Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“If I were born a Frenchman, an Italian, or even a German,” said Dunn, with a savage energy of voice, “should I be taunted in the midst of my labors that my origin was plebeian? Would the society in which I move be reminded that they accept me on sufferance? Would the cheer that greeted my success be mingled with the cry, ‘Remember whence you came’? I tell you, sir,” and here he spoke with the thickened utterance of intense passion, – “I tell you, sir, that with all the boasted liberty of our institutions, we cultivate a social slavery in these islands, to which the life of a negro is freedom in comparison!”

A sharp tap at the door interrupted him, and he cried, “Come in.” It was a servant to say dinner was on the table, and his Lordship was waiting.

“Please to say I am indisposed, – a severe headache. I hope his Lordship will excuse my not appearing to-day,” said he, with evident confusion; and then, when the servant withdrew, added: “You may go down to the inn. I suppose there is one in the village. I shall want horses to-morrow, and relays ready on the road to Killarney. Give the orders, and if anything else occurs to my recollection, I ‘ll send you word in the evening.”

Whether it was that Mr. Hankes had been speculating on the possible chances of dining with “my Lord” himself, or that the prospect of the inn at Glengariff was little to his taste, but he assuredly gathered up his papers in a mood that indicated no peculiar satisfaction, and withdrew without a word.

A second message now came to inquire what Mr. Dunn would like to take for his dinner, and conveying Lord Glengariffs regrets for his indisposition.

“A little soup – some fish, if there be any – nothing else,” said Dunn, while he opened his writing-desk and prepared for work. Not noticing the interruption of the servant as he laid the table, he wrote away rapidly; at last he arose, and, having eaten a few mouthfuls, reseated himself at his desk. His letter was to the Minister, in answer to the offer of that morning’s post. There was a degree of dexterity in the way that he conveyed his refusal, accompanying it by certain suggestive hints, vague and shadowy of course, of what the services of such a man as himself might possibly accomplish, so as to indicate how great was the loss to the State by not being fortunate enough to secure such high acquirements. The whole wound up with a half-ambiguous regret that, while the Ministry should accept newspaper dictation for their appointments, they could not also perceive that popular will should be consulted in the rewards extended to those who deserted their private and personal objects to devote their energies to the cause of the empire.

“Whenever such a Government shall arise,” wrote he, “the Ministry will find few refusals to the offers of employment, and men will alike consult their patriotism and their self-esteem in taking office under the Crown; nor will there be found, in the record of replies to a Ministerial proffer, one such letter as now bears the signature of your Lordship’s

“Very devoted and very obedient servant,

“Davenport Dunn.”

This history does not profess to say how Mr. Dunn’s apology was received by his noble host. Perhaps, however, we are not unwarranted in supposing that Lord Glengariffs temper was sorely and severely tested; one thing is certain, the dinner passed off with scarcely a word uttered at the table, and a perfect stillness prevailed throughout the cottage.

After some hours of hard labor, Dunn opened his window to enjoy the fresh air of the night, tempered slightly as it was with a gentle sea-breeze. If our western moonlights have not the silver lustre of Greece, of which old Homer himself sings, they have, in compensation, a mellow radiance of wondrous softness and beauty. Objects are less sharply defined and picked out, it is true, but the picture gains in warmth of color, and those blended effects where light and shadow alternate. The influences of Nature – the calm, still moonlight; the measured march of the long, sweeping waves upon the strand; those brilliant stars, “so still above, so restless in the water” – have a marvellous power over the hard-worked men of the world. They are amidst the few appeals to the heart which they can neither spurn nor reject.

Half hidden by the trees, but still visible from where he sat, Dunn could mark the little window of his humble bedroom twenty years ago! Ay! there was the little den to which he crept at night, his heart full of many a sorrow; the “proud man’s contumely” had eaten deep into him, and each day brought some new grievance, some new trial to be endured, while the sight of her he loved – the young and haughty girl – goaded him almost to madness.

One after another came all the little incidents of that long-forgotten time crowding to his memory; and now he bethought him how noiselessly he used to glide down those stairs, and, stealing into the wood, meet her in her morning’s walk, and how, as with uncovered head, he bowed to her, she would bestow upon him one of her own half-saucy smiles, – more mockery than kindness. He called to mind the day, too, he had climbed the mountain to gather a bouquet of the purple heath, – she said she liked it, – and how, after a great effort of courage, he ventured to offer it to her. She took it half laughingly from his hand, and then, turning to her pet goat beside her, gave it him to eat. He could have shot himself that morning, and yet there he was now, to smile over the incident!

As he sat, the sounds of music floated up from the open window of the room beneath. It was the piano, the same he used to hear long ago, when the Poet himself of the Melodies came down to pass a few days at the Hermitage. A low, soft voice was now singing, and as he bent down he could hear the words of poor Griffin’s beautiful song: —

“A place in thy memory, dearest,
Is all that I claim;
To pause and look back as thou nearest
The sound of my name.”

What a strange thrill did the words send through him! They came, as it were, to fill up the whole story of the past, embodying the unspoken prayer his love-sick heart once was filled with. For that “smile and kind word when we meet,” had he once pined and longed, and where was the spirit now that had once so yearned for love? A cold shudder passed over him, and he felt ill. He sat for a long while so deep in reflection that he did not notice the music had ceased, and now all was still and silent around. From the balcony outside his window a little winding stair led down to the lawn beneath; and down this he now took his way, resolving to stroll for half an hour or so before bedtime.

Walking carelessly along, he at last found himself on the banks of the river, close to the spot where he had met Miss Kellett that same morning. How glad he would have been to find her there again! That long morning’s ramble had filled him with many a hopeful thought – he knew, with the instinct that in such men as himself rarely deceives – that he had inspired her with a sort of interest in him, and it warmed his self-esteem to think that he could be valued for something besides “success.” The flutter of a white dress crossing the little rustic bridge caught his eye at this moment, and he hurried along the path. He soon gained sufficiently upon the retiring figure to see it was a lady. She was strolling quietly along, stopping at times to catch the effects of the moonlight on the landscape.

Dunn walked so as to make his footsteps heard approaching, and she turned suddenly and exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Dunn, who would have thought to see you here?”

“A question I might almost have the hardihood to retort, Lady Augusta,” said he, completely taken by surprise.

“As for me,” said she, carelessly, “it is my usual walk every evening. I stroll down to the shore round by that rocky headland, and rarely return before midnight; but you,” added she, throwing a livelier interest into her tone, “they said you were poorly, and so overwhelmed with business it was hopeless to expect to see you.”

“Work follows such men as myself like a destiny,” said he, sighing; “and as the gambler goes on to wager stake after stake on fortune, so do we hazard leisure, taste, happiness, all, to gain – I know not what in the end.”

“Your simile points to the losing gamester,” said she, quickly; “but he who has won, and won largely, may surely quit the table when he pleases.”

“It is true,” said he, after a pause, – “it is true, I have had luck with me. The very trees under whose branches we are walking, could they but speak, might bear witness to a time when I strolled here as poor and as hopeless as the meanest outcast that walks the high-road. I had not one living soul to say, ‘Be of good cheer, your time will come yet.’ My case had even more than the ordinary obstacles to success; for fate had placed me where every day, every hour of my life, should show me the disparity between myself and those high-born great to whose station I aspired. If you only knew, Lady Augusta,” added he, in a tone tremulous with emotion, “what store I laid on any passing kindness, – the simplest word, the merest look, – how even a gesture or a glance lighted hope within my heart, or made it cold and dreary within me, you ‘d wonder that a creature such as this could nerve itself to the stern work of life.”

“I was but a child at the time you speak of,” said she, looking down bashfully; “but I remember you perfectly.”

“Indeed!” said he, with an accent that implied pleasure.

“So well,” continued she, “that there is not a spot in the wood where we used to take our lesson-books in summer, but lives still associated in my mind with those hours, so happy they were!”

“I always feared that I had left very different memories behind me here,” said he, in a low voice.

“You were unjust, then,” said she, in a tone still lower, – “unjust to yourself and to us.”

They walked on without speaking, a strange mysterious consciousness that each was in the other’s thoughts standing in place of converse between them. At length, stopping suddenly in front of a little rocky cavern, over which aquatic plants were drooped, she said, “Do you remember calling that ‘Calypso’s grotto’? It bears no other name still.”

“I remember more,” said he; and then stopped in some confusion.

“Some girlish folly of mine, perhaps,” broke she in hurriedly; “but once for all, let me ask forgiveness for many a thoughtless word, many a childish wrong. You, who know all tempers and moods of men as few know them, can well make allowances for natures spoiled as ours were, – pampered and flattered by those about us, living in a little world of our own here. And yet, do not think me silly when I own that I would it were all back again. The childish wrong. You, who know all tempers and moods of men as few know them, can well make allowances for natures spoiled as ours were – pampered and nattered by those about us, living in a little world of our own here. And yet, do not think me silly when I own that I would it were all back again. The childhood and the lessons, ay, the dreary Telemachus, that gave me many a headache, and the tiresome hours at the piano, and the rest of it.” She glanced a covert glance at Dunn, and saw that his features were a shade darker and gloomier than before. “Mind,” said she, quickly, “I don’t ask you to join in this wish. You have lived to achieve great successes – to be courted, and sought after, and caressed. I don’t expect you to care to live over again hours which perhaps you look back to with a sort of horror.”

“I dare not well tell you how I look back to them,” said he, in a half-irresolute manner.

Had there been any to mark it, he would have seen that her cheek flushed and her dark eyes grew darker as he spoke these words. She was far too skilful a tactician to disturb, even by a syllable, the thoughts she knew his words indicated; and again they sauntered along in silence, till they found themselves standing on the shore of the sea.

“How is it that the sea, like the sky, seems ever to inspire the wish that says, ‘What lies beyond that?’” said Dunn, dreamily.

“It comes of that longing, perhaps, for some imaginary existence out of the life of daily care and struggle – ”

“I believe so,” said he, interrupting. “One is so apt to forget that another horizon is sure to rise to view, – another bourne to be passed!” Then suddenly, as if with a rapid change of thought, he said, “What a charming spot this is to pass one’s days in, – so calm, so peaceful, so undisturbed!”

“I love it!” said she, in a low, murmuring voice, as though speaking to herself.

“And I could love it too,” said he, ardently, “if fortune would but leave me to a life of repose and quiet.”

“It is so strange to hear men like yourself – men who in a measure make their own fate, – always accuse Destiny. Who is there, let me ask,” said she, with a boldness the stronger that she saw an influence followed her words, – “who is there who could with more of graceful pride retire from the busy cares of life than he who has worked so long, so successfully, for his fellow-men? Who is there who, having achieved fortune, friends, station – Why do you shake your head?” cried she, suddenly.

“You estimate my position too flatteringly, Lady Augusta,” said he, slowly, and like one laboring with some painful reflection. “Of fortune – if that mean wealth – I have more than I need. Friends – what the world calls such – I suppose I may safely say I possess my share of. But as to station, by which I would imply the rank which stamps a certain grade in society, and carries with it a prestige – ”

“It is your own whenever you care to demand it,” broke she in. “It is not when the soldier mounts the breach that his country showers its honours on him – it is when, victory achieved, he comes back great and triumphant. You have but to declare that your labours are completed, your campaign finished, to meet any, the proudest, recognition your services could claim. You know my father,” said she, suddenly changing her voice to a tone at once confidential and intimate – “you know how instinctively, as it were, he surrounds himself with all the prejudices of his order. Well, even he, as late as last night, said to me, ‘Dunn ought to be one of us, Augusta. We want men of his stamp. The lawyers overbear us just now. It is men of wider sympathies lets technical less narrowed, that we need. He ought to be one of us.’ Knowing what a great admission that was for one like him, I ventured to ask how this was to be accomplished. ‘Ministers are often the last to ratify the judgment the public’ he pronounced.”

“Well, and what said you to that,” asked Dunn, eagerly.

“Let him only open his mind to Lady Augusta,” said she. “If he but have the will I promise to show him the way.”

Dunn uttered no reply, but with bent-down head walked along, deep in thought.

“May I ask you to lend me your arm, Mr. Dunn?” said Lady Augusta, in her gentlest of voices; and Dunn’s heart beat with a strange, proud significance as he gave it.

They spoke but little as they returned to the cottage.

CHAPTER XXXIX. “A LETTER TO JACK”

Long after the other inhabitants of the Hermitage were fast locked in sleep, Sybella Kellett sat at her writing-desk. It was the time – the only time – she called her own, and she was devoting it to a letter to her brother. Mr. Dunn had told her on that morning that an opportunity offered to send anything she might have for him, and she had arranged a little packet – some few things, mostly worked by her own hands – for the poor soldier in the Crimea.