Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“That’s just the class of men we want in our army,” said Clowes, as he followed him with his eyes. “A stamp somewhat above the common, – a very fine young fellow too.”

In less than a quarter of an hour after Conway’s departure, Davenport Dunn’s carriage drew up at his door, and Mr. Clowes hastened to receive his master.

“Are they out, sir, – are they out?” said he, eagerly, as he followed him into the study.

“Yes,” said Dunn; “but everything is still at sixes and sevens. Lord Derby has been sent for, and Lord John sent for, and Lord Palmerston sent for, but nothing decided on, – nothing done.”

“And how will it end?” asked Clowes, like one waiting for the solution of a difficulty.

“Who has called this morning?” said Dunn, curtly. “Has Lord Glengariff been here?”

“No, sir. Sir Jacob Harris and the Drumsna Directors are all in waiting, and a rather promiscuous lot are in the back parlor. A young soldier, too, was here. He fancied you had asked him to breakfast, and so I made him join mine.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Dunn. “I forgot all about that engagement. How provoking! Can you find out where he is stopping?”

“No. But he’s sure to drop in again: I half promised him a sort of protection; and he looks a shrewd sort of fellow, and not likely to neglect his hits.”

A strange twinkle shone in Dunn’s eyes as he heard this speech, and a queer motion at the angle of his mouth accompanied it, but he never spoke a word.

As for Conway, meanwhile, he was briskly stepping out towards Clontarf, to inquire after poor Kellett, whose state was one to call for much anxiety. To the intense excitement of the morning there had succeeded a dull and apathetic condition, in which he seemed scarcely to notice anything or anybody. A look half weary, half vacant, was in his eye; his head was drooped; and a low muttering to himself was the only sign he gave of any consciousness whatever. Such was his state when Conway left the cottage late on the night before, with a promise to be back there again early the next morning.

Conway saw that the shutters of the little drawing-room were half closed as he entered the garden, and his quiet, cautious knock at the door denoted the fear at his heart. From the window, partly open, came a low, moaning sound, which, as he listened, he discovered to be the sick man’s voice.

“He was just asking if you had come,” said Bella. “He has been talking of poor Jack, and fancies that you have some tidings of him.” And so saying, she led him into the house.

Seated before the fire, in a low chair, his hands resting on his knees, and his gaze fixed on the embers, Kellett never turned his head round as they entered, nor did he notice Bella, as, in a soft, low voice, she mentioned Conway’s name.

“He has come out to see you, dear papa; to sit with you and keep you company, and talk about dear Jack.”

“Ay!” said the sick man, in a vague, purposeless tone; and Conway now took a seat at his side, and laid one of his hands over his.

“You are better to-day, Captain Kellett, ain’t you?” said he, kindly.

“Yes,” said he, in the same tone as before.

“And will be still better to-morrow, I trust, and able to come out and take this long walk with me we have so often promised ourselves.”

Kellett turned and looked him full in the face. The expression of his features was that of one vainly struggling with some confusion of ideas, and earnestly endeavoring to find his way through difficulties, and a faint, painful sigh at last showed that the attempt was a failure.

“What does this state mean? Is it mere depression, or is it serious illness?” whispered Bella.

“I am not skilful enough to say,” replied Conway, cautiously; “but I hope and trust it is only the effect of a shock, and will pass off as it came.”

“Ay,” said Kellett, in a tone that startled them, and for a moment they fancied he must have overheard them; but one glance at his meaningless features showed that they had no ground for their fears.

“The evil is deeper than that,” whispered Bella, again. “This cold dew on his forehead, those shiverings that pass over him from time to time, and that look in his eye, such as I have never seen before, all betoken a serious malady. Could you fetch a doctor, – some one in whom you place confidence?”

“I do know of one, in whom I have the fullest reliance,” said Conway, rising hastily. “I’ll go for him at once.”

“Lose not a moment, then,” said Bella, as she took the place he had just vacated, and placed her hand on her father’s, as Conway had done.

Kellett’s glance slowly followed Conway to the door, and then turned fully in Bella’s face, while, with a voice of a thrilling distinctness, he said, “Too late, darling, – too late!”

The tears gushed from Bella’s eyes, and her lips trembled; but she never uttered a word, but sat silent and motionless as before.

Kellett’s eyes were now bent upon her fixedly, with an expression of deep and affectionate interest; and he slowly drew his hand from beneath hers, and placed his arm around her.

“I wish he was come, darling,” said he, at last.

“Who, papa? – the doctor?” asked Bella.

“The doctor! – no, not the doctor,” said he, sighing heavily.

“It is poor Jack you are thinking of,” said she, affectionately.

“Poor, sure enough,” muttered he; “we’re all poor now.” And an inexpressible misery was in his face as he spoke.

Bella wished to speak words of comfort and encouragement; she longed to tell him that she was ready and willing to devote herself to him; that in a little time, and by a little effort on their part, their changed fortunes would cease to fret them; that they would learn to see how much of real happiness can consist with narrow means, but she knew not in what spirit her words might be accepted; a chance phrase, an accidental expression, might jar upon some excited feeling, and only irritate where it was meant to soothe, and so she only pressed her lips to his hand and was silent.

The sick man’s head gradually declined lower and lower, his breathing grew heavier, and he slept. The long dreary day dragged on its weary hours, and still Sybella sat by her father’s side watching and waiting. It was already dusk, when a carriage stopped at the little gate and Conway got out, and was quickly followed by another. “The doctor, at last,” muttered Sybella, gently moving from her place; and Kellett awoke and looked at him.

Conway had barely time to whisper the name of the physician in Bella’s ear, when Sir Maurice Dashwood entered. There was none of the solemn gravity of the learned doctor, none of the catlike stealthiness of the fashionable practitioner, in his approach. Sir Maurice advanced like a man entering a drawing-room before a dinner-party, easy, confident, and affable. He addressed a few words to Miss Kellett, and then placing his chair next her father’s, said, —

“I hope my old brother officer does n’t forget me. Don’t you remember Dashwood of the 43d?”

“The wildest chap in the regiment,” muttered Kellett, “though he was the surgeon. Did you know him, sir?”

“I should think I did,” said the doctor, smiling; “he was a great chum of yours, was n’t he? You messed together in the Pyrenees for a whole winter.”

“A wild chap, – could never come to any good,” went on Kellett to himself. “I wonder what became of him.”

“I can tell you, I think. Meanwhile, let me feel your pulse. No fixed pain here,” said he, touching the region of the heart. “Look fully at me. Ah, it is there you feel it,” said he, as he touched the other’s forehead; “a sense of weight rather than pain, isn’t it?”

“It’s like lead I feel it,” said Kellett; “and when I lay it down, I don’t think I ‘ll ever be able to lift it up again.”

“That you will, and hold it high too, Kellett,” said the doctor, warmly. “You must just follow my counsels for a day or two, and we shall see a great change in you.”

“I ‘ll do whatever you bid me, but it’s no use, doctor; but I ‘ll do it for her sake there.” And the last words were in a whisper.

“That’s spoken like yourself, Kellett,” said the other, cheerily. “Now let me have pen and ink.”

As the doctor sat down to a table, he beckoned Bella to his side, and writing a few words rapidly on the paper before him, motioned to her to read them.

She grasped the chair as she read the lines, and it shook beneath her hand, while an ashy pallor spread over her features.

“Ask him if I might have a little brandy-and-water, Bella,” said the sick man.

“To be sure you may,” said Sir Maurice; “or, better still, a glass of claret; and it so happens I have just the wine to suit him. Conway, come back with me, and I ‘ll give you a half-dozen of it.”