CHAPTER XXI. A SHOCK.
It was past midnight when Davenport Donn reached his own house. His return was unexpected, and it was some time before he gained admission. The delay, however, did not excite his impatience; his head was so deeply occupied with cares and thoughts for the future that he was scarcely conscious of the time he had been kept waiting.
Mr. Clowes, hurriedly summoned from his bed, came up full of apologies and excuses.
“We did not expect you till to-morrow, sir, by the late packet,” said he, in some confusion. Dunn made no answer, and the other went on: “Mr. Hankes, too, thought it not improbable you would not be here before Wednesday.”
“When was he here?”
“To-day sir; he left that oak box here this morning, and those letters, sir.”
While Dunn carelessly turned over the superscriptions, among which he found none to interest him, Clowes repeatedly pressed his master to take some supper, or at least a biscuit and a glass of dry sherry.
“Send for Mr. Hankes,” said Dunn, at last, not condescending to notice the entreaties of his butler. “Let him wait for me here when he comes.” And so saying, he took a candle and passed upstairs.
Mr. Clowes was too well acquainted with his master's temper to obtrude unseasonably upon him, so that he glided noiselessly away till such time as he might be wanted.
When Dunn entered the drawing-room, he lighted the candles of the candelabra over the chimney and some of those which occupied the branches along the walls, and then, turning the key in the door, sat down to contemplate the new and splendid decorations of the apartment.
The task had been confided to skilful hands, and no more attempted than rooms of moderate size and recent architecture permitted. The walls, of a very pale green, displayed to advantage a few choice pictures,—Italian scenes by Turner, a Cuyp or two, and a Mieris,—all of them of a kind to interest those who had no connoisseurship to be gratified. A clever statuette of the French Emperor, a present graciously bestowed by himself, stood on a console of malachite, and two busts of Whig statesmen occupied brackets at either side of a vast mirror. Except these, there was little ornament, and the furniture seemed rather selected for the indulgence of ease and comfort than for show or display. A few bronzes, some curious carvings in ivory, an enamelled miniature, and some illuminated missals were scattered about amongst illustrated books and aquarelles, but in no great profusion; nor was there that indiscriminate litter which too frequently imparts to the salon the character of a curiosity-shop. The rooms, in short, were eminently habitable.
Over the chimney in the back drawing-room was a clever sketch, by Thorburn, of Lady Augusta Arden. She was in a riding-habit, and standing with one hand on the mane of an Arab pony,—a beautiful creature presented to her by Dunn. While he stood admiring the admirable likeness, and revolving in his mind the strange traits of that thoughtfulness which had supplied the picture,—for it was all Sybella Kellett's doing, every detail of the decorations, the color of the walls, the paintings, even to the places they occupied, had all been supplied by her,—Dunn started, and a sudden sickness crept over him. On a little table beside the fireplace stood a small gold salver, carved by Cellini, and which served to hold a few objects, such as coins and rings and antique gems. What could it be, then, amidst these century-old relics, which now overcame and so unmanned him that he actually grew pale as death, and sank at last, trembling, into a seat, cold perspiration on his face, and his very lips livid?
Mixed up amid the articles of virtù on that salver was an old-fashioned penknife with a massive handle of bloodstone, to which a slip of paper was attached, containing two or three words in Miss Kellett's hand. Now, the sight of this article in that place so overcame Dunn that it was some minutes ere he could reach out his hand to take the knife. When giving to Miss Kellett the charge of several rare and valuable objects, he had intrusted her with keys to certain drawers, leaving to her own judgment the task of selection. He had totally forgotten that this knife was amongst these; but even had he remembered the circumstance, it would not have caused alarm, naturally supposing how little worthy of notice such an object would seem amidst others of price and rarity. And yet there it was, and, by the slip of paper fastened to it, attesting a special notice.
With an effort almost convulsive he at last seized the knife, and reads the words. They were simply these: “A penknife, of which Mr. Dunn can probably supply the history.” He dropped it as he read, and lay back, with a sense of fainting sickness.
The men of action and energy can face the positive present perils of life with a far bolder heart than they can summon to confront the terrors of conscience-stricken imagination. In the one case danger assumes a shape and a limit; in the other it looms out of distance, vast, boundless, and full of mystery. She knew, then, the story of his boyish shame; she had held the tale secretly in her heart through all their intercourse, reading his nature, mayhap, through the clew of that incident, and tracing out his path in life by the light it afforded; doubtless, too, she knew of his last scene with her father,—that terrible interview, wherein the dying man uttered a prediction that was almost a curse: she had treasured up these memories, and accepted his aid with seeming frankness, and yet, all the while that she played the grateful, trusting dependant, she had been slowly pursuing a vengeance. If Paul Kellett had confided to her the story of this childish transgression, he had doubtless revealed to her how heavily it had been avenged—how, with a persistent, persecuting hate, Dunn had tracked him, through difficulty and debt, to utter ruin. She had therefore read him in his real character, and had devoted herself to a revenge deeper than his own. Ay, he was countermined!
Such was the turn of his thoughts, as he sat there wiping the cold sweat that broke from his forehead, and cursing the blindness that had so long deceived him; and he, whose deep craft had carried him triumphant through all the hardest trials of the world, the man who had encountered the most subtle intellects, the great adventurer in a whole ocean of schemes, was to be the dupe and sport of a girl!
And now, amid his self-accusings, there rose up that strange attempt at compromise the baffled heart so often clings to, that he had, at times, half suspected this deep and secret treachery,—that she had not been either so secret or so crafty as she fancied herself. “If my mind,” so reasoned he, “had not been charged with far weightier themes, I should have detected her at once; all her pretended gratitude, all her assumed thankfulness, had never deceived me; her insignificance was her safeguard. And yet withal, I sometimes felt, she is too deeply in our confidence,—she sees too much of the secret machinery of our plans. While I exulted over the ignoble dependence she was doomed to,—while I saw, with a savage joy, how our lots in life were reversed,—was I self-deceived?”
So impressed was he with the idea of a game in which he had been defeated, that he went over in his mind every circumstance he could recall of his intercourse with her. Passages the simplest, words of little significance, incidents the most trivial, he now charged with deepest meaning. Amidst these, there was one for which he could find no solution,—why had she so desired to be the owner of the cottage near Bantry? It was there that Driscoll had discovered the Conway papers. Was it possible—the thought flashed like lightning on him—that there was any concert between the girl and this man? This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than it took firm hold of his mind. None knew better than Dunn the stuff Driscoll was made of, and knowing, besides, how he had, by his own seeming luke-warmness, affronted that crafty schemer, it was by no means improbable that such an alliance as this existed. And this last discovery of documents,—how fortunate was it that Hankes had secured them! The papers might or might not be important; at all events, the new Lord Lackington might be brought to terms by their means; he would have come to his peerage so unexpectedly that all the circumstances of the contested claim would be strange to him. This was a point to be looked at; and as he reasoned thus, again did he go back to Sybella Kellett, and what the nature of her game might be, and how it should first display itself.
A tap at the door startled him. “Mr. Hankes is below, sir,” said Clowes.
“I will be with him in a moment,” replied Dunn; and again relapsed into his musings.