Bagenal Daly was not left long to speculate on honest Tate's intentions; and although to a stranger's eyes the motives might have seemed strange and dubious, the mystery was easily solved to him, who knew the old man well and thoroughly. He was there to take a last look, and bid farewell to those venerable portraits, who for more than half a century were enshrined in his memory like saints. Around them were associated all the little incidents of his peaceful life; they were the chroniclers of his impressions in boyhood, in manhood, and in age; he could call to mind the first moments he gazed on them in awe-struck veneration; he could remember the proud period when the duty first devolved upon him of describing them to the strangers who came to see the abbey; in the history of all and each of them he was well read, versed in their noble achievements, their triumphs in camp or cabinet. To his eyes they formed a long line of heroic characters, of which the world had produced no equal; they realized in his conception the proud eulogy of the Bayards, “where all the men were brave, and all the women virtuous;” and it is not improbable that his devotion to his master was in a great measure ascribable to that awe-struck admiration with which he regarded his glorious ancestors.
The old man stood, and, holding the lamp above his head, gazed in respectful admiration at the grim figure of a Knight in armor. There might have been little to charm the lover of painting in the execution of the picture, and the mere castle-builder could scarcely have indulged his fancy in weaving a story from the countenance of the portrait, for the vizor was down, and he stood in all the unmoved sternness of his iron prison, with his glaived hands elapsed upon the cross of a long straight sword. Tate gazed on him for some moments. Heaven knows with what qualities of mind or person the old man had endowed him, for while to others he was only Sir Gavin Darcy, first Knight of Gwynne, Tate in all likelihood had invested him with traits of character and appearance, of which that external shell was the mere envelope.
“We're going, Sir Gavin,” muttered the old man, as if addressing the portrait; “'tis the ould stock is laving the place, never to see it more; 't is your own proud heart will be sorry to-day to look down upon us. Ah, ah!” muttered he, “the world is changed; there was times when a Darcy would n't quit the house of his fathers without a blow for it—aud they say we are better now!” With a heavy sigh he passed on, and stood before the next picture. “Yes, my Lady,” said he, “ye may well cry that lost the two beautiful boys the same morning, fighting side by side; but there's heavier grief here now: the brave youths sleep in peace and in honor; but we have no home to shelter us!”
With a slow step and bent-down head, he tottered on, and, placing the lamp upon the floor, crossed his arms upon his breast. “'Tis you that can help us now,” said he as he cast a timid and imploring glance at the goodly countenance and rotund figure of Bernhard Emmeric, fourth Abbot of Gwynne; “'tis your reverence can offer a prayer for your own blood that's in sore trouble and distress. Do it, my Lord; do it in the name of the Vargin. Smiling and happy you look, but it 's sorrowful your heart is in you to see what's going on here. Them, them was the happy days, when it was n't the cry of grief was heard beneath this roof, but the heavenly chants of holy men, and the prayers of the blessed mass.” He knelt down as he said this, and with trembling lips and tearful eyes recited some verses from his breviary.
This done, he arose, and, as if with renovated courage, proceeded on his way.
“Reginald Herbert de Guyon! ah! second Baron of Gwynne, Lord Protector of Munster, Knight of Malta, Chevalier of St. John of Jerusalem, Standard-Bearer to the Queen! and well you desarve it all! 'T is yourself sits your horse like a proud nobleman!” He stood with eyes riveted upon the picture, while his face glowed with intense enthusiasm, and at last, as a bitter sneer passed across his lips, he added, “Ay, faith! and them that comes after us won't like the look of you. 'T is you that 'll never disguise from them your real mind, and every day they 'll dine in the hall, that same frown will darken, and that same hand will threaten them.”
He moved on now, and passed several portraits without stopping, muttering as he went, “'T is more English than Irish blood is in your veins, and you won't feel as much for us as the rest;” then, halting suddenly, he stood before a tall figure, dressed in black velvet, with a deep collar of point lace. A connoisseur of higher pretensions than poor Tate might have gazed with even greater rapture at that splendid canvas, for it was from the hand of Vandyke, and in his very best manner. The picture represented the person of Sir Everard Darcy, Lord Privy Seal to Charles I. It was a specimen of manly beauty and high blood such as the great Fleming loved to paint; and even yet the proud and lofty forehead, the deep-set brown eyes, the thin compressed lip, the long and somewhat projecting chin, seemed to address themselves to the beholder with traits of character more than mere painting is able to convey. Tate approached the spot with an almost trembling veneration, and bowed deeply before the haughty figure. “There was a time, Sir Everard, when your word could make a duke or a marquis,—when your whisper in the king's ear could bring grief or joy to any heart in the empire. Could you do nothing for us now? They say you never were at a loss, no matter what came to pass—that you were always ready-witted to save your master from trouble—and oh! if the power hasn't left you, stand by us now. It is not because your eyes are so bright, and that quiet smile is on your lips, that your heart does not feel, for I know well that the day you were beheaded you had the same look on you as you have now. I think I see you this minute, as you lifted your head off the block to settle the lace collar that the villain, the executioner, rumpled with his bloody fingers,—I think I hear the words you spoke: 'Honest Martin, for all your practice, you are but a clumsy valet.' Weil, well! 't is a happier and a prouder day that same than to-morrow's dawn will bring to ourselves. Yes, yes, my darlings,” said Tate, with a benevolent smile, as he waved his hand towards a picture where two beautiful children were represented, sitting on the grass, and playing with flowers, “be happy and amuse yourselves, in God's name; 'tis the only time for happiness your lives ever gave you. Ah! and here 's your father, with a smile on his face and a cheerful brow, for he had both till the day misfortune robbed him of his children;” and he stood in front of a portrait of an officer in an admiral's uniform. He was a distinguished member of the Darcy family; but from the nature of his services, which were all maritime, and the great number of years he had spent away from Ireland, possessed less of Tate's sympathy than most of the others.
“They say you didn't like Ireland; but I don't believe them. There never was a Darcy did n't love the ould island; but I know well whose fault it was if you did n't,—it was that dark villain that's standing at your side, ould Harry Inchiquin, the renegade, that turned many a man against his country. Ye may frown and scowl at me; but if you were alive this minute, I 'd say it to your face. It was you that first brought gambling and dicing under this blessed roof; it was you that sent the ould acres to the hammer; 'twas you that loved rioting, and duelling, and every wickedness, just like old Bagenal Daly himself, that never could sleep in his bed if he had n't a fight on hand.”
