The Knight Of Gwynne Volume II Part 37

a "Treatise on Domestic Cookery," and "Moore's Zeluco" were not attractive, and she sauntered to the piano, on which were scattered some of the songs from the "Siege of Belgrade," the then popular piece; certain comic melodies lay also among them, inscribed with the name of Lawrence M'Farland, a gentleman whom they had heard addressed several times during dinner. While Helen turned over the music pages, the eyes of the others were riveted on her; and when she ran her fingers over the keys of the cracked old instrument, and burst into an involuntary laugh at its discordant tones, a burst of unequivocal indignation could no longer be restrained.

"I declare, Miss M'Corde," said an old lady with a paralytic shake in her head, and a most villanous expression in her one eye,--"I declare I would speak to her, if I was in your place."

"Unquestionably," exclaimed another, whose face was purple with excitement; and thus encouraged, a very thin and very tall personage, with a long, slender nose tipped with pink, and light red hair in ringlets, arose from her seat, and approached where Helen was standing.

"You are perhaps not aware, ma'am," said she, with a mincing, lisping accent, the very essence of gentility, "that this instrument is not a 'house piano.'"

Helen blushed slightly at the address, but could not for her life guess what the words meant. She had heard of grand pianos and square pianos, of cottage pianos, but never of "house pianos," and she answered in the most simple of voices, "Indeed."

"No, ma'am, it is not; it belongs to your very humble servant,"--here she courtesied to the ground,-"who regrets deeply that its tone should not have more of your approbation."

"And I, ma'am," said a fat old lady, waddling over, and wheezing as though she should choke, "I have to express my sorrow that the book-shelf, which you have just ransacked, should not present something worthy of your notice. The volumes are mine."

"And perhaps, ma'am," cried a third, a little meagre figure, with a voice like a nutmeg-grater, "you could persuade the old lady, who I presume is your mother, to take her feet off that worked stool. When I made it, I scarcely calculated on the honor it now enjoys!"

Lady Eleanor looked up at this instant, and although unconscious of what was pa.s.sing, seeing Helen, whose face was now crimson, standing in the midst of a very excited group, she arose hastily, and said,--

"Helen, dearest, is there anything the matter?"

"I should say there was, ma'am," interposed the very fat lady,--"I should be disposed to say there was a great deal the matter. That to make use of private articles as if they were for house use, to thump one lady's piano, to toss another lady's books, to make oneself comfortable in a chair specially provided for the oldest boarder, with one's feet on another lady's footstool,--these are liberties, ma'am, which become something more than freedoms when taken by unknown individuals."

"I beg you will forgive my daughter and myself," said Lady Eleanor, with an air of real regret; "our total ignorance--"

"I thought as much, indeed," muttered she of the shaking head; "there is no other word for it."

"You are quite correct, ma'am," said Lady Eleanor, at once addressing her in the most apologetic of voices,-"I cannot but repeat the word; our very great ignorance of the usages observed here is our only excuse, and I beg you to believe us incapable of taking such liberties in future."

If anything could have disarmed the wrath of this Holy Alliance, the manner in which these words were uttered might have done so. Far from it, however. When the softer s.e.x are deficient in breeding, mercy is scarcely one of their social attributes. Had Lady Eleanor a.s.sumed towards them the manner with which in other days she had repelled vulgar attempts at familiarity, they would in all probability have shrunk back, abashed and ashamed; but her yielding suggested boldness, and they advanced, with something like what in Cossack warfare is termed a "Hurra," an indiscriminate clang of voices being raised in reprobation of every supposed outrage the unhappy strangers had inflicted on the company. Amid this Babel of accusation Lady Eleanor could distinguish nothing, and while, overwhelmed by the torrent, she was preparing to take her daughter's arm and withdraw, the door which led into the dining-room was suddenly thrown open, and the convivial party entered _en ma.s.se_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 280]

"Here's a shindy, by George!" cried Mr. M'Farland,--the Pickle, and the wit of the Establishment,--"I say, see how the new ones are getting it!"

While Mr. Dempsey hurried away to seek Mrs. Fumbally herself, the confusion and uproar increased; the loud, coa.r.s.e laughter of the "Gentlemen" being added to the wrathful violence of the softer s.e.x.

Lady Eleanor, how-ever, had drawn her daughter to her side, and without uttering a word, proceeded to leave the room. To this course a considerable obstacle presented itself in the shape of the Collector, who, with expanded legs, and hands thrust deep into his side-pockets, stood against the door.

"Against the ninth general rule, ma'am, which you may read in the frame over the chimney!" exclaimed he, in a voice somewhat more faltering and thicker than became a respectable official. "No lady or gentleman can leave the room while any dispute in which they are concerned remains unsettled. Isn't that it, M'Farland?" cried he, as the young gentleman alluded to took down the law-table from its place.

"All right," replied M'Farland; "the very best rule in the house.

Without it, all the rows would take place in private! Now for a court of inquiry. Mr. Dunlop, you are for the prosecution, and can't sit."

"May I beg, sir, you will permit us to pa.s.s out?" said Lady Eleanor, in a voice whose composure was slightly shaken.

"Can't be, ma'am; in contravention of all law," rejoined the Collector.

"Where is Mr. Dempsey?" whispered Helen, in her despair; and though the words were uttered in a low voice, one of the ladies overheard them.

A general t.i.tter ran immediately around, only arrested by the fat lady exclaiming aloud, "Shameless minx!"

A very loud hubbub of voices outside now rivalled the tumult within, amid which one most welcome was distinguished by Helen.

"Oh, mamma, how fortunate! I hear Tate's voice."

"It's me,--it's Mrs. Fumbally," cried that lady, at the same moment tapping sharply at the door.

"No matter, can't open the door now. Court is about to sit," replied the Collector. "Mrs. Gwynne stands arraigned for--for what is't? There 's no use in making that clatter; the door shall not be opened."

This speech was scarcely uttered, when a tremendous bang was heard, and the worthy Collector, with the door over him, was hurled on his face in the midst of the apartment, upsetting in his progress a round table and a lamp over the a.s.sembled group of ladies.

Screams of terror, rage, pain, and laughter were now commingled; and while some a.s.sisted the prostrate official to rise, and sprinkled his temples with water, others bestowed their attentions on the discomfited fair, whose l.u.s.tre was sadly diminished by lamp-oil and bruises, while a third section, of which M'Farland was chief, lay back in their chairs and laughed vociferously. Meanwhile, how and when n.o.body could tell, Lady Eleanor and her daughter had escaped and gained their apartments in safety.

A more rueful scene than the room presented need not be imagined. The Collector, whose nose bled profusely, sat pale, half fainting, in one corner, while some kind friends labored to stop the bleeding, and restore him to animation. Lamentations of the most poignant grief were uttered over silks, satins, and tabinets irretrievably ruined; while the paralytic lady having broken the ribbon of her cap, her head rolled about fearfully, and even threatened to come clean off altogether. As for poor Mrs. Fumbally, she flew from place to place, in a perfect agony of affliction; now wringing her hands over the prostrate door, now over the fragments of the lamp, and now endeavoring to restore the table, which, despite all her efforts, would not stand upon two legs. But the most miserable figure of all was Paul Dempsey, who saw no footing for himself anywhere. Lady Eleanor and Helen must detest him to the day of his death. The boarders could never forgive him. Mrs. Fum would as certainly regard him as the author of all evil, and the Collector would inevitably begin dunning him for an unsettled balance of fourteen and ninepence, lost at "Spoiled five" two winters before.

Already, indeed, symptoms of his unpopularity began to show themselves.

Angry looks and spiteful glances were directed towards him, amidst muttered expressions of displeasure. How far these manifestations might have proceeded there is no saying, had not the attention of the company been drawn to the sudden noise of a carriage stopping at the street door.

"Going, flitting, evacuating the territory!" exclaimed M'Farland, as from an open window he contemplated the process of packing a post-chaise with several heavy trunks and portmanteaus.

"The Gwynnes!" muttered the Collector, with his handkerchief to his face.

"Even so! flying with camp equipage and all. There stands your victor, that little old fellow with the broad shoulders. I say, come here a moment," called he aloud, making a sign for Tate to approach. "The Collector is not in the least angry for what's happened; he knew you did n't mean anything serious. Pray, who are these ladies, your mistresses I mean?"

"Lady Eleanor Darcy and Miss Darcy, of Gwynne Abbey," replied Tate, st.u.r.dily, as he gave the names with a most emphatic distinctness.

"The devil it was!" exclaimed M'Farland.

"By my conscience, ye may well wonder at being in such company, sir,"

said Tate, laughing, and resuming his place just in time to a.s.sist Lady Eleanor to ascend the steps. Helen quickly followed, the door was slammed to, and, Tate mounting with the alacrity of a town footman, the chaise set out at a brisk pace down the street.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE COAST IN WINTER

Although Tate Sullivan had arrived in Coleraine and provided himself with a chaise expressly to bring his mistress and her daughter back to "The Corvy,"--from which the sheriff's officers had retired in discomfiture, on discovering the loss of their warrants,--Lady Eleanor, dreading a renewal of the law proceedings, had determined never to return thither.

From the postilion they learned that a small but not uncomfortable lodging could be had near the little village of Port Ballintray, and to this spot they now directed their course. The transformation of a little summer watering-place into the dismal village of some poor fishermen in winter, is a sad spectacle; nor was the picture relieved by the presence of the fragments of a large vessel, which, lately lost with all its crew, hung on the rocks, thumping and clattering with every motion of the waves. By the faint moonlight Lady Eleanor and her daughter could mark the outlines of figures, as they waded in the tide or clambered along the rocks, stripping the last remains of the n.o.ble craft, and contending with each other for the spoils of the dead.

If the scene itself was a sorrowful one, it was no less painful to their eyes from feeling a terrible similitude between their own fortunes and that of the wrecked vessel; the gallant ship, meant to float in its pride over the ocean, now a broken and shattered wreck, falling asunder with each stroke of the sea!

"How like and yet how unlike!" sighed Lady Eleanor; "if these crushed and shattered timbers have no feeling in the hour of adversity, yet are they denied the glorious hopefulness that in the saddest moments clings to humanity. Ours is shipwreck, too, but, taken at its worst, is only temporary calamity!"

Helen pressed her mother's hands with fervor to her lips; perhaps never had she loved her with more intensity than at that instant.

The chaise drew up at the door of a little cabin, built at the foot of, and, as it actually seemed, against a steep rocky cliff of great height.

In summer it was regarded as one of the best among the surrounding lodgings, but now it looked dreary enough. A fishing-boat, set up on one end, formed a kind of sheltering porch to the doorway; while spars, masts, and oars were lashed upon the thatch, to serve as a protection against the dreadful gales of winter.

A childless widow was the only occupant, whose scanty livelihood was eked out by letting lodgings to the summer visitors,--a precarious subsistence, which in bad seasons, and they were not unfrequent, failed altogether. It was with no small share of wonderment that Mary Spellan--or "old Molly," as the village more usually called her--saw a carriage draw up to the cabin door late of a dark night in winter; nor was this feeling unalloyed by a very strong tincture of suspicion, for Molly was an Antrim woman, and had her proportion of the qualities, good and bad, of the "Black North."

"They 'll no be makin' a stay on't," said she to the postboy, who, in his capacity of interpreter, had got down to explain to Molly the requirements of the strangers. "They 'll be here to-day and awa to-morrow, I 'm thenkin'," said she, with habitual and native distrust.