Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“I don’t care for that: there he was, where you see that bush, and he leaned on the window-sill and looked at me; and he wiped the glass, where his breath dulled it, twice. Then I gave a shout at him that sent him off. They had to carry him to the car outside.”

“Is this true?” cried Dunn, eagerly.

“If I had had but the strength to bring me to the window, it’s little I ‘d have minded his white hair.”

“If you had dared!” said Dunn, rising, and no longer able to control his anger.

“Don’t go yet; I have more to say to you,” cried he, stretching out his hands towards him. “You think, because your roguery is succeeding, that you are great and respected. Not a bit; the gentlemen won’t have you, and your own sort won’t have you. There’s not an honest man would eat your salt, – there’s not an honest girl would bear your name. There you stand, as much alone in the world as if you came out of another country, and you ‘re the only man in Ireland does n’t see it.”

Dunn darted from the room as the last words were uttered, and gained the road. So overwhelmed was he by rage and astonishment that it was some minutes ere he could remember where he was or whither he would go.

“To Beldoyle,” said he to the carman, pointing in the direction of the low shore, where his father lived; “drive your best pace.” Then suddenly changing his mind, he said, “No, to town.”

“Is he gone, Bella?” said Kellett, as his daughter entered.

“Yes; and before I could thank him for his coming.”

“I think I said enough,” said he, with a fierce laugh, which made her suddenly turn and look at him.

It was all she could do to repress a sudden cry of horror; for one side of his face was distorted by palsy, and the mouth drawn all awry.

“What’s this here, Bella?” said he, trying to touch his cheek with his hand; “a kind of stiffness – a sort of – Eh, are you crying, darling?”

“No; it was something in my eye pained me,” said she, turning away to hide her face.

“Give me a looking-glass, quickly,” cried he.

“No, no,” said she, forcing a laugh; “you have not shaved these two days, and you are quite neglected-look-ing. You sha’n’t see yourself in such a state.”

“Bring it this minute, I say,” said he, passionately, and in a voice that grew less and less articulate every moment.

“Now pray be patient, dearest papa.”

“Then I’ll go for it myself;” and with these words he grasped the arm of the chair and tried to rise.

“There, there,” said she, softly forcing him back into his seat, “I ‘ll fetch it at once. I wish you would be persuaded, dear papa – ” began she, still holding the glass in her hands. But he snatched it rudely from her, and placed it before him.

“That’s what it is,” said he, at last; “handsome Paul Kellett they used to call me at Corfu. I wonder what they’d say now?”

“It is a mere passing thing, a spasm of some kind.”

“Ay,” said he, with a mocking laugh, to which the distortion imparted a shocking expression. “Both sides will be the same – to-morrow or next day – I know that.”

She could hear no more, but, covering her face with her hands, sobbed bitterly.

Kellett still continued to look at himself in the glass; and whether the contortion was produced by the malady or a passing emotion, a half-sardonic laugh was on his features as he said, “I was wrong when I said I’d never be chapfallen.”

CHAPTER XXV. A CHURCHYARD

There come every now and then, in our strange climate, winter days which imitate the spring, with softened sunlight, glistening leaves, and warbling birds; even the streams unite in the delusion, and run clearly along with eddying circles, making soft music among the stones. These delicious intervals are full of pleasant influences, and the garden breath that floats into the open drawing-room brings hope as well as health on its wings. It was on such a morning a little funeral procession entered the gateway of the ruined church at Kellester, and wound its way towards an obscure corner where an open grave was seen. With the exception of one solitary individual, it was easy to perceive that they who followed the coffin were either the hired mourners, or some stray passers-by indulging a sad curiosity in listlessness. It was poor Kellett’s corpse was borne along, with Conway walking after it.

The mournful task over, and the attendants gone, Conway lingered about among the graves, now reading the sad records of surviving affection, now stopping to listen to the high-soaring lark whose shrill notes vibrated in the thin air. “Poor Jack!” thought he, aloud; “he little knows the sad office I have had this morning. He always was talking of home and coming back again, and telling his dear father of all his campaigning adventures; and so much for anticipation – beneath that little mound of earth lies all that made the Home he dreamed of! He’s almost the last of the Albueras,” said he, as he stood over the grave; and at the same time a stranger drew near the spot, and, removing his hat, addressed him by name. “Ah! Mr. Dunn, I think?” said Conway.

“Yes," – said the other; “I regret to see that I am too late. I wished to pay the last tribute of respect to our poor friend, but unfortunately all was over when I arrived.”

“You knew him intimately, I believe?” said Conway.

“From boyhood,” said Dunn, coughing, to conceal some embarrassment. “Our families were intimate; but of him, personally, I saw little: he went abroad with his regiment, and when he returned, it was to live in a remote part of the country, so that we seldom met.”

“Poor fellow!” muttered Conway, “he does seem to have been well-nigh forgotten by every one. I was alone here this morning.”

“Such is life!” said Dunn.

“But such ought not death to be,” rejoined Conway. “A gallant old soldier might well have been followed to his last billet by a few friends or comrades; but he was poor, and that explains all!”

“That is a harsh judgment for one so young as you are.”

“No: if poor Kellett had fallen in battle, he had gone to his grave with every honor to his memory; but he lived on in a world where other qualities than a soldier’s are valued, and he was forgotten, – that’s the whole of it!”

“We must think of the daughter now; something must be done for her,” said Dunn.

“I have a plan about that, if you will kindly aid me with it,” said Conway, blushing as he spoke. “You are aware, perhaps, that Jack Kellett and I were comrades. He saved my life, and risked his own to do it, and I owe him more than life in the cheery, hearty spirit he inspired me with, at a time when I was rather disposed to sulk with the whole world; so that I owe him a heavy debt.” Here he faltered, and at last stopped, and it was only as Dunn made a gesture to him to continue, that he went on: “Well, I have a dear, kind old mother, living all alone in Wales, – not over well off, to be sure, but quite able to do a kind thing, and fully as willing. If Miss Kellett could be induced to come and stay with her, – it might be called a visit at first, – time would gradually show them how useful they were to each other, and they ‘d find they need n’t – they could n’t separate. That’s my plan; will you support it?”

“I ought to tell you, frankly, that I have no presumption to counsel Miss Kellett. I never saw her till the night you accompanied her to my house; we are utter strangers to each other therefore. There is, however, sufficient in your project to recommend itself, and if anything I can add will aid it, you may reckon upon me; but you will yourself see whether my counsels be admissible. There is only one question I would ask, – you ‘ll excuse the frankness of it for the sincerity it guarantees, – Miss Kellett, although in poverty, was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune, – all the habits of her life were formed in that station; now, is it likely – I mean – are your mother’s circumstances – ”

“My mother has something like a hundred a year in the world,” broke in Conway, hastily. “It’s a poor pittance, I know, and you would be puzzled to say how one could eke out subsistence on it, but she manages it very cleverly.”

“I had really no intention to obtrude my curiosity so far,” said Dunn, apologizing. “My object was to show you, generally, that Miss Kellett, having hitherto lived in a condition of comfort – ”

“Well, we ‘ll do our best – I mean my mother will,” said Conway. “Only say you will recommend the plan, and I ‘m satisfied.”

“And for yourself – have you no project, no scheme of life struck out? A man so full of youth and energy should not sink into the listless inactivity of a retired soldier.”

“You forget this,” said Conway, pointing to his armless sleeve.

“Many a one-armed officer leads his squadron into fire; and your services – if properly represented, properly supported – would perhaps meet recognition at the Horse Guards. What say you, would you serve again if they offered you a cornetcy?”

“Would I? – would I bless the day that brought me the tidings? But the question is not of me,” said he, proudly; and he turned away to leave the spot. Dunn followed him, and they walked out into the road together. A handsome chariot, splendid in all its appointments, and drawn by two powerful thoroughbreds, awaited the rich man’s coming, and the footman banged down the steps with ostentatious noise as he saw him approach.

“Let the carriage follow,” said Dunn to the servant, and walked on at Conway’s side. “If it was not that I am in a position to be of service to you, my observation would be a liberty,” said Dunn; “but I have some influence with persons in power – ”

“I must stop you at once,” said Conway, good-humoredly. “I belong to a class which does not accept of favors except from personal friends; and though I fully recognize your kind intentions towards me, remember we are strangers to each other.”

“I should wish to forget that,” said Dunn, courteously.

“I should still be ungracious enough to bear it in mind. Come, come, Mr. Dunn,” said he, “this is not the topic I want you to be interested in. If you can bring some hope and comfort into that little cottage yonder, you will do a far greater kindness than by any service you can render one like me.”

“It would scarcely be advisable to do anything for a day or two?” said Dunn, rather asking the question.