Perhaps in the course of a long and, till its very latter years, a most prosperous life, the Knight of Gwynne had never known more real unbroken happiness than now that he had laid his head beneath the lowly thatch of a fisherman's cottage, and found a home beside the humble hearth where daily toil had used to repose. It was not that he either felt, or assumed to feel, indifferent to the great reverse of his fortune, and to the loss of that station to which all his habits of life and thought had been conformed. Nor had he the innate sense that his misfortunes had been incurred without the culpability of, at least, neglect on his own part. No; he neither deceived nor exonerated himself. His present happiness sprang from discovering in those far dearer to him than himself powers of patient submission, traits of affectionate forbearance, signs of a hopeful, trusting spirit, that their trials were not sent without an aim and object,—all gifts of heart and mind, higher, nobler, and better than the palmiest days of prosperity had brought forth.
It was that short and fleeting season, the late autumn, a time in which the climate of Northern Ireland makes a brief but brilliant amende for the long dreary months of the year. The sea, at last calm and tranquil, rolled its long waves upon the shore in measured sweep, waking the echoes in a thousand caves, and resounding with hollow voice beneath the very cliffs. The wild and fanciful outlines of the Skerry Islands were marked, sharp and distinct, against the dark blue sky, and reflected not less so in the unruffled water at their base. The White Rocks, as they are called, shone with a lustre like dulled silver; and above them the ruined towers of old Dunluce hung balanced over the sea, and even in decay seemed to defy dissolution.
The most striking feature of the picture was, however, the myriad of small boats, amounting in some instances to several hundreds, which filled the little bay at sunset. These were the fishermen from Innisshowen, coming to gather the seaweed on the western shore their eastern aspect denied them,—a hardy and a daring race, who braved the terrible storms of that fearful coast without a thought of fear. Here were they now, their little skiffs crowded with every sail they could carry,—for it was a trial of speed who should be first up after the turn of the ebb-tide,—their taper masts bending and springing like whips, the white water curling at the bows and rustling over the gunwales; while the fishermen themselves, with long harpoon spears, contested for the prizes,—large masses of floating weed, which not unfrequently were seized upon by three or four rival parties at the same moment.
A more animated scene cannot be conceived than the bay thus presented: the boats tacking and beating in every direction, crossing each other so closely as to threaten collision,—sometimes, indeed, carrying off a bowsprit or a rudder; while, from the restless motion of those on board, the frail skiffs were at each instant endangered,—accidents that occurred continually, but whose peril may be judged by the hearty cheers and roars of laughter they excited. Here might be seen a wide-spreading surface of tangled seaweed, vigorously towed in two different directions by contending crews, whose exertions to secure it were accompanied by the wildest shouts and cries. There a party were hauling in the prey, while their comrades, with spars and spears, kept the enemy aloof; and here, on the upturned keel of a capsized boat, were a dripping group, whose heaviest penalty was the ridicule of their fellows.
Seated in front of the little cottage, the Darcys and Forester watched this strange scene with all the interest its moving, stirring life could excite; and while the ladies could enjoy the varying picture only for itself, to the Knight and the youth it brought back the memory of a more brilliant and a grander display, one to which heroism and danger had lent the most exciting of all interests.
“I see,” said Darcy, as he watched his companion's countenance,—“I see whither your thoughts are wandering. They are off to the old castle of Aboukir, and the tall cliffs at Marmorica.” Forester slightly nodded an assent, but never spoke, while the Knight resumed: “I told you it would never do to give up the service. The very glance of your eye at yonder picture tells me how the great original is before your miud. Come, a few weeks more of rest and quiet, you will be yourself again. Then must you present yourself before the gallant Duke, and ask for a restitution to your old grade. There will be sharp work erelong. Buonaparte is not the man to forgive Alexandria and Cairo. If I read you aright, you prefer such a career to all the ambition of a political life.”
Forester was still silent; but his changing color told that the Knight's words had affected him deeply, but whether as they were intended, it was not so plain to see. The Knight went on: “I am not disposed to vain regrets; but if I were to give way to such, it would be that I am not young enough to enter upon the career I now see opening to our arms. Our insular position seems to have moulded our destiny in great part; but, rely on it, we are as much a nation of soldiers as of sailors.” Warming with this theme, Darcy continued, while sketching out the possible turn of events, to depict the noble path open to a young man who to natural talents and acquirements added the high advantages of fortune, rank, and family influence.
“I told you,” said he, smiling, “that I blamed you once unjustly, as it happened, because, as a Guardsman, you did not seize the occasion to exchange guard-mounting for the field; but now I shall be sorely grieved if you suffer yourself to be withdrawn from a path that has already opened so brightly, by any of the seductions of your station, or the fascinations of mere fashion.”
“Are you certain,” said Lady Eleanor, speaking in a voice shaken by agitation,—“are you certain, my dear, that these same counsels of yours would be in strict accordance with the wishes of Lord Wallincourt's friends, or is it not possible that their ambitions may point very differently for his future?”
“I can but give the advice I would offer to Lionel,” said Darcy, “if my son were placed in similarly fortunate circumstances. A year or two, at least, of such training will be no bad discipline to a young man's mind, and help to fit him to discuss those terms which, if I see aright, will be rife in our assemblies for some years to come—” Darcy was about to continue, when Tate advanced with a letter, whose address bespoke Bicknell's hand. It was a long-expected communication, and, anxious to peruse it carefully, the Knight arose, and making his excuses, re-entered the cottage.