast with a former condition. Could they by any effort raise the means to emigrate, – and where to? Might not Mr. Dunn be the person to give counsel in such a case? From all she had heard of him, he was conversant with every career, every walk, and every condition. Doubtless he could name the very colony, and the very spot to suit them, – nor impossible that he might aid them to reach it. If they prospered, they could repay him. They might pledge themselves to such a condition on this head as he would dictate. How, then, to approach him? A letter? And yet a letter was always so wanting in the great requisite of answering doubts as they arose, and meeting difficulties by ready re-Joinder. A personal interview would do this. Then why not ask for an audience of him? “I’ll call upon him at once,” said she; “he may receive me without other solicitation, – my name will surely secure me that much of attention.” Would her father approve of such a step? – would it not appear to his eyes an act of meanness and dependence? – might not the whole scheme be one to which he would offer opposition? From conflicts like these she came back to the dreary present and wondered what could still delay his coming. It was a road but little travelled; and as she sat watching at the window, her eyes grew wearied piercing the hazy atmosphere, darkening deeper and deeper as night drew near. She endeavored to occupy herself in various ways: she made little preparations for his coming; she settled his room neatly, over and over; she swept the hearth, and made a cheerful fire to greet him; and then, passing into the kitchen, she looked after the humble dinner that awaited him. Six o’clock passed, and another weary hour followed. Seven, – and still he came not. She endeavored to divert her thoughts into thinking of the future she had pictured to herself. She tried to fancy the scenery, the climate, the occupation of that dream-land over the seas; but at every bough that beat against the window by the wind, at every sound of the storm without, she would start up, and hasten to the door to listen.

It was now near eight o’clock; and so acute had her hearing become by intense anxiety that she could detect the sounds of a footfall coming along the plashy road. She did not venture to move, lest she should lose the sound, and she dreaded, too, lest it should pass on. She bent down her head to hear; and now, oh, ecstasy of relief! she heard the latch of the little wicket raised, and the step upon the gravel-walk within. She rushed at once to the door, and, dashing out into the darkness, threw herself wildly upon his breast, saying, “Thank God you are come! Oh, how I have longed for you, dearest, dearest father!” And then as suddenly, with a shriek, cried out, “Who is it? Who is this?”

“Conway, – Charles Conway. A friend, – at least, one who would wish to be thought so.”

With a wild and rapid utterance she told him of her long and weary watch, and that her fears – mere causeless fears, she said she knew they were – had made her nervous and miserable. Her father’s habits, always so regular and homely, made even an hour’s delay a source of anxiety. “And then he had not been well for some days back, – circumstances had occurred to agitate him; things preyed upon him more heavily than they had used. Perhaps it was the dreary season – perhaps their solitary kind of life – had rendered them both more easily depressed. But, somehow – ” She could not go on; but hastening towards the window, pressed her hands to her face.

“If you could tell me where I would be likely to hear of him, – what are his haunts in town – ”

“He has none, – none whatever. He has entirely ceased to visit any of his former friends; even Mr. Beecher he has not called on for months long.”

“Has he business engagements in any quarter that you know of?”

“None now. He did hold an office in the Customs, but he does so no longer. It is possible – just possible – he might have called at Mr. Dunn’s, but he could not have been detained there so late as this. And if he were – ” She stopped, confused and embarrassed.

“As to that,” said he, catching at her difficulty with ready tact, “I could easily pretend it was my own anxiety that caused the visit. I could tell him it was likely I should soon see Jack again, and ask of him to let me be the bearer of some kind message to him.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Bella, half vacantly; for he had only given to his words the meaning of a mere pretext.

“I think you may trust to me that I will manage the matter delicately. He shall never suspect that he has given any uneasiness by his absence.”

“But even this,” said she, eagerly, “condemns me to some hours longer of feverish misery. You cannot possibly go back to town and return here in less than two – perhaps three hours.”

“I ‘ll try and do it in half the time,” said Conway, rising, and taking his cap. “Where does Mr. Dunn live?”

“In Menion Square. I forget the number, but it does not matter; every one knows his house. It is on the north side.”

“You shall see me before – What o’clock is it now?”

“Half-past eight,” said she, shuddering, as she saw how late it was.

“Before eleven, I promise you confidently, – and earlier if I can.”

“You know my father so very little – so very recently,” said Sybella, with some confusion, “that it may be necessary to guard you, – that is, you ought to be made aware that on this day the estate our family has held for centuries was sold. It is true we are no poorer than we were yesterday; the property we called our own, and from habit believed to be such, had been mortgaged this many a year. Why or how we ever fancied that one day or other we should be in a position to pay off the encumbrances, I cannot tell you; but it is true that we did so fancy, and used to talk of that happy event as of one we felt to be in store for us. Well, the blow has fallen at last, and demolished all our castle-building! Like storm-tossed vessels, we saw ships sinking on every side, and yet caught at hope for ourselves. This hope has now left us. The work of this morning has obliterated every trace of it. It is of this, then, I would ask you to be mindful when you see my poor father. He has seen ruin coming this many a year; it never came face to face with him till to-day. I cannot tell how he may brave it, though there was a time I could have answered for his courage.”

“Jack Kellett’s father could scarcely be deficient in that quality,” said Conway, whose flashing eyes showed that it was Jack’s sister was uppermost in his mind as he spoke.

“Oh,” said she, sorrowfully, “great as the heroism is that meets death on the field of battle, it is nothing to the patient and enduring bravery that confronts the daily ills of life, – confronts them nobly, but in humility, neither buoyed up by inordinate hope, nor cast down by despondency, but manfully resolved to do one’s best, and, come what may, to do it without sacrifice of self-respect. Thus meeting fate, and with a temper that all the crosses of life have not made irritable nor suspectful, makes a man to my eyes a greater hero than any of those who charge in forlorn hopes, or single-handed rush up the breach torn by grape-shot.” Her cheek, at first pale, grew deeper and deeper red, and her dark eyes flashed till their expression became almost wild in brilliancy, when, suddenly checking her passionate mood, she said, “It were better I should go along with you, – better, at least, I were at hand. He will bear much from me that he would not endure from another, and I will go.” So saying, she hastened from the room, and in a moment came back shawled and ready for the road.

“What a night for you to venture out,” said Conway; “and I have got no carriage of any kind.”

“I am well accustomed to brave bad weather, and care nothing for it.”

“It is raining fearfully, and the waves are washing clear over the low sea-wall,” said he, trying to dissuade her.

“I have come out here on many such nights, and never the worse for it. Can’t you fancy Jack Kellett’s sister equal to more than this?” said she, smiling through all her sadness, as she led the way to the door.

And now they were upon the road, the wild rain and the gusty wind beating against them, and almost driving them back. So loud the storm that they did not try to speak, but with her arm close locked within his own, Conway breasted the hurricane with a strange sensation of delight he had never known before.

Scarcely a word passed between them as they went; as the rain beat heavily against her he would try as well as he could to shelter her; when the cutting wind blew more severely, he would draw her arm closer within his own; and yet, thus in silence, they grew to each other like friends of many a year. A sense of trustfulness, a feeling of a common object too, sufficed to establish between them a sentiment to be moulded by the events of after-life into anything. Ay, so is it! Out of these chance affinities grow sometimes the passion of a life, and sometimes the disappointments that embitter existence!

“What a good fortune it was that brought you to my aid to-night,” said she; “I had not dared to have come this long road alone.”

“What a good fortune mine to have even so humble a service to render you! Jack used to talk to me of you for hours long. Nights just like this have we passed together; he telling me about your habits and your ways, so that this very incident seems to fit into the story of your life as an every-day occurrence. I know,” continued he, as she seemed to listen attentively, “how you used to ride over the mountains at home, visiting wild and out-of-the-way spots; how you joined him in his long fishing excursions, exploring the deep mountain gorges while he lingered by the riverside. The very names you gave these desolate places – taken from old books of travel – showed me how a spirit of enterprise was in your heart.”

“Were they not happy days!” murmured she, half to herself.

“They must have been,” said he, ardently; “to hear of them has charmed the weariest watches of the night, and made me long to know you.”

“Yes; but I am not what I was,” said she, hastily. “Out of that dreamy, strange existence I have awakened to a world full of its own stern realities. That pleasant indolence has ill prepared me for the road I must travel; and it was selfish too! The vulgarest cares of every-day life are higher aims than all the mere soarings of imagination, and of this truth I am only now becoming aware.”

“But it was for never neglecting those very duties Jack used to praise you; he said that none save himself knew you as other than the careful mistress of a household.”

“Poor fellow! ours was an humble retinue, and needed little guidance.”

“I see,” said Conway, “you are too proud to accept of such esteem as mine; but yet you can’t prevent me offering it.”

“Have I not told you how I prize your kindness?” said she, gently.

“Will you let me think so?” cried Conway, pressing her arm closely; and again they were silent Who knows with what thoughts?

How dreary did the streets seem as they entered Dublin! The hazy lamps, dulled by the fast-falling rain, threw a misty light through the loaded atmosphere; the streets, deserted by all but the very poorest were silent and noiseless, save for the incessant plash of the rain; few lights were seen on any side, and all was darkness and gloom. Wearily they plodded onward, Sybella deeply sunk in her own thoughts as to the future, and Conway, too respectful of her feelings to interrupt her, never uttered a word as they went. At last they reached Merrion Square, and after some little search stood at the door of Mr. Davenport Dunn. Sybella drew a heavy sigh as Conway knocked loudly, and muttered to herself, “Heaven grant me good tidings of my father!”

CHAPTER XXII. AFTER A DINNER-PARTY

Mr. Davenport Dunn had a dinner-party, – he entertained the notables of the capital; and a chief secretary, a couple of judges, a poor-law commissioner, and some minor deities, soldier and civilian, formed his company. They were all social, pleasant, and conversational. The country was growing governable, calendars were light, military duty a mere pastime, and they chatted agreeably over reminiscences of a time – not very remote neither – when Rockites were rife, jails crammed, and the fatigues and perils of a soldier not inferior to those of actual warfare.

“To our worthy host here!” said the Chief Baron, eying his claret before the light, – and it was a comet vintage, – “to our worthy host here are we indebted for most of this happy change.”

“Under Providence,” whispered the oily Dean of the Chapel Royal.

“Of course, so I mean,” said the judge, with that kind of impatience he would have met a needless suggestion in court. “Great public works, stupendous enterprises, and immense expenditure of capital have encountered rebellion by the best of all methods, – prosperity!”

“Is it really extinct, – has Lazarus died, or is he only sleeping?” interposed a small dark-eyed man, with a certain air of determination and a look of defiance that seemed to invite discussion.

“I should, at all events, call it a trance that must lead to perfect recovery,” said the Chief Secretary. “Ireland is no longer a difficulty.”

“She may soon become something more,” said the dark man; “instead of embarrassing your counsels, she may go far towards swaying and controlling them. The energies that were once wasted in factious struggles at home here, may combine to carry on a greater combat in England; and it might even happen that your statesmen might look back with envy to days of orange-and-green memory.”