CHAPTER XXV. A CHURCHYARD.
There come every now and then, in our strange climate, winter days which imitate the spring, with softened sunlight, glistening leaves, and warbling birds; even the streams unite in the delusion, and run clearly along with eddying circles, making soft music among the stones. These delicious intervals are full of pleasant influences, and the garden breath that floats into the open drawing-room brings hope as well as health on its wings. It was on such a morning a little funeral procession entered the gateway of the ruined church at Kellester, and wound its way towards an obscure corner where an open grave was seen. With the exception of one solitary individual, it was easy to perceive that they who followed the coffin were either the hired mourners, or some stray passers-by indulging a sad curiosity in listlessness. It was poor Kellett's corpse was borne along, with Conway walking after it.
The mournful task over, and the attendants gone, Conway lingered about among the graves, now reading the sad records of surviving affection, now stopping to listen to the high-soaring lark whose shrill notes vibrated in the thin air. “Poor Jack!” thought he, aloud; “he little knows the sad office I have had this morning. He always was talking of home and coming back again, and telling his dear father of all his campaigning adventures; and so much for anticipation—beneath that little mound of earth lies all that made the Home he dreamed of! He's almost the last of the Albueras,” said he, as he stood over the grave; and at the same time a stranger drew near the spot, and, removing his hat, addressed him by name. “Ah! Mr. Dunn, I think?” said Conway.
“Yes,"-said the other; “I regret to see that I am too late. I wished to pay the last tribute of respect to our poor friend, but unfortunately all was over when I arrived.”
“You knew him intimately, I believe?” said Conway.
“From boyhood,” said Dunn, coughing, to conceal some embarrassment. “Our families were intimate; but of him, personally, I saw little: he went abroad with his regiment, and when he returned, it was to live in a remote part of the country, so that we seldom met.”
“Poor fellow!” muttered Conway, “he does seem to have been well-nigh forgotten by every one. I was alone here this morning.”
“Such is life!” said Dunn.
“But such ought not death to be,” rejoined Conway. “A gallant old soldier might well have been followed to his last billet by a few friends or comrades; but he was poor, and that explains all!”
“That is a harsh judgment for one so young as you are.”
“No: if poor Kellett had fallen in battle, he had gone to his grave with every honor to his memory; but he lived on in a world where other qualities than a soldier's are valued, and he was forgotten,—that's the whole of it!”
“We must think of the daughter now; something must be done for her,” said Dunn.
“I have a plan about that, if you will kindly aid me with it,” said Conway, blushing as he spoke. “You are aware, perhaps, that Jack Kellett and I were comrades. He saved my life, and risked his own to do it, and I owe him more than life in the cheery, hearty spirit he inspired me with, at a time when I was rather disposed to sulk with the whole world; so that I owe him a heavy debt.” Here he faltered, and at last stopped, and it was only as Dunn made a gesture to him to continue, that he went on: “Well, I have a dear, kind old mother, living all alone in Wales,—not over well off, to be sure, but quite able to do a kind thing, and fully as willing. If Miss Kellett could be induced to come and stay with her,—it might be called a visit at first,—time would gradually show them how useful they were to each other, and they 'd find they need n't—they could n't separate. That's my plan; will you support it?”
“I ought to tell you, frankly, that I have no presumption to counsel Miss Kellett. I never saw her till the night you accompanied her to my house; we are utter strangers to each other therefore. There is, however, sufficient in your project to recommend itself, and if anything I can add will aid it, you may reckon upon me; but you will yourself see whether my counsels be admissible. There is only one question I would ask,—you 'll excuse the frankness of it for the sincerity it guarantees,—Miss Kellett, although in poverty, was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune,—all the habits of her life were formed in that station; now, is it likely—I mean—are your mother's circumstances—”
“My mother has something like a hundred a year in the world,” broke in Conway, hastily. “It's a poor pittance, I know, and you would be puzzled to say how one could eke out subsistence on it, but she manages it very cleverly.”
“I had really no intention to obtrude my curiosity so far,” said Dunn, apologizing. “My object was to show you, generally, that Miss Kellett, having hitherto lived in a condition of comfort—”
“Well, we 'll do our best—I mean my mother will,” said Conway. “Only say you will recommend the plan, and I 'm satisfied.”
“And for yourself—have you no project, no scheme of life struck out? A man so full of youth and energy should not sink into the listless inactivity of a retired soldier.”
“You forget this,” said Conway, pointing to his armless sleeve.
“Many a one-armed officer leads his squadron into fire; and your services—if properly represented, properly supported—would perhaps meet recognition at the Horse Guards. What say you, would you serve again if they offered you a cornetcy?”
“Would I?—would I bless the day that brought me the tidings? But the question is not of me,” said he, proudly; and he turned away to leave the spot. Dunn followed him, and they walked out into the road together. A handsome chariot, splendid in all its appointments, and drawn by two powerful thoroughbreds, awaited the rich man's coming, and the footman banged down the steps with ostentatious noise as he saw him approach.
“Let the carriage follow,” said Dunn to the servant, and walked on at Conway's side. “If it was not that I am in a position to be of service to you, my observation would be a liberty,” said Dunn; “but I have some influence with persons in power—”
“I must stop you at once,” said Conway, good-humoredly. “I belong to a class which does not accept of favors except from personal friends; and though I fully recognize your kind intentions towards me, remember we are strangers to each other.”
“I should wish to forget that,” said Dunn, courteously.
“I should still be ungracious enough to bear it in mind. Come, come, Mr. Dunn,” said he, “this is not the topic I want you to be interested in. If you can bring some hope and comfort into that little cottage yonder, you will do a far greater kindness than by any service you can render one like me.”
“It would scarcely be advisable to do anything for a day or two?” said Dunn, rather asking the question.
“Of course not. Meanwhile I'll write to my mother, and she shall herself address Miss Kellett, or, if you think it better, she 'd come over here.”
“We 'll think over that. Come back with me to town and eat your dinner with me, if you have no engagement.”
“Not to-day,—excuse me to-day. I am low and out of sorts, and I feel as if I 'd rather be alone.”
“Will you let me see you to-morrow, or the day after?”
“The day after to-morrow be it. By that time I shall have heard from my mother,” said Conway. And they parted.
Long after Mr. Dunn's handsome equipage had driven away, Charles Conway continued to linger about the neighborhood of the little cottage. The shutters were closed, and no smoke issued from the chimney, and it looked dreary and desolate. Again and again would he draw near the little wicket and look into the garden. He would have given all he possessed to have been able to ask after her,—to have seen any one who could have told him of her,—how she bore up in her dread hour of trial; but none was to be seen. More than once he adventured to approach the door, and timidly stood, uncertain what to do, and then, cautiously retracing his steps, he regained the road, again to resume his lonely watch. And so the noon passed, and the day waned, and evening drew nigh, and there he still lingered. He thought that when night closed in, some flickering light might give sign of life within,—some faint indication of her his heart was full of; but all remained dark, silent, and cheerless. Even yet could he not bear to leave the spot, and it was already far into the night ere he turned his steps towards Dublin.
Let us go back for a moment to Mr. Davenport Dunn, who was not the only occupant of the handsome chariot that rolled smoothly back to town. Mr. Driscoll sat in one corner; the blind carefully down, so as to screen him from view.
“And that was Conway!” said he, as soon as Dunn had taken his seat. “Wasn't I right when I said you were sure to catch him here?”
“I knew as much myself,” said Dunn, curtly.
“Well, and what is he like?—is he a chap easy to deal with?—is he any way deep?”
“He's as proud as Lucifer,—that 's all I can make out of him; and there are few things harder to manage than real pride.”
“Ay, if you can't get round it,” said Driscoll, with a sly twinkle of the eye.
“I have no time for such management,” said Dunn, stiffly.
“Well, how did he take what you said to him? Did he seem as if he 'd enter into the business kindly?”
“You don't suppose that I spoke to him about his family or his fortune, do you? Is it in a chance meeting like this that I could approach a subject full of difficulty and complication? You have rare notions of delicacy and address, Driscoll!”
“God help me! I'm a poor crayture, but somehow I get along for all that, and I 'm generally as far on my road at the end of the day as them that travels with four posters.”
“You'd make a pretty mess of whatever required a light hand and a fine touch, that I can tell you. The question here lies between a peer of the realm with twelve thousand a year, and a retired soldier with eightpence a day pension. It does not demand much thought to see where the balance inclines.”
“You're forgetting one trifling matter. Who has the right to be the peer with the twelve thousand a year?”
“I am not forgetting it; I was going to it when you stopped me. Until we have failed in obtaining our terms from Lord Lackington—”
“Ay, but what are the terms?” broke in Driscoll, eagerly.
“If you interrupt me thus at every moment, I shall never be able to explain my meaning. The terms are for yourself to name; you may write the figures how you please. As for me, I have views that in no way clash with yours. And to resume: until we fail with the Viscount, we have no need of the soldier. All that we have to think of as regards Conway is, that he falls into no hands but our own, that he should never learn anything of his claim, nor be within reach of such information till the hour when we ourselves think fit to make it known to him—”
“He oughtn't to keep company with that daughter of Paul Kellett, then,” broke in Driscoll. “There's not a family history in the kingdom she hasn't by heart.”
“I have thought of that already, and there is some danger of such an occurrence.”
“As how?”
“Young Conway is at this very moment plotting how she may be domesticated with his mother, somewhere in Wales, I believe.”
“If he's in love with her, it will be a bad business,” said Driscoll. “She does be reading and writing, too, from morning till night. There's no labor nor fatigue she's not equal to, and all the searches and inquiries that weary others she'd go into out of pure amusement. Now, if she was ever to be with his mother, and heard the old woman talk about family history, she 'd be at it hard and fast next morning.”
“There is no need she should go there.”
“No. But she must n't go,—must never see her.”
“I think I can provide for that. It will be somewhat more difficult to take him out of the way for the present. I wish he were back in the Crimea.”
“He might get killed—”
“Ay, but his claim would not die. Look here, Driscoll,” said he, slowly; “I ventured to tell him this morning that I would assist him with my influence if he wishes to re-enter the service as an officer, and he resented the offer at once as a liberty. Now, it might be managed in another way. Leave me to think it over, and perhaps I can hit upon the expedient. The Attorney-General is to report upon the claims to me to-morrow, next day I'm to see Conway himself, and then you shall learn all.”
“I don't like all these delays,” began Driscoll; but at a look from Dunn he stopped, and held down his head, half angry, half abashed.
“You advance small loans of money on approved security, Driscoll,” said Dunn, with a dry expression of the mouth. “Perhaps some of these mornings you may be applied to for a few hundreds by a young fellow wishing to purchase his commission,—you understand me?”
“I believe I do,” said Driscoll, with a significant smile.
“You 'll not be too hard on him for the terms, especially if he has any old family papers to deposit as security,—eh?”
“Just so—just so. A mere nominal guarantee,” said Driscoll, still laughing. “Oh, dear! but it's a queer world, and one has to work his wits hard to live in it.” And with this philosophic explanation of life's trials, Mr. Driscoll took his leave of Dunn, and walked homeward.