It was not until after the lapse of several days that Darcy's departure was made known to the denizens of Port Ballintray.

If the event was slow of announcement, they endeavored to compensate for the tardiness of the tidings by the freedom of their commentary on all its possible and impossible reasons. There was not a casualty, in the whole catalogue of human vicissitudes, unquoted; deaths, births, and marriages were ransacked in newspapers; all sudden and unexpected turns of fortune were well weighed, accidents and offences scanned with cunning eyes, and the various paragraphs to which editorial mysteriousness gave an equivocal interpretation were commented on with a perseverance and an ingenuity worthy of a higher theme.

It may be remarked that no class of persons are viewed more suspiciously, or excite more sharp criticism from their neighbors, than those who, with evidently narrow means, prefer retirement and estrangement from the world to mixing in the small circle of some petty locality. A hundred schemes are put in motion to ascertain by what right such superiority is asserted,—why, and on what grounds, they affect to be better than their neighbors, and so on; the only offence all the while consisting of an isolation which cannot with truth imply any such imputation.

When the Knight of Gwynne found himself by an unexpected turn of fortune condemned to a station so different from his previous life, he addressed himself at once to the difficulties of his lot; and, well aware that all reserve on his part would be set down as the cloak of some deep mystery, he affected an air of easy cordiality with such of the boarding-house party as he ever met, and endeavored, by a tone of well-assumed familiarity, to avoid all detection of the difference between him and his new associates.

It was in this spirit that he admitted Mr. Dempsey to his acquaintance, and even asked him to his cottage. In this diplomacy he met with little assistance from Lady Eleanor and his daughter; the former, from a natural coldness of manner and an instinctive horror of everything low and underbred. Helen's perceptions of such things were just as acute, but, inheriting the gay and lively temperament of her father's house, she better liked to laugh at the absurdities of vulgar people than indulge a mere sense of dislike to their society. Such allies were too dangerous to depend on, and hence the Knight conducted his plans unaided and unsupported.

Whether Mr. Dempsey was bought off by the flattering exception made in his favor, and that he felt an implied superiority on being deemed their advocate, he certainly assumed that position in the circle of Mrs. Fumbally's household, and on the present occasion sustained his part with a certain mysterious demeanor that imposed on many.

“Well, he's gone, at all events!” said a thin old lady with a green shade over a pair of greener eyes; “that can't be denied, I hope! Went off like a shot on Tuesday morning. Sandy M'Shane brought him into Coleraine, for the Dublin coach; and, by the same token, it was an outside place he took—”

“I beg your pardon, ma'am,” interposed a fat little woman, with a choleric red face and a tremulous underlip,—she was an authoress in the provincial papers, and occasionally invented her English as well as her incidents,—“it was the Derry mail he went by. Archy M'Clure trod on his toe, and asked pardon for it, just to get him into conversation; but he seemed very much dejected, and wouldn't interlocute.”

“Very strange indeed!” rejoined the lady of the shade, “because I had my information from Williams, the guard of the coach.”

“And I mine from Archy M'Clure himself.”

“And both were wrong,” interposed Paul Dempsey, triumphantly.

“It's not very polite to tell us so, Mr. Dempsey,” said the thin old lady, bridling.

“Perhaps the politeness may equal the voracity,” said the fat lady, who was almost boiling over with wrath.

“This Gwynne wasn't all right, depend upon it,” interposed a certain little man in powder; “I have my own suspicions about him.”

“Well, now, Mr. Dunlop, what's your opinion? I'd like to hear it.”

“What does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?” rejoined the little gentleman, turning to the authoress,—for in the boarding-house they both presided judicially in all domestic inquisitions regarding conduct and character,—“what does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?”

“I prefer letting Mr. Dunlop expose himself before me.”

“The case is doubtful—dark—mysterious,” said Dunlop, with a solemn pause after each word.

“The more beyond my conjunctions,” said the lady. “You remember what the young gentleman says in the Latin poet, 'Sum Davy, non sum Euripides.'”

“I 'll tell you my opinion, then,” said Mr. Dunlop, who was evidently mollified by the classical allusion; and with firm and solemn gesture he crossed over to where she sat, and whispered a few words in her ear.

A slight scream, and a long-drawn “Oh!” was all the answer.

“Upon my soul, I believe so,” said Mr. Dunlop, thrusting both hands into the furthest depths of his coat-pockets; “nay, more, I'll maintain it!”

“I know what you are driving at,” said Dempsey, laughing; “you think he's the gauger that went off with Mrs. Murdoch of Ballyquirk—”

“Mr. Dempsey! Mr. Dempsey! the ladies, sir! the ladies!” called out two or three reproving voices from the male portion of the assembly; while, as if to corroborate the justice of the appeal, the thin lady drew her shade down two inches lower, and Mr. Dunlop's face became what painters call “of a warm tint.”

“Oh! never talk of a rope where a man's father was hanged,” muttered Paul to himself, for he felt all the severity of his condemnation, though he knew that the point of law was against him.

“There 's a rule in this establishment, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mr. Dunlop, with all the gravity of a judge delivering a charge,—“a rule devised to protect the purity, the innocence,”—here the ladies held down their heads,—“the beauty—”

“Yes, sir, and I will add, the helplessness of that sex—”

“Paul 's right, by Jove!” hiccuped Jack Leonard, whose faculties, far immersed in the effects of strong whiskey-and-water, suddenly flashed out into momentary intelligence,—“I say he's right! Who says the reverse?”

“Oh, Captain Leonard! oh dear, Mr. Dunlop!” screamed three or four female voices in concert, “don't let it proceed further.”

A faint and an anxious group were gathered around the little gentleman, whose warlike indications grew stronger as pacific entreaties increased.

“He shall explain his words,” said he, with a cautious glance to see that his observation was not overheard; then, seeing that his adversary had relapsed into oblivion, he added, “he shall withdraw them;” and finally, emboldened by success, he vociferated, “or' he shall eat them. I 'll teach him,” said the now triumphant victor, “that it is not in Mark Dunlop's presence ladies are to be insulted with impunity. Let the attempt be made by whom it will,—he may be a lieutenant on half pay or on full pay!—I tell him, I don't care a rush.”

“Of course not!” “Why would you?” and so on, were uttered in ready chorus around him; and he resumed,—

“And as for this Gwynne, or Quin, who lives up at 'The Corvy' yonder, for all the airs he gives himself, and his fine ladies too, my simple belief is he 's a Government spy!”

“Is that your opinion, sir?” said a deep and almost solemn voice; and at the same instant Miss Daly appeared at the open window. She leaned her arm on the sill, and calmly stared at the now terrified speaker, while she repeated the words, “Is that your opinion, sir?”

Before the surprise her words had excited subsided, she stood at the door of the apartment. She was dressed in her riding-habit, for she had that moment returned from an excursion along the coast.

“Mr. Dunlop,” said the lady, advancing towards him, “I never play the eavesdropper; but you spoke so loud, doubtless purposely, that nothing short of deafness could escape hearing you. You were pleased to express a belief respecting the position of a gentleman with whom I have the honor to claim some friendship.”

“I always hold myself ready, madam, to render an account to any individual of whom I express an opinion,—to himself, personally, I mean.”

“Of course you do, sir. It is a very laudable habit,” said she, dryly; “but in this case—don't interrupt me—in the present case it cannot apply, because the person traduced is absent. Yes, sir, I said traduced.”

“Oh, madam, I must say the word would better suit one more able to sustain it. I shall take the liberty to withdraw.” And so saying, he moved towards the door; but Miss Daly interposed, and, by a gesture of her hand, in which she held a formidable horsewhip, gave a very unmistakable sign that the passage was not free.

“You 'll not go yet, sir. I have not done with you,” said she, in a voice every accent of which vibrated in the little man's heart. “You affect to regret, sir, that I am not of the sex that exacts satisfaction, as it is called; but I tell you, I come of a family that never gave long scores to a debt of honor. You have presumed—in a company, certainly, where the hazard of contradiction was small—to asperse a gentleman of whom you know nothing,—not one single fact,—not one iota of his life, character, or fortune. You have dared to call him by words every letter of which would have left a welt on your shoulders if uttered in his hearing. Now, as I am certain he would pay any little debts I might have perchance forgotten in leaving a place where I had resided, so will I do likewise by him; and here, on this spot, and in this fair company, I call upon you to unsay your falsehood, or—” Here she made one step forward, with an air and gesture that made Mr. Dunlop retire with a most comic alacrity. “Don't be afraid, sir,” continued she, laughing. “My brother, Mr. Bagenal Daly, will arrive here soon. He 's no new name to your ears. In any case, I promise you that whatever you find objectionable in my proceedings towards you he will be most happy to sustain. Now, sir, the hand wants four minutes to six. If the hour strike before you call yourself a wanton, gratuitous calumniator, I 'll flog you round the room.”

A cry of horror burst from the female portion of the assembly at a threat the utterance of which was really not less terrific than the meaning.

“Such a spectacle,” continued Miss Daly, sarcastically, “I should scruple to inflict on this fair company; but the taste that could find pleasure in witless, pointless slander may not, it is possible, dislike to see a little castigation. Now, sir, you have just one minute and a quarter.”

“I protest against this conduct, madam. I here declare—” 146

“Declare nothing, sir, till you have avowed yourself by your real name and character. If you cannot restrain your tongue, I 'll very soon convince you that its consequences are far from agreeable. Is what you have spoken false?”

“There may come a heavy reckoning for all this, madam,” said Dunlop, trembling between fear and passion.

“I ask you again, and for the last time, are your words untrue? Very well, sir. You held a commission in Germany, they say; and probably, as a military man, you may think it undignified to surrender, except on compulsion.”

With these words Miss Daly advanced towards him with a firm and determined air, while a cry of horror arose through the room, and the fairer portion intrepidly threw themselves in front of their champion, while Dempsey and the others only restrained their laughter for fear of personal consequences. Pushing fiercely on, Miss Daly was almost at his side, when the door of the room was opened, and a deep and well-known voice called out to her,—

“Maria, what the devil is all this?”

“Oh, Bagenal,” cried she, as she held out her hand, “I scarcely expected you before eight o'clock.”

“But in the name of everything ridiculous, what has happened? Were you about to horsewhip this pleasant company?”

“Only one of its members,” said Miss Daly, coolly,—“a little gentleman who has thought proper to be more lavish of his calumny than his courage. I hand him over to you now; and, faith, though I don't think that he had any fancy for me, he 'll gain by the exchange! You 'll find him yonder,” said she, pointing to a corner where already the majority of the party were gathered together.

Miss Daly was mistaken, however, for Mr. Dunlop had made his escape during the brief interchange of greetings between the brother and sister. “Come, Bagenal,” said she, smiling, “it's all for the best. I have given him a lesson he 'll not readily forget,—had you been the teacher, he might not have lived to remember it.”

“What a place for you!” said Bagenal, as he threw his eye superciliously around the apartment and its occupants; then taking her arm within his own, he led her forth, and closed the door after them.

Once more alone, Daly learned with surprise, not unmixed with sorrow, that his sister had never seen the Darcys, and save by a single call, when she left her name, had made no advances towards their acquaintance. She showed a degree of repugnance, too, to allude to the subject, and rather endeavored to dismiss it by saying shortly,—“Lady Eleanor is a fine lady, and her daughter a wit What could there be in common between us?”

“But for Darcy's sake?”

“For his sake I stayed away,” rejoined she, hastily; “they would have thought me a bore, and perhaps have told him as much. In a word, Bagenal, I did n't like it, and that's enough. Neither of us were trained to put much constraint on our inclinations. I doubt if the lesson would be easily learned at our present time of life.”

Daly muttered some half-intelligible bitterness about female obstinacy and wrong-headedness, and walked slowly to and fro. “I must see Maurice at once,” said he, at length.

“That will be no easy task; he left this for Dublin on Tuesday last.”

“And has not returned? When does he come back?”

“His old butler, who brought me the news, says not for some weeks.”

“Confusion and misery!” exclaimed Daly, “was there ever anything so ill-timed! And he's in Dublin?”

“He went thither, but there would seem some mystery about his ultimate destination; the old man binted at London.”

“London!” said he, with a heavy sigh. “It's now the 18th, and on Saturday she sails.”

“Who sails?” asked Miss Daly, with more of eagerness than she yet exhibited.

“Oh, I forgot, Molly, I had n't told you, I 'm about to take a voyage,—not a very long one, but still distant enough to make me wish to say good-bye ere we separate. If God wills it, I shall be back early in the spring.”

“What new freak is this, Bagenal?” said she, almost sternly; “I thought that time and the world's crosses might have taught you to care for quietness, if not for home.”

“Home!” repeated he, in an accent the sorrow of which sank into her very heart; “when had I ever a home? I had a house and lands, and equipages, horses, and liveried servants,—all that wealth could command, or, my own reckless vanity could prompt,—but these did not make a home!”

“You often promised we should have such one day, Bagenal,” said she, tenderly, while she stole her hand within his; “you often told me that the time would come when we should enjoy poverty with a better grace than ever we dispensed riches.”

“We surely are poor enough to make the trial now,” said he, with a bitterness of almost savage energy.

“And if we are, Bagenal,” replied she, “there is the more need to draw more closely to each other; let us begin at once.”

“Not yet, Molly, not yet,” said he, passing his hand across his eyes. “I would grasp such a refuge as eagerly as yourself, for,” added he, with deep emotion, “I am to the full as weary; but I cannot do it yet.”

Miss Daly knew her brother's temper too long and too well either to offer a continued opposition to any strongly expressed resolve, or to question him about a subject on which he showed any desire of reserve.

“Have you no Dublin news for me?” she said, as if willing to suggest some less touching subject for conversation.

“No, Molly; Dublin is deserted. The few who still linger in town seem only half awake to the new condition of events. The Government party are away to England; they feel, doubtless, bound in honor to dispense their gold in the land it came from; and the Patriots—Heaven bless the mark!—they look as rueful as if they began to suspect that Patriotism was too dear a luxury after all.”

“And this burning of Newgate,-what did it mean? Was there, as the newspaper makes out, anything like a political plot connected with it?”

“Nothing of the kind, Molly. The whole affair was contrived among the prisoners. Freney, the well-known highwayman, was in the jail, and, although not tried, his conviction was certain.”

“And they say he has escaped. Can it be possible that some persons of influence, as the journals hint, actually interested themselves for the escape of a man like this?”

“Everything is possible in a state of society like ours, Molly.”

“But a highwayman—a robber—a fellow that made the roads unsafe to travel!”

“All true,” said Daly, laughing. “Nobody ever kept a hawk for a singing-bird; but he 's a bold villain to pounce upon another.”

“I like not such appliances; they scarcely serve a good name, and they make a bad one worse.”

“I'm quite of your mind, Molly,” said Daly, thoughtfully; “and if honest men were plenty, he would be but a fool who held any dealings with the knaves. But here comes the car to convey me to 'The Corvy.' I will make a hasty visit to Lady Eleanor, and be back with you by supper-time.”