CHAPTER XXV. A DARK CONSPIRACY
Dr. Hickman was so little prepared for the favorable change in Lady Eleanor's appearance since he had last seen her, as almost to doubt that she was the same, and it was with a slight tremor of voice he said,— “Is it age with me, my Lady, or altered health, that makes the difference, but you seem to me not what I remember you? You are fresher, pardon an old man's freedom, and I should say far handsomer too!”
“Really, Mr. Hickman, you make me think my excursion well repaid by such flatteries,” said she, smiling pleasantly, and not sorry thus for a moment to say something that might relieve the awkward solemnity of the scene. “I hope sir, that this air, severe though it be, may prove as serviceable to yourself. Have you slept well?”
“No, my Lady, I scarcely dozed the whole night; this place is a very poor one. The rain comes in there,—where you see that green mark,—and the wind whistles through these broken panes,-and rats, bother them! they never ceased the night through. A poor, poor spot it is, sure enough!”
It never chanced to cross his mind, while bewailing these signs of indigence and discomfort, that she, to whom he addressed the complaint, had been reduced to as bad, even worse, hardships by his own contrivance. Perhaps, indeed, the memory of such had not occurred at that moment to Lady Eleanor, had not the persistence with which he dwelt on the theme somewhat ruffled her patience, and eventually reminded her of her own changed lot. It was then with a slightly irritated tone she remarked,—
“Such accommodation is a very unpleasant contrast to the comforts you are accustomed to, sir; and these sudden lessons in adversity are, now and then, very trying things.”
“What does it signify?” sighed the old man, heavily; “a day sooner, a few hours less of sunshine, and the world can make little difference to one like me! Happy for me, if, in confronting them, I have done anything towards my great purpose, the only object between me and the grave!”
Lady Eleanor never broke the silence which followed these words; and though the old man looked as if he expected some observation or rejoinder, she said not a word. At length he resumed, with a faint moan,—“Ah, my Lady, you have much to forgive us for.”
“I trust, sir, that our humble fortunes have not taught us to forget the duties of Christianity,” was the calm reply.
“Much, indeed, to pardon,” continued he, “but far less, my Lady, than is laid to our charge. Lawyers and attorneys make many a thing a cause of bitterness that a few words of kindness would have settled. And what two men of honest intentions could arrange amicably iu five minutes is often worked up into a tedious lawsuit, or a ruinous inquiry in Chancery. So it is!”
“I have no experience in these affairs, sir, but I conclude your remarks are quite correct.”
“Faith you may believe them, my Lady, like the Bible; and yet, knowing these fellows so well, having dealings with them since—since—oh, God knows how long—upon my life, they beat me entirely after all. 'T is like taking a walk with a quarrelsome dog; devil a cur he sees but he sets on him, and gets you into a scrape at every step you go! That 's what an attorney does for you. Take out a writ against that fellow, process this one, distrain the other, get an injunction here, apply for a rule there. Oh dear! oh dear! I 'm weary of it for law! All the bitterness it has given me in my life long, all the sorrow and affliction it costs me now.” He wiped his eyes as he concluded, and seemed as if overcome by grief.
“It must needs be a sorry source of reparation, sir,” rejoined Lady Eleanor, with a calm, steady tone, “when even those so eminently successful can see nothing but affliction in their triumphs.”
“Don't call them triumphs, my Lady; that's not the name to give them. I never thought them such.”
“I 'm glad to hear it, sir,—glad to know that you have laid up such store of pleasant memories for seasons like the present.”
“There was that proceeding, for instance, in December last. Now would you believe it, my Lady, Bob and I never knew a syllable about it till it was all over. You don't know what I 'm speaking of; I mean the writ against the Knight.”
“Really, Dr. Hickman, I must interrupt you; however gratifying to me to hear that you stand exculpated for any ungenerous conduct towards my husband, the pleasure of knowing it is more than counterbalanced by the great pain the topic inflicts upon me.”
“But I want to clear myself, my Lady; I want you to think of us a little more favorably than late events may have disposed you.”
“There are few so humble, sir, as not to have opinions of more consequence than mine.”
“Ay, but it's yours I want,—yours, that I 'd rather have than the king's on his throne. 'T is in that hope I 've come many a weary mile far away from my home, maybe never to see it again! and all that I may have your forgiveness, my Lady, and not only your forgiveness, but your approbation.”
“If you set store by any sentiments of mine, sir, I warn you not to ask more than I have iu my power to bestow. I can forgive, I have forgiven, much; but ask me not to concur in acts which have robbed me of the companionship of my husband and my son.”
“Wait a bit; don't be too hard, my Lady; I 'm on the verge of the grave, a little more, and the dark sleep that never breaks will be on me, and if in this troubled hour I take a wrong word, or say a thing too strong,—forgive me for it. My thoughts are often before me, on the long journey I'm so soon to go.”
“It were far better, Dr. Hickman, that we should speak of something less likely to be painful to us both, and if that cannot be, that you should rest satisfied with knowing that however many are the sources of sorrow an humble fortune has opened to us, the disposition to bear malice is not among their number.”
“You forgive me, then, my Lady,—you forgive me all?”
“If your own conscience can only do so as freely as I do, believe me, sir, your heart will be tranquil.”
The old man pressed his hands to his face, and appeared overcome by emotion. A dead silence ensued, which at length was broken by old Hickman muttering broken words to himself, at first indistinctly, and then more clearly.
“Yes, yes,—I made—the offer—I begged—I supplicated. I did all—all. But no, they refused me! There was no other way of restoring them to their own house and home—but they would n't accept it. I would have settled the whole estate—free of debt—every charge paid off, upon them. There 's not a peer in the land could say he was at the head of such a property.”
“I must beg, sir, that I may be spared the unpleasantness of overhearing what I doubt is only intended for your own reflection; and if you will permit me, to take my leave—”
“Oh, don't go—don't leave me yet, my Lady. What was it I said,—where was my poor brain rambling? Was I talking about Captain Darcy? Ah! that was the most painful part of all.”
“My God! what is it you mean?” said Lady Eleanor, as a sickness like fainting crept over her. “Speak, sir,—tell me this instant!”
“The bills, my Lady,—the bills that he drew in Glee-son's name.”
“In Gleeson's name! It is false, sir, a foul and infamous calumny; my son never did this thing,—do not dare to assert it before me, his mother.”
“They are in that pocket-book, my Lady,-seven of them for a thousand pounds each. There are two more somewhere among my papers, and it was to meet the payment that the Captain did this.” Here he took from beneath his pillow a parchment document, and held it towards Lady Eleanor, who, overwhelmed with terror and dismay, could not stretch her band to take it.
“Here—my Lady—somewhere here,” said he, moving his finger vaguely along the lower margin of the document—“here you'll see Maurice Darcy written—not by himself, indeed, but by his son. This deed of sale includes part of Westport, and the town-lands of Cooldrennon and Shoughnakelly. Faith, and, my Lady, I paid my hard cash down on the nail for the same land, and have no better title than what you see! The Knight has only to prove the forgery; of course he could n't do so against his own son.”
“Oh, sir, spare me,—I entreat of you to spare me!” sobbed Lady Eleanor, as, convulsed with grief, she hid her face.
A knocking was heard at this moment at the door, and on its being repeated louder, Hickman querulously demanded, “Who was there?”
“A note for Lady Eleanor Darcy,” was the reply; “her Ladyship's servant waits for an answer.”
Lady Eleanor, without knowing wherefore, seemed to feel that the tidings required prompt attention, and with an effort to subdue her emotion, she broke the seal, and read:—
“Lady Eleanor,—Be on your guard,—there is a dark plot against you. Take counsel in time,—and if you hear the words, 'T is eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to die,' you can credit the friendship of this warning.”
“Who brought this note?” said she, in a voice that became full and strong, under the emergency of danger.
“Your butler, my Lady.”
“Where is he? Send him to me.” And as she spoke, Tate mounted the stairs.
“How came you by this note, Tate?”
“A fisherman, my Lady, left it this instant, with directions to be given to you at once and without a moment's delay.”
“'Tis nothing bad, I hope and trust, my Lady,” whispered the old man. “The darling young lady is not ill?”
“No, sir, she is perfectly well, nor are the tidings positively bad ones. There is no answer, Tate.” So saying, she once more opened the paper and read it over.
Without seeing wherefore, Lady Eleanor felt a sudden sense of hardihood take possession of her; the accusation by which, a moment previous, she had been almost stunned, seemed already lighter to her eyes, and the suspicion that the whole interview was part of some dark design dawned suddenly on her mind. Nor was this feeling permanent; a glance at the miserable old man, who, with head beut down and half-closed eyes, lay before her, dispelling the doubts even more rapidly than they were formed. Indeed, now that the momentary excitement of speaking had passed away, he looked far more wan and wasted than before; his chest, too, heaved with a fluttering, irregular action, that seemed to denote severe and painful effort, while his fingers, with a restless and fidgety motion, wandered here and there, pinching the bed-clothes, and seeming to search for some stray object.
While the conflict continued in Lady Eleanor's mind, the old man's brain once more began to wander, and his lips murmured half inarticulately certain words. “I would give it all!” said he, with a sudden cry; “every shilling of it for that—but it cannot be—no, it cannot be.”
“I must leave you, sir,” said Lady Eleanor, rising; “and although I have heard much to agitate and afflict me, it is some comfort to my heart to think that I have poured some balm into yours; you have my forgiveness for everything.”
“Wait a second, my Lady, wait one second!” gasped he, as with outstretched hands he tried to detain her. “I 'll have strength for it in a minute—I want—I want to ask you once more what you refused me once—and it is n't—it is n't that times are changed, and that you are in poverty now, makes me hope for better luck. It is because this is the request of one on his death-bed,—one that cannot turn his thoughts away from this world, till he has his mind at ease. There, my Lady, take that pocket-book and that deed, throw them into the fire there. They 're the only proofs against the Captain,—no eye but yours must ever see them. If I could see my own beautiful Miss Helen once more in the old house of her fathers—”
“I will not hear of this, sir,” interposed Lady Eleanor, hastily. “No time or circumstances can make any change in the feelings with which I have already replied to this proposal.”
“Heffernan tells me, my Lady, that the baronetcy is certain—don't go—don't go! It's the voice of one you 'll never hear again calls on you. 'Tis eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to die!”
A faint shriek burst from Lady Eleanor; she tottered, reeled, and fell fainting to the ground.
Terrified by the sudden shock, the old man rung his bell with violence, and screamed for help, in accents where there was no counterfeited anxiety; and in another moment his servant rushed iu, followed by Nalty, and in a few seconds later by O'Reilly himself, who, hearing the cries, believed that the effort to feign a death-bed bad turned into a dreadful reality.
“There—there—she is ill—she is dying! It was too much—the shock did it!” cried the old man, now horror-struck at the ruin he had caused.
“She is better,—her pulse is coming back,” whispered O'Reilly; “a little water to her lips,-that will do.”
“She is coming to—I see it now,” said old Hickman; “leave the room, Bob; quick, before she sees you.”
As O'Reilly gently disengaged his arm, which, in placing the fainting form on the sofa, was laid beneath her head, Lady Eleanor slowly opened her eyes, and fixed them upon him. O'Reilly suddenly became motionless; the calm and steady gaze seemed to have paralyzed him; he could not stir, he could not turn away his own eyes, but stood like one fascinated and spell-bound.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” muttered the old man; “she 'll know him now, and see it all.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, pushing back from her the officious bands that ministered about her. “Yes, sir, I do see it all! Oh, let me be thankful for the gleam of reason that has guided me in this dark hour. And you, too, do you be thankful that you have been spared from working such deep iniquity!”
As she spoke she arose, not a vestige of illness remaining, but a deep flush mantling in the cheek that, but a moment back, was deathly pale. “Farewell, sir. You had a brief triumph over the fears of a poor weak woman; but I forgive you, for you have armed her heart with a courage it never knew before.”
With these words she moved calmly towards the door, which O'Reilly in respectful silence held open; and then, descending the stairs with a firm step, left the house.
“Is she gone, Bob?” said the old man, faintly, as the door clapped heavily. “Is she gone?”
O'Reilly made no reply, but leaned his head on the chimney, and seemed lost in thought.
“I knew it would fail,” said Nalty in a whisper to O'Reilly.
“What 's that he 's saying, Bob?—what 's Nalty saying?”
“That he knew it would fail, sir,” rejoined O'Reilly, with a bitterness that showed he was not sorry to say a disagreeable thing.
“Ay! but Nalty was frightened about his annuity; he thought, maybe, I 'd die in earnest. Well, we 've something left yet.”
“What's that?” asked O'Reilly, almost sternly.
“The indictment for forgery,” said Hickman, with a savage energy.
“Then you must look out for another lawyer, sir,” said Nalty. “That I tell you frankly and fairly.”
“What?—I didn't hear.”
“He refuses to take the conduct of such a case,” said O'Reilly; “and, indeed, I think on very sufficient grounds.”
“Ay!” muttered the old doctor. “Then I suppose there 's no help for it! Here, Bob, put these papers in the fire.”
So saying, he drew a thick roil of documents from beneath his pillow, and placed it in his son's hands. “Put them in the blaze, and let me see them burned.”
O'Reilly did as he was told, stirring the red embers till the whole mass was consumed.
“I am glad of that, with all my heart,” said he, as the flame died out. “That was a part of the matter I never felt easy about.”
“Didn't you?” grunted the old man, with a leer of malice. “What was it you burned, d'ye think?”
“The bills,—the bonds with young Darcy's signature,” replied O'Reilly, almost terrified by an unknown suspicion.
“Not a bit of it, Bob. The blaze you made was a costly fire to you, as you 'll know one day. That was my will.”