The Knight Of Gwynne Volume I Part 8

"Not a whit more than I feel at seeing myself negotiating a meeting with a man turned out of the army with disgrace," said Daly, as his face grew purple with anger. "Were it not that I would not risk a hint of dishonor on this young Englishman's fame, I 'd never interchange three words with Major Hackett."

"You shall answer for this, sir, and speedily too, by G----d!" said Hackett, moving towards the door.

Daly burst into an insolent laugh, and said, "Your friend waits us at Cluan?" The other bowed. "Well, within an hour we'll be there also,"

continued the old man; and Hackett retired without adding a syllable.

"We 've about five miles to ride, Captain Forester," said Daly, as they issued forth beneath the deeply arched gate of the abbey; "but the road is a mountain one, and will not admit of fast riding. A fine old place it is," said he, as, halting his horse, he bestowed a gaze of admiration on the venerable building, now dimly visible in the gray of the breaking dawn. "The pious founders little dreamt of men leaving its portals on such an errand as ours." Then, suddenly, with a changed voice, he added, "Men are the same in every age and country; what our ancestors did in steel breastplates, we do now in broadcloth; the law, as they call it, must always be subservient to human pa.s.sions, and the judge and the jury come too late, since their function is penalty, and not prevention."

"But surely you do not think the world was better in the times when might was right?" said Forester.

"The system worked better than we suspect," said the old man, gravely; "there was such a thing as public opinion among men in those days, although its exponents were neither pamphlets nor scurrilous newspapers.

The unjust and the cruel were held in reprobation, and the good and the charitable had a fame as pure, although their deeds were not trumpeted aloud or graven on marble. Believe me, sir, we are not by any means so much wiser or better than those who went before us, and even if we were both, we certainly are not happier. This eternal warfare, this hand to hand and foot to foot straggle for rank, apd wealth, and power, that goes on amongst us now, had no existence then, when a man's destiny was carved out for him, and he was all but powerless to alter or control it."

"That alone was no small evil," said Forester, interrupting him; "the humbly born and the lowly were debarred from all the prizes of life, no matter how great their deserts or how shining their abilities."

"Every rank and cla.s.s had wherewithal to supply its own requirements,"

answered Daly, proudly, "and the menial had more time to indulge affection for his master, when removed from the temptation to rival him.

That strong bond of attachment has all but disappeared from amongst us."

As he spoke, he turned in his saddle and called out, "Can we cross the sands now, or is the tide making, Sandy?"

"It's no just making yet," said the servant, cautiously; "but when the breakers are so heavy off the Point, it's aye safer to keep the road."

"The road be it, then," muttered Daly to himself; "men never are so chary of life as when about to risk it."

The observation, although not intended, reached Forester's ears, and he smiled and said, "Naturally enough, perhaps we ought not to be too exacting with fortune."

Daly turned suddenly round, and, after a brief pause, asked, "What skill have you with the pistol?"

"When the mark is a shilling I can hit it, three times out of four, at twenty paces; but I never fired at a man."

"That does make a difference," said Daly, musingly; "nothing short of an arrant coward could look calmly on a fellow-creature while he pointed a loaded pistol at his heart. A brave man will always have self-possession enough to feel the misery of his position. Had the feat been one of vengeance, and not of love, Tell had never hit the apple, sir. But there,--is not that a fire yonder?"

"Yes, I see a red glare through the mist."

"There's a fire on Cluan Point," said Sandy, riding up to his master's side; "I trow it's a signal."

"Ah! meant to quicken us, perhaps; some fear of being surprised," said Daly, hastily; "let us move on faster." And they spurred their horses to a sharp trot as they descended the gentle slope, which, projecting far out to sea, formed the promontory of Cluan.

It was at this moment the glorious panorama of Clue Bay broke forth before Forester's astonished eyes. He looked with rapture on that s.p.a.cious sheet of water, which, in all the majesty of the great ocean, came heaving and swelling against the rocky coast, or pouring its flood of foam through the narrow channels between the islands. Of these, the diversity seemed endless, some rich and verdant, teeming with abundance and dotted with cottages; others, less fertile, were covered with sheep or goats; while some, rugged and barren, frowned gloomily amid the watery waste, and one, far out to sea, a bold and lofty cliff, showed a faint twinkling star upon its side, the light for the homeward-bound ships over the Atlantic.

"That's Clare Island yonder," said Bagenal Daly, as he observed the direction of Forester's gaze; "I must show you the great cliff there.

What say you if we go to-morrow?"

"To-morrow!" repeated Forester, smiling faintly; "perhaps so."

CHAPTER VII. A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

When speaking of Gwynne Abbey to our readers, we omitted to mention a very beautiful portion of the structure,--a small building which adjoined the chapel, and went, for some reason or other, by name of the "Sub-Prior's house." More recent in date than the other parts of the abbey, it seemed as if here the architect had expended his skill in showing of how much ornament and decoration the Gothic was capable.

The stone selected was of that pinkish hue that is seen in many of the cathedrals in the North of England,--a material peculiarly favorable to the labors of the chisel, and when protected from the rude influence of weather possessing qualities of great endurance. This building was surrounded on three sides by a flower-garden, which descended by successive terraces to the edge of a small river pursuing its course to the sea, into which it emerged about a mile distant. A very unmindful observer would have been struck at once with the aspect of greater care and cultivation bestowed here than on other portions of the abbey grounds. The trim and orderly appearance of everything, from the flowering shrubs that mingled their blossoms with the rich tracery of the architraves, to the bright gravel of the walks, denoted attention, while flowers of rare beauty, and plants of foreign growth, were seen blending their odors with the wild heaths that shed their perfume from the mountain side. The brilliant beauty of the spot was, indeed, heightened by the wild and rugged grandeur of the scene, like a diamond glittering brighter amid the dark dross of the mine.

On the side nearest to the bay, and with a view extending to the far-off Island of Achill, an apartment opened by three large windows, the upper compartments of which exhibited armorial bearings in stained gla.s.s.

If the view without presented a scene of the most grand and varied loveliness, within this chamber art seemed to have vied in presenting objects the most strange and beautiful. It was furnished in all the gorgeous taste of the time of Louis XV. The ceiling, a deep ma.s.s of carving relieved by gold, presented ma.s.ses of fruit and flowers fantastically interwoven, and hanging, as though suspended, above the head. The walls were covered with cabinet pictures of great price, the very frames objects of wonder and admiration. Large vases of Dresden and Sevres porcelain stood on brackets of ma.s.sive silver, and one great cabinet of ebony, inlaid with gold and tortoisesh.e.l.l, displayed an inscription that showed it was a present from the great Louis XIV.

himself.

It is not, however, to linger over the objects of rare and costly excellence which here abounded that we have conducted our reader to this chamber, and whither we would beg of him to accompany us about two hours later than the events we have narrated in our last chapter.

At a breakfast-table whose equipage was, in price and elegance, in exact keeping with all around, were two ladies. The elder of the two was advanced in life, and although her hair was perfectly white, her regular features and finely pencilled brow bore, even yet, great marks of beauty. If the expression of the face was haughty, it was so without anything of severity; it was a look of pride that denoted rather a conscious sense of position and its duties, than any selfish a.s.sumption of personal importance. Habitual delicacy of health contributed to strengthen this expression, lending to it a character which, to an incautious observer, might convey the notion of weariness or ennui. The tones of her voice were low and measured, and perfectly devoid of any peculiar accent. If to those more familiar with the cordial familiarity of Irish manner, Lady Eleanor Darcy might seem cold and frigid, such as knew more of the world at large, and were more conversant with the general habits of society, could detect, through all the seeming impa.s.sive-ness of her air, that desire to please, that anxiety to make a favorable impression, which marked the character of one who in early life had been the beauty of her circle. Even now, as she lay back indolently within the deep recess of a cushioned chair, her att.i.tude evinced a gracefulness and ease which long habit seemed to have identified with her nature.

At the opposite side of the table, and busy in the preparation of the breakfast, stood a young girl whose age could not have been more than eighteen. So striking was the resemblance between them that the least acute of physiognomists must have p.r.o.nounced her the daughter. She was dressed with remarkable simplicity; but not all the absence of ornament could detract from the first impression her appearance conveyed, that she was one of birth and station. Her beauty was of that character which, although attributed peculiarly to the Celtic race, seems strangely enough to present its most striking examples among the Anglo-Irish. Rich auburn hair, the color varying from dark brown to a deep golden hue as the light falls more or less strongly on it, was braided over a brow of cla.s.sic beauty; her eyes were of blue, that deep color which, in speaking or in moments of excitement, looks like dark hazel or even black; these were fringed with long dark lashes which habitually hung heavily over the eyes, giving them a character of sleepy, almost indolent, beauty. The rest of her features, in unison with these, were of that Greek mould which our historians attribute to the Phoenician origin of our people,--a character by no means rare to be seen to this day among the peasantry. If the mild and gentle indications of womanly delicacy were told in every lineament of her face, there were traits of decision and determination when she spoke not less evident.

From her mother she inherited the placid tenderness of English manner, while from her father her nature imbibed the joyous animation and buoyant light-heartedness of the Irish character.

"And there are but two letters, Mamma," said Helen, "in the bag this morning?"

"But two," said Lady Eleanor; "one of them from Lionel."

"Oh, from Lionel!" cried the young girl, eagerly; "let me see it."

"Read this first," said Lady Eleanor, as she handed across the table a letter bearing a large seal impressed with an Earl's coronet; "if I mistake not very much, Helen, that's my cousin Lord Netherby's writing; but what eventful circ.u.mstance could have caused his affectionate remembrance of me, after something nigh twenty years' silence, is beyond my power of divination."

Helen Darcy well knew that the theme on which her mother now touched was the sorest subject on her mind, and, however anxiously she might, under other circ.u.mstances, have pressed for a sight of her brother's letter, she controlled all appearance of the wish, and opened the other without speaking.

"It is dated from Carlton House, Mamma, the 2d------"

"He is in waiting, I suppose," said Lady Eleanor, calmly; and Helen began.

"'My dear cousin--'"

"Ah! so he remembers the relationship at least," muttered the old lady to herself.

"'My dear cousin, it would be a sad abuse of the small s.p.a.ce a letter affords, to inquire into the cause of our long silence; faults on both sides might explain much of it. I was never a brilliant correspondent, you were always an indolent one; if I wrote stupid letters, you sent me very brief answers; and if you at last grew weary of giving gold for bra.s.s, I can scarcely reproach you for stopping the exchange. Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more--'"

"This is intolerable," broke in Lady Eleanor; "he never replied to the letter in which I asked him to be your G.o.dfather."

"'Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more I must throw myself on your mercy. In the selfishness of age,--don't forget, my dear coz, I am eleven years your senior,--in the selfishness of age--'"

The old lady smiled dubiously at these words, and Helen read on:--

"'I desire to draw closer around me those ties of kindred and family which, however we may affect to think lightly of, all our experiences in life tend to strengthen and support. Yes, my dear Eleanor, we are the only two remaining of all those light-hearted boys and bright-eyed girls that once played upon the terrace at Netherby. Poor Harry, your old sweetheart at Eton, fell at Mysore. Dudley, with ability for anything, would not wait patiently for the crowning honors of his career, took a judgeship in Madras, and he, too, sleeps in the land of the stranger!

And our sweet Catherine! your only rival amongst us, how short-lived was her triumph!--for so the world called her marriage with the Margrave: she died of a broken heart at two-and-twenty! I know not why I have called up these sad memories, except it be in the hope that, as desolation deals heavily around us, we may draw more closely to each other.'"

Lady Eleanor concealed her face with her handkerchief, and Helen, who had gradually dropped her voice as she read, stopped altogether at these words.

"Read on, dear," said the old lady, in a tone whose firmness was slightly shaken.

"'A heart more worldly than yours, my dear Eleanor, would exclaim that the _parti_ was unequal,--that I, grown old and childless, with few friends left, and no ambitions to strive for, stood in far more need of _your_ affectionate regard, than you, blessed with every tie to existence, did of _mine_; and the verdict would be a just one, for, by the law of that Nemesis we all feel more or less, even in this world, _you_, whom we deemed rash and imprudent, have alone amongst us secured the prize of that happiness we each sought by such different paths.'"