Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“Ah, Lindley,” said the other, good-humoredly, “you are an unforgiving enemy.” Then, turning to the Chief Secretary, he said: “He cannot pardon my efforts, successful as they have been, to enable the Fellows of the University to marry. He obtained his fellowship as a safe retirement, and now discovers that his immunity is worth nothing.”

“I beg pardon,” said Lindley; “I have forgiven you long ago. It was from your arguments in its favor the measure was so long resisted. You are really blameless in the matter!”

The sharp give and take of these sallies – the fruit of those intimacies which small localities produce – rather astonished the English officials, and the Secretary and the Commissioner exchanged glances of significant import; nor was this lost on the Chief Baron, who, to change the topic, suddenly asked, —

“Who bought that estate – Kellett’s Court, I think they call it – was sold this morning?”

“I purchased it in trust,” said Dunn, “for an English peer.”

“Does he intend ever to reside there?”

“He talks of it, my Lord,” said Dunn, “the way men talk of something very meritorious that they mean to do – one day or other.”

“It went, I hear, for half its value,” remarked some one.

“A great deal above that, I assure you,” said Dunn. “Indeed, as property is selling now, I should not call the price a bad one.”

“Evidently Mr. Kellett was not of your mind,” said the former speaker, laughing.

“I ‘m told he burst into court to-day and abused every one, from the Bench to the crier, called the sale a robbery, and the judge a knave.”

“Not exactly that. He did, it is true, interrupt the order of the Court, but the sale was already concluded. He used very violent language, and so far forgot his respect for the Bench as to incur the penalty of a committal.”

“And was he committed?” asked the Secretary.

“He was; but rather as a measure of precaution than punishment. The Court suspected him to be insane.” Here Dunn leaned over and whispered a few words in the Secretary’s ear. “Nor was it without difficulty,” muttered he, in a low tone. “He continued to inveigh in the most violent tone against us all; declared he ‘d never leave the Jail without a public apology from the Bench; and, in fact, conducted himself so extravagantly that I half suspected the judge to be right, and that there was some derangement in the case.”

“I remember Paul Kellett at the head of the grand jury of his county,” said one.

“He was high sheriff the first year I went that circuit,” said the judge.

“And how has it ended? – where is he now?” whispered the Secretary.

“I persuaded him to come home here with me, and after a little calming down he became reasonable and has gone to his own house, but only within the last hour. It was that my servant whispered me, when he last brought in the wine.”

“And I suppose, after all,” said the Poor-Law Commissioner, “there was nothing peculiar in this instance; his case was one of thousands.”

“Quite true, sir,” said Lindley. “Statistical tables can take no note of such-like applicants for out-door relief; all are classified as paupers.”

“It must be acknowledged,” said the Secretary, in a tone of half rebuke, “that the law has worked admirably; there is but one opinion on that subject in England.”

“I should be greatly surprised were it otherwise,” said Lindley; “I never heard that the Cornish fishermen disparaged shipwrecks!”

“Who is that gentleman?” whispered the Secretary to Dunn.

“A gentleman very desirous to be Crown Prosecutor at Melbourne,” said Dunn, with a smile.

“He expresses himself somewhat freely,” whispered the other.

“Only here, sir, – only here, I assure you. He is our stanchest supporter in the College.”

“Of course we shall take Sebastopol, sir,” said a colonel from the end of the table. “The Russians are already on half rations, and their ammunition is nigh exhausted.” And now ensued a lively discussion of military events, wherein the speakers displayed as much confidence as skill.

“It strikes me,” said Lindley, “we are at war with the Emperor Nicholas for practising pretty much the same policy we approve of so strenuously for ourselves. He wanted to treat Turkey like an encumbered estate. There was the impoverished proprietor, the beggared tenantry, the incapacity for improvement, – all the hackneyed arguments, in fact, for selling out the Sultan that we employ so triumphantly against the Irish gentleman.”

“Excuse me,” said the Attorney-General, “he wanted to take forcible possession.”

“Nothing of the kind. He was as ready to offer compensation as we ourselves are when we superannuate a clerk or suppress an office. His sole mistake was that he proposed a robbery at the unlucky moment that the nation had taken its periodical attack of virtue, – we were in the height of our honest paroxysm when he asked us to be knaves; and hence all that has followed.”

“You estimate our national morality somewhat cheaply, sir,” said the Commissioner.

“As to morals, I think we are good political economists. We buy cheaply, and endeavor, at least, to sell in the dearest markets.”

“No more wine, thank you,” said the Secretary, rising. “A cup of coffee, with pleasure.”

It was a part of Davenport Dunn’s policy to sprinkle his dinner company with men like Lindley. They were what physicians call a sort of mild irritants, and occasionally very useful in their way; but, in the present instance, he rather suspected that the application had been pushed too far, and he approached the Secretary in the drawing-room with a kind of half apology for his guest.

“Ireland,” said he, “has always possessed two species of place-hunters: the one, patiently supporting Government for years, look calmly for the recognition of their services as a debt to be paid; the other, by an irritating course of action, seem to indicate how vexatious and annoying they may prove if not satisfactorily dealt with. Lindley is one of these, and he ought to be provided for.”

“I declare to you, Dunn,” said the Secretary, as he drew his arm within the other’s, and walked with him into the back drawing-room, “these kind of men make government very difficult in Ireland. There is no reserve – no caution about them. They compromise one at every step. You are the only Irishman I ever met who would seem to understand the necessity of reserve.”

Dunn bowed twice. It was like the acknowledgment of what he felt to be a right.

“I go further,” said the other, warming; “you are the only man here who has given us real and effective support, and yet never asked for anything.”

“What could I wish for better than to see the country governed as it is?” said Dunn, courteously.

“All are not inspired so patriotically, Dunn. Personal advantages have their influence on most men.”

“Of course, – naturally enough. But I stand in no need of aid in this respect I don’t want for means. I could n’t, if you offered it, take office; my hands are too full already, and of work which another might not be able to carry out. Rank, of course – distinction – ” and he stopped, and seemed confused.

“Well, come, we might meet you there, Dunn,” said the other, coaxingly. “Be frank with me. What do you wish for?”

“My family is of humble origin, it is true,” said Dunn; “but, without invidious reflection, I might point to some others – ” Again he hesitated.

“That need not be an obstacle,” said the Secretary.

“Well, then, on the score of fortune, there are some poorer than myself in – in – ” He stopped again.

“Very few as wealthy, I should say, Dunn, – very few, indeed. Let me only know your wishes. I feel certain how they will be treated.”

“I am aware,” said Dunn, with some energy, “that you incur the risk of some attack in anything you would do for me. I am necessarily in scant favor with a large party here. They would assail you, they would vilify me; but that would pass over. A few weeks – a few months at furthest – ”

“To be sure, – perfectly correct It would be mere momentary clamor. Sir Davenport Dunn, Baronet, would survive – ”

“I beg pardon,” said Dunn, in a voice tremulous with emotion. “I don’t think I heard you aright; I trust, at least, I did not.”

The Secretary looked quickly in his face, and saw it pale, the lips slightly quivering, and the brow contracted.

“I was saying,” said he, in a voice broken and uncertain, “that I ‘m sure the Premier would not refuse to recommend you to her Majesty for a baronetcy.”

“May I make so bold as to ask if you have already held any conversation with the Minister on this subject?”

“None, whatever. I assure you, most solemnly, that I have no instructions on the subject, nor have I ever had any conversation with him on the matter.”

“Then let me beg you to forget what has just passed between us. It is, after all, mere chit-chat. That’s a Susterman’s, that portrait you are looking at,” said he, eager to change the topic. “It is said to be a likeness of Bianca Capello.”

“A very charming picture, indeed; purchased, I suppose, in your last visit abroad.”

“Yes; I bought it at Verona. Its companion, yonder, was a present from the Archduke Stephen, in recognition, as he was gracious enough to call it, of some counsels I had given the Government engineers about drainage in Hungary. Despotic governments, as we like to term them, have this merit, at least, – they confer acts of munificent generosity.”

The Secretary muttered an assent, and looked confused.

“I reaped a perfect harvest of crosses and decorations,” continued Dunn, “during my tour. I have got cordons from countries I should be puzzled to point out on the map, and am a noble in almost every land of Europe but my own.”

“Ours is the solitary one where the distinction is not a mere title,” said the other, “and, consequently, there are graver considerations about conferring it than if it were a mere act of courtesy.”

“Where power is already acquired there is often good policy in legitimatizing it,” said Dunn, gravely. “They say that even the Church of Rome knows how to affiliate a heresy. – Well, Clowes, what is it?” asked he of the butler, who stood awaiting a favorable moment to address him. He now drew nigh, and whispered some words in his ear.

“But you said I was engaged – that I had company with me?” said Dunn, in reply.

“Yes, sir, but she persisted in saying that if I brought up her name you would certainly see her, were it but for a moment This is her card.”

“Miss Kellett,” said Dunn to himself. “Very well. Show her into the study, I will come down. – It is the daughter of that unfortunate gentleman we were speaking of awhile ago,” said he, showing the card. “I suppose some new disaster has befallen him. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

As Dunn slowly descended the stairs, a very strange conflict was at work within him. From his very boyhood there had possessed him a stern sentiment of vengeance against the Kellett family. It was the daily lesson his father repeated to him. It grew with his years, and vague and unmeaning as it appeared, it had the force of an instinct. His own memory failed him as to all the circumstances of an early insult, but enough remained to make him know that he had been ignominiously treated and expelled from the house. In the great career of his life, with absorbing cares and high interests around him, he had little time for such memories, but in moments of solitude or of depression the thought would come up, and a sense of vindictive pleasure fill him, as he remembered, in the stern words of his father, where was he, and where were they? In the protection he had that very day assumed to throw over Kellett in the Court, there was the sentiment of an insolent triumph; and here was again the daughter of the once proud man supplicating an interview with him.

These were his thoughts as he entered the room where Sybella Kellett was standing near the fire. She had taken off her bonnet, and as her long hair fell down, and her dripping clothes clung to her, the picture of poverty and destitution her appearance conveyed revolted against the sentiment which had so lately filled him, and it was in a voice of gentle meaning he asked her to be seated.

“Can you tell me of my father, sir?” said she, eagerly, and not heeding his words; “he left home early this morning, and has never returned.”

“I can tell you everything, Miss Kellett,” said he, in a kind voice. “It will reassure you at once when I say he is well. Before this he is at home again.”

The young girl clasped her hands closely, and her pale lips murmured some faint words.

“In a moment of excitement this morning he said something to offend the Court. It was an emergency to try a calmer temper, perhaps, than his; indeed, he ought not to have been there; at all events, he was betrayed into expressions which could not be passed over in mere silence, and he was committed – ”

“To prison?” said she, faintly.

“Yes, he was taken into custody, but only for a few hours. I obtained his release soon after the Court rose. The difficulty was to make him accept of his liberation. Far from having calmed down, his passion had only increased, and it was only after much entreaty that he consented to leave the jail and come here with me. In fact, it was under the pretence of drawing up a formal protest against his arrest that he did come, and he has been employed in this manner till about an hour ago, when one of my clerks took charge of him to convey him home. A little quietness and a little rest will restore him perfectly, however, and I have no doubt to-morrow or next day will leave no trace of this excitement.”

“You have been most kind,” said she, rising, “and I am very grateful for it. We owe much to you already, and this last but increases the debt.”

Dunn stood silently contemplating her, as she replaced her bonnet and prepared for the road. At last he said, “Have you come all this way on foot and alone?”

“On foot, but not alone; a comrade of my brother’s – a fellow-soldier of his – kindly gave me his escort. He is waiting for me now without.”

“Oh, then, the adventure has had its compensation to a certain degree,” said Dunn, with a smile of raillery.

“Either I do not understand you, or you mistake me, – which is it?” said she, boldly.

“My dear young lady,” said Dunn, hastily, “do not let me offend you. There is everything in what you have done this night to secure you respect and esteem. We live in a time when there is wonderfully little of personal devotion; and commonplace men like myself may well misjudge its sacrifices.”

“And yet it is precisely from you I should have expected the reverse. If great minds are tainted with littleness, where are we to look for high and noble sentiments?” She moved towards the door as she spoke; and Dunn, anticipating her, said, —

“Do not go for a moment; let me offer you some refreshment, even a glass of wine. Well, then, your friend? It is scarcely courteous to leave him outside in such weather.”

“Pray forgive me not accepting your offer; but I am impatient to be at home again. My father, too, will be distressed at my absence.”

“But I will send my carriage with you; you shall not walk,” said he, ringing the bell.

“Do not think me ungrateful, but I had rather return as I came. You have no idea, sir, how painfully kindness comes to hearts like ours. A sense of pride sustains us through many a trial; break down this, and we are helpless.”

“Is it that you will accept nothing at my hands, – even the most commonplace of attentions? Well, I’ll try if I cannot be more fortunate elsewhere;” and so saying, he hurried at once from the room. Before Sybella could well reflect on his words, he was back again, followed by Charles Conway.

“Miss Kellett was disposed to test your Crimean habits again, my good fellow,” said Dunn, “by keeping you out there under this terrible rain, and I perceive you have got some rough treatment already;” and he looked at the armless sleeve of his jacket.

“Yes,” said Conway, laughing, “a piece of Russian politeness!”

Few as were the words, the tone and manner of the speaker struck Dunn with astonishment, and he said, —

“Have you been long in the service?”

“Some years,” was the short reply.

“It’s very strange,” said Dunn, regarding him fixedly, “but your features are quite familiar to me. You are very like a young officer who cut such a dash here formerly, – a spendthrift fellow, in a Lancer regiment.”

“Pray don’t involve yourself in any difficulty,” said Conway, “for, perhaps – indeed, I ‘m convinced – you are describing myself.”

“Conway, of the Twelfth?”

“The same, at your service, – at least, in so far as being ruined and one-armed means the same with the fellow who had a good fortune, and two hands to scatter it.”

“I must go. I ‘m impatient to be away,” said Sybella, eagerly.

“Then there is the carriage at the door,” said Dunn. “This time I have resolved to have my way;” and he gave her his arm courteously to conduct her.

“Could you call upon me to-morrow – could you breakfast with me, Mr. Conway?” said Dunn, as he gave him his hand at parting; “my request is connected with a subject of great importance to yourself.”

“I ‘m your man,” said Conway, as he followed Sybella into the carriage. And away they drove.

CHAPTER XXIII. A BREAKFAST-TABLE

When, punctual to the appointed time, Charles Conway presented himself at Mr. Dunn’s door, he learned to his astonishment that that gentleman had gone out an hour before to breakfast with the Chief Secretary in the Park.

“But I came by invitation to breakfast with your master,” said he.

“Possibly so,” said Clowes, scanning the simply clad soldier before him. “He never mentioned it to me; that’s all I know.”

Conway stood for a moment, half uncertain what to say; then, with a quiet smile, he said, “Pray tell him that I was here, – my name is Conway.”

“As to the breakfast part of the matter,” said Clowes, who felt “rather struck” by something in the soldier’s manner, as he afterwards expressed it, “I ‘m just about to take mine; you might as well join me.”

Conway looked him full in the face, – such a stare was it as a man gives when he questions the accuracy of his own senses; a slight flush then rose to his cheek, and his lip curled, and then, with a saucy laugh that seemed to combat the passing irritation he was suffering, he said, “It’s not a bad notion, after all; I’m your man.”

Now, though Mr. Clowes had anticipated a very different reception to his politeness, he said nothing, but led the way into his sanctum, trusting to the locality and its arrangement to have their due effect upon his guest. Indeed, in this respect, he did but fair justice to the comforts around him.

The breakfast-table, placed close to a cheerful fire, was spread with every luxury of that meal. A small spirit lamp burned under a dish of most appetizing cutlets, in the midst of various kinds of bread, and different sorts of preserves. The grateful odor of mocha mingled with the purer perfume of fresh flowers, which, although in midwinter, were never wanting at Mr. Clowes’s breakfast-table, while in the centre rose a splendid pineapple, the first of the season, duly offered by the gardener to the grand vizier of Davenport Dunn.

“I can promise you a better breakfast than he would have given you,” said Clowes, as he motioned his guest to a seat, while he significantly jerked his thumb towards Dunn’s study. “He takes tea and dry toast, and he quite forgets to order anything else. He has some crank or other about beginning the day with a light meal; quite a mistake, – don’t you think so?”

“This is not the most favorable moment to make me a convert to that opinion,” said Conway, laughing. “I must confess I incline to your side of the controversy.”

“There are herrings there,” said Clowes, “and a spatchcock coming. You see,” continued he, returning to the discussion, “he overworks – he does too much – taxes his powers beyond their strength – beyond any man’s strength;” and here Mr. Clowes threw himself back in his chair, and looked pompously before him, as though to say, Even Clowes would n’t have constitution for what he does. – “A man must have his natural rest, sir, and his natural support;” and in evidence of the last, he re-helped himself to the Strasburg pâté.

“Your words are wisdom, and washed down with such Bordeaux I ‘d like to see who ‘d gainsay them,” said Conway, with a droll twinkle of the eye.

“Better coffee, that, I fancy, than you got in the Crimea,” said Clowes, pointing to the coffee-pot.

“I suspect Lord Raglan himself never saw such a breakfast as this. May I ask if it be your every-day meal?”

“We change slightly with the seasons. Oysters and Sauterne suit spring; and then, when summer sets in, we lean towards the subacid fruits and claret-cup. Dash your pineapple with a little rum, – it’s very old, and quite a liqueur.”

“This must be a very jolly life of yours,” said Conway, as he lighted his cigarette and placed his feet on the fender.

“You ‘d prefer it to the trenches or the rifle-pits, I suspect,” said Clowes, laughing, “and small blame to you. It was out there you lost your arm, I suppose?”

Conway nodded, and puffed on in silence.

“A bad business, – a bad business we ‘re making of it all! The Crimea was a mistake; we should have marched direct to Moscow, – Moscow or St Petersburg, – I don’t care which.”

“Nor should I, if we could get there,” said Conway, quietly.

“Get there, – and why not? Fifty thousand British bayonets are a match for the world in arms. It is a head we want, sir, – capacity to deal with the great questions of strategy. Even you yourself must have remarked that we have no generalship, – no guidance – ”

“I won’t say that,” said Conway, quietly. “We’re knocking hard at Sebastopol, and all we can say is we have n’t found the weak spot yet.”

“The weak spot! Why, it ‘s all weak, – earthworks, nothing but earthworks! Now, don’t tell me that Wellington would have minded earthworks! Ah, we have fallen upon sad times!” sighed he, piteously. “Our land commanders say earthworks are impregnable; our admirals say stone walls can’t be attacked.”

Conway laughed again, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

“And what pension have you for that?” asked Clowes, glancing at the empty sleeve.

“A mere trifle; I can’t exactly tell you, for I have not applied for it”

“I would, though; I ‘d have it out of them, and I ‘d have whatever I could, besides. They ‘d not give you the Bath; that they keep for gentlemen – ”

Conway took his cigar from his lips, and while his cheek burned, he seemed about to reply; then, resuming his smoking, he lay back and said nothing.

“After all,” said Clowes, “there must be distinctions of rank. One regrets, one deplores, but can’t help it Look at all the attempts at equality, and see their failures. No, sir, you have your place in the social scale, and I have mine.”

Now, when Mr. Clowes had enunciated this sentiment, he seemed suddenly to be struck by its severity; for he added, “Not but that every man is respectable in his own rank; don’t imagine that I look down upon you.”

Conway’s eyes opened widely as he stared at him, and he puffed his cigar a little more energetically, but never spoke.

“You ‘ve done with the service, I suppose?” said Clowes, after a while.

“I’m afraid so,” said Conway, sighing.

“Well, he” – and he jerked his thumb towards Dunn’s room – “he is the man to help you to something snug. He can give away places every hour of the day. Ay, sir,” said he, warming, “he can make anything, from an archbishop to a barony constable.”

“I rather fear that my capacity for employment might not be found very remarkable. I have idle habits and ways,” said Conway, smiling.

“Bad things, my friend, – bad things for any man, but especially for a poor one. I myself began life in an humble way, – true, I assure you; but with industry, zeal, and attention, I am what you see me.”

“That is encouraging, certainly,” said Conway, gravely.

“It is so, and I mention it for your advantage.”

Charles Conway now arose, and threw the half-smoked cigar into the fire. The movement betokened impatience, and, sooth to say, he was half angry with himself; for, while disposed to laugh at the vanity and conceit of the worthy butler, he still felt that he was his guest, and that such ridicule was ill applied to one whose salt he had eaten.