Charles Lever - The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2

Never was the good Knight more convinced of his own prudence in paying his first visit alone, and he stood for some time in patient admiration of the scene, until his eye rested on a figure who, seated at some distance off on a little eminence of the rocky coast, was as coolly surveying Darcy through his telescope. The mutual inspection continued for several minutes, when the stranger, deliberately shutting up his glass, advanced towards the Knight.

The gentleman was short, but stoutly knit, with a walk and a carriage of his head that, to Darcy’s observant eye, bespoke an innate sense of self-importance; his dress was a greatcoat, cut jockey fashion, and ornamented with very large buttons, displaying heads of stags, foxes, and badgers, and other emblems of the chase, short Russia duck trousers, a wide-leaved straw hat, and a very loose cravat, knotted sailor-fashion on his breast. As he approached the Knight, he came to a full stop about half a dozen paces in front, and putting his hand to his hat, held it straight above his head, pretty much in the way stage imitators of Napoleon were wont to perform the salutation.

“A stranger, sir, I presume?” said he, with an insinuating smile and an air of dignity at the same moment. Darcy bowed a courteous assent, and the other went on: “Sweet scene, sir, – lovely nature, – animated and grand.”

“Most impressive, I confess,” said Darcy, with difficulty repressing a smile.

“Never here before, I take it?”

“Never, sir.”

“Came from Coleraine, possibly? Walked all the way, eh?”

“I came on foot, as you have divined,” said Darcy, dryly.

“Not going to make any stay, probably; a mere glance, and go on again. Is n’t that so?”

“I believe you are quite correct; but may I, in return for your considerate inquiries, ask one question on my own part? You are, perhaps, sufficiently acquainted with the locality to inform me if a Miss Daly resides in this village, and where.”

“Miss Daly, sir, did inhabit that cottage yonder, where you see the oars on the thatch, but it has been let to the Moors of Ballymena; they pay two-ten a week for the three rooms and the use of the kitchen; smart that, ain’t it?”

“And Miss Daly resides at present – ”

“She ‘s one of us,” said the little man, with a significant jerk of his thumb to the blue board with the gilt letters; “not much of that, after all; but she lives under the sway of ‘Mother Fum,’ though, from one caprice or another, she don’t mix with the other boarders. Do you know her yourself?”

“I had that honor some years ago.”

“Much altered, I take it, since that; down in the world too! She was an heiress in those days, I ‘ve heard, and a beauty. Has some of the good looks still, but lost all the shiners.”

“Am I likely to find her at home at this hour?” said Darcy, moving away, and anxious for an opportunity to escape his communicative friend.

“No, not now; never shows in the morning. Just comes down to dinner, and disappears again. Never takes a hand at whist – penny points tell up, you know – seem a trifle at first, but hang me if they don’t make a figure in the budget afterwards. There, do you see that fat lady with the black bathing-cap? – no, I mean the one with the blue baize patched on the shoulder, the Widow Mackie, – she makes a nice thing of it, – won twelve and fourpence since the first of the month. Pretty creature that yonder, with one stocking on, – Miss Boyle, of Carrick-maclash.”

“I must own,” said Darcy, dryly, “that, not having the privilege of knowing these ladies, I do not conceive myself at liberty to regard them with due attention.”

“Oh! they never mind that here; no secrets among us.”

“Very primitive, and doubtless very delightful; but I have trespassed too long on your politeness. Permit me to wish you a very good morning.”

“Not at all; having nothing in the world to do. Paul Dempsey – that’s my name – was always an idle man; Paul Dempsey, sir, nephew of old Paul Dempsey, of Dempsey Grove, in the county of Kilkenny; a snug place, that I wish the proprietor felt he had enjoyed sufficiently long. And your name, if I might make bold, is – ”

“I call myself Gwynne,” said Darcy, after a slight hesitation.

“Gwynne – Gwynne – there was a Gwynne, a tailor, in Ballyragget; a connection, probably?”

“I ‘m not aware of any relationship,” said Darcy, smiling.

“I ‘m glad of it; I owe your brother or your cousin there – that is, if he was either – a sum of seven-and-nine for these ducks. There are Gwynnes in Ross besides, and Quins; are you sure it is not Quin? Very common name Quin.”

“I believe we spell our name as I have pronounced it.” “Well, if you come to spend a little time here, I ‘ll give you a hint or two. Don’t join Leonard – that blue-nosed fellow, yonder, in whiskey. He ‘ll be asking you, but don’t – at it all day.” Here Mr. Dempsey pantomimed the action of tossing off a dram. “No whist with the widow; if you were younger, I ‘d say no small plays with Bess Boyle, – has a brother in the Antrim militia, a very quarrelsome fellow.”

“I thank you sincerely for your kind counsel, although not destined to profit by it. I have one favor to ask: could you procure me the means to enclose my card for Miss Daly, as I must relinquish the hope of seeing her on this occasion?”

“No, no, – stop and dine. Capital cod and oysters, – always good. The mutton rayther scraggy, but with a good will and good teeth manageable enough; and excellent malt-”

“I thank you for your hospitable proposal, but cannot accept it.”

“Well, I ‘ll take care of your card; you ‘ll probably come over again soon. You ‘re at M’Grotty’s, ain’t you?”

“Not at present; and as to the card, with your permission I’ll enclose it.” This Darcy was obliged to insist upon; as, if he left his name as Gwynne, Miss Daly might have failed to recognize him, while he desired to avoid being known as Mr. Darcy.

“Well, come in here; I ‘ll find you the requisites. But I wish you ‘d stop and see the ‘Panther.’”

Had the Knight overheard this latter portion of Mr.

Dempsey’s invitation, he might have been somewhat surprised; but it chanced that the words were lost, and, preceded by honest Paul, he entered the little garden in front of the house.

When Darcy had enclosed his card and committed it to the hands of Mr. Dempsey, that gentleman was far too deeply impressed with the importance of his mission to delay a moment in executing it, and then the Knight was at last left at liberty to retrace his steps unmolested towards home. If he had smiled at the persevering curiosity and eccentric communicativeness of Mr. Dempsey, Darcy sorrowed deeply over the fallen fortunes which condemned one he had known so courted and so flattered once, to companionship like this. The words of the classic satirist came full upon his memory, and never did a sentiment meet more ready acceptance than the bitter, heart-wrung confession, “Unhappy poverty! you have no heavier misery in your train than that you make men seem ridiculous.” A hundred times he wished he had never made the excursion; he would have given anything to be able to think of her as she had been, without the detracting influence of these vulgar associations. “And yet,” said he, half aloud, “a year or so more, if I am still living, I shall probably have forgotten my former position, and shall have conformed myself to the new and narrow limits of my lot, doubtless as she does.”

The quick tramp of feet on the heather behind him roused him, and, in turning, he saw a person coming towards and evidently endeavouring to overtake him. As he came nearer, the Knight perceived it was the gentleman already alluded to by Dempsey as one disposed to certain little traits of conviviality, – a fact which a nose of a deep copper color, and two bloodshot, bleary eyes, corroborated. His dress was a blue frock with a standing collar, military fashion, and dark trousers; and, although bearing palpable marks of long wear, were still neat and clean-looking. His age, as well as appearances might be trusted, was probably between fifty and sixty.