Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“It was n’t killed he was?” said Driscoll, in his habitual tone.

“No, no,” cried Kellett, “he was all safe.”

“Isn’t it a queer thing? but I’d like to hear of him! There was some Conway s connections of my mother’s, and I can’t get it out of my head but he might be one of them. It’s not a common name, like Driscoll.”

“Well, Jack will, maybe, be able to tell you about him,” said Kellett, still under the spell of Bella’s caution.

“If you would tell me on what points you want to be informed,” said Bella, “I shall be writing to my brother in a day or two. Are there any distinct questions you wish to be answered?”

The calm but searching glance that accompanied these few words gradually gave way to an expression of pity as Bella gazed at the hopeless imbecility of poor Driscoll’s face, wherein not a gleam of intelligence now lingered. It was as if the little struggle of intellect had so exhausted him that he was incapable of any further effort of reason. And there he sat, waiting till the returning tide of thought should flow back upon his stranded intelligence.

“Would you like him to be questioned about the family?” said she, looking good-naturedly at him.

“Yes, miss, – yes,” said he, half dreamily; “that is, I would n’t like my own name, poor crayture as I am, to be mentioned; but if you could anyways find out if he was one of the Conway s of Abergedley, – they were my mother’s people, – if you could find out that for me, it would be a great comfort.”

“I’ll charge myself with the commission,” said Bella, writing down the words “Conway of Abergedley.”

“Now there was something else, if my poor head could only remember it,” said Driscoll, whose countenance displayed the most complete picture of a puzzled intelligence.

“Mix yourself another tumbler, and you’ll think of it by and by,” said Kellett, courteously.

“Yes,” muttered Driscoll, accepting the suggestion at once. “It was something about mustard-seed, I think,” added he, after a pause; “they say it will keep fresh for two years if you put it in a blue-paper bag, – deep blue is best” A look of sincere compassion passed between Kellett and his daughter, and Driscoll went on, “I don’t think it was that, though, I wanted to remember.” And he fell into deep reflection for several minutes, at the end of which he started abruptly up, finished off his glass, and began to button up his coat in preparation for the road.

“Don’t go till I see what the night looks like,” cried Kellett, as he left the room to examine the state of the weather.

“If I should be fortunate enough to obtain any information, how shall I communicate with you?” asked Bella, addressing him hastily, as if to profit by the moment of their being alone.

Driscoll looked fixedly at her for a second or two, and gradually the expression of his face settled down into its habitual cast of unmeaning imbecility, while he merely muttered to himself, “No evidence; throw out the bills.”

She repeated her question, and in a voice to show that she believed herself well understood.

“Yes!” said he, with a vacant grin, – “yes! but they don’t agree with everybody.”

“There’s a bit of a moon out now, and the rain has stopped,” said Kellett, entering, “so that it would n’t be friendly to detain you.”

“Good-night, good-night,” said Driscoll, hurriedly; “that spirit is got up to my head. I feel it. A pleasant journey to you both, and be sure to remember me to Mrs. Miller.” And with these incoherent words he hastened away, and his voice was soon heard singing cheerily as he plodded his way towards Dublin. “That’s the greatest affliction of all,” said Kellett, as he sat down and sipped his glass. “There ‘s nothing like having one’s faculties, one’s reason, clear and unclouded. I would n’t be like that poor fellow there to be as rich as the Duke of Leinster.”

“It is a strange condition,” said Bella, thoughtfully. “There were moments when his eyes lighted up with a peculiar significance, as if, at intervals, his mind had regained all its wonted vigor. Did you remark that?”

“Indeed, I did not. I saw nothing of the kind,” said Kellett, peevishly. “By the way, why were you so cautious about Conway?”

“Just because he begged that his name might not be mentioned. He said that some trifling debts were still hanging over him, from his former extravagance; and though all in course of liquidation, he dreaded the importunate appeals of creditors so certain to pour in if they heard of his being in Dublin.”

“Every one has his troubles!” muttered Kellett, as he sank into a moody reflection over his own, and sipped his liquor in silence.

Let us now follow Driscoll, who, having turned the corner of the lane, out of earshot of the cottage, suddenly ceased his song, and walked briskly along towards town. Rapidly as he walked, his lips moved more rapidly still, as he maintained a kind of conversation with himself, bursting out from time to time with a laugh, as some peculiar conceit amused him. “To be sure, a connection by the mother’s side,” said he. “One has a right to ask after his own relations! And, for all I know, my grandmother was a Conway. The ould fool was so near pokin’ his foot in it, and letting out that he knew him well. She’s a deep one, that daughter; and it was a bould stroke the way she spoke to me when we were alone. It was just as much as to say, ‘Terry, put your cards down, for I know your hand.’ ‘No, miss,’ says I, ‘I’ve a thrump in the heel of my fist that ye never set eyes on. Ha, ha, ha!’ but she’s deep for all that, – mighty deep; and if it was safe, I wish we had her in the plot! Ay! but is it safe, Mr. Driscoll? By the virtue of your oath, Terry Driscoll, do you belave she wouldn’t turn on you? She’s a fine-looking girl, too,” added he, after an interval. “I wish I knew her sweetheart, for she surely has one. Terry, Terry, ye must bestir yourself; ye must be up early and go to bed late, my boy. You ‘re not the man ye were before ye had that ‘faver,’ – that spotted faver!” – here he laughed till his eyes ran over. “What a poor crayture it has left ye; no memory, no head for anything!” And he actually shook with laughter at the thought. “Poor Terry Driscoll, ye are to be pitied!” said he, as he wiped the tears from his face. “Is n’t it a sin and a shame there’s no one to look after ye?”

CHAPTER XIX. DRISCOLL IN CONFERENCE

“Not come in yet, sir; but he is sure to be back soon,” said Mr. Clowes, the butler, to Terry Driscoll, as he stood in the hall of Mr. Davenport Dunn’s house, about eleven o’clock of the same night we have spoken of in our last chapter.

“You’re expecting him, then?” asked Driscoll, in his own humble manner.

“Yes, sir,” said Clowes, looking at his watch; “he ought to be here now. We have a deal of business to get through to-night, and several appointments to keep; but he’ll see you, Mr. Driscoll. He always gives directions to admit you at once.”

“Does he really?” asked Driscoll, with an air of perfect innocence.

“Yes,” said Clowes, in a tone at once easy and patronizing, “he likes you. You are one of the very few who can amuse him. Indeed, I don’t think I ever heard him laugh, what I ‘d call a hearty laugh, except when you ‘re with him.”

“Isn’t that quare, now!” exclaimed Driscoll. “Lord knows it’s little fun is in me now!”

“Come in and take a chair; charge you nothing for the sitting,” said Clowes, laughing at his own smartness as he led the way into a most comfortably furnished little room which formed his own sanctum.

The walls were decorated with colored prints and drawings of great projected enterprises, – peat fuel manufactories of splendid pretensions, American packet stations on the west coast, of almost regal architecture, vied with ground-plans of public parks and ornamental model farms; fish-curing institutions, and smelting-houses, and beetroot-sugar buildings, graced scenes of the very wildest desolation, and, by an active representation of life and movement, seemed to typify the wealth and prosperity which enterprise was sure to carry into regions the very dreariest and least promising.

“A fine thing, that, Mr. Driscoll!” said Clowes, as Terry stood admiring a large and highly colored plate, wherein several steam-engines were employed in supplying mill-streams with water from a vast lake, while thousands of people seemed busily engaged in spade labor on its borders. “That is the ‘Lough Corrib Drainage and Fresh Strawberry Company,’ capital eight hundred thousand pounds! Chemical analysis has discovered that the soil of drained lands, treated with a suitable admixture of the alkaline carbonates, is peculiarly favorable to the growth of the strawberry, – a fruit whose properties are only now receiving their proper estimate. The strawberry, you are perhaps not aware, is a great anti-scorbutic. Six strawberries, taken in a glass of diluted malic acid of a morning, fasting, would restore the health of those fine fellows we are now daily losing in such numbers in the Crimea. I mean, of course, a regular treatment of three months of this regimen, with due attention to diet, cleanliness, and habit of exercise, – all predisposing elements removed, all causes of mental anxiety withdrawn. To this humane discovery this great industrial speculation owes its origin. There you see the engines at full work; the lake is in process of being drained, the water being all utilized by the mills you see yonder, some of which are compressing the strawberry pulp into a paste for exportation. Here are the people planting the shoots; those men in blue, with the watering-pots, are the alkaline feeders, who supply the plant with the chemical preparation I mentioned, the strength being duly marked by letters, as you see. B. C. P. means bi-carbonate of potash; S. C. S., sub-carbonate of soda; and so on. Already, sir,” said he, raising his voice, “we have contracts for the supply of twenty-eight tons a week, and we hope,” added he, with a tremulous fervor in his voice, “to live to see the time when the table of the poorest peasant in the land will be graced by the health-conducing condiment.”

“With all my heart and soul I wish you success,” said Driscoll; while he muttered under his breath what sounded like a fervid prayer for the realization of this blessed hope.

“Of that we are pretty certain, sir,” said Clowes, pompously; “the shares are now one hundred and twelve, – paid up in two calls, thirty-six pounds ten shillings, He,” said Clowes, with a jerk of his thumb towards Mr. Dunn’s room, meant to indicate its owner, – “he don’t like it; calls it a bubble, and all that, but I have, known him mistaken, sir, – ay, and more than once. You may remember that vein of yellow marble – giallo antico, they call it – found on Martin’s property – That’s his knock; here he comes now,” cried he, hurrying away to meet his master, and leaving the story of his blunder unrelated. “All right,” said Clowes, re-entering, hastily; “you can go in now. He seems in a precious humor to-night,” added he, in a low whisper; “something or other has gone wrong with him.”

Driscoll had scarcely closed the inner door of cloth that formed the last security of Davenport Dunn’s privacy, when he perceived the correctness of Mr. Clowes’s information. Dunn’s brow was dark and clouded, his face slightly flushed, and his eye restless and excited.

“What is it so very pressing, Driscoll, that could n’t wait till to-morrow?” said he, peevishly, and not paying the slightest attention to the other’s courteous salutation.

“I thought this was the time you liked best,” said Driscoll, quietly; “you always said, ‘Come to me when I’ve done for the day – ‘”

“But who told you I had done for the day? That pile of letters has yet to be answered; many of them I have not even read. The Attorney-General will be here in a few minutes about these prosecutions too.”

“That’s a piece of good luck, anyhow,” said Driscoll, quickly.

“How so? What d’ ye mean?”

“Why, we could just get a kind of travelling opinion out of him about this case.”

“What nonsense you talk!” said Dunn, angrily; “as if a lawyer of standing and ability would commit himself by pronouncing on a most complicated question, the details of which he was to gather from you!” The look and emphasis that accompanied the last word were to the last degree insulting, but they seemed to give no offence whatever to him to whom they were addressed; on the contrary, he met them with a twinkle of the eye, and a droll twist of the mouth, as he muttered half to himself, —

“Yes, God help me, I ‘ll never set the Liffey on fire!”

“You might, though, if you had it heavily insured,” said Dunn, with a savage irony in his manner that might well have provoked rejoinder; but Driscoll was proof against whatever he didn’t want to resent, and laughed pleasantly at the sarcasm.

“You were dining at the Lodge, I suppose, to-day?” asked he, eager to get the conversation afloat at any cost.

“No, at Luscombe’s, – the Chief Secretary’s,” said Dunn, curtly.

“They say he’s a clever fellow,” said Driscoll.

“They are heartily welcome to this opinion who think so,” broke in Dunn, peevishly. “Let them call him a fortunate one if they like, and they ‘ll be nearer the mark. – What of this affair?” said he, at last “Have you found out Conway?”

“No; but I learned that he dined and passed the evening with ould Paul Kellett He came over to Ireland to bring him some news of his son, who served in the same regiment, and so I went out to Kellett to pump them; but for some reason or other they’re as close as wax. The daughter beats all ever you saw! She tried a great stroke of cunning with me, but it wouldn’t do.”

“It was your poor head and the spotted fever, – eh?” said Dunn, laughing.

“Yes,” said Driscoll; “I never was rightly myself since that” And he laughed heartily.

“This is too slow for me, Driscoll; you must find out the young fellow at once, and let me see him. I have read over the statement again, and it is wonderfully complete. Hatch-ard has it now before him, and will give me his opinion by Sunday next On that same day Mr. Beecher is to dine with me; now if you could manage to have Conway here on Monday morning, I ‘d probably be in a condition to treat openly with him.”

“You’re going too fast, – too fast, entirely,” said Driscoll; “sure, if Conway sees the road before him, he may Just thravel it without us at all.”

“I ‘ll take care he shall not know which path to take, Driscoll; trust me for that. Remember that the documents we have are all-essential to him. Before he sees one of them our terms must be agreed on.”

“I’ll have ten thousand paid down on the nail. ‘Tis eight years I am collectin’ them papers. I bought that shooting-lodge at Banthry, that belonged to the Beechers, just to search the old cupboard in the dinner-room. It was plastered over for fifty years, and Denis Magrath was the only man living knew where it was.”

“I am aware of all that. The discovery – if such it prove – was all your own, Driscoll; and as to the money remuneration, I ‘ll not defraud you of a sixpence.”

“There was twelve hundred pounds,” continued Driscoll, too full of his own train of thought to think of anything else, “for a wretched ould place with the roof fallin’ in, and every stack of it rotten! Eight years last Michaelmas, – that’s money, let me tell you! and I never got more than thirty pounds any year out of it since.”

“You shall be paid, and handsomely paid.”

“Yes,” said Terry, nodding.

“You can have good terms on either side.”

“Yes, or a little from both,” added Driscoll, dryly.

CHAPTER XX. AN EVENING WITH GROG DAVIS

It was late at night, and Grog Davis sat alone by a solitary candle in his dreary room. The fire had long burned out, and great pools of wet, driven by the beating rain through the rickety sashes, soaked the ragged carpet that covered the floor, while frequent gusts of storm scattered the slates, and shook the foundations of the frail building.

To all seeming, he paid little attention to the poor and comfortless features of the spot. A short square bottle of Hollands, and a paper of coarse cigars beside him, seemed to offer sufficient defence against such cares, while he gave up his mind to some intricate problem which he was working out with a pack of cards. He dealt, and shuffled, and dealt again, with marvellous rapidity. There was that in each motion of the wrist, in every movement of the finger, that bespoke practised manipulation, and a glance quick as lightning on the board was enough to show him how the game fared.

“Passed twelve times,” muttered he to himself; then added aloud, “Make your game, gentlemen, make your game. The game is made. Red, thirty-two. Now for it, Grog, – man or a mouse, my boy. Mouse it is! by – ,” cried he, with an infamous oath. “Red wins! Confound the cards!” cried he, dashing them on the floor. “Two minutes ago I had enough to live on the rest of my days. I appeal to any man in the room,” said he, with a look of peculiar defiance around him, “if he ever saw such ill luck! There’s not another fellow breathing ever got it like me!” And as he spoke, he arose and walked up and down the chamber, frowning savagely, and turning glances of insolent meaning on every side of him. At last, approaching the table, he filled out a glass of gin and drank it off; and then, stooping down, he gathered up the cards and reseated himself. “Take you fifty on the first ace,” cried he, addressing an imaginary bettor, while he began to deal out the cards in two separate heaps. “Won!” exclaimed he, delightedly. “Go you double or quits, sir? – Any gentleman with another fifty? – A pony if you like, sir? – Done! Won again, by jingo! This is the only game, after all; decided in a second. I make the bank, gentlemen, two hundred in the bank. Why, where are the bettors this evening? This is only punting, gentlemen. Any one say five hundred – four – three – one hundred – for the first knave?” And the cards fell from his hands with wondrous rapidity. “Now, if no one is inclined to play, let ‘s have a broiled bone,” said he, rising, and bowing courteously around him.

“Second the motion!” cried a cheery voice, as the door opened and Annesley Beecher entered. “Why, Grog, my hearty, I thought you had a regular flock of pigeons here. I heard you talking as I came up the stairs, and fancied you were doing a smart stroke of work.”

“What robbery have you been at with that white choker and that gimcrack waistcoat?” said Davis, sulkily.

“Dining with Dunn, and a capital dinner he gave me. I ‘m puzzled to say whether I like his wine or his cookery best.”

“Were there many there?”

“None but ourselves.”

“Lord! how he must have worked you!” cried Davis, with an insolent grin.

“Ain’t such a flat as you think me, Master Grog. Solomon was a wise man, and Samson a strong one, and A. B. can hold his own with most ‘in the ruck.’”

A most contemptuous look was the only answer Davis condescended to this speech. At last, after he had lighted a fresh cigar, and puffed it into full work, he said, “Well, what was it he had to say to you?”

“Oh, we talked away of everything; and, by Jupiter! he knows a little of everything. Such a memory, too; remembers every fellow that was in power the last fifty years, and can tell you how he was ‘squared,’ for it ‘s all on the ‘cross’ with them, Grog, just as in the ring. Every fellow rides to order, and half the running one sees is no race! Any hot water to be had?”

“No, there’s cold in that jug yonder. Well, go on with Dunn.”

“He is very agreeable, I must say; for, besides having met everybody, he knows all their secret history, – how this one got out of his scrape, and why that went into the hole. You see in a moment how much he must be trusted, and that he can make his book on life as safe as the Bank of England. Fearfully strong that gin is!”

“No, it ain’t,” said Grog, rudely; “it’s not the velvety tipple Dunn gave you, but it’s good British gin, that’s what it is.”

“You would n’t believe, too, how much he knows about women! He’s up to everything that’s going on in town. Very strange that, for a fellow like him! Don’t you think so?”

Davis made no answer, but puffed away slowly. “And after women, what came next?”

“He talked next – let me see – about books. How he likes Becky Sharp, – how he enjoys her! He says that character will do the same service as the published discovery of some popular fraud; and that the whole race of Beckys now are detected swindlers, – nothing less.”

“And what if they are? Is that going to prevent their cheating? Hasn’t the world always its crop of flats coming out in succession like green peas? What did he turn to after that?”

“Then we had a little about the turf.”

“He don’t know anything about the turf!” said Grog, with intense contempt.

“I ‘m not so sure of that,” said Beecher, cautiously.

“Did he speak of me at all?” said Grog, with a peculiar grin.

“No; only to ask if you were the same Captain Davis that was mentioned in that affair at Brighton.”

“And what did you say?”

“Said! Not knowing, could n’t tell, Master Grog. Knew you were a great friend of my brother Lackington’s, and always hand and glove with Blanchard and the swells.”

“And how did he take that?”

“Said something about two of the same name, and changed the subject.”

Davis drew near the table, and taking up the cards began to shuffle them slowly, like one seeking some excuse for a moment of uninterrupted reflection. “I’ve found out the way that Yankee fellow does the king,” said he, at last. “It’s not the common bridge that everybody knows. It’s a Mississippi touch, and a very neat one. Cut them now wherever you like.”

Beecher cut the cards with all due care, and leaned eagerly over the table.

“King of diamonds!” cried Grog, slapping the card on the board.

“Do it again,” said Beecher, admiringly; and once more Davis performed the dexterous feat.

“It’s a nick!” cried Beecher, examining the edge of the card minutely.

“It ain’t no such thing!” said Davis, angrily. “I’d give you ten years to find it out, and twenty to do it, and-you ‘d fail in both.”

“Let’s see the dodge, Grog,” said Beecher, half-coaxingly.

“You don’t see my hand till you put yours on the table,” said Davis, fiercely. Then crossing his arms before him, and fixing his red fiery eyes on Beecher’s face, he went on, “What do you mean by this fencing – just tell me what you mean by it?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Beecher, whose features were now of ashy paleness.

“Then you shall understand me!” cried Davis, with an oath. “Do you want me to believe that Dunn had you to dine with him all alone, just to talk about politics, of which you know nothing, or books, of which you know less; that he ‘d give you four precious hours of a Sunday evening to bear your opinions about men or women or things in general? Do you ask me to swallow that, sir?”

“I ask you to swallow nothing,” stammered out Beecher, in whose heart pride and fear were struggling for the mastery. “I have told you what we spoke of. If anything else passed between us, perhaps it was of a private and personal nature; perhaps it referred to family topics; perhaps I might have given a solemn assurance not to reveal the subject of it to any one.”

“You did, – did you?” said Davis, with a sneer.

“I said, perhaps I might have done so. I did n’t say I had.”

“And so you think – you fancy – that you ‘re a going to double on me,” said Davis, rising, and advancing towards him with a sort of insulting menace. “Now, look here, my name ain’t Davis but if ever you try it – try it, I say, because, as to doing it, I dare you to your face – but if you just try it, twelve hours won’t pass over till the dock of a police court is graced by the Honorable Annesley Beecher on a charge of forgery.”

“Oh, Davis!” cried Beecher, as he placed his hands over the other’s lips, and glanced in terror through the room. “There never was anything I did n’t tell you, – you ‘re the only man breathing that knows me.”

“And I do know you, by Heaven, I do!” cried the other, savagely; “and I know you’d sneak out of my hands to-morrow, if you dared; but this I tell you, when you leave mine it will be to exchange into the turnkey’s. You fancy that because I see you are a fool that I don’t suspect you to be a crafty one. Ah! what a mistake you make there!”