The vicissitudes of life are never more palpably displayed before us than when the space of a few brief hours has converted the scene of festivity and pleasure into one of gloom and sorrow, when the same silent witnesses of our joy should be present at our affliction. Thus was it now in the richly adorned chambers of Gwynne Abbey, so lately filled with happy faces and resounding with pleasant voices,—all was silent. Iu the courtyard, but a day before crowded with brilliant equipages and gay horsemen, the long shadows lay dark and unbroken, and the plash of the fountain was the only sound in the stillness. Over that wide lawn no groups on foot or horseback were to be seen; the landscape was fair and soft to look upon; the mild radiance of a spring morning beamed on the water and the shore, the fresh budding trees, and the tall towers; and the passing traveller who might have stopped to gaze upon that princely dwelling and its swelling woods, might have thought it an earthly paradise, and that they who owned it must needs be above worldly cares and afflictions.

The scene within the walls was very unlike this impression. In a darkened room, where the close-drawn curtains excluded every ray of sunshine, sat Helen Darcy by the bedside of her mother. Lady Eleanor had fallen asleep after a night of intense suffering, both of mind and body, and her repose even yet exhibited, in short and fitful starts, the terrible traces of an agony not yet subdued. Helen was pale as death; two dark circles of almost purple hue surrounded her eyes, and her cheeks seemed wasted: yet she had not wept. The overwhelming amount of misfortune had stunned her for a moment or two, but, recalled to active exertion by her mother's illness, she addressed herself to her task, and seemed to have no thought or care save to watch and tend her. It was only at last when, wearied out by suffering, Lady Eleanor fell into a slumber that Helen's feelings found their vent, and the tears rolled heavily along her cheek, and dropped one by one upon her neck.

Her sorrow was indeed great, for it was unalloyed by one selfish feeling; her grief was for those a thousand times more dear to her than herself, nor through all her affliction did a single thought intrude of how this ruin was also her own.

The Knight was in the library, where he had passed the night, lying down at short intervals to catch some moments' rest, and again rising to walk the room and reflect upon the coming stroke of fortune. Lionel had parted from him at a late hour, promising to go to bed; but, unable to endure the gloom of his own thoughts in his chamber, he wandered out into the woods, and strolled on without knowing or caring whither, till day broke. The bodily exertion at length induced sleep, and after a few hours' deep repose he joined his father, with few traces of weariness or even sorrow.

It was not without a struggle on either side that they met on that morning, and as Darcy grasped his son's hand in both his own, his lip trembled, and his strong frame shook with agitation. Lionel's ruddy cheek and clear blue eye seemed to reassure the old man's courage; and after gazing on him steadfastly with a look where fatherly love and pride were blended, he said, “I see, my boy, the old blood of a Darcy has not degenerated—you are well to-day?”

“Never was better in my life,” said Lionel, boldly; “and if I could only think that you, my mother, and Helen had no cause for sorrow, I 'd almost say I never felt my spirits higher.”

“My own brave-hearted boy,” said Darcy, throwing his arms around the youth's neck, while the tears gushed from his eyes and a choking stopped his utterance.

“I see your letters have come,” said Lionel, gently disengaging himself, and affecting a degree of calmness his heart was very far from feeling. “Do they bring us any news?”

“Nothing to hope from,” said Darcy, sorrowfully. “Daly has seen Hickman's solicitors, and the matter is as I expected: Gleeson did not pay the bond debt; his journey to Kildare was, probably, undertaken to gain time until the moment of the American ship's sailing. He must have meditated this step for a considerable time, for it now appears that his losses in South America occurred several years back, though carefully screened from public knowledge. The man was a cold, calculating scoundrel, who practised peculation systematically and slowly; his resolve to escape was not a sudden notion,—these are Bagenal Daly's impressions at least, and I begin to feel their force myself.”

“Does Daly offer any suggestion for our guidance, or say how we should act?” said Lionel, far more eager to meet the present than speculate on either the past or the future.

“Yes; he gives us a choice of counsels, honestly confessing that his own advice meets little support or sympathy with the lawyers. It is to hold forcible possession of the abbey, to leave Hickman to his remedy by law, and to defy him when he has even got a verdict; he enumerates very circumstantially all our means of defence, and exhibits a very hopeful array of lawless probabilities in our favor. But this is a counsel I would never follow; it would not become one who has in a long life endeavored to set the example among the people of obedience and observance to law, to obliterate by one act of rashness and folly the whole force of his teaching. No, Lionel, we are cleanhanded on this score, and if the lesson, be a heavy one for ourselves, let it not be profitless for our poor neighbors. This is your own feeling too, my boy, I'm certain.”

Lionel bit his lip, and his cheek grew scarlet; when, after a pause, he said, “And the other plan, what is that?”

“The renewed offer of his cottage on the northern coast, a lonely and secluded spot, where we can remain at least until we determine on something better.”

“Perhaps that may be a wiser course,” muttered the youth, half aloud; “my mother and Helen are to be thought of first. And yet, father, I. cannot help thinking Daly's first counsel has something in it.”

“Something in it! ay, Lionel, that it has,—the whole story of our country's misery and degradation. The owner of the soil has diffused little else among the people than the licentious terror of his own unbridled passion; he has taught lawless outrage, when he should have inculcated obedience and submission. The corruption of our people has come from above downwards; the heavy retribution will come one day; and when the vices of the peasant shall ascend to the master, the social ruin will be complete. To this dreadful consummation let us lend no aid. No, no, Lionel, sorrow may be lessened by time; but remorse is undying and eternal.”

“I must leave the Guards at once,” said the young man, pacing the room slowly, and endeavoring to speak with an air of calm composure, while every feature of his face betrayed the agitation he suffered; “an exchange will not be difficult to manage.”

“You have some debts, too, in London: they must be cared for immediately.”

“Nothing of any large amount; my horses and carriages when sold will more than meet all I owe. Have you formed any guess as to what income will be left you to live on?” said he, in a voice which anxiety made weak and tremulous.

“Without Daly's assistance, I cannot answer that point; the extent of this fellow Gleeson's iniquity seems but half explored. The likelihood is, that your mother's jointure will be the utmost we can save from the wreck. Even that, however, will be enough for all we need, although, from motives of delicacy on her part, it was originally set down at a very small sum,—not more than a thousand per annum.”

A long silence now ensued. The Knight, buried in thought, sat with his arms crossed, and his eyes bent upon the ground. Lionel leaned on the window-frame and looked out upon the lawn; nothing stirred, no sound was heard save the sharp ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, which marked with distinctness every second, as if reminding them of the fleeting moments that were to be their last beneath that roof.

“This is the 24th, if I remember aright,” said Darcy, looking up at the dial; “at noon, to-day, we are no longer masters here.”

“The Hickmans will scarcely venture to push matters to such extremities; an assurance that we are willing to surrender peaceable possession will, I trust, be sufficient to prevent the indecency of a rapid flight from our own house and home.”

“There are legal forms of possession to be gone through, I believe,” said the Knight, sorrowfully; “certain observances the law exacts, which would be no less painful for us to witness than the actual presence of our successors.”

“Who can this be? I saw a carriage disappear behind the copse yonder. There it is again, coming along by the lake.”

“Daly—Bagenal Daly, I hope and trust!” exclaimed Darcy, as he stood straining his eyes to catch the moving object.

“I think not; the horses do not look like posters. Heaven grant we have no visitors at such a time as this!”

The carriage, although clearly visible the moment before, was now concealed from view by an angle of the wood, nor would it again be in sight before reaching the abbey.

“Your mother's indisposition is reason sufficient not to receive them,” said Darcy, almost sternly. “I would not continue the part I have played during the last week, no, not for an hour longer, to be assured of rescue from every difficulty. The duplicity went nigh to break my heart; ay, and it would have done so, or driven me mad, had the effort been sustained any further.”

“You did not expect any one, did you?” asked Lionel, eagerly.

“Not one; there's a mass of letters, with invitations and civil messages, there on the table, but no proffered visits among them.”

Lionel walked to the table and turned over the various notes which lay along with newspapers and pamphlets scattered about.

“Ay,” muttered the Knight, in a low tone, “they read strangely now, these plans of pleasure and festivity, when ruin is so near us; the kind pressings to spend a week here, and a fortnight there. It reminds me, Lionel,”—and here a smile of sad but sweet melancholy passed across his features,—“it reminds me of the old story they tell of my grand-uncle Robert. He commanded the 'Dreadnought,' under Drake, at Cape St. Vincent, and at the close of a very sharp action was signalled to come on board the admiral's vessel to dinner. The poor 'Dreadnought' was like a sieve, the sea running in and out through her shot-holes, and her sails hanging like rags around her, her deck covered with wounded, and slippery with gore. Captain Darcy, however, hastened to obey the command of his superior, changed his dress and ordered his boat to be manned; but this was no easy matter, there was scarcely a boat's crew to be had without taking away the men necessary to work the ship. The difficulty soon became more pressing, for a plank had suddenly sprung from a double-headed shot, and all the efforts of the pumps could not keep the vessel afloat, with a heavy sea rolling at the same time.

“'The admiral's signal is repeated, sir,' said the lieutenant on duty.

“'Very well, Mr. Hay; keep her before the wind,' was the answer.

“'The ship is settling fast, sir,' said the master; 'no boat could live in that sea; they 're all damaged by shot.'

“'Signal the flag-ship,' cried out Darcy; 'signal the admiral that I am ready to obey him, but we 're sinking.'

“The bunting floated at the mast-head for a moment or two, but the waves were soon many fathoms over it, and the 'Dreadnought' was never seen more.”

“So it would seem,” said Lionel, with a half-bitter laugh, “we are not the first of the family who went down head foremost. But I hear a voice without. Surely old Tate is not fool enough to admit any one.”

“Is it possible—” But before the Knight could finish, the old butler entered to announce Mr. Hickman O'Reilly. Advancing towards the Knight with a most cordial air, he seemed bent on anticipating any possible expression of displeasure at his unexpected appearance.

“I am aware, Knight,” said he, in an accent the most soft and conciliating, “how indelicate a visit from me at such a moment may seem; but if you accord me a few moments of private interview, I hope to dispel the unpleasant impression.” He looked towards Lionel as he spoke, and though he smiled his blandest of all smiles, evidently hinted at the possibility of his leaving them alone together.

“I have no confidences apart from my son, sir,” said Darcy, coldly.

“Oh, of course not—perfectly natural at Captain Darcy's age—such a thought would be absurd; still, there are circumstances which might possibly excuse my request—I mean—”

Lionel did not suffer him to finish the sentence, but, turning abruptly round, left the room, saying as he went, “I have some orders to give in the stable, but I'll not go further away if you want me.”

“Now, sir,” said the Knight, haughtily, “we are alone, and not likely to be interrupted; may I ask, as a great favor, that in any communication you may have to make, you will be as brief as consists with your object; for, to say truth, I have many things on my mind, and many important calls to attend to.”

“In the first place, then,” said Hickman, assuming a manner intended to convey the impression of perfect frankness and candor, “let me make a confession, which, however humiliating to avow, would be still more injurious to hold in reserve. I have neither act nor part in the proceedings my father has lately taken respecting your mutual dealings. Not only that he has not consulted me, but every attempt on my part to ascertain the course of events, or mitigate their rigor, has been met by a direct, not unfrequently a rude, repulse.” He waited at this pause for the Knight to speak, but a cold and dignified bow was all the acknowledgment returned. “This may appear strange and inexplicable in your eyes,” said O'Reilly, who mistook the Knight's indifference for incredulity, “but perhaps I can explain.”

“There is not the slightest necessity to do so, Mr. O'Reilly; I have no reason to doubt one word you have stated; for not only am I ignorant of what the nature and extent of the proceedings you allude to may be, but I am equally indifferent as to the spirit that dictates or the number of advisers that suggest them; pardon me if I seem rude or uncourteous, but there are circumstances in life in which not to be selfish would be to become insensible; my present condition is, perhaps, one of them. A breach of trust on the part of one who possessed my fullest confidence has involved all, or nearly all, I had in the world. The steps by which I am to be deprived of what was once my own are, as regards myself, matters of comparative indifference; with respect to others”—here he almost faltered—“I hope they may be dictated by proper feeling and consideration.”

“Be assured they shall, sir,” said Mr. O'Reilly; and then, as if correcting a too hasty avowal, added, “but I have the strongest hopes that the matters are not yet in such an extremity as you speak of. It is true, sir, I will not conceal from you, my father is not free from the faults of age; his passion for money-getting has absorbed his whole heart, to the exclusion of many amiable and estimable traits; to enforce a legal right with him seems a duty, and not an option; and I may mention here that your friend, Mr. Daly, has not taken any particular pains towards conciliating him; indeed, he has scarcely acted a prudent part as regards you, by the unceasing rancor he has exhibited towards our family.”

“I must interrupt you, sir,” said the Knight, “and assure you that, while there are unfortunately but too many topics which could pain me at this moment, there is not one more certain to offend me than any reflection, even the slightest, on the oldest friend I have in the world.”

Mr. O'Reilly denied the most remote intention of giving pain, and proceeded. “I was speaking of my father,” said he, “and however unpleasant the confession from a son's lips, I must say that the legality of his acts is the extent to which they claim his observance. When his solicitors informed him that the interest was unpaid on your bond, he directed the steps to enforce the payment, and subsequently to foreclose the deed. These are, after all, mere preliminary proceedings, and in no way preclude an arrangement for a renewal.”

“Such a proposition—let me interrupt you—such a proposition is wholly out of the question; the ruin that has cost us our house and home has spared nothing. I have no means by which I could anticipate the payment of so large a sum, nor is it either my intention or my wish to reside longer beneath this roof.”

“I hope, sir, your determination is not unalterable; it would be the greatest affliction of my life to think that the loss to this county of its oldest family was even in the remotest degree ascribed to us. The Darcys have been the boast and pride of western Ireland for centuries; our county would be robbed of its fairest ornament by the departure of those who hold a princely state and derive a more than princely devotion among us.”

“If our claims had no other foundation, Mr. O'Reilly, our altered circumstances would now obliterate them. To live here with diminished fortune—But I ask pardon for being led away in this manner; may I beg that you will now inform me to what peculiar circumstances I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I thought,” said O'Reilly, insinuatingly, “that I had mentioned the difference of feeling entertained by my father and myself respecting certain proceedings at law.”

“You are quite correct, you did so; but I may observe, without incivility, that however complimentary to your own sense of delicacy such a difference is, for me the matter has no immediate interest.”

“Perhaps, with your kind permission, I can give it some,” replied O'Reilly, drawing his chair close, and speaking in a low and confidential voice; “but in order to let my communication have the value I would wish it, may I bespeak for myself a favorable hearing and a kind construction on what I shall say? If by an error of judgment—”

“Ah!” said Darcy, sighing, while a sad smile dimpled his mouth—“ah! no man should be more lenient to such than myself.”

As if reassured by the kindly tone of these few words, O'Reilly resumed:—

“Some weeks ago my father waited upon Lady Eleanor Darcy with a proposition which, whether on its own merits, or from want of proper tact in his advocacy of it, met with a most unfavorable reception. It is not because circumstances have greatly altered in that brief interval—which I deeply regret to say is the case—that I dare to augur a more propitious hearing, but simply because I hope to show that in making it we were actuated by a spirit of honorable, if not of laudable, ambition. The rank and position my son will enjoy in this county, his fortune and estate, are such as to make any alliance, save with your family, a question of no possible pretension. I am well aware, sir, of the great disparity between a new house and one ennobled by centuries of descent. I have thought long and deeply on the interval that separates the rank of the mere country gentleman from the position of him who claims even higher station than nobility itself; but we live in changeful times: the Peerage has its daily accessions of rank as humble as my own; its new creations are the conscripts drawn from wealth as well as distinction in arms or learning, and in every case the new generation obliterates the memory of its immediate origin. I see you agree with me; I rejoice to find it.”

“Your observations are quite just,” said Darcy, calmly, and O'Reilly went on:—

“Now, sir, I would not only reiterate my father's proposal, but I would add to it what I hope and trust will be deemed no ungenerous offer, which is, that the young lady's fortune should be this estate of Gwynne Abbey, not to be endowed by her future husband, but settled on her by her father as her marriage portion. I see your meaning,—it is no longer his to give: but we are ready to make it so; the bond we hold shall be thrown into the fire the moment your consent is uttered. We prefer a thousand times it should be thus, than that the ancient acres of this noble heritage should even for a moment cease to be the property of your house. Let me recapitulate a little—”

“I think that is unnecessary,” said Darcy, calmly; “I have bestowed the most patient attention to your remarks, and have no difficulty in comprehending them. Have you anything to add?”

“Nothing of much consequence,” said O'Reilly, not a little pleased by the favorable tone of the Knight's manner; “what I should suggest in addition is that my son should assume the name and arms of Darcy—”

The noise of footsteps and voices without at this moment interrupted the speaker, the door suddenly opened, and Bagenal Daly entered. He was splashed from head to foot, his high riding-boots stained with the saddle and the road, and his appearance vouching for a long and wearisome journey.

“Good morrow, Darcy,” said he, grasping the Knight's hand with the grip of his iron fingers.—“Your servant, sir; I scarcely expected to see you here so soon.”

The emphasis with which he spoke the last words brought the color to O'Reilly's cheek, who seemed very miserable at the interruption.

“You came to take possession,” continued Daly, fixing his eyes on him with a steadfast stare.

“You mistake, Bagenal,” said the Knight, gently; “Mr. O'Reilly is come with a very different object,—one which I trust he will deem it no breach of confidence or propriety in me if I mention it to you.”

“I regret to say, sir,” said O'Reilly, hastily, “that I cannot give my permission in this instance. Whatever the fate of the proposal I have made to you, I beg it to be understood as made under the seal of honorable secrecy.”

Darcy bowed deeply, but made no reply.

“Confound me,” cried Daly, “if I understand any compact between two such men as you to require all this privacy, unless you were hardy enough to renew your old father's proposal for my friend's daughter, and now had modesty enough to feel ashamed of your own impudence.”

“I am no stranger, sir, to the indecent liberties you permit your tongue to take,” said Hickman, moving towards the door; “but this is neither the time nor place to notice them.”

“So then I was right,” cried Daly; “I guessed well the game you would play—”

“Bagenal,” interposed the Knight, “I must atop this. Mr. Hickman is now beneath my roof—”

“Is he, faith?—not in his own estimation then. Why, his fellows are taking an inventory of the furniture at this very moment.”

“Is this true, sir?” said Darcy, turning a fierce look towards O'Reilly, whose face became suddenly of an ashy paleness.

“If so,” muttered he, “I can only assure you that it is without any orders of mine.”

“How good!” said Daly, bursting into an insolent laugh; “why, Darcy, when you meet with a fellow in your plantations with a gun in his hand and a lurcher at his heels, are you disposed to regard him as one in search of the picturesque, or a poacher? So, when a gentleman travels about the country with a sub-sheriff in his carriage and two bailiffs in the rumble, does it seem exactly the guise of one paying morning calls to his neighbors?”

“Mr. O'Reilly, I ask you to explain this proceeding.”

“I confess, sir,” stammered out the other, “I came accompanied by certain persons in authority, but who have acted in this matter entirely without my permission. The proposal I have made this day was the cause of my visit.”

“It is a subject on which I can no longer hold any secrecy,” said the Knight, haughtily. “Bagenal, you were quite correct in your surmise. Mr. O'Reilly not only intended us the honor of an alliance, but offered to merge the ancient glories of his house by assuming the more humble name and shield of Darcy.”

“What! eh! did I hear aright?” said Daly, with a broken voice; while, walking to the window, he looked down into the lawn beneath, as if calculating the height from the ground. “By Heaven, Darcy, you 're the best-tempered fellow in Europe—that 's all,” he muttered, as he walked away.

The door opened at this moment, and the shock bullet head of a bailiff appeared.

“That's Mr. Daly! there he is!” cried out O'Reilly, who, pale with passion and trembling all over, supported himself against the back of a chair with one hand, while with the other he pointed to where Daly stood.

“In that case,” said the fellow, entering, while he drew a slip of paper from his breast, “I 'll take the opportunity of sarvin' him where he stands.”

“One step nearer! one step!” said Daly, as he took a pistol from the pocket of his coat.

The man hesitated and looked at O'Reilly, as if for advice or encouragement; but terror and rage had now deprived him of all self-possession, and he neither spoke nor signed to him.

“Leave the room, sir,” said the Knight, with a motion of his hand to the bailiff; and the ruffian, whose office had familiarized him long with scenes of outrage and violence, shrank back ashamed and abashed, and slipped from the room without a word.

“I believe, Mr. O'Reilly,” continued Darcy, with an accent calm and unmoved,—“I believe our conference is now concluded. I will not insult your own acuteness by saying how unnecessary I feel any reply to your demand.”

“In that case,” said O'Reilly, “may I presume that there is no objection to proceed with those legal formalities which, although begun without my knowledge, may be effected now as well as at any other period?”

“Darcy, there is but one way of dealing with that gentleman—”

“Bagenal, I must insist upon your leaving this matter solely with me.”

“Depend upon it, sir, your interests will not gain by your friend's counsels,” said O'Reilly, with an insolent sneer.

“Such another remark from your lips,” said Darcy, sternly, “would make me follow them, if they went so far as—”

“Throwing him neck and heels out of that window,” broke in Daly; “for I own to you it's the course I 'd have taken half an hour ago.”

“I wish you good morning, Mr. Darcy,” said O'Reilly, addressing him for the first time by the name of his family instead of his usual designation; and without vouchsafing a word to Daly, he retired from the room.

It was not until O'Reilly's carriage drove past the window that either Darcy or his friend uttered a syllable; they stood apparently lost in thought up to that moment, when the noise of wheels and the tramp of horses aroused them.

“We must lose no time, Bagenal,” said the Knight, hastily; “I cannot count very far on that gentleman's delicacy or forbearance. Lady Eleanor must not be exposed to the indignities the law will permit him to practise towards us; we must, if possible, leave this to-night;” and so saying, he left the room to make arrangements in accordance with his resolve.

Bagenal Daly looked after him for a moment. “Poor fellow!” muttered he, “how manfully he bears it!” When a sudden flush that covered his cheek bespoke a rapid change of sentiment, and at the same instant he left the room, and, crossing the hall and the courtyard, walked hastily towards the stables.

“Saddle a horse for me, Carney, and as fast as may be.”

“Here's a mare ready this minute, sir; she was going out to take her gallop.”

“I'll give it, then,” said Daly, as he buttoned up his coat; and then, breaking off a branch of the old willow that hung over the fountain, sprang in the saddle with an alertness that would not have disgraced a youth of twenty.

“There he goes,” muttered the old huntsman, as he looked after him, “and there is n't the man between this and Killy-begs can take as much out of a baste as himself. 'T is quiet enough the mare will be when he turns her head into this yard again.”

Whatever Daly's purpose, it seemed one which brooked little delay, for no sooner was he on the sward than he pushed the mare to a fast gallop, and was seen sweeping along the lawn at a tremendous pace. In less than ten minutes he saw O'Reilly's carriage, as, in a rapid trot, the horses advanced along the level avenue, and almost the moment after, he had stationed himself in the road, so as to prevent their proceeding further. The coachman, who knew him well, came to a stop at his signal, and before his master could ask the reason, Daly was beside the window of the chariot.

“I would wish a word with you, Mr. O'Reilly,” said he, in a low, subdued voice, so as to be inaudible to the sub-sheriff, who was seated beside him. “You made use of an expression a few moments ago, which, if I understood aright, convinces me I have unwittingly done you great injustice.”

O'Reilly, whose ashy cheek and affrighted air bespoke a heart but ill at ease, made no reply, and Daly went on,—

“You said, sir, that neither the time nor the place suited the notice you felt called upon to take of my remarks on your conduct. May I ask, as a very great favor, what time and what place will be more convenient to you? And I cannot better express my own sense of regret for a hasty expression than by assuring you that I shall hold myself bound to be at your service in both respects.”

“A hostile meeting, sir, is that your proposition?” said O'Reilly, aloud.

“How admirably you read a riddle!” said Daly, laughing.

“There, Mr. Jones!” cried O'Reilly, turning to his companion, “I call on you to witness the words,—a provocation to a duel offered by this gentleman.”

“Not at all,” rejoined Daly; “the provocation came from yourself,—at least, you used a phrase which men with blood in their veins understand but one way. My error—and I 'll not forgive myself in haste for it—was the belief that an upstart need not of necessity be a poltroon.—Drive on,” cried he to the coachman, with a sneering laugh; “your master is looking pale.” And, with these words, he turned his horse's head, and cantered slowly back towards the abbey.