The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2

CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONCLUSION

When Forester entered the Knight’s room in the inn, where, in calm quietude, he sat awaiting the verdict, he hesitated for a moment how he should break the joyful tidings of Daly’s arrival.

“Speak out,” said Darcy. “If not exactly without hope, I am well prepared for the worst.”

“Can you say you are equally ready to hear the best?” asked Forester, eagerly.

“The best is a very strong word, my young friend,” said Darcy, gravely.

“And yet, I speak advisedly, – the best.”

“If so, perhaps I am not so prepared. My heart has dwelt so long on these troubles, recognizing them as I felt they must be, that I would, perhaps, ask a little time to think how I should hear tidings so remote from all expectation. Of course, I do not speak of the mere verdict here.”

“Nor I,” interposed Forester, impatiently. “I speak of what restores you to your ancient house and rank, your station and your fortune.”

“Can this be true?”

“Ay, Maurice, every word of it,” broke in Daly, who, having listened so far, could no longer restrain himself. The two old men fell into each other’s arms with all the cordial affection with which they had embraced as schoolfellows sixty years before.

Great as was Darcy’s amazement at seeing his oldest friend thus suddenly restored, it was nothing in comparison to what he felt as Daly narrated the event of the shipwreck, and his rescue from the sinking vessel by Forester.

“And your companions, who were they?” asked Darcy, eagerly.

“You shall hear.”

“I guess one of them already,” interposed the Knight “The trusty Sandy. Is it not so?”

“The other you will never hit upon,” said Daly, nodding an assent.

“I ‘m thinking over all our friends, and yet none seem likely.”

“Come, Maurice, prepare yourself for surprise. What think you, if he to whose fate I had linked myself, resolving that, live or die, we should not separate, – if this man was – Gleeson – honest Tom Gleeson?”

The words seemed stunning in their effect; for Darey leaned back, and passing his hands over his closed lids, murmured, “I hope my poor faculties are not wandering, – I trust this may be no delusion.”

“He is yonder,” said Daly, taking the Knight’s hand in his strong grasp; “Sandy mounts guard over him. Not that the poor devil thinks of or desires escape; he was too weary of a life of deception and sin when we caught him, to wish to prolong it. Now rouse yourself, and listen to me.”

It would doubtless be a heavy tax on our kind reader’s patience were we to relate, circumstantially, the conversation, that, now commencing, lasted during the entire night and till late in the following morning. Enough if we say that Daly, having, through Freney’s instrumentality, discovered that Gleeson had not committed suicide, but only spread this rumor for concealment’s sake, resolved to pursue him to America. Fearing that any suspicion of his object might escape, he did not even trust Bicknell with the secret; but by suffering him to continue law proceedings as before, totally blinded the Hickmans as to the possibility of the event.

It would in itself be a tale of marvel to recount the strange adventures which Daly encountered in his search and pursuit of Gleeson, who had originally taken up his residence in the States, was recognized there, and fled into Canada, where he wandered about from place to place, conscience-stricken and miserable. He was wretchedly poor, besides; for on the bills and securities he carried away, many being on eminent houses in America, payment was stopped, and being unable to risk proceedings, he was reduced to beggary.

It now appeared that at a very early period of life, when a clerk in the office of old Hickman’s agent, he had committed a forgery. It was for a small sum, and only done in anticipation of meeting the bill by his salary due a few weeks later. So far the fraud was palliated by the intention. By some mischance the document fell into the possession of Dr. Hickman, whose name it falsely bore. He immediately took steps to trace its origin, and having succeeded, he sent for Gleeson. When the youth, pale and terror-stricken by suspicion, made his appearance, he was amazed that, instead of finding a prosecutor ready prepared for his ruin, he discovered a benevolent patron, who, having long watched the zeal and assiduity with which he discharged his duties, desired to be of use to him in life. Hickman told him that if he were disposed to make the venture on his own account, he would use his influence to procure him some small agencies, and even assist him with funds, to make advances to those landlords who might employ him. The interview lasted long. There was much excellent advice and wise admonition on one side, profuse expression of gratitude and lasting fidelity on the other. “Very well, very well,” said old Hickman, at the close of a very devoted speech, in which Gleeson professed the most attached and the most honorable motives, – for he was not at all aware that his bill was known of, – “I am not ignorant of mankind; they are rarely, if ever, very bad or very good; they can be occasionally faithful to their friends; but there is one thing they are always – careful of themselves. See this,” – here he took from his pocket-book the forged paper, and held it before the almost sinking youth, – “there is what can bring you to the gallows any day! Is this the first time?”

“It is, so help me – ” cried he, falling on his knees.

“Never mind swearing. I believe you. And the last also?”

“And the last!”

“I see it must be, by the date,” rejoined Hickman.

“I can pay it, sir; I have the money ready – on Tuesday – ”

“Never mind that,” replied Hickman, folding it up, and replacing it in the pocket-book. “You shall pay me in something better than money, – in gratitude. Come and dine with me alone to-day, and we ‘ll talk over the future.”

It has never been our taste to present pictures of depravity to our readers; we would more willingly turn from them, or, where that is impossible, make them as sketchy as may be. It will be sufficient, then, if we say that Gleeson’s whole career was the plan and creation of Hickman. The rigid and scrupulous honor, the spotless decorum, the unshaken probity, were all devices to win public confidence and esteem. That they were eminently successful, the epithet of “honest Tom Gleeson,” by which he was universally known, is the guarantee. The union of such qualities with consummate skill and the most unwearied zeal soon made him the most distinguished man in his walk, and made his services not only an evidence of success, but of a rectitude in obtaining success that men of character prized still more highly.

Possessed of the titles of immense estates, invested with unbounded confidence by the owners, cognizant of every legal flaw that could excite uneasiness, aware of every hitch and strait of their circumstances, he was less the servant than the master of those who employed him.

It was a period when habits of extravagance prevailed to the widest extent. The proprietors of estates deemed spending their incomes their only duty, and left its cares to the agents. The only reproach, then, ever laid to Gleeson’s door was that when a question of a sale or a loan was agitated, honest Tom’s scruples were often a most troublesome impediment to his less scrupulous employer. In fact, Gleeson stood before the public as a kind of guardian of estated property, – the providence of dowagers, widows, and younger children!

Such a man, with his neck in a halter, at any moment at the mercy of old Dr. Hickman, was an agent for ruin almost inconceivable. Through his instrumentality the old usurer laid out his immense stores of wealth at enormous interest, obtained possession of vast estates at a mere fraction of their worth, till at length, grown hardy by long impunity, and daring by the recognition of the world, bolder expedients were ventured on. Darcy’s ruin was long the cherished dream of Hickman; and when, after many a wily scheme and long negotiation, he saw Gleeson engaged as his agent, he felt certain of victory. His first scheme was to make Gleeson encourage young Lionel in every project of extravagance, by putting his name to bills, assuring him that his father permitted him an almost unlimited expenditure. This course once entered upon, and well aware that the young man kept no record of such transactions, his name was forged to several acceptances of large amount, and, subsequently, to sales of property to meet them.

Meanwhile great loans were raised by Darcy to pay off incumbrances, and never so employed; till, at length, the Knight decided upon the negotiation which was to clear off Hickman’s mortgage, – the debt, of all others, he hated most to think of. So quietly was this carried on, that Hickman heard nothing of it; for Gleeson, long wearied by a life of treachery and perfidy, and never knowing the day or the hour when disclosure might come, had resolved on escaping to America with this large sum of money, leaving his colleague in crime to carry on business alone.

“The Doctor” was not, however, to be thus duped. Secret and silent as the arrangements for flight were, he heard of them all; and hastening out to Gleeson’s house, coolly told him that any attempt at escape would bring him to the gallows. Gleeson attempted a denial. He alleged that his intended going over to England was merely on account of this sum, which Darcy was negotiating for, to pay off the mortgage.

A new light broke on Hickman. He saw that his terrified confederate could not much longer be relied upon, and it was agreed between them that Gleeson should pay the money to redeem the mortgage, and, having obtained the release, show it to the Knight of Gwynne. This done, he was to carry it back to Hickman, and, for the sum of £10,000, replace it in his hands, thus enabling the doctor to deny the payment and foreclose the mortgage, while honest Tom, weary of perfidy, and seeking repose, should follow his original plan, and escape to America.

The money was paid, as Freney surmised and Daly believed; but Gleeson, still dreading some act of treachery, instead of returning the release and claiming the price, started a day earlier than he promised. The rest is known to the reader. Whether the Hickmans credited the story of the suicide or not, they were never quite free of the terror of a disclosure; and, in pressing the matrimonial arrangement, hoped forever to set at rest the disputed possession.

It would probably not interest our readers were we to dwell longer on Gleeson or his motives. That some vague intention existed of one day restoring to Darcy the release of his mortgage, is perhaps not unlikely. A latent spark of honor, long buried beneath the ashes of crime, often shines out brightly in the last hour of existence. There might be, too, a cherished project of vengeance against the man that tempted and destroyed him. Be it as it may, he guarded the document as though it had been his last hope; and when tracked, pursued, and overtaken near Fort Erie by a party of the Delawares, of whom the Howling Wind, alias Bagenal Daly, was chief, it was found stitched up in the breast of his waistcoat.

Our space does not permit us to dwell upon Bagenal Daly’s adventures, though we may assure our readers that they were both wild and wonderful. One only regret darkened the happiness of his exploit. It was that he was compelled so soon to leave the pleasant society of the Red Skins, and the intellectual companionship of “Blue Fox” and “Hissing Lightning;” while Sandy, discovering himself to be a widower, would gladly have contracted new ties, to cement the alliance of the ancient house of M’Grane with that of the Royal Family of Hickinbooke, or the “Slimy Whip Snake,” a fair princess of which had bid high for his affections. Indeed, the worthy Sandy had become romantic on the subject, and suggested that if the lady would condescend to adopt certain articles of attire, he would have no objection to take her back to “The Corvy.” These were sacrifices, however, that not even love was called upon to make, and the project was abortive.

So far have we condensed Bagenal Daly’s narrative, which, orally delivered, lasted till the sun was high and the morning fine and bright. He had only concluded, when a servant in O’Reilly’s livery brought a letter, which he said was to be given to the Knight of Gwynne, but required no answer. Its contents were the following: —

Sir, – The melancholy catastrophe of yesterday evening might excuse me in your eyes from any attention to the claims of mere business. But the discovery of certain documents lately in the possession of my father demand at my hands the most prompt and complete reparation. I now know, sir, that we were unjustly possessed of an estate and property that were yours. I also know that severe wrongs have been inflicted upon you through the instrumentality of my family. I have only to make the best amende in my power, by immediately restoring the one, and asking forgiveness for the other. If you can and will accord me the pardon I seek, I shall, as soon as the sad duties which devolve upon me here are completed, leave this country for the Continent, never to return. I have already given directions to my legal adviser to confer with Mr Bicknell; and no step will be omitted to secure a safe and speedy restoration of your house and estate to its rightful owner. In deep humiliation, I remain

Your obedient servant,

H. O’Reilly.

“Poor fellow!” said Darcy, throwing down the letter before Daly; “he seems to have been no party to the fraud, and yet all the penalty falls upon him.”

“Have no pity for the upstart rascal, Maurice; I ‘ll wager a hundred – thank Heaven, Mr. Gleeson has put me in possession of a few – that he was as deep as his father. Give me this paper, and I ‘ll ask honest Tom the question.”

“Not so, Bagenal; I should be sorry to think worse of any man than I must do. Let him have at least the benefit of a doubt; and as to honest Tom, set him at liberty: we no longer want him; the papers he has given are quite sufficient, – more than we are ever like to need.”

Daly had no fancy for relinquishing his hold of the game that cost him so much trouble to take; but the Knight’s words were usually a law to him, and with a muttering remark of “I ‘ll do it because I ‘ll have my eye on him,” he left the room to liberate his captive.

“There he goes,” exclaimed Daly, as, re-entering the room, he saw a chaise rapidly drive from the door, – “there he goes, Maurice; and I own to you I have an easier conscience for having let loose Freney on the world than for liberating honest Tom Gleeson; but who have we here, with four smoking posters? – ladies too!”

A travelling-carriage drew up at the door of the little inn, and immediately three ladies descended. “That ‘s Maria,” cried Daly, rushing from the room, and at once returned with his sister, Lady Eleanor, and Miss Darcy.

Miss Daly had, three days before, received a letter from

Bagenal, detailing his capture of Gleeson, and informing her that he hoped to be back in Ireland almost as soon as his letter. With these tidings she hastened to Lady Eleanor, and concerted the journey which now brought them all together.

Story-tellers have but scant privilege to linger where all is happiness, unbroken and perfect. Like Mother Cary’s chickens, their province is rather with menacing storm than the signs of fair weather. We have, then, but space to say that a more delighted party never met than those who now assembled in that little inn; but one face showed any signs of passing sorrow, – that was poor Forester’s. The general joy, to which he had so much contributed by his exertions, rather threw a gloomier shade over his own unhappiness; and in secret he resolved to say “Good-bye” that same evening.

Amid a thousand plans for the future, all tinged with their own bright color, they sat round the fire at evening, when Miss Daly, whose affection for the youth was strengthened by what she had seen during his illness, remarked that he alone seemed exempt from the general happiness.

“To whom we owe so much,” said Lady Eleanor, kindly. “My husband is indebted to him for his life.”

“I can say as much, too,” said Daly; “not to speak of Gleeson’s gratitude.”

“Nay!” exclaimed the young man, blushing, “I did not know the service I was rendering. I little guessed how grateful I should myself have reason to be for being its instrument.”

“All this is very well,” said Miss Daly, abruptly; “but it is not honest, – no, it is not honest. There are other feelings concerned here than such amiable generalities as Joy, Pity, and Gratitude. Don’t frown, Helen, – that is better, love, – a smile becomes you to perfection.”

“I must stop you,” said Forester, blushing deeply. “It will be enough if I say that any observation you can make must give me the deepest pain, – not for myself – ”

“But for Helen? I don’t believe it. You may be a very sharp politician and a very brave soldier, but you know very little about young ladies. Yes, there ‘a no denying it, – their game is all deceit.”

“Oh! Colonel Darcy – Lady Eleanor, will you not speak a word?” exclaimed Forester, pale and agitated.

“A hundred, my dear boy,” cried the Knight, “if they would serve you; but Helen’s one is worth them all.”

“Miss Darcy, dare I hope? Helen, dearest!” added he, in a whisper, as, taking her hand, he led her towards a window.

“My Lord, the carriage is ready,” said his servant, throwing wide the door.

“You may order the horses back again,” said Daly, dryly; “my Lord is not going this evening.”

Has our reader ever made a long voyage? Has he ever experienced in himself the strange but most complete alteration in all his sentiments and feelings when far away from land, – on the wild, bleak waters, – and that same “himself,” when in sight of shore, with seaweed around the prow, and land-breezes on his cheek? But a few hours back and that ship was his world; he knew her from “bow to taffrail;” he greeted the cook’s galley as though it were the “restaurant” his heart delighted in; he even felt a kind of friendship for the pistons as they jerked up and down into a bowing acquaintance. But now how changed are his sentiments, how fixedly are his eyes turned to the pier of the harbor, and how impatient is he at those tacking zigzag approaches by which nautical skill and care approximate the goal!

Already landed in imagination, the cautious manouvres of the crew are an actual martyrdom; he has no bowels for anything save his own enfranchisement, and he cannot comprehend the tiresome detail of preparations, which, after all, perhaps, are scarcely five minutes in endurance. At last, the gangway launched, see him, how he elbows forward, fighting his way, carpet-bag in hand, regardless of passport-people, police, and porters; he’ll scarce take time to mutter a “Good-bye, Captain,” in the haste to leave a scene all whose interest is over, whose adventure is past.

Such is the end of a voyage; and such, or very nearly such, the end of a novel! You, most amiable reader, are the passenger, we the skipper. A few weeks ago you deemed us tolerable company, faute de mieux, perhaps. We ‘ll not ask why, at all events. We had you out on the wide, wild waters of uncertainty, free to sail where’er our fancy listed. In our very waywardness there was a mock semblance of power, for the creatures we presented to you were our own, their lives and fortunes in our hands. Now all that is over, – we have neared the shore, and all our hold on you is bygone.

How can we hope to excite interest in events already accomplished? Why linger over details which you have already filled up? Of course, say you, all ends happily now. Virtue is rewarded – as novelists understand rewarding – by matrimony, and vice punished in single blessedness. The hero marries the heroine; and if they don’t live happy, etc.

But what became of Bagenal Daly? says some one who would compliment us by expressing so much of interest. Bagenal, then, only waited to see the Knight restored to his own, to retire with his sister to “The Corvy,” where, attended by Sandy, he passed the remainder of his days in peace and quietude; his greatest enjoyment being to seize on a chance tourist to the Causeway, and make him listen to narratives of his early life, but which age had now so far commingled that the merely strange became actually marvellous.

Paul Dempsey grieved for a week, but consoled himself on hearing that his rival had been a “lord;” and subsequently, in a “moment of enthusiasm,” he married Mrs. Fumbally. The Hickmans left Ireland for the Continent, where they are still to be found, rambling about from city to city, and expressing the utmost sympathy with their country’s misfortunes, but, to avoid any admixture of meaner feeling, suffering no taint of lucre to mingle with their compassion.

As for Lionel Darcy, his name is to be found in the despatches from the East, and with a mention that shows that he has derogated in nothing from the proud character of his race.

Of all those who figured before our reader, but one remains on the stage where they all performed; and he, perhaps, has no claim to be especially remembered. There is always, however, somewhat of respectability attached to the oldest inhabitant, that chronicler of cold winters and warm summers, of rainy springs and stormy Octobers. Con Heffernan, then, lives, and still wields no inconsiderable share of his ancient influence. Each party has discovered his treachery, but neither can dispense with his services. He is the last link remaining between the men of Ireland’s “great day” and the very different race who now usurp the direction of her destiny.

Of the period of which we have endeavored to picture some meagre resemblance, unhappily the few traces remaining are those most to be deplored. The poverty, the misery, and the anarchy survive; the genial hospitality, the warm attachment to country, the cordial generosity of Irish feeling, have sadly declined. Let us hope that from the depth of our present sufferings better days are about to dawn, and a period approaching when Ireland shall be “great” in the happiness of her people, “glorious” in the development of her inexhaustible resources, and “free” by that best of freedom, – free from the trammels of an unmeaning party warfare, which has ever subjected the welfare of the country to the miserable intrigues of a few adventurers.