Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“And they ‘re right, Davy, – they ‘re right,” said the old man, energetically.

“I don’t doubt but they are, sir; the duty of the pilot is to take charge of the ship, but not to decide the port she sails for.”

“I wish you were one of them, Davy; they’d suit you, and you ‘d suit them.”

“So we should, sir; and who knows what may turn up? I’m not impatient”

“That’s right, Davy; that’s the lesson I always taught you; wait, – wait!”

“When did you see Driscoll, father?” asked Dunn, after a pause.

“He was here last week; he’s up to his ears about that claim to the Beecher estate, Lord – Lord – What’s his – ”

“Lackington.”

“Yes, Lord Lackington. He says if you were once come home, you ‘d get him leave to search the papers in the Record Tower at the Castle, and that it would be the making of himself if anything came out of it.”

“He’s always mare’s-nesting, sir,” said Dunn, carelessly.

“Faith, he has contrived to feather his own nest, anyhow,” said the old man, laughing. “He lent Lord Glengariff five thousand pounds t’ other day at six per cent, and on as good security as the Bank.”

“Does he pretend to have discovered anything new with respect to that claim?”

“He says there’s just enough to frighten them, and that your help – the two of ye together – could work it well.”

“He has not, then, found out the claimant?”

“He has his name, and the regiment he’s in, but that’s all. He was talking of writing to him.”

“If he’s wise, he’ll let it alone. What chance would a poor soldier in the ranks have against a great lord, if he had all the right in the world on his side?”

“So I told him; but he said we could make a fine thing out of it, for all that; and, somehow, Davy, he’s mighty seldom mistaken.”

“If he be, sir, it is because he has hitherto only meddled with what lay within his power. He can scheme and plot and track out a clew in the little world he has lived in; but let him be careful how he venture upon that wider ocean of life where his craft would be only a cock-boat.”

“He hasn’t your stuff in him, Davy,” cried the old man, in ecstasy; and a very slight flush rose to the other’s cheek at the words, but whether of pride, or shame, or pleasure, it were hard to say. “I ‘ve nothing to offer you, Davy, except a cut of cold pork; could you eat it?” said the old man.

“I’m not hungry, father; I’m tired somewhat, but not hungry.”

“I’m tired, too,” said the old man, sighing; “but, to be sure, it’s time for me, – I ‘ll be eighty-nine if I live till the fourth of next month. That’s a long life, Davy.”

“And it has been an active one, sir.”

“I ‘ve seen great changes in my time, Davy,” continued he, following out his own thoughts. “I was in the Volunteers when we bullied the English, and they ‘ve paid us off for it since, that they have! I was one of the jury when Jackson died in the dock, and if he was alive now, maybe it’s a lord of the Treasury he ‘d be. Everything is changed, and everybody too. Do you remember Kellett, of Kellett’s Court, that used to drive on the Circular Road with six horses?”

Dunn nodded an assent.

“His liveries were light-blue and silver, and Lord Castletown’s was the same; and Kellett said to him one day, ‘My Lord,’ says he, ‘we’re always mistaken for each other; could n’t we hit on a way to prevent it?’ ‘I’m willing,’ says my Lord, ‘if I only knew how.’ ‘Then I ‘ll tell you,’ says Kellett; ‘make your people follow your own example and turn their coats, – that’ll do it,’ says he.” And the old man laughed till his eyes swam. “What’s become of them Kelletts?” added he, sharply.

“Ruined, – sold out”

“To be sure, I remember all about it; and the young fellow, – Paul was his name, – where’s he?”

“He’s not so very young now,” said Dunn, smiling; “he has a clerkship in the Customs, – a poor place it is.”

“I’m glad of it,” said he, fiercely; “there was an old score between us, – that’s his father and me, – and I knew I would n’t die till it was settled.”

“These are not kindly feelings, father,” said Dunn, mildly.

“No; but they ‘re natural ones, and that’s as good,” said the old man, with an energy that seemed to defy his age. “Where would I be now, where would you, if it was only kindness we thought of? There wasn’t a man in all Ireland I wanted to be quite with so much as old Kellett of Kellett’s Court; and you’d not wonder if you knew why; but I won’t tell.”

Davenport Dunn’s cheek grew crimson and then deadly pale, but he never uttered a word.

“And what’s more,” continued the old man, energetically, “I’d pay the debt off to his children and his children’s children with interest, if I could.”

Still was the other silent; and the old man looked angry that he had not succeeded in stimulating the curiosity he had declared he would not gratify.

“Fate has done the work already, sir,” said Dunn, gravely. “Look where we are, and where they!”

“That ‘s true, – that’s true; we have a receipt in full for it all; but I ‘d like to show it to him. I ‘d like to say to him, ‘Mr. Kellett, once upon a time, when my son there was a child – ‘”

“Father, father, these memories can neither make us wiser nor happier,” broke in Dunn, in a voice of deep emotion. “Had I taken upon me to carry through life the burden of resentments, my back had been broken long ago; and from your own prudent counsels I learned that this could never lead to success. The men whom destiny has crushed are like bankrupt debtors, and to pursue them is but to squander your own resources.”

The old man sat moodily, muttering indistinctly to himself, and evidently little moved by the words he had listened to.

“Are you going away already?” cried he, suddenly, as Dunn rose from his chair.

“Yes, sir; I have a busy day before me to-morrow, and need some sleep to prepare for it.”

“What will you be doing to-morrow, Davy?” asked the old man, while a bright gleam of pride lighted up his eyes and illuminated his whole face.

“I have deputations to receive, – half a dozen, at least. The Drainage Commission, too, will want me, and I must contrive to have half an hour for the Inland Navigation people; then the Attorney-General will call about these prosecutions, and I have not made up my mind about them; and the Castle folk will need some clew to my intentions about the new Secretary; there are some twenty provincial editors, besides, waiting for directions, not to speak of private and personal requests, some of which I must not refuse to hear. As to letters, three days won’t get through them; so that you see, father, I do need a little rest beforehand.”

“God bless you, my boy, – God bless you, Davy,” cried the old man, tenderly, grasping his hand in both his own. “Keep the head clear, and trust nobody; that’s the secret, – trust nobody; the only mistakes I ever made in life was when I forgot that rule.” And affectionately kissing him, the father dismissed his son, muttering blessings on him as he went.

CHAPTER XVI. DAVIS VERSUS DUNN

Davenport Dunn had not exaggerated when he spoke of a busy day for the morrow. As early as eight o’clock was he at breakfast, and before nine the long back parlor, with its deep bay-window, was crowded like the waiting-room of a fashionable physician. Indeed, in the faces of anxiety, eagerness, and impatience of those assembled there, there was a resemblance. With a tact which natural shrewdness and long habit could alone confer, Mr. Clowes, the butler, knew exactly where each arrival should be introduced; and while railway directors, bank governors, and great contractors indiscriminately crowded the large dining-room, peers and right honorables filled the front drawing-room, the back one being reserved for law officers of the Crown, and such secret emissaries as came on special mission from the Castle. From the hall, crammed with frieze-coated countryfolk, to the little conservatory on the stairs, where a few ladies were grouped, every space was occupied. Either from previous acquaintance, or guided by the name of the visitor, Mr. Clowes had little difficulty in assigning him his fitting place, dropping, as he accompanied him, some few words, as the rank and station of the individual might warrant his addressing to him. “I ‘ll let Mr. Dunn know your Lordship is here this instant; he is now just engaged with the Chief Baron.” – “He ‘ll see you, Sir Samuel, next.” – “Mr. Wilcox, you have no chance for two hours; the Foyle deputation is just gone in.” – “You need scarcely wait to-day, Mr. Tobin; there are eighteen before you.” – “Colonel Craddock, you are to come on Saturday, and bring the plans with you.” – “Too late, Mr. Dean; his Grace the Archbishop waited till a quarter to eleven, the appointment is now for to-morrow at one.” – “No use in staying, my honest fellow, your own landlord could n’t see Mr. Dunn to-day.” In the midst of such brief phrases as these, while he scattered hopes and disappointments about him, he suddenly paused to read a card, stealing a quick glance at the individual who presented it “‘Mr. Annesley Beecher.’ By appointment, sir?”

“Well, I suppose I might say yes,” muttered the visitor, while he turned to a short and very overdressed person at his side for counsel in the difficulty.

“To be sure – by appointment,” said the other, confidently, while he bestowed on the butler a look of unmistakable defiance.

“And this – gentleman – is with you, sir?” asked the butler, pausing ere he pronounced the designation. “Might I request to have his name?”

“Captain Davis,” said the short man, interposing. “Write it under your own, Beecher.”

While Mr. Annesley Beecher was thus occupied, – and, sooth to say, it was an office he did not discharge with much despatch, – Clowes had ample time to scan the appearance and style of the strangers.

“If you ‘ll step this way, sir,” said Clowes, addressing Beecher only, “I’ll send in your card at once.” And he ushered them as he spoke into the thronged dinner-room, whose crowded company sat silent and moody, each man regarding his neighbor with a kind of reproachful expression, as though the especial cause of the long delay he was undergoing.

“You ought to ‘tip’ that flunkey, Beecher,” said Davis, as soon as they were alone in a window.

“Haven’t the tin, Master Grog!” said the other, laughing; while he added, in a lower voice, “Do you know, Grog, I don’t feel quite comfortable here. Rather mixed company, ain’t it, for a fellow who only goes out of a Sunday?”

“All safe,” muttered Davis. “These all are bank directors or railway swells. I wish we had the robbing of them!”

“Good deal of humbug about all this, ain’t there?” whispered Beecher, as he threw his eyes over the crowded room.

“Of course there is,” replied the other. “While he’s keeping us all kicking our shins here, he’s reading the ‘Times,’ or gossiping with a friend, or weighing a double letter for the post. It was the dentists took up the dodge first, and the nobs followed them.”

“I ‘m not going to stand it much longer, Grog. I tell you I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Stuff and nonsense! You don’t fancy any of these chaps has a writ in his pocket, do you? Why, I can tell you every man in the room. That little fellow, with the punch-colored shorts, is chairman of the Royal Canal Company. I know him, and he knows me. He had me ‘up’ about a roulette-table on board of one of the boats, and if it had n’t been for a trifling incident that occurred to his wife at Boulogne, where she went for the bathing, and which I broke to him in confidence – But stay, he’s coming over to speak to me.”

“How d’ye do, Captain Davis?” said the stranger, with the air of a man resolved to brave a difficulty, while he threw into the manner a tone of haughty patronage.

“Pretty bobbish, Mr. Hailes; and you, the same I hope.”

“Well, thank you. You never paid me that little visit you promised at Leixlip.”

“I ‘ve been so busy of late; up to my ears, as they say. Going to start a new company, and thinking of asking your assistance too.”

“What’s the nature of it?”

“Well, it’s a kind of a mutual self-securing sort of thing against family accidents. You understand, – a species of universal guarantee to insure domestic peace and felicity, – a thing that will come home to us all; and I only want a few good names in the direction, to give the shares a push.”

Beecher looked imploringly, to try and restrain him; but he went on, —

“May I take the liberty to put you down on the committee of management?”

Before any answer could come to this speech, Mr. Clowes called out in a deep voice, —

“Mr. Annesley Beecher and Captain Davis;” and flung wide the door for them to pass out.

“Why did you say that to him, Grog?” whispered Beecher, as they moved along.

“Just because I was watching the way he looked at me. He had a hardy, bold expression on his face that showed he needed a reminder, and so I gave him one. Always have the first blow when you see a fellow means to strike you.”

Mr. Davenport Dunn rose as the visitors entered the’ room, and having motioned to them to be seated, took his place with his back to the fire, – a significant intimation that he did not anticipate a lengthy review. Whether it was that he had not previously settled in his own mind how to open the object of his visit, or that something in Dunn’s manner and appearance unlike what he anticipated had changed his intention; but certain is it that Beecher felt confused and embarrassed, and when reminded by Dunn’s saying, “I am at your service, sir,” he turned a most imploring look towards Davis to come to his rescue. The captain, however, with more tact, paid no attention to the appeal; and Beecher, with an immense effort, stammered out, “I have taken the liberty to call on you. I have come here today in consequence of a letter – that is, my brother, Lord Lackington – You know my brother?”

“I have that honor, sir.”

“Well, in writing to me a few days back, he added a hurried postscript, saying he had just seen you; that you were then starting for Ireland, where, on your arrival, it would be well I should wait upon you at once.”

“Did his Lordship mention with what object, sir?”

“I can’t exactly say that he did. He said something about your being his man of business, thoroughly acquainted with all his affairs, and so, of course, I expected – I believed, at least – that you might be able to lead the way, – to show me the line of country, as one might call it,” added he, with a desperate attempt to regain his ease by recurring to his favorite phraseology.

“Really, sir, my engagements are so numerous that I have to throw myself on the kindness of those who favor me with a call to explain the object of their visit.”

“I haven’t got Lackington’s letter about me; but if I remember aright, all he said was, ‘See Dunn as soon as you can, and he ‘ll put you up to a thing or two,’ or words to that effect.”

“I regret deeply, sir, that the expressions give me no clew to the matter in hand.”

“If this ain’t fencing, my name isn’t Davis,” said Grog, breaking in. “You know well, without any going about the bush, what he comes about; and all this skirmishing is only to see if he’s as well ‘up’ as yourself in his own business. Now then, no more chaff, but go in at once.”

“May I ask who is this gentleman?”

“A friend, – a very particular friend of mine,” said Beecher, quickly, – “Captain Davis.”

“Captain Davis,” repeated Dunn, in a half voice to himself, as if to assist his memory to some effort, – “Captain Davis.”

“Just so,” said Grog, defiantly, – “Captain Davis.”

“Does his Lordship’s letter mention I should have the honor of a call from Captain Davis, sir?”

“No; but as he’s my own intimate friend, – a gentleman who possesses all my confidence, – I thought, indeed, I felt, the importance of having his advice upon any questions that might arise in this interview.”

“I ‘m afraid, sir, you have subjected your friend to a most unprofitable inconvenience.”

“The match postponed till further notice,” whispered Grog.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Dunn, not overhearing the remark.

“I was a saying that no race would come off to-day, in consequence of the inclemency of the weather,” said Grog, as he adjusted his shirt collar.

“Am I to conclude, then,” said Beecher, “that you have not any communication to make to me?”

“No, you ain’t,” broke in Grog, quickly. “He don’t like me, that’s all, and he has n’t the manliness to say it.”

“On the contrary, sir, I feel all the advantage of your presence on this occasion, all the benefit of that straightforward manner of putting the question which saves us so much valuable time.”

Grog bowed an acknowledgment of the compliment, but with a grin on his face that showed in what spirit he accepted it.

“Lord Lackington did not speak to you about my allowance?” asked Beecher, losing all patience.

“No, sir, not a word.”

“He did not allude to a notion – he did not mention a plan – he did not discuss people called O’Reilly, did he?” asked he, growing more and more confused and embarrassed.

“Not a syllable with reference to such a name escaped him, sir.”

“Don’t you see,” said Grog, rising, “that you ‘ll have to look for the explanation to the second column of the ‘Times,’ where ‘A. B. will hear something to his advantage if he calls without C.D.’?”

Davenport Dunn paid no attention to this remark, but stood calmly impassive before them.

“It comes to this, then, that Lackington has been hoaxing me,” said Beecher, rising, with an expression of ill-temper on his face.

“I should rather suggest another possibility,” said Dunn, politely; “that, knowing how far his Lordship has graciously reposed his own confidence in me, he has generously extended to me the chance of obtaining the same position of trust on the part of his brother, – an honor I am most ambitious to attain. If you are disengaged on Sunday next,” added he, in a low voice, “and would favor me with your company at dinner, alone, – quite alone – ”

Beecher bowed an assent in silence, casting a cautious glance towards Davis, who was scanning the contents of the morning paper.

“Till then,” muttered Dunn, while he added aloud, “A good-morning,” and bowed them both to the door.

“Well, you are a soft un, there’s no denying it,” said Davis, as they gained the street.

“What d’ye mean?” cried Beecher, angrily.

“Why, don’t you see how you spoiled all? I’d have had the whole story out of him, but you would n’t give me time to ‘work the oracle.’ He only wanted to show us how cunning he was, – that he was deep and all that; and when he saw that we were all wonder and amazement about his shrewdness, then he ‘d have gone to business.”

“Not a bit of it, Master Grog; that fellow’s wide awake, I tell you.”

“So much the worse for you, then, that’s all.”

“Why so?”

“Because you’re a going to dine with him on Sunday next, all alone. I heard it, though you did n’t think I was listening, and I saw the look that passed, too, as much as to say, ‘We ‘ll not have that fellow;’ and that’s the reason I say, ‘So much the worse for you.’”

“Why, what can he do, with all his craft? He can’t make me put my name to paper; and if he did, much good would it do him.”

“You can’t make running against the like of him,” said Grog, contemptuously. “He has an eye in his head like a dog-fox. You ‘ve no chance with him. He could n’t double on me, – he ‘d not try it; but he ‘ll play you like a trout in a fish-pond.”

“What if I send him an excuse, then, – shall I do that?”

“No. You must go, if it was only to show that you suspect nothing; but keep your eyes open, watch the ropes, and come over to me when the ‘heat is run.’”

And with this counsel they parted.

CHAPTER XVII. THE “PENSIONNAT GODARDE.”

Let us ask our reader to turn for a brief space from these scenes and these actors, and accompany us to that rich plain which stretches to the northwest of Brussels, and where, on the slope of the gentle hill, beneath the royal palace of Lacken, stands a most picturesque old house, known as the Château of the Three Fountains. The very type of a château of the Low Countries, from its gabled fronts, all covered with festooned rhododendron, to its trim gardens, peopled with leaden deities and ornamented by the three fountains to which it owes its name, nothing was wanting. From the plump little figure who blew his trumpet on the weather-vane, to the gaudily gilded pleasure-boat that peeped from amidst the tall water-lilies of the fish-pond, all proclaimed the peculiar taste of a people who loved to make nature artificial, and see the instincts of their own quaint natures reproduced in every copse and hedgerow around them.

All the little queer contrivances of Dutch ingenuity were there, – mock shrubs, which blossomed as you touched a spring; jets, that spurted out as you trod on a certain spot; wooden figures, worked by mechanisms, lowered the drawbridge to let you pass; nor was the toll-keeper forgotten, who touched his cap in salutation. Who were they who had designed all these pleasant conceits, and what fate had fallen on their descendants, we know not. At the time we speak of, the château was a select Pensionnat for ten young ladies, presided over by Madame Godarde, “of whom all particulars might be learned at Cadel’s Library, Old Bond Street, or by personal application to the Rev. Pierre Faucher, Evangelical Minister, Adam Street, Strand, London.” It was, as we have said, select, – the most select of Pensionnats. The ten young ladies were chosen after investigations the most scrutinizing; the conditions of the admission verged on the impossible. The mistress realized in her person all the rare attributes of an elevated rank and a rigid Protestantism, while the educational programme was little short of a fellowship course. Just as being a guardsman is supposed to confer a certain credit over a man’s outset in life, it was meant that being an élève of Madame Godarde should enter the world with a due and becoming prestige; for while the range of acquirements included something at least from every branch of human science, the real superiority and strength of the establishment lay in the moral culture observed there; and as the female teachers were selected from amongst the models of the sex, the male instructors were warranted as having triumphed over temptations not inferior to St. Anthony’s. The ritual of the establishment well responded to all the difficulties of admission. It was almost conventual in strictness; and even to the uniform dress worn by the pupils there was much that recalled the nunnery. The quiet uniformity of an unbroken existence, the changeless fashion of each day’s life, impressed even young and buoyant hearts, and toned down to seriousness spirits that nature had formed to be light and joyous. One by one, they who had entered there underwent this change; a little longer might be the struggle with some, the end was alike to all; nay, not to all! there was one whose temperament resisted to the last, and who, after three years of the durance, was just as unbroken in spirit, just as high in heart, just as gay, as when she first crossed the threshold. Gifted with one of those elastic natures which rise against every pressure, she accepted every hardship as the occasion for fresh resource, and met each new infliction, whether it were a severe task, or even punishment, with a high-hearted resolve not to be vanquished. There was nothing in her appearance that indicated this hardihood: she was a fair, slight girl, whose features were feminine almost to childishness. The gray-blue eyes, shaded with deep lashes; the beautifully formed mouth, on which a half-saucy smile so often played; a half-timid expression conveyed in the ever-changing color of her cheek, – suggested the expression of a highly impressionable and undecided nature; yet this frail, delicate girl, whose birdlike voice reminded one of childhood, swayed and ruled all her companions. She added to these personal graces abilities of a high order. Skilled in every accomplishment, she danced and sang and drew and played better than her fellows; she spoke several modern languages fluently, and even caught up their local dialects with a quickness quite marvellous. She could warble the Venetian barcarole with all the soft accents of an Adriatic tongue, or sing the Bauerlied of the Tyrol with every cadence of the peasant’s fancy. With a memory so retentive that she could generally repeat what she had once read over attentively, she had powers of mimicry that enabled her to produce at will everything noticeable that crossed her. A vivid fancy, too, threw its glittering light over all these faculties, so that even the commonplace incidents of daily life grouped themselves dramatically in her mind, and events the least striking were made the origin of situation and sentiment, brilliant with wit and poetry.