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CHAPTER XXX. BAGENAL DALY’S VISITORS

It was at a late hour of a night, some days after this event occurred, that Bagenal Daly sat closeted with Darcy’s lawyer, endeavoring, by deep and long thought, to rescue him from some at least of the perils that threatened him. Each day, since the Knight’s departure, had added to the evil tidings of his fortune. While Gleeson had employed his powers of attorney to withdraw large sums from the banker’s hands, no information could be had concerning the great loan he had raised from the London company, nor was there to be found among the papers left behind him the bond passed to Hickman, and which he should have received had the money been paid. That such was the case, Bagenal Daly firmly believed; the memorandum given him by Freney was corroborated by the testimony of the clerks in two separate banking-houses, who both declared that Gleeson drew these sums on the morning before he started for Kildare, and to one of Daly’s rapid habits of judgment such evidence was quite conclusive. This view of the subject was, unhappily, not destined to continue undisturbed, for, on the very morning after the Knight’s departure from Dublin, came a formal letter from Hickman’s solicitor, demanding payment of the interest on the sum of seventy-four thousand eight hundred and twenty pounds, odd shillings, at five per cent, owing by seven weeks, and accompanying which was a notice of foreclosure of the mortgage on the ensuing 17th of March, in case the full sum aforesaid were not duly paid.

To meet these demands Daly well knew Darcy had no disposable property; the large sums raised by Gleeson, at a lower rate of interest, were intended for that purpose; and although he persisted in believing that this debt, at least, was satisfied, the lawyer’s opinion was strongly opposed to that notion.

Mr. Bicknell was a shrewd man, deep not only in the lore of his professional knowledge, but a keen scrutinizer of motives, and a far-seeing observer of the world. He argued thus: Gleeson would never have parted with such a sum on the eve of his own flight; a day was of no consequence, he could easily have put off the payment to Hickman to the time of the American ship’s sailing – why, then, hand over so large an amount, all in his possession? It was strange, of course, what had become of the money; but then they heard that his servant had made his escape. Why might not he have possessed himself of it after his master’s suicide? Who was to interfere or prevent it? Besides, if he had paid Hickman, the bond would, in all likelihood, be forthcoming; to retain possession of it could have been no object with Gleeson; he had met with nothing but kind and friendly treatment from Darcy, and was not likely to repay him by an act of useless, gratuitous cruelty.

As to the testimony of the bank clerks, it was as applicable to one view of the case as the other. Gleeson would, of course, draw out everything at his disposal; and although the sums tallied with those in the memorandum, that signified little, as they were the full amount in each banker’s hands to the Knight’s credit. Lastly, as to the memorandum, it was the only real difficulty in the case; but that paper might have been in Gleeson’s possession, and in the course of business discussion either might have been dropped inadvertently, or have been given to Hickman as explaining the moneys already prepared for his acceptance.

Mr. Bicknell’s reasonings were confirmed by the application of Hickman’s solicitors, who were men of considerable skill and great reputed caution. “Harris and Long make no such mistakes as this, depend upon that, sir; they see their case very clearly, or would never adventure on such an application.”

“D – n their caution! The question is not of their shrewdness.”

“Yes, but it is, though; we are weighing probabilities: let us see to which side the balance inclines. Would they serve notice of foreclosure, not knowing whether or not we had the receipt in our possession? That is the whole matter.”

“I don’t pretend to say what they would do, but I know well what I should.”

“And pray what may that be?”

“Hold possession of the abbey, stand fast by the old walls, call in the tenantry, – and they are ready to answer such a call at a moment, if need be, – and while I proclaimed to the wide world by what right I resisted, I ‘d keep the place against any force they dared to bring. These are ticklish times, Bicknell; the Government have just cheated this country, – they ‘d scarcely risk the hazard of a civil war for an old usurer, – old Hickman would be left to his remedies in Banco or Equity; and who knows what might turn up one day or other to strengthen the honest cause?”

“I scarcely concur in your suggestion, sir.”

“How the devil should you? There are neither declarations to draw, nor affidavits to swear, no motions, nor rules, nor replies, no declarations, no special juries! No, Bicknell, I never suspected your approval of my plan. It would not cost a single skin of parchment.”

Though Daly spoke this sarcasm bitterly, it produced no semblance of irritation in the man of law, who was composedly occupied in perusing a document before him.

“I have made memoranda,” said Bicknell, “of certain points for counsel’s opinion, and as soon as we can obtain some information as to the authenticity of young Darcy’s signature, we shall see our way more clearly. The case is not only a complicated but a gloomy one; our antagonists are acute and wealthy, and I own to you the prospect is far from good.”

“The better counsel mine,” said Daly, sternly; “I have little faith in the justice that hangs upon the intelligence of what you facetiously call twelve honest men; methinks the world is scarcely so well supplied with the commodity that they are sure to answer the call of the sheriff. It is probable, however, – nay, it is more than probable, – Darcy will be of your mind, and reject my advice; if so, there is nothing for it but the judge and jury, and he will be despoiled of his property by the law of the land.”

Bicknell knew too well the eccentric nature of Daly’s character, in which no feature was more prominent than his hatred of everything like the recognized administration of the law, to offer him any opposition, and merely repeating his previous determination to seek the advice of able counsel, he took his leave.

“There is some deep mystery in this business,” said Daly to himself, as he paced the room alone; “Bicknell is right in saying that Gleeson would not have committed an act of unnecessary cruelty, nor, if he had paid the money, would he have failed to leave the bond among his papers. Every circumstance of this fellow’s flight is enveloped in doubt, and Freney, the only man who appears to have suspected his intention, by some mischance is not now to be found; Sandy has not succeeded in meeting with the boy, notwithstanding all his efforts. What can this be owing to? What machinery is at work here? Have the Hick-mans their share in this?” Such were the broken sentences he muttered, as, in turn, suspicions tracked each other in his mind.

Daly was far too rash, and too impetuous in temper, to be well qualified for an investigation of so much difficulty. Unable to weigh probabilities with calmness, he was always the victim of his own prejudices in favor of certain things and people; and to escape from the chaotic trouble of his own harassed thoughts, he was ever ready to adopt some headlong and desperate expedient, in preference to the quieter policy of more patient minds.

“Yes, faith,” said he, “my plan is the best after all; and who knows but by showing the bold front we may reduce old Hickman’s pretensions, or at least make a compromise with him. There are plenty of arms and ammunition, – eight stout fellows would hold the inner gate tower against a battalion, – we could raise the country from Mur-risk to Killery Harbor; and one gun fired from the Boat Quay would bring the fishermen from Clare Island and Achill to the rescue, – we ‘d soon make a signal they ‘d recognize; old Hickman’s house, with all its porticos and verandas, would burn like tinder. If they are for law, let them begin, then.”

The door opened as he spoke these words, and Sandy entered cautiously. “There is a countryman without wha says he’s come a long way to see your honor, and maun see you this night.”

“Where from?”

“Fra’ the West, I think, for he said the roads were heavy down in them parts.”

“Let him come in,” said Daly; and, with his hands crossed behind his back, he continued to walk the room. “Some poor fellow for a renewal of his lease, or an abatement, or something of that kind, – they ‘ll never learn that I ‘m no longer the owner of that estate that still bears my name, and they cling to me as though I had the power to assist them, when I’m defenceless for myself. Well, what is it? Speak out, man, – what do you want with me?”

The individual to whom this question was addressed stood with his back to the door, which he had cautiously shut close on entering, but, instead of returning an answer to the question, he cast a long and searching glance around the room, as if to ascertain whether any other person was in it. The apartment was large, and, being dimly lighted, it took some time to assure him that they were alone; but when he had so satisfied himself-, he walked slowly forward into the light, and, throwing open his loose coat of gray frieze, exhibited the well-known figure of Freney the robber.

“What, Freney! – the man of all Ireland I wish to see.”

“I thought so, sir,” said the other, wiping his forehead with his hand, for he was flushed and heated, and seemed to have come off a long journey. “I know you sent for me, but I was unable to meet your messenger, and I can seldom venture to send that young villain Jemmy into the capital, – the police are beginning to know him, and he ‘ll be caught one of these days.”

“You were n’t in Kildare, then?” said Daly.

“No, sir, I was in the far West, – down in Mayo. I had a little business in Ballina a short time back, and some fellow who knew me, and thought the game a safe one, stole my brown horse out of the inn-stable, in the broad noon-day, and sold him at the fair green at Ballinasloe. When I tell you that he was the best animal I ever crossed, I need n’t say what the loss was to me; the nags you saw were broken-down hackneys in comparison. He was strong in bone and untiring, and I kept him for the heavy country around Boyle and down by Longford. It is not once, nor twice, but a dozen times, Matchlock has saved me from a loop and a leap in the air; but the rascal that took him well knew the theft was safe, – Freney, the highwayman, could scarcely lodge informations with a magistrate.”

“And you never could hear traces of him?” “Yes, that I did, but it cost me time and trouble too. I found that he was twice sold within one week. Dean Harris bought him, and sold him the day after.” Here Freney gave a low cunning laugh, while his eyes twinkled with malignant drollery.

“He did n’t think as highly of him as you did, Freney?” “Perhaps he had n’t as good reason,” said the robber, laughing. “He was riding home from an early dinner with the bishop, and as he was cantering along the side of the road, a chaise with four horses came tearing past. Matchlock, true to his old instinct, but not knowing who was on his back, broke into a gallop, and in half a dozen strides brought the dean close up to the chaise window, when the traveller inside sent a bullet past his ear that very nearly made a vacancy in the best living of the diocese. As I said, sir, the dean had had enough of him; he sold him the next morning, and that day week he was bought by a young fellow in the West whom I found out to be a grandson of old Hickman.”

“Was he able to ride a horse like this?” said Daly, doubtfully.

“Ride him? – ay; and never a man in the province brought a beast to a leap with a lighter hand and a closer seat in the saddle. We were side by side for three miles of a stiff country, and I don’t believe I ‘m much of a coward, – at any rate, I set very little value on my neck; but, I ‘ll tell you what, sir, he pushed me hard.”

“How was this, then? Had you a race together?” “It was something very like it, sir,” said Freney, laughing; “for when I reached Westport, I heard that young O’Reilly was to ride a new brown horse that day with the hounds, and a great hunt was expected, to show some English gentlemen who were staying at Gwynne Abbey. So I went off early to Hooley’s forge, near the cross-roads, to see the meet, and look out for my man. I did n’t want any one to tell me which he was, for I ‘d know Matchlock at half a mile distance. There he was, in splendid condition too, and looking as I never saw him look before; by my conscience, Mr. Daly, there’s a wide difference between the life of a beast in the stables of a county member, and one that has to stretch his bones in the shealing of such as myself. My plan was to go down to the cover, and the moment the fox broke away, to drive a bullet through my horse’s head, and be off as hard as I could; for, to tell you the truth, it was spite more than the value of him was grieving me; so I took my own horse by the bridle, and walked down to where they were all gathered. I was scarcely there when the dogs gave tongue, and away they went, – a grand sight it was, more than a hundred red-coats, and riding close every man of them. Just then, up comes Matchlock, and takes the fence into the field where I was standing, a stone wall and a ditch, his rider handling him elegantly, and with an easy smile, sitting down in his saddle as if it was child’s play. Faith, I could n’t bring myself to fire the shot, partly for the sake of the horse, more too, maybe, for the sake of the rider. ‘I ‘ll go a bit beside him,’ said I to myself; for it was a real pleasure to me to watch the way how both knew their business well. I ‘m making a long story of it, but the end of it was this: I took the Crumpawn river just to dare him, and divil a bit but he fell in, – no fault of his, but the bank was rotten, and down they went; the young fellow had a narrow escape of it, but he got through it at last, and, as he lay on the grass more dead than alive, I saw Matchlock grazing just close to me. Temptations are bad things, Mr. Daly, particularly when a man has never trained himself off them; so I slipped the bridle over his head, and rode away with him beside me.”

“Carried him off?”

“Clean and clever; he’s at the hall-door this minute: and, by the same token, sixty-four miles he has covered this day.”

“There’s only one part of the whole story surprises me; it is that this fellow should have ridden so boldly and so well. I know such courage is often no more than habit: yet even that lower quality of daring I never should have given him credit for. Was he hurt by his fall?”

“Stunned, perhaps, but nothing the worse.”

“Well, well, enough of him. I wanted to see you, Freney, to learn anything you may know of this fellow Gleeson’s flight. It’s a sad affair for my friend the Knight of Gwynne.”

“So I’ve heard, sir. It’s bad enough for myself, too.”

“For you! He was not your man of business, was he?” said Daly, with a sly laugh.

“No, sir, I generally manage my money matters myself; but he happened to have a butler, one Garrett by name, who betted smartly on the turf, and played a little with the bones besides. He was a steady-going chap that knew a thing or two, but honest enough in booking up when he lost; he borrowed two hundred from me on the very day they started; he owed me nearly three besides, and I never saw him since. They say that when his master jumped overboard, Jack Garrett laid hands on all his property, and sailed for America; but I don’t believe it, sir.”

“Well, but, Freney, you may believe it, for I was the means of an investigation at Liverpool in which the fact transpired, and the name of John Garrett was entered in the ship-agent’s books; I read it there myself.”

“No matter for that, he dared not venture into the States. I know something of Jack’s doings among the Yankees, and depend upon it, Mr. Daly, he’s not gone; it’s only a blind to stop pursuit.”

Daly shook his head dubiously, for, having satisfied himself of Garrett’s escape when at Liverpool, he felt annoyed at any discredit attaching to what he deemed his own discovery.

“Take my word for it, Mr. Daly, I ‘m right this time; you cannot think what an advantage a man like me possesses in guessing at the way another rogue would play his game. Why, sir, I know every turn and double such a fellow as Garrett would make. Now, I ‘d wager Matchlock against a car-horse that he has not left England, and I ‘d take an even bet he ‘ll be at the Spring Meeting at Doncaster.”

“This may be all as you say, Freney,” said Daly, after a pause, “and yet I see no reason to suppose it can interest me, or my friend either. He might know something of Gleeson’s affairs; he might, perhaps, be able to tell something of the payment of that sum at Kildare; if so – ”

“If so,” interrupted Freney, “money would buy the secret; at all events, I’m determined he shall not escape me so easily. I ‘ll follow the fellow to the very threshold of Newgate but I ‘ll have my own, – it is for that purpose I ‘m on my way now. A fishing-boat will sail from Howth by to-morrow’s tide, and land me somewhere on the Welsh coast, and, if I can serve you, why, it’s only doing two jobs at the same time. What are the points you are anxious to discover?”

Daly reflected for a few moments, and then with distinctness detailed the several matters on which he desired information, not only regarding the reasons of Gleeson’s embarrassments, but the nature of his intimacy with old Hickman, of which he entertained deep suspicions.

“I see it all,” said Freney. “You think that Gleeson was in league with the doctor?”

Daly nodded.

“That was my own notion, too. Ah, sir, if I ‘d only the King’s pardon in my pocket this night, and the power of an honest man for one month, I ‘d stake my head on it, but I would have the whole mystery as clear as water.”

“You ‘ll want some money, Freney,” said Daly, as he turned to the table, and, taking up a key, unlocked the writing-case. “I ‘m not as rich just now as a Member of Parliament might be after such a Bill as the Union, but I hope this may be of some service;” and he took a fifty-pound note from the desk to hand it to him, but Freney was gone. He had slipped noiselessly from the room; the bang of the hall-door was heard at the instant, and immediately after the tramp of a horse as he trotted down the street.

“The world all over!” said Daly to himself. “If the man of honor and integrity has his flaws and defects, even fellows like that have their notions of principle and delicacy too. Confound it! mankind will never let me love or hate them.”

CHAPTER XXXI. “A LEAVE-TAKING.”

At Gwynne Abbey, time sped fast and pleasantly; each day brought its own enjoyments, and of the Knight’s guests there was not one who did not in his heart believe that Maurice Darcy was the very happiest man in the kingdom.

Lord Netherby, the frigid courtier, felt, for the first time, perhaps, in his life, how much cordiality can heighten the pleasures of social intercourse, and how the courtesy of kind feeling can add to the enjoyments of refined and cultivated tastes. Lady Eleanor had lost nothing of the powers of fascination for which her youth had been celebrated, and there was, in the very seclusion of her life, that which gave the charm of novelty to her remarks on people and events. The Knight himself, abounding in resources of every kind, was a companion the most fastidious or exacting could not weary of; and as for Helen, her captivations were acknowledged by those who, but a week before, would not have admitted the possibility of any excellence that had not received the stamp of London approval.

Crofton could never expatiate sufficiently on the delights of an establishment which, with the best cook, the best cellar, and the best stable, called not upon him for the exercise of the small talents and petty attentions by which his invitations to great houses were usually purchased; while the younger men of the party agreed in regarding their friend Lionel as the most to be envied of all their acquaintance.

Happiness, perhaps, shines more brightly by reflected light; certainly Lionel Darcy never felt more disposed to be content with the world, and, although not devoid of a natural pride at exhibiting to his English friends the style of his father’s house and habits, yet was he far more delighted at the praises he heard on every side of the Knight himself. Maurice Darcy possessed that rarest of all gifts, the power of being a delightful companion to younger men, without ever detracting in the slightest degree from the most rigid tone of good taste and good principle. The observation may seem an illiberal one, but it is unhappily too true, that even among those who from right feeling would be incapable of anything mean or sordid, there often prevails a laxity in expression and a libertinism of sentiment very far remote from their real opinions, and, consequently, such as flatter this tendency are frequently the greatest favorites among them. The Knight, not less from high principle than pride, rejected every such claim; his manly, joyous temperament needed no aids to its powers of interesting and amusing; his sympathies went with young men in all their enthusiasm for sport; he gloried in the exuberance of their high spirits, and felt his own youth come back in the eager pleasure with which he listened to their plans of amusement.

It may well be believed with what sorrow to each the morning dawned that was to be the last of their visit. These last times are sad things! They are the deaths of our affections and attachments; for assuredly the memory we retain of past pleasures is only the unreal spirit of a world we are to know of no more, – not alone the records of friends lost or dead, but of ourselves, such as we once were, and can never again be; of a time when hope was fed by credulity, and could not be exhausted by disappointment. They must have had but a brief experience of life who do not see in every separation from friends the many chances against their meeting again, least of all, of meeting unchanged, with all around them as they parted.

These thoughts, and others like them, weighed heavily on the hearts of those who now assembled for the last time beneath the roof of Gwynne Abbey.

It was in vain that Lionel suggested various schemes of pleasure for the day; the remembrance that it was the last was ever present, and while every moment seemed precious, there was a fidgety impatience to be about and stirring, mingled with a desire to loiter and linger over the spot so associated with pleasant memories.

A boating party to Clare Island, long planned and talked over, could find now no advocates. All Lionel’s descriptions of the shooting along the rocky shores of the bay were heard unheeded; every one clung to the abbey, as if to enjoy to the very last the sense of home happiness they had known there. Even those less likely to indulge feelings of attachment were not free from the depressing influence of a last day. Nor were these sentiments confined to the visitors only. Lady Eleanor experienced a return of her former spirits in her intercourse with those whose habits and opinions all reminded her of the past, and would gladly have prolonged a visit so full of pleasant recollections. The request was, however, in vain; the Earl was to be in waiting early in the following week, Lionel’s leave was only regimental, and equally limited, and each of the others had engagements and projects no less fixed and immutable.

In little knots of two and three they spent the day wandering about from place to place, to take a last look of the great cliff, to visit for the last time the little wood path, whose every turning presented some new aspect of the bay and the shore. Lord Netherby attached himself to the Knight, devoting himself with a most laudable martyrdom to a morning in the farm-yard and the stable, where, notwithstanding all his efforts, his blunders betrayed how ill-suited were his habits to country life and its interests. He bore all, however, well and heroically, for he had an object in view, and that, with him, was always sufficient to induce any degree of endurance. Up to this moment he had scarcely enjoyed an opportunity of conversing with the Knight on the subject of politics. The few words they had exchanged at the cover side were all that passed between them, and although they conveyed sentiments very remote from his own, he did not entirely despair of gaining over one who evidently was less actuated by party motives than impressed by the force of strong personal convictions.

“Such a man will, of course,” thought the Earl, “be in the Imperial Parliament, and carry with him great influence on every question connected with Ireland; his support of the Ministry will be all the more valuable that his reputation is intact from every stain of corruption. To withdraw him from his own country by the seductions of London life would not be easy, but he may be attached to England by ties still more binding.” Such were some of the reasonings which the wily peer revolved in his mind, and to whose aid a fortunate accident had in some measure contributed.

“I believe I have never shown you our garden, my Lord,” said the Knight, who, at last taking compassion on the suffering complaisance of the Earl, proposed this change. “The season is scarcely the most flattering, but we are early in this part of Ireland. What say you if we walk thither?”

The plan was at once approved of, and after a short circuit through a shrubbery, they crossed a large orchard, and, ascending a gentle slope, they entered the garden, which rose in successive terraces behind the abbey, and commanded a wide prospect over the bay and the sea beyond it. Lord Netherby’s admiration was not feigned, as he turned his eyes around and beheld the extent and beauty of that cultivated scene, which, in the brightness of a spring morning, glittered like a gem on the mountain’s side. The taste alone was not the engrossing thought of his mind, but he reflected on the immense expenditure such a caprice must have cost, terraced as the ground was into the very granite rock, and the earth all supplied artificially. The very keeping these parterres in order was a thing of no mean cost. Not all the terrors of his own approaching fate could deprive Darcy of a sense of pride as he watched the expression of the Earl’s features, surprise and wonder depicted in every lineament.

“How extensive the park is,” said the courtier, at length, half ashamed, as it seemed, of giving way to his amazement; “are those trees yonder within your grounds?”

“Yes, my Lord: the wood at that point where you see the foam splashing up is our limit in that direction; on this side we stretch away somewhat further.”

“Whose property, then, have we yonder, where I see the village?”

“It is all the Gwynne estate,” said the Knight, with difficulty repressing the sigh that rose as he spoke.

“And the town?”

“The town also. The worthy monks took a wide circuit, and, by all accounts, did not misuse their wealth. I sadly fear, my Lord, their successors were not as blameless.”

“A noble possession, indeed!” said the Earl, half aloud, and not attending to Darcy’s remark. “Are you certain, my dear Knight, that you have made your political influence at all commensurate with the amount of either your property or your talents? An English gentleman with an estate like this, and ability such as yours, might command any position he pleased.”

“In other words, my Lord, he might barter his independence for the exercise of a precarious power, and, in ceasing to dispense the duties of a landed proprietor, he might become a very considerable ingredient in a party.”

“I hope you do not deem the devoir of a country gentleman incompatible with the duties of a statesman?”

“By no means; but I greatly regret the gradual desertion of social influence in the search after political ascendency. I am not for the working of a system that spoils the gentry, and yet does not make them statesmen.”

“And yet the very essence of our Constitution is to connect the power of Government with the possession of landed property.”

“And justly so, too; none other offers so little in return as a mere speculation. None is so little exposed to the casualties which affect every other kind of wealth. The legitimate influence of the landed gentry is the safeguard of the State; but if, by the attractions of power, the flatteries of a Court, or the seductions of Party, you withdraw them from the rightful sphere of its exercise, you reduce them to the level of the Borough members, without, perhaps, their technical knowledge or professional acquirements. I am for giving them a higher position, – the heritage of the bold barons, from whom they are descended: but to maintain this, they must live on their own estates, dispense the influences of their wealth and their morals in their own native districts, be the friend of the poor man, the counsellor of the misguided, the encourager of the weak; know and be known to all around, not as the corrupt dispensers of Government patronage, but the guardians of those whose rights are in their keeping for defence and protection. I would have them with their rightful influence in the Senate; an influence which should preponderate in both Houses. Their rank and education would be the best guarantee for the safety and wisdom of their counsels, their property the best surety for the permanence of the institutions of the State. Suddenly acquired wealth can scarcely be intrusted with political power; it lacks the element of prudent caution, by which property is maintained as well as accumulated; it wants also the prestige of antiquity as a claim to respect; and, legislate as you will, men will look back as well as forward.”