CHAPTER XVII. MR. ANTHONY NICKIE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
We have said that Mr. Dempsey had barely time to conceal himself when the door was opened,—so narrow indeed was his escape, that had the new arrival been a second sooner, discovery would have been inevitable; as it was, the pictorial Daly and Sandy rocked violently to and fro, making their natural ferocity and grimness something even more terrible than usual. Mr. Nickie remarked nothing of this. His first care was to divest himself of certain travelling encumbrances, like one who proposes to make a visit of some duration, and then, casting a searching look around the premises, he proceeded,—
“Now for Mr. Darcy—”
“If ye 'r maning the Knight of Gwynne, sir, his honor—”
“Well, is his honor at home?” said the other, interrupting with a saucy laugh.
“No, sir,” said Tate, almost overpowered at the irreverence of his questioner.
“When do you expect him, then,—in an hour or two hours?”
“He 's in England,” said Tate, drawing a long breath.
“In England! What do you mean, old fellow? He has surely not left this lately?”
“Yes, sir, 'twas the King sent for him, I heerd the mistress say.”
A burst of downright laughter from the stranger stopped poor Tate's explanation.
“Why, it's you his Majesty ought to have invited,” cried Mr. Nickie, wiping his eyes, “you yourself, man; devilish fit company for each other you 'd be.”
Poor Tate had not the slightest idea of the grounds on which the stranger suggested his companionship for royalty, but he was not the less insulted at the disparagement of his master thus implied.
“'T is little I know about kings or queens,” growled out the old man, “but they must be made of better clay than ever I seen yet, or they 're not too good company for the Knight of Gwynne.”
After a stare for some seconds, half surprise, half insolence, Nickie said, “You can tell me, perhaps, if this cottage is called 'The Corvy'?”
“Ay, that's the name of it.”
“The property of one Bagenal Daly, Esquire, isn't it?”
Tate nodded an assent.
“Maybe he is in England too,” continued Nickie. “Perhaps it was the Queen sent for him,—he 's a handsome man, I suppose?”
“Faix, you can judge for yourself,” said Tate, “for there he is, looking at you this minute.”
Nickie turned about hastily, while a terrible fear shot through him that his remarks might have been heard by the individual himself; for, though a stranger to Daly personally, he was not so to his reputation for hare-brained daring and rashness, nor was it till he had stared at the wooden representative for some seconds that he could dispel his dread of the original.
“Is that like him?” asked he, affecting a sneer.
“As like as two pays,” said Tate, “barring about the eyes; Mr. Daly's is brighter and more wild-looking. The Blessed Joseph be near us!” exclaimed the old man, crossing himself devoutly, “one would think the crayture knew what we were saying. Sorra lie in 't, there 's neither luck nor grace in talking about you!”
This last sentiment, uttered in a faint voice, was called forth by an involuntary shuddering of poor Mr. Dempsey, who, feeling that the whole scrutiny of the party was directed towards his hiding-place, trembled so violently that the plumes nodded, and the bone necklace jingled with the motion.
While Mr. Nickie attributed these signs to the wind, he at the same time conceived a very low estimate of poor Tate's understanding,—an impression not altogether un-warranted by the sidelong and stealthy looks which he threw at the canoe and its occupants.
“You seem rather afraid of Mr. Daly,” said he, with a sneering laugh.
“And so would you be, too, if he was as near you as that chap is,” replied Tate, sternly. “I 've known braver-looking men than either of us not like to stand before him. I mind the day—”
Tate-s reminiscences were brought to a sudden stop by perceiving his mistress and Miss Darcy approaching the cottage; and hastening forward, he threw open the door, while by way of introduction he said,—
“A gentleman for the master, my Lady.”
Lady Eleanor flushed up, and as suddenly grew pale. She guessed at once the man and his errand.
“The Knight of Gwynne is from home, sir,” said she, in a voice her efforts could not render firm.
“I understand as much, madam,” said Nickie, who was struggling to recover the easy self-possession of his manner with the butler, but whose awkwardness increased at every instant. “I believe you expect him in a day or two?”
This was said to elicit if there might be some variance in the statement of Lady Eleanor and her servant.
“You are misinformed, sir. He is not in the kingdom, nor do I anticipate his speedy return.”
“So I told him, my Lady,” broke in the old butler. “I said the King wanted him—”
“You may leave the room, Tate,” said Lady Eleanor, who perceived with annoyance the sneering expression old Tate's simplicity had called up in the stranger's face. “Now, sir,” said she, turning towards him, “may I ask if your business with the Knight of Gwynne is of that nature that cannot be transacted in his absence or through his law agent?”
“Scarcely, madam,” said Nickie, with a sententious gravity, who, in the vantage-ground his power gave him, seemed rather desirous of prolonging the interview. “Mr. Darcy's part can scarcely be performed by deputy, even if he found any one friendly enough to undertake it.”
Lady Eleanor never spoke, but her hand grasped her daughter's more closely, and they both stood pale and trembling with agitation. Helen was the first to rally from this access of terror, and with an assured voice she said,—
“You have heard, sir, that the Knight of Gwynne is absent; and as you say your business is with him alone, is there any further reason for your presence here?”
Mr. Nickie seemed for a moment taken aback by this unexpected speech, and for a few seconds made no answer; his nature and his calling, however, soon supplied presence of mind, and with an air of almost insolent familiarity he answered,—
“Perhaps there may be, young lady.” He turned, and opening the door, gave a sharp whistle, which was immediately responded to by a cry of “Here we are, sir,” and the two followers already mentioned entered the cottage.
“You may have heard of such a thing as an execution, ma'am,” said Nickie, addressing Lady Eleanor, in a voice of mock civility, “the attachment of property for debt. This is part of my business at the present moment.”
“Do you mean here, sir—in this cottage?” asked Lady Eleanor, in an accent scarcely audible from terror.
“Yes, ma'am, just so. The law allows fourteen days for redemption, with payment of costs, until which time these men here will remain on the premises; and although these gimcracks will scarcely pay my client's costs, we must only make the best of it.”
“But this property is not ours, sir. This cottage belongs to a friend.”
“I am aware of that, ma'am. And that friend is about to answer for his own sins on the present occasion, and not yours. These chattels are attached as the property of Bagenal Daly, Esquire, at the suit of Peter Hickman, formerly of Loughrea, surgeon and apothecary.”
“Is Mr. Daly aware-does he know of these proceedings?” gasped Lady Eleanor, faintly.
“In the multiplicity of similar affairs, ma'am, it is quite possible he may have let this one escape his memory; for if I don't mistake, he has two actions pending in the King's Bench, an answer in equity, three cases of common assault, and a contempt ol court,—all upon his hands for this present session, not to speak of what this may portend.”
Here he took a newspaper from his pocket, and having doubled down a paragraph, handed it to Lady Eleanor.
Overwhelmed by grief and astonishment, she made no motion to take the paper, and Mr. Nickie, turning to Helen, read aloud,—
'“There is a rumor prevalent in the capital this morning, to which we cannot, in the present uncertainty as to fact, make any more than a guarded allusion. It is indeed one of those strange reports which we can neither credit nor reject,—the only less probable thing than its truth being that any one could deliberately fabricate so foul a calumny. The story in its details we forbear to repeat; the important point, however, is to connect the name of a well-known and eccentric late M. P. for an Irish borough with the malicious burning of Newgate, and the subsequent escape of the robber Freney.
“'The reasons alleged for this most extraordinary act are so marvellous, absurd, and contradictory that we will not trifle with our readers' patience by recounting them. The most generally believed one, however, is, that the senator and the highwayman had maintained, for years past, an intercourse of a very confidential nature, the threat to reveal which, on his trial, Freney used as compulsory means of procuring his escape.'
“Carrick goes further,” added Mr. Nickie, as he restored the paper to his pocket, “and gives the name of Bagenal Daly, Esq., in full; stating, besides, that he sailed for Halifax on Sunday last.”
Lady Eleanor and Helen exchanged looks of intelligent meaning, as he finished the paragraph. To them Daly's hurried departure had a most significant importance.
“This, ma'am, among other reasons,” resumed Nickie, “was another hint to my client to press his claim; for Mr. Daly's departure once known, there would soon be a scramble for the little remnant of his property. With your leave, I 'll now put the keepers in possession. Perhaps you 'll not be offended,” added he, in a lower tone, “if I remark that it's usual to offer the men some refreshment. Come here, M'Dermot,” said he, aloud,-“a very respectable man, and married, too,—the ladies will make you comfortable, Mick, and I 'm sure you 'll be civil and obliging.”
A grunt and a gesture with both hands was the answer.
“Falls, we'll station you in the kitchen; mind you behave yourself.
“I 'll just take a slight inventory of the principal things,—a mere matter of form, ma'am,—I know you 'll not remove one of them,” said Mr. Nickie, who, like most coarsely minded people, was never more offensive than when seeking to be complimentary. He did not notice, however, the indignant look with which his speech was received, but proceeded regularly in his office.
There is something insupportably offensive and revolting in the business-like way of those who execute the severities of the law. Like the undertaker, they can sharpen the pangs of misfortune by vulgarizing its sorrows. Lady Eleanor gazed, in but half-consciousness, at the scene; the self-satisfied assurance of the chief, the ruffian contented-ness of his followers, grating on every prejudice of her mind. Not so Helen; more quick to reason on impressions, she took in, at a glance, their sad condition, and saw that, in a few days at furthest, they should be houseless as well as friendless in the world,—no one near to counsel or to succor them! Such were her thoughts as almost mechanically her eyes followed the sheriff's officer through the chamber.
“Not that, sir,” cried she, hastily, as he stopped in front of a miniature of her father, and was noting it down in his list, among the objects of the apartment,—“not that, sir.”
“And why not, miss?” said Nickie, with a leer of impudent familiarity.
“It is a portrait of the Knight of Gwynne, sir, and our property.”
“Sorry for it, miss, but the law makes no distinction with regard to property on the premises. You can always recover by a replevin.”
“Come, Helen, let us leave this,” said Lady Eleanor, faintly; “come away, child.”
“You said, sir,” said Helen, turning hastily about,—“you said, sir, that these proceedings were taken at the suit of Dr. Hickman. Was it his desire that we should be treated thus?”
“Upon my word, young lady, he gave no special directions on the subject, nor, if he had, would it signify much. The law, once set in motion, must take its course; I suppose you know that.”
Helen did not hear his speech out, for, yielding to her mother, she quitted the apartment.
Mr. Nickie stood for a few moments gazing at the door by which they had made their exit, and then, turning towards M'Dermot, with a knowing wink he said, “We'll be better friends before we part, I 'll engage, little as she likes me now.”
“Faix, I never seen yer equal at getting round them,” answered the sub, in a voice of fawning flattery, the very opposite of his former gruff tone.
“That's the way I always begin, when they take a saucy way with them,” resumed Nickie, who felt evidently pleased at the other's admiration. “And when they 're brought down a bit to a sense of their situation, I can just be as kind as I was cruel.”
“Never fear ye!” said M'Dermot, with a sententious shake of the head. “Devil a taste of her would lave the room, if it wasn't for the mother.”
“I saw that plain enough,” said Nickie, as he threw a self-approving look at himself in a tall mirror opposite.
“She's a fine young girl, there's no denying it,” said M'Dermot, who anticipated, as the result of his chief's attention, a more liberal scale of treatment for himself. “But I don't know how ye 'll ever get round her, though to be sure if you can't, who can?”
“This inventory will keep me till night,” said Nickie, changing the theme quite suddenly, “and I'll miss Dempsey, I 'm afraid.”
“I hope not; sure you have his track,—haven't you?”
“Yes, and I have four fellows after him, along the shore here, but they say he 's cunning as a fox. Well, I 'll not give him up in a hurry, that's all. Is that rain I hear against the glass, Mick?”
“Ay, and dreadful rain too!” said the other, peeping through the window, which now rattled and shook with a sudden squall of wind. “You 'll not be able to leave this so late.”
“So I 'm thinking, Mick,” said Nickie, laying down his writing-materials, and turning his back to the fire; “I believe I must stay where I am.”
“'T is yourself is the boy!” cried Mick, with a look of admiration at his master.
“You 're wrong, Mick,” said he, with a scarce repressed smile, “all wrong; I wasn't thinking of her.”
“Maybe not,” said M'Dermot, shaking his head doubtfully; “maybe she's not thinking of you this minute! But, afther all, I don't know how ye 'll do it. Any one would say the vardic was again you.”
“So it is, man, but can't we move for a new trial?” So saying, he turned suddenly about, and pulled the bell.
M'Dermot said nothing, but stood staring at his chief, with a well-feigned expression of wonderment, as though to say, “What is he going to do next?”
The summons was speedily answered by old Tate, who stood in respectful attention within the door. Not the slightest suspicion had crossed the butler's mind of Mr. Nickie's calling, or of his object with the Knight, or his manner would certainly have displayed a very different politeness. “Didn't you ring, sir?” said he, with a bow to Nickie, who now seemed vacillating, and uncertain how to proceed.
“Yes—I did—ring—the—bell,” replied he, hesitating between each word of the sentence. “I was about to say that, as the night was so severe,—a perfect hurricane it seems,—I should remain here. Eh, did you speak?”
“No, sir,” replied Tate, respectfully.
“You can inform your mistress, then, and say, with Mr. Nickie's respectful compliments,-mind that!—that if they have no objection, he would be happy to join them at supper.”
Tate stood as if transfixed, not a sign of anger, not even of surprise in his features. The shock had actually stupefied him.
“Do ye hear what the gentleman 's saying to you?” asked Mick, in a stern voice.
“Sir?” said Tate, endeavoring to recover his routed faculties,—“sir?”
“Tell the old fool what I said,” muttered Nickie, with angry impatience; and then, as if remembering that his message might possibly be not over-courteously worded by Mr. M'Dennot, he approached Tate, and said, “Give your mistress Mr. Nickie's compliments, and say that, not being able to return to Coleraine, he hopes he may be permitted to pass the evening with her and Miss Darcy.” This message, uttered with great rapidity, as if the speaker dare not trust himself with more deliberation, was accompanied by a motion of the hand, which half pushed the old butler from the room.
Neither Mr. Nickie nor his subordinate exchanged a word during Tate's absence. The former, indeed, seemed far less confident of his success than at first, and M'Dermot waited the issue, for his cue what part to take in the transaction.
If Tate's countenance, when he left the room, exhibited nothing but confusion and bewilderment, when he reentered it his looks were composed and steadfast.
“Well?” said Nickie, as the old butler stood for a second without speaking,—“well?”
“Her Ladyship says that you and the other men, sir, may receive any accommodation the house affords.” He paused for a moment or two, and then added, “Her Ladyship declines Mr. Nickie's society.”
“Did she give you that message herself?” asked Nickie, hastily; “are those her own words?”
“Them's her words,” said Tate, dryly.
“I never heerd the likes—”
“Stop, Mick, hold your tongue!” said Nickie, to his over-zealous follower; while he muttered to himself, “My name is n't Anthony Nickie, or I 'll make her repent that speech! Ay, faith,” said he, aloud, as turning to the portrait of the Knight he appeared to address it, “you shall come to the hammer as the original did before you.” If Tate had understood the purport of this sarcasm, it is more than probable the discussion would have taken another form; as it was, he listened to Mr. Nickie's orders about the supper with due decorum, and retired to make the requisite preparations. “I will make a night of it, by———-,” exclaimed Nickie, as with clinched fist he struck the table before him. “I hope you know how to sing, Mick?”
“I can do a little that way, sir,” grinned the ruffian, “when the company is pressin'. If it was n't too loud—”
“Too loud! you may drown the storm out there, if ye 're able. But wait till we have the supper and the liquor before us, as they might cut off the supplies.” And with this prudent counsel, they suffered Tate to proceed in his arrangements, without uttering another word.