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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.

“Are you happy here?” asked he, abruptly.

“Yes, – that is, I have been so up to this – ”

“In short, until I had robbed you of an illusion,” said he, interrupting her. “Ah, how many a pang do these ‘awakenings’ cost us in life!” muttered he, half to himself. “Every one has his ambitions of one sort or other, and fancies his goal the true one; but, his faith once disturbed, how hard it is to address himself earnestly to another creed!”

“If it be duty,” broke she in, “and if we have the consciousness of an honest breast and a right intention – ”

“That is to say, if we gain a verdict in the court where we ourselves sit as judge,” said he, with a suddenness that surprised her. “I, for instance, have my own sense of what is right and just; am I quite sure it is yours? I see certain anomalies in our social condition, great hardships, heavy wrongs; if I address myself to correct them, am I so certain that others will concur with me? The battle of life, like every other conflict, is one in which to sustain the true cause one must do many a cruel thing. It is only at last, when success has crowned all your efforts, that the world condescends to say you have done well.”

“You, of all men, can afford to await this judgment patiently.”

“Why do you say that of me?” asked he, eagerly.

“Because, so long as I can remember, I have seen your name associated with objects of charity and benevolence; and not these alone, but with every great enterprise that might stimulate the efforts and develop the resources of the country.”

“Some might say that personal objects alone influenced me,” said he, in a low voice.

“How poor and narrow-minded would be such a judgment!” replied she, warmly. “There is an earnestness in high purpose no self-seeking could ever counterfeit.”

“That is true, – quite true,” said he; “but are you so certain that the world makes the distinction? Does not the vulgar estimate confound the philanthropist with the speculator? I say this with sorrow.” said he, painfully, “for I myself am the victim of this very injustice.” He paused for a few seconds, and then rising, he said, “Let us stroll along the river-side; we have both worked enough for the day.” She arose at once, and followed him. “It is ever an ungracious theme, – one’s self,” said he, as they walked along; “but, somehow, I am compelled to talk to you, and, if you will allow me, confidentially.” He did not wait for a reply, but went on: “There was, in the time of the French Regency, a man named Law, who, by dint of deep study and much labor, arrived at the discovery of a great financial scheme; so vast, so comprehensive, and so complete was it, that not only was it able to rescue the condition of the State from bankruptcy, but it disseminated through the trading-classes of the nation the sound principles of credit on which alone commerce can be based. Now, this man – a man of unquestionable genius and, if benefits to one’s species gave a just title to the name, a philanthropist – lived to see the great discovery he had made prostituted to the basest arts of scheming speculators. From the Prince, who was his patron, to the humblest agent of the Bourse, he met nothing but duplicity, falsehood, and treachery, and he ended in being driven in shame and ignominy from the land he had succeeded in rescuing from impending rain! You will say that the people and the age explain much of this base ingratitude; but, believe me, nations and eras are wonderfully alike. The good and evil of this world go on repeating themselves in cycles with a marvellous regularity. The fate which befell Law may overtake any who will endeavor to imitate him; there is but one condition which can avert this catastrophe, and that is success. Law had too long deferred to provide for his own security. Too much occupied with his grand problem, he had made himself neither rich nor great, so that when the hour of adversity came no barriers of wealth or power stood between him and his enemies. Had he foreseen this catastrophe, – had he anticipated it, – he might have so dovetailed his own interests with those of the State that attack upon one involved the fate of the other. But Law did nothing of the kind; he made friends of Princes, and with the fortune that attaches to such friendships, he fell!” For some minutes he walked along at her side without speaking, and then resumed: “With all these facts before me, I, too, see that Law’s fate may be my own!”

“But have you – ” When she had gone thus far, Sybella stopped, and blushed deeply, unable to continue.

“Yes,” said he, answering what might have been her words, – “yes, it was my ambition to have been to Ireland what Law was to France, – not what calumny and injustice have pictured him, remember, but the great reformer, the great financier, the great philanthropist, – to make this faction-torn land a great and united nation. To develop the resources of the richest country in Europe was no mean ambition, and he who even aspired to it was worthy of a better recompense than attack and insult.”

“I have seen none of these,” broke she in. “Indeed, so long as I remember, I can call to mind only eulogies of your zeal, praises of your intelligence, and the grandeur of your designs.”

“There are such, however,” said he, gloomily; “they are the first low murmurings, too, of a storm that will come in full force hereafter! Let it come,” muttered he, below his breath. “If I am to fall, it shall be like Samson, and the temple shall fall with me.”

Sybella did not catch his words, but the look of his features as he spoke them made her almost shudder with terror.

“Let us turn back,” said she; “it is growing late.”

Without speaking, Dunn turned his steps towards the cottage, and walked along in deep thought.

“Mr. Hankes has come, sir,” said Dunn’s servant, as he reached the door. And without even a word, Dunn hastened to his own room.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. MR. DAVENPORT DUNN IN MORE MOODS THAN ONE

Although Mr. Hankes performs no very conspicuous part in our story, he makes his appearance at the Hermitage with a degree of pomp and circumstance which demand mention. With our reader’s kind leave, therefore, we mean to devote a very brief chapter to that gentleman and his visit.

As in great theatres there is a class of persons to whose peculiar skill and ability are confided all the details of “spectacle,” all those grand effects of panoramic splendor which in a measure make the action of the drama subordinate to the charms of what, more properly, ought to be mere accessories; so modern speculation has called to its aid its own special machinists and decorators, – a gifted order of men, capable of surrounding the dryest and least promising of enterprises with all the pictorial attractions and attractive graces of the “ballet”

If it be a question of a harbor or dock company, the prospectus is headed with a colored print, wherein tall three-deckers mingle with close-reefed cutters, their gay buntings fluttering in the breeze as the light waves dance around the bows; from the sea beneath to the clouds above, all is motion and activity, – meet emblems of the busy shore where commerce lives and thrives. If it be a building speculation, the architecture is but the background of a brilliant “mall,” where splendid equipages and caracoling riders figure, with gay parasols and sleek poodles intermixed.

One “buys in” to these stocks with feelings far above “five percent.” A sense of the happiness diffused amongst thousands of our fellow-creatures – the “blessings of civilization,” as we like to call the extension of cotton prints – cheer and animate us; and while laying out our money advantageously, we are crediting our hearts with a large balance on the score of philanthropy. To foster this commendable tendency, to feed the tastes of those who love, so to say, to “shoot at Fortune with both barrels,” an order of men arose, cunning in all the devices of advertisement, learned in the skill of capitals, and adroit in illustrations.

Of these was Mr. Hankes. Originally brought up at the feet of George Robins, he was imported into Ireland by Mr. Davenport Dunn as his chief man at business, – the Grand Vizier of Joint Stock Companies and all industrial speculations.

If Dr. Pangloss was a good man for knowing what wickedness was, Mr. Hankes might equally pretend to skill in all enterprises, since he had experienced, for a number of years, every species of failure and defeat The description of his residences would fill half a column of a newspaper. They ranged from Brompton to Boulogne, and took in everything from Wilton Crescent to St John’s Wood. He had done a little of everything, too, from “Chief Commissioner to the Isthmus” – we never heard of what isthmus – to Parliamentary Agent for the friends of Jewish emancipation. With a quickness that rarely deceived him, Dunn saw his capabilities. He regarded him as fighting fortune so bravely with all the odds against him, that he ventured to calculate what such a man might be, if favorably placed in the world. The fellow who could bring down his bird with a battered old flint musket might reasonably enough distinguish himself if armed with an Enfield rifle. The venture was not, however, entirely successful; for though Hankes proved himself a very clever fellow, he was only really great under difficulties. It was with the crash of falling fortunes around him – amidst debt, bankruptcy, executions, writs, and arrests – Hankes rose above his fellows, and displayed all the varied resources of his fertile genius. The Spartan vigor of his mind assorted but badly with prosperity, and Hankes waxed fat and indolent, affected gorgeous waistcoats and chains, and imperceptibly sank down to the level of those decorative arts we have just alluded to.

The change was curious: it was as though Gerard or Gordon Cumming should have given up lion-hunting and taken to teach piping bullfinches!

Every venture of Davenport Dunn was prosperous. All his argosies were borne on favoring winds, and Hankes saw his great defensive armor hung up to rust and to rot. Driven in some measure, therefore, to cut out his path in life, he invented that grand and gorgeous school of enterprise whose rashness and splendor crush into insignificance all the puny attempts of commonplace speculators. He only talked millions; thousands he ignored. He would accept of no names on the direction of his schemes save the very highest in rank. If he crossed the Channel, his haste required a special steamer. If he went by rail, a special train awaited him. The ordinary world, moving along at its tortoise pace, was shocked at the meteor course that every now and then shot across the hemisphere, and felt humiliated in their own hearts by the comparison.

Four smoking posters, harnessed to the neatest and lightest of travelling-carriages, had just deposited Mr. Hankes at the Hermitage; and he now sat in Mr. Dunn’s dressing-room, arranging papers and assorting documents in preparation for his arrival.

It was easy to perceive that as Dunn entered the room he was very far from feeling pleased at his lieutenant’s presence there.

“What was there so very pressing, Mr. Hankes,” said he, “that could not have awaited my return to town?”

“A stormy meeting of the Lough Allen Tin Company yesterday, sir, – a very stormy meeting indeed. Shares down to twenty-seven and an eighth, – unfavorable report on the ore, and a rumor – mere rumor, of course – that the last dividend was paid out of capital.”

“Who says this?” asked Dunn, angrily.

“The ‘True Blue,’ sir, hinted as much in the evening edition, and the suggestion was at once caught up by the Tory Press.”

“Macken – isn’t that the man’s name – edits the ‘True Blue’?”

“Yes, sir; Michael Macken.”

“What answer shall I give him, then?” asked Hankes.

“Tell him – explain to him that the exigencies of party – No, that won’t do. Send down Harte to conduct his election, let him be returned for the borough, and tell Joe Harte to take care to provide a case that will unseat him on a petition; before the petition comes on, we shall have the sale completed. The Colonel shall be taught that our tactics are somewhat sharper than his own.”

Hankes smiled approvingly at this stratagem of his chief, and really for the moment felt proud of serving such a leader. Once more, however, did he turn to his dreary note-book and its inexorable bead-roll of difficulties; but Dunn no longer heard him, for he was deep in his private correspondence, tearing open and reading letter after letter with impatient haste. “What of the Crimea – what did you say, there?” cried Dunn, stopping suddenly, and catching at the sound of that one word.

“That report of the ‘Morning Post’ would require a prompt contradiction.”

“What report?” asked Dunn, quickly.

“Here’s the paragraph.” And the other read from a newspaper before him: “‘Our readers, we feel assured, will learn with satisfaction that the Government is at this moment in negotiation for the services of Mr. Davenport Dunn in the Crimea. To any one who has followed the sad story of our Commissariat blunders and shortcomings, the employment of this – the first administrative mind of our day – will be matter for just gratification. We have only to turn our eyes to the sister country, and see what success has attended his great exertions there, to anticipate what will follow his labors in the still more rugged field of the Crimea.’

“This is from the ‘Examiner’: ‘We are sorry to hear, and upon the authority that assumes to be indisputable, that a grave difficulty has suspended, for the time at least, the negotiation between the Government and Mr. Daren-port Dunn; the insistence on the part of that gentleman of such a recognition for his services as no Administration could dare to promise being the obstacle.’

“‘Punch’ has also his say: ‘Mr. Davenport Dunn’s scheme is now before the cabinet It resolves itself into this: The Anglo-French alliance to be conducted on the principles of a Limited Liability Company. For preference shares, address Count Morny in Paris, or Dowb at Balaklava.’”

“So much for official secrecy and discretion. This morning brings me the offer from the Minister of this appointment; and here is the whole press of England speculating, criticising, and ridiculing it, forty-eight hours before the proposal is made me! What says the great leading journal?” added he, opening a broad sheet before him. “Very brief, and very vague,” muttered he. “‘No one knows better than the accomplished individual alluded to, how little the highest honors in the power of the Crown to bestow could add to the efficiency of that zeal, or the purpose of that guidance he has so strenuously and successfully devoted to the advancement of his country.’ Psha!” cried he, angrily, as he threw down the paper, and walked to the window.

Hankes proceeded to read aloud one of those glowing panegyrics certain popular journals loved to indulge in, on the superior virtue, capacity, and attainments of the middle classes. “Of these,” said the writer, “Mr. Dunn is a good specimen. Sprung from what may be called the very humblest rank – ”

“Who writes that? What paper is it?”

“The ‘Daily Tidings.’”

“You affect to know all these fellows of the press. It is your pride to have been their associate and boon companion. I charge you, then, no matter for the means or the cost, get that man discharged; follow him up too; have an eye upon him wherever he goes, and wherever he obtains employment. He shall learn that a hungry stomach is a sorry recompense for the pleasure of pointing a paragraph. Let me see that you make a note of this, Mr. Hankes, and that you execute it also.”

It was something so new for Hankes to see Dunn manifest any the slightest emotion on the score of the press, whether its comments took the shape of praise or blame, that he actually stared at him with a sort of incredulous astonishment.

“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!”