Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ won’t do, Bella,” he said, as he came back again; “there’s only one fellow on the stand, and he ‘ll not go under half a crown. I pushed him hard for one-and-sixpence, but he ‘d not hear of it, and so I thought – that was, I knew well – you would be angry with me.”

      “Of course, papa; it would be mere waste of money,” said she, hastily. “An hour’s walk, – at most, an hour and a half, – and there’s an end of it And now let us set out, for it is growing late.”

      There were few in the street as they passed along; a stray creature or so, houseless and ragged, shuffled onward; an odd loiterer stood for shelter in an archway, or a chance passer-by, with ample coat and umbrella, seemed to defy the pelting storm, while cold and dripping they plodded along in silence.

      “That’s old Barrington’s house, Bella,” said he, as they passed a large and dreary-looking mansion at the corner of the square; “many’s the pleasant evening I spent in it.”

      She muttered something, but inaudibly, and they went on as before.

      “I wonder what ‘s going on here to-day. It was Sir Dyke Morris used to live here when I knew it” And he stopped at an open door, where a flood of light poured forth into the street “That’s the Bishop of Derry, Bella, that’s just gone in. There’s a dinner-party there to-day,” whispered he, as, half reluctant to go, he still peered into the hall.

      She drew him gently forward, and he seemed to have fallen into a revery, as he muttered at intervals, —

      “Great times – fine times – plenty of money – and fellows that knew how to spend it!”

      Drearily plashing onward through wind and rain, their frail clothes soaked through, they seldom interchanged a word.

      “Lord Drogheda lived there, Bella,” said he, stopping short at the door of a splendidly illuminated hotel; “and I remember the time I was as free and welcome in it as in my own house. My head used to be full of the strange things that happened there once. Brown, and Barry Fox, and Tisdall, and the rest of us, were wild chaps! Faith, my darling, it was n’t for Mr. Davenport Dunn I cared in those times, or the like of him. Davenport Dunn, indeed!”

      “It is strange that he has not written to us,” said the girl, in a low voice.

      “Not a bit strange; it’s small trouble he takes about us. I’ll bet a five-pound note – I mean, I’ll lay sixpence,” said he, correcting himself with some confusion, – “that since he left this he never as much as bestowed a thought on us. When he got me that beggarly place in the Custom House, he thought he ‘d done with me out and out. Sixty pounds a year! God be with the time I gave Peter Harris, the butler, just double the money!”

      As they talked thus, they gained the outskirts of the city, and gradually left the lamps and the well-lighted shops behind. Their way now led along a dreary road by the sea-side, towards the little bathing-village of Clontarf, beyond which, in a sequestered spot called the Green Lanes, their humble home stood. It was a long and melancholy walk; the sorrowful sounds of the sea beating on the shingly strand mingling with the dreary plashing of the rain; while farther out, a continuous roar as the waves rolled over the “North Bull,” added all the terrors of storm to the miseries of the night.

      “The winter is setting in early,” said Kellett “I think I never saw a severer night.”

      “A sad time for poor fellows out at sea!” said the girl, as she turned her head towards the dreary waste of cloud and water now commingled into one.

      “‘T is exactly like our own life, out there,” cried he: “a little glimpse of light glimmering every now and then through the gloom, but yet not enough to cheer the heart and give courage; but all black darkness on every side.”

      “There will come a daybreak at last,” said the girl, assuredly.

      “Faith! I sometimes despair about it in our own case,” said he, sighing drearily. “To think of what I was once, and what I am now! buffeted about and ill used by a set of scoundrels that I ‘d not have suffered to sit down in my kitchen. Keep that rag of a shawl across your chest; you ‘ll be destroyed entirely, Bella.”

      “We’ll soon be within shelter now, and nothing the worse for this weather, either of us,” replied she, almost gayly. “Over and over again have you told me what severe seasons you have braved in the hunting-field; and, after all, papa, one can surely endure as much for duty as in pursuit of pleasure, – not to say that our little cottage never looks more homelike than after a night like this.”

      “It’s snug enough for a thing of the kind,” murmured he, half reluctantly.

      “And Betty will have such a nice fire for us, and we shall be as comfortable and as happy as though it were a fine house, and we ourselves fine folk to live in it.”

      “The Kelletts of Kellett’s Court, and no better blood in Ireland,” said he, sternly. “It was in the same house my grandfather, Morgan Kellett, entertained the Duke of Portland, the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; and this day, as I stand here, there isn’t a chap in the Castle-yard would touch his hat to me!”

      “And what need have we of them, papa? Will not our pride of good blood teach us other lessons than repining? Can’t we show the world that a gentleman born bears his altered fortunes with dignity?”

      “Ye’re right, Bella; that’s the very thing they must acknowledge. There is n’t a day passes that I don’t make the clerks in the ‘Long Room’ feel the difference between us. ‘No liberties, no familiarities, my lads,’ I say, – ‘keep your distance; for, though my coat is threadbare, and my hat none of the best, the man inside there is Paul Kellett of Kellett’s Court.’ And if they ask where that is, I say, ‘Look at the Gazetteer,’ – it’s mighty few of them has their names there: ‘Kellett’s Court, the ancient seat of the Kellett family, was originally built by Strongbow, Earl of Pembroke.’”

      “Well, here we are, papa, in a more humble home; but you’ll see how cheery it will be.”

      And so saying, she pushed open a little wicket, and, passing through a small garden, gained the door of a little one-storied cottage, almost buried in honeysuckle.

      “Yes, Betty, wet through!” said she, laughing, as the old woman held up her hands in horror; “but get papa his slippers and that warm dressing-gown, and I ‘ll be back in a minute.”

      “Arrah! why didn’t you take a car for her?” said the old woman, with that familiarity which old and tried service warrants. “Sure the child will get her death from this!”

      “She wouldn’t let me; she insisted on walking on her feet.”

      “Ayeh, ayeh!” mattered the crone, as she placed his slippers on the fender, “sure ye oughtn’t to mind her. She’d get a fever rather than cost you a shilling. Look at the shoes she’s wearin’.”

      “By the good day! you’ll drive me mad, clean mad!” cried he, savagely. “Don’t you know in your heart that we have n’t got it? Devil a rap farthing; that we’re as poor as a church mouse; that if it wasn’t for this beggarly place – ”

      “Now, Betty,” cried the girl, entering, – “now for our tea, and that delicious potato-cake that I see browning there before the fire.”

      Poorly, even meanly dressed as she was, there was in her that gentle look, and graceful, quiet bearing that relieved the sombre aspect СКАЧАТЬ