Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“Really, Lady Augusta will feel quite offended if you slight her tea-table.”

“Nay, my Lord. It is only for this evening, and I am sure you will make my excuses becomingly.”

“It shall be as you please,” said the old Lord, with a rather stiff courtesy.

“Thank you, my Lord; thank you. I assure you it is very rarely the sacrifice to duty costs me so keenly. Goodnight.”

CHAPTER XXXVII. “A MAN IN REQUEST”

The bountifully spread breakfast-table of the following morning was not destined to be graced by Mr. Dunn’s presence. A clerk had arrived early in the morning with a mass of correspondence from Dublin, and a Government messenger, armed with an ominous-looking red box, came post-haste about an hour later, while a request for a cup of tea in his own room explained that Mr. Dunn was not to make his appearance in public.

“This savors of downright slavery,” said Lady Augusta, whose morning toilette was admirably devised.

“To me it savors of downright humbug,” said Lord Glengariff, pettishly. “No one shall tell me that a man has not time to eat his meals like a gentleman. A Secretary of State does n’t give himself such airs. Why, I protest, here comes another courier! what can this fellow be?”

“A messenger from the Home Office has just arrived for Mr. Dunn,” said Miss Kellett, entering the room.

“Our little cottage is become like a house in Whitehall Gardens,” said Lord Glengariff, angrily. “I have no doubt we ought to feel excessively flattered by the notoriety the newspapers are certain to accord us.”

“Mr. Dunn is more to be pitied than any of us,” said Lady Augusta, compassionately.

“I suspect he’d not agree with you,” said his Lordship, bitterly. “I rather opine that Mr. Dunn has another and a very different estimate of his present position.”

“Such a life is certainly not enviable. Perhaps I’m wrong, though,” said she, quickly; “Miss Kellett does not seem of my mind.”

Sybella blushed slightly, and in some embarrassment said, “Certain minds find their best happiness in great labor; Mr. Dunn’s may be one of these.”

“Pulteney found time for a cast with the hounds, and Charles Fox had leisure for his rubber of whist. It is these modern fellows have introduced the notion that ‘the House’ is like a ‘mill at Manchester.’ There goes one with his despatches,” cried he, as a mounted messenger rode off from the door. “I ‘d wager a trifle that if they never came to hand the world would just jog on its course as pleasantly, and no one the worse for the mishap.”

“With Mr. Dunn’s compliments, my Lord,” said a servant, placing several open letters on the table; “he thought your Lordship would like to see the latest news from the Crimea.”

While Lord Glengariff took out his spectacles, his face grew crimson, and he seemed barely able to restrain a burst of passionate indignation. As the servant closed the door, he could no longer contain himself, but broke out: “Just fancy their sending off these despatches to this fellow Dunn. Here am I, an Irish peer, of as good blood and ancient family as any in my country, and I might as well expect to hear Buckingham Palace was fitted up for my town residence when next I went to London, as look for an attention of this sort. If I had n’t it here under my own eyes, and saw the address, ‘Davenport Dunn, Esq.,’ ‘on her Majesty’s service,’ I ‘d say flatly it was impossible.”

“May I read some of them?” asked Lady Augusta, wishing by any means to arrest this torrent of angry attack.

“Yes, read away,” cried he, laying down his spectacles. “Miss Kellett, too, may indulge her curiosity, if she has any, about the war.”

“I have a dearer interest at stake there,” said Sybella, blushing.

“I see little here we have not already read in the ‘Times,’” said Lady Augusta, perusing the paper before her. “The old story of rifle-pits, sorties against working parties, the severity of the duty, and the badness of the commissariat.”

“This is interesting,” broke in Sybella. “It is an extract from a private letter of some one high in command. It says: ‘The discontent of our allies increases every day; and as every post from France only repeats how unpopular the war is in that country, I foresee that nothing short of some great fait d’armes, in which the French shall have all the glory, will induce the Imperial Government to continue the struggle. The satisfaction felt in France at the attacks of the English journals on our own army, its generalship, and its organization, are already wearing out, and they look now for some higher stimulant to the national vanity.’”

“Who writes this?” cried Lord Glengariff, eagerly.

“The name is not given,” said she. “The despatch goes on merely to say, ‘Your Lordship would do well to give these words the consideration they seem to deserve.’ But here again, ‘the coolness of the Marshal increases, and our intercourse is neither frank nor confidential.’”

“All this sounds badly,” said Lord Glengariff. “Our only progress would seem to be in ill-will with our ally. I suppose the end of it will be, we shall be left to continue the struggle alone.”

“Would that it were so!” burst in Sybella. “A great orator said t’ other day in the House, that coalitions were fatal; Englishmen never liked them. He only spoke of those alliances where parties agree to merge their differences and unite for some common object; but far more perilous are the coalitions where nations combine, the very contest that they wage being a field to evoke ancient rivalries and smouldering jealousies. I ‘d rather see our little army alone, with its face to the foe and its back to the sea, than I ‘d read of our entrance into Sebastopol side by side with the legions of France.”

The passionate enthusiasm of the moment had carried her away, and she grew pale and heart-sick at her unwonted boldness as she finished.

“I hope Mr. Dunn may be able to benefit by your opinions on strategy,” said Lady Augusta, as she rose from the table.

“What was it Lady Augusta said?” cried Lord Glengariff, as she left the room.

“I scarcely heard her aright, my Lord,” said Sybella, whose face was now crimson.

It was the first moment in her life in which dependence had exposed her to insult, and she could not collect her faculties, or know what to do.

“These things,” said Lord Glengariff, pushing the despatches contemptuously away, “add nothing to our knowledge. That writer in the ‘Times’ gives us everything we want to know, and gives it better too. Send them back to Dunn, and ascertain, if you can, when we are likely to see him. I want him to come down to the bay; he ought to see the harbor and the coast. Manage this, Miss Kellett, – not from me, of course, but in your own way, – and let me know.”

Lord Glengariff now left the room, and Sybella was once more deep in the despatches.

Dry and guarded as they were, – formal, with all the stamp of official accuracy, – they yet told of the greatest and grandest struggle of our age. It was a true war of Titans, with the whole world for spectators. The splendid heroism of our army seemed even eclipsed by the unbroken endurance of daily hardship, – that stern and uncomplaining courage that faced death in cold blood, and marched to the fatal trenches with the steadfast tramp of a forlorn hope.

“No conscript soldiers ever bore themselves thus,” cried she, in ecstasy. “These are the traits of personal gallantry, not the disciplined bravery that comes of the serried file and the roll of the drum.”

With all her anxieties for his fate, she gloried to think “dear Jack” was there, – that he was bearing his share of their hardships, and reaping his share of their glory. And oh! if she could but read mention of his name; if she could hear of him quoted for some act of gallantry, or, better still, some trait of humanity and kindness, – that he had rescued a wounded comrade, or succored some poor maimed and forlorn enemy!

How hard was it for her on that morning, full of these themes, to address herself to the daily routine of her work! The grand panorama of war continued to unroll itself before her eyes, and the splendid spectacle of the contending armies revealed itself like a picture before her. The wondrous achievements she had read of reminded her of those old histories which had been the delight of her childhood, and she gloried to think that the English race was the same in daring and chivalry as it had shown itself centuries back!

She tried hard to persuade herself that the peaceful triumphs of art, the great discoveries of science, were finer and grander developments of human nature; but with all her ingenuity they seemed inglorious and poor beside the splendid displays of heroism.

“And now to my task,” said she, with a sigh, as she folded up the map of the Crimea, on which she was tracing the events of the war.

Her work of that morning was the completion of a little “Memoir” of Glengariff and its vicinity, written in that easy and popular style which finds acceptance in our periodicals, and meant to draw attention to the great scheme for whose accomplishment a company was to be formed. Lord Glengariff wished this sketch should be completed while Dunn was still there, so that it might be shown him, and his opinion be obtained upon it.

Never had her task seemed so difficult, never so uncongenial; and though she labored hard to summon up all her former interest in the great enterprise, her thoughts would stray away, in spite of her, to the indented shores of the Crimea, and the wild and swelling plains around Sebastopol. Determined to see if change of place might not effect some change of thought, she carried her papers to a little summer-house on the river-side, and once more addressed herself resolutely to her work. With an energy that rarely failed her, she soon overcame the little distraction, and wrote away rapidly and with ease. She at last reached that stage in her essay where, having enumerated all the advantages of the locality, she desired to show how nothing was wanting to complete its celebrity and recognition but the touch of some of those great financial magicians whose great privilege it is to develop the wealth and augment the resources of their fellow-men. She dwelt earnestly and, indeed, eloquently on the beauty of the scenery. She knew it in every varying aspect of its coloring, and she lingered over a description of which the reality had so often captivated her. Still, even here, the fostering hand of taste might yet contribute much. The stone pine and the ilex would blend favorably with the lighter foliage of the ash and the hazel, and many a fine point of view was still all but inaccessible for want of a footpath. How beautifully, too, would the tasteful cottage of some true lover of the picturesque peep from amidst the evergreen oaks that grew down to the very shore. While she wrote, a shadow fell over her paper. She looked up, and saw Mr. Dunn. He had strolled by accident to the spot, and entered unperceived by her.

“What a charming place you have chosen for your study, Miss Kellett!” said he, seating himself at the table. “Not but I believe,” continued he, “that when once deeply engaged in a pursuit, one takes little account of surrounding objects. Pastorals have been composed in garrets, and our greatest romancer wrote some of his most thrilling scenes amid the noise and commonplace interruptions of a Court of Sessions.”

“Such labors as mine,” said she, smiling, “neither require nor deserve the benefit of a chosen spot.”

“You are engaged upon Glengariff,” said he; “am I at liberty to look?” And he took the paper from the table as he spoke. At first he glanced half carelessly at the lines; but as he read on he became more attentive, and at last, turning to the opening pages, he read with marked earnestness and care.

“You have done this very well, – admirably well,” said he, as he laid it down; “but shall I be forgiven if I make an ungracious speech?”

“Say on,” said she, smiling good-naturedly.

“Well, then,” said he, drawing a long breath, “you are pleading an impossible cause. They who suggested it were moved by the success of those great enterprises which every day develops around us, and which, by the magic word ‘Company,’ assume vitality and consistence; they speculated on immense profits just as they could compute a problem in arithmetic. It demanded so much skill and no more. You– I have no need that you should tell me so – were actuated by very different motives. You wanted to benefit a poor and neglected peasantry, to disseminate amongst them the blessings of comfort and civilization; you were eager for the philanthropy of the project, they for its gain.”

“But why, as a mere speculation, should it be a failure?” broke she in.

“There are too many reasons for such a result,” said he, with a melancholy smile. “Suffice it if I give you only one. We Irish are not in favor just now. While we were troublesome and rebellious, there was an interest attached to us, – we were dangerous; and even in the sarcasms of the English press there lurked a secret terror of some great convulsion here which should shake the entire empire. We are prosperous now, and no longer picturesque. Our better fortune has robbed us of the two claims we used to have on English sympathy; we are neither droll nor ragged, and so they can neither laugh at our humor nor sneer at our wretchedness. Will not these things show you that we are not likely to be fashionable? I say this to you; to Lord Glengariff I will speak another language. I will tell him that his scheme will not attract speculators. I myself cannot advocate it. I never link my name with defeats. He will be, of course, indignant, and we shall part on bad terms. He is not the first I have refused to make rich.”

There was a tone of haughty assumption in the way he spoke these words that astonished Sybella, who gazed at him without speaking.