The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ hear nothing, I can think of nothing! sorra bit! with the thought of that ould baste in my head, bad luck to her!” exclaimed Tate, ruefully. “A child’s head and shoulders! Sure enough, that’s the bell, and them that’s ringing it knows the way, too.” And with these words Tate lighted his lantern and issued forth to the gate tower, the keys of which were each night deposited in his care.

      As the massive gates fell back, four splashed and heated horses drew forward a calèche, from which, disengaging himself with speed, Dick Forester descended, and endeavored, as well as the darkness would permit, to survey the great pile of building around him.

      “Coming to stop, yer honor?” said Tate, courteously uncovering his white head.

      “Yes. Will you present these letters and this card to your master?”

      “I must show you your room first, – that’s my orders always. – Tim, bring up this luggage to 27. – Will yer honor have supper in the hall, or in your own dressing-room?”

      There is nothing more decisive as to the general tone of hospitality pervading any house than the manner of the servants towards strangers; and thus, few and simple as the old butler’s words were, they were amply sufficient to satisfy Forester that his reception would be a kindly one, even though less ably accredited than by Lionel Darcy’s introduction; and he followed Tate Sullivan with the pleasant consciousness that he was to lay his head beneath a friendly roof.

      “Never mind the supper,” said he; “a good night’s rest is what I stand most in need of. Show me to my room, and to-morrow I ‘ll pay my respects to the Knight.”

      “This way then, sir,” said Tate, entering a large hall, and leading the way up a wide oak staircase, at the top of which was a corridor of immense extent. Turning short at the head of this, Tate opened a small empanelled door, and with a gesture of caution moved forwards. Forester followed, not a little curious to know the meaning of the precaution, and at the same instant the loud sounds of merry voices laughing and talking reached him, but from what quarter he could not guess, when, suddenly, his guide drew back a heavy cloth curtain, and he perceived that they were traversing a long gallery, which ran along the entire length of a great room, in the lower part of which a large company was assembled. So sudden and unexpected was the sight that Forester started with amazement, and stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, while Tate Sullivan, as if enjoying his surprise, leaned his hands on his knees and stared steadily at him.

      The scene below was indeed enough to warrant his astonishment. In the great hail, which had once been the refectory of the abbey, a party of about thirty gentlemen were now seated around a table covered with drinking vessels of every shape and material, as the tastes of the guests inclined their potations. Claret, in great glass jugs holding the quantity of two or three ordinary bottles; port, in huge square decanters, both being drunk from the wood, as was the fashion of the day; large china bowls of mulled wine, in which the oranges and limes floated fragrantly; and here and there a great measure made of wood and hooped with silver, called the “mether,” contained the native beverage in all its simplicity, and supplied the hard drinker with the liquor he preferred to all, – “poteen.” The guests were no less various than the good things of which they partook. Old, young, and middle-aged; some men stamped with the air and seeming of the very highest class; others as undeniably drawn from the ranks of the mere country squire; a few were dressed in all the accuracy of dinner costume; some wore the well-known livery of Daly’s Club, and others were in the easy negligence of morning dress; while, scattered up and down, could be seen the red coat of a hunter, whose splashed and stained scarlet spoke rather for the daring than the dandyism of its wearer. But conspicuous above all was a figure who, on an elevated seat, sat at the head of the table and presided over the entertainment. He was a tall – a very tall – and powerfully built man, whose age might have been guessed at anything, from five-and-forty to seventy; for though his frame and figure indicated few touches of time, his seared and wrinkled forehead boded advanced life. His head was long and narrow, and had been entirely bald, were it not for a single stripe of coal-black hair which grew down the very middle of it, and came to a point on the forehead, looking exactly like the scalplock of an Indian warrior. The features were long and melancholy in expression, – a character increased by a drooping moustache of black hair, the points of which descended below the chin. His eyes were black as a raven’s wing, and glanced with all the brilliancy and quickness of youth, while the incessant motion of his arched eyebrows gave to their expression a character of almost demoniac intelligence. His voice was low and sonorous, and, although unmistakably Irish in accent, occasionally lapsed into traits which might be called foreign, for no one that knew him would have accused him of the vice of affectation. His dress was a claret-colored coat edged with narrow silver lace, and a vest of white satin, over which, by a blue ribbon, hung the medal of a foreign order; white satin breeches and silk stockings, with shoes fastened by large diamond buckles, completed a costume which well became a figure that had lost nothing of its pretension to shapeliness and symmetry. His hands, though remarkably large and bony, were scrupulously white and cared for, and more than one ring of great value ornamented his huge and massive fingers. Altogether, he was one whom the least critical would have pronounced not of the common herd of humanity, and yet whose character was by no means so easy to guess at from external traits.

      Amid all the tumult and confusion of the scene, his influence seemed felt everywhere, and his rich, solemn tones could be heard high above the crash and din around. As Forester stood and leaned over the balcony, the noise seemed to have reached its utmost; one of the company – a short, square, bull-faced little squire – being interrupted in a song by some of the party, while others – the greater number – equally loud, called on him to proceed. It was one of the slang ditties of the time, – a lyric suggested by that topic which furnished matter for pamphlets and speeches and songs, dinners, debates, and even duels, – the Union.

      “Go on, Bodkin; go on, man! You never were in better voice in your life,” mingled with, “No, no; why introduce any party topic here?” – with a murmured remark: “It’s unfair, too. Hickman O’Reilly is with the Government.”

      The tumult, which, without being angry, increased every moment, was at last stilled by the voice of the chairman, saying, —

      “If the song have a moral, Bodkin – ”

      “It has, I pledge my honor it has, your ‘Grandeur.’” said Bodkin.

      “Then finish it. Silence there, gentlemen.” And Bodkin resumed his chant: —

           “‘Trust me, Squire,’ the dark man cried,

           ‘I ‘ll follow close and mind you,

           Nor however high the fence you ride,

           I ‘ll ever be far behind you.’

           “And true to his word, like a gentleman

           He rode, there ‘a no denying;

           And though full twenty miles they ran,

           He took all his ditches flying.

           “The night now came, and down they sat,

           And the Squire drank while he was able;

           But though glass for glass the dark man took,

           He left him under the table.

           “When morning broke, the Squire’s brains,

           Though racking, were still much clearer.

           ‘I know you well,’ said he to his guest,

           ‘Now that I see you nearer.

           “‘You ‘ve play’d me a d – d scurvy trick:

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