It was on an answer to this letter the old lady was occupied, seated at an open window, as the sun was just setting on a calm and mellow evening in late autumn. Well understanding the temperament of him she addressed, she adverted little to the danger of his late achievement, and simply seemed to concur in his own remark when recounting it, that he who has made his name notorious from folly has, more than others, the obligation to achieve a higher and better reputation; and added, at the same time: "Charley, what I liked best in your feat was its patriotism. The sense of rendering a good and efficient service to the cause of your country was a nobler prompting than any desire for personal distinction." From this she turned to tell him about what she well knew he loved best to hear of,--her home and her daily life, with its little round of uneventful cares, the little Welsh pony "Crw," and his old spaniel "Belle," and the tulips he had taken such pains about, and the well he had sunk in the native rock. She had good tidings, too, that the railroad--the dreadful railroad--was not to take the line of their happy valley, but to go off in some more "favored" direction. Of the cottage itself she had succeeded in obtaining a renewed lease,--a piece of news well calculated to delight him, "if," as she said, "grand dreams of the peerage might not have impaired his relish for the small hut at the foot of Snowdon." She had just reached so far when a little chaise, drawn by a mountain pony, drew up before the door, and a lady in a sort of half-mourning dress got out and rang the bell. As the old lady rose to admit her visitor,--for her only servant was at work in the garden,--she felt no small astonishment. She was known to none but the peasant neighborhood about her; she had not a single acquaintance in the country with its gentry; and although the present arrival came with little display, in her one glance at the figure of the stranger she saw her to be distinctly of a certain condition in life.

It will conduce equally to brevity and to the interests of our story if we give what followed in the words wherein Mrs. Conway conveyed it to her son:--

"Little, I thought, my dear Charley, that I should have to cross this already long letter,--little suspected that its real and only interest was to have been suggested as I drew to its close; and here, if I had the heart for it, were the place to scold you for a pretty piece of mystification you once practised upon me, when you induced me to offer the hospitality of this poor cottage to an humble gentlewoman, whose poverty would not deem even _my_ life an existence of privation,--the sister of a fellow-soldier you called her, and made me to believe--whose the fault I am not sure--that she was some not very young or very attractive person, but one whose claim lay in her friendless lot and forlorn condition. Say what you will, such was my impression, and it could have no other source than your description.

[Illustration: 244]

"Yes, Charley, my mind-picture was of a thin-faced, somewhat sandy-haired lady, of some six or eight and thirty years, bony, angular, and awkward, greatly depressed, and naturally averse to intercourse with those who had not known her or her better fortunes; shall I add that I assisted my portrait by adding coarse hands, and filled up my anticipation by suspecting a very decided Irish brogue? Of course this flattering outline could not have been revealed in a vision, and must have come from your hands, deny it whenever and however you may! And now for the reality,--the very prettiest girl I ever saw, since I left off seeing pretty people, when I was young and had pretensions myself: even then I do not remember any one handsomer, and with a winning grace of manner equal, if not superior, to her beauty. You know me as a very difficult critic on the subject of breeding and _maintien_. I feel that I am so, even to injustice, because I look for the reserved courtesy of one era as well as the easy frankness of another. _She_ has both; and she is a court lady who could adorn a cottage. Of my own atrocious sketch there was nothing about her. Stay, there was. She had the Irish accent, but by some witchery of her own I got to like it,--fancied it was musical and breathed of the sweet south; but if I go on with her perfections, I shall never come to the important question, for which you care more to hear besides, as to how I know all these things. And now, to my horror, I find how little space is left me to tell you. Well, in three words you shall have it. She has been here to see me on her way somewhere, her visit being prompted by the wish to place in my hands some very curious and very old family records, found by a singular accident in an Irish country-house. They relate to the claim of some ancestor of yours to certain lands in Ireland, and the right is asserted in the name of Baron Conway, and afterwards the Lord Viscount Lackington. I saw no further; indeed, except that they all relate to our dear peerage, they seem to possess no very peculiar interest. If it were not that she would introduce your name, push me with interminable questions as to what it was you had really done, what rewards you had or were about to reap, where you were, and, above all, how, I should have called her visit the most disinterested piece of kindness I ever heard of. Still she showed a sincere and ardent desire to serve us, and said that she would be ready to make any delay in London to communicate with our lawyer, and acquaint him fully with the circumstances of this discovery.

"I unceasingly entreated her to be my guest, were it only for a few days. I even affected to believe that I would send for our lawyer to come down and learn the curious details of the finding of the papers; but she pleaded the absolute necessity of her presence in London so strongly--she betrayed, besides, something like a deep anxiety for some coming event--that I was obliged to abandon my attempt, and limit our acquaintance by the short two hours we had passed together.

"It will take some time, and another long letter, to tell you of the many topics we talked over; for, our first greeting over, we felt towards each other like old friends.

At last she arose to leave me, and never since the evening you bade me good-bye did the same loneliness steal over my heart as when I saw her little carriage drive away from the door.

"One distressing recollection alone clouds the memory of our meeting: I suffered her to leave me without a promise to return. I could not, without infringing delicacy, have pressed her more to tell me of herself and her plans for the future, and yet even now I regret that, at any hazard, I did not risk the issue. The only pledge I could obtain was that she would write to me. I am now at the end of my paper, but not of my theme, of which you shall hear more in my next.

Meanwhile, if you are not in love with her, I am.

"Your affectionate mother,

"Marian Conway."

We have ourselves nothing to add to the narrative of this letter save the remark that Mrs. Conway felt far more deeply than she expressed the disappointment of not being admitted to Sybella's full confidence. The graceful captivation of the young girl's manner, heightened in interest by her friendless and lone condition,--the perilous path in life that must be trodden by one so beautiful and unprotected,--had made a deep impression on the old lady's heart, and she was sincere in self-reproach that she had suffered her to leave her.

She tried again and again, by recalling all that passed between them, to catch some clew to what Sybella's future pointed; but so guardedly had the young girl shrouded every detail of her own destiny, that the effort was in vain. Sybella had given an address in town, where Mrs. Conway's lawyer might meet her if necessary, and with a last hope the old lady had written a note to that place, entreating, as the greatest favor, that she would come down and pass some days with her at the cottage; but her letter came back to her own hands. Miss Kellett was gone.

CHAPTER XX. A SUPPER.

In long-measured sweep the waves flowed smoothly in upon the low shore at Baldoyle of a rich evening in autumn, as a very old man tottered feebly down to the strand and seated himself on a rock. Leaning his crossed arms on his stout stick, he gazed steadily and calmly on the broad expanse before him. Was it that they mirrored to him the wider expanse of that world to which he was so rapidly tending; was it in that measured beat he recognized the march of time, the long flow of years he could count, and which still swept on, smooth but relentless; or was it that the unbroken surface soothed by its very sameness a brain long wearied by its world conflict? Whatever the cause, old Matthew Dunn came here every evening of his life, and, seated on the self-same spot, gazed wistfully over the sea before him.

Although his hair was snow-white and the wrinkles that furrowed his cheeks betrayed great age, his eyes yet preserved a singular brightness, and in their vivid glances showed that the strong spirit that reigned within was still unquenched. The look of defiance they wore was the very essence of the man,--one who accepted any challenge that fortune flung him, and, whether victor or vanquished, only prepared for fresh conflict.

There was none of the weariness so often observable in advanced age about his features, nothing of that expression that seems to crave rest and peace, still as little was there anything of that irritable activity which seems at times to' counterfeit past energy of temperament; no, he was calm, stern, and self-possessed, the man who had fought this way from boyhood, and who asked neither grace nor favor of fortune as he drew nigh the end of the journey!

"I knew I'd find you here," said a deep voice close to his ear. "How are you?"

The old man looked up, and the next moment his son was in his arms.

"Davy, my own boy--Davy, I was just thinking of you; was it Friday or Saturday you said you 'd come."

"I thought I could have been here Saturday, father, but Lord Jedburg made a point of my dining with him yesterday; and it was a great occasion,--three Cabinet Ministers present, a new Governor-General of India too,--I felt it was better to remain."

"Right, Davy,--always right,--them's the men to keep company with!"

"And how are you, sir? Are you hale and stout and hearty as ever?" said Dunn, as he threw his head back, the better to look at the old man.

"As you see me, boy: a little shaky about the knees, somewhat tardy about getting up of a morning; but once launched, the old craft can keep her timbers together. But tell me the news, lad,--tell me the news, and never mind _me_."

"Well, sir, last week was a very threatening one for us. No money to be had on any terms, discounts all suspended, shares failing everywhere, good houses crashing on all sides, nothing but disasters with every post; but we 've worked through it, sir. Glumthal behaved well, though at the very last minute; and Lord Glengariff, too, deposited all his title-deeds at Hanbridge's for a loan of thirty-six thousand; and then, as Downing Street also stood to us, we weathered the gale; but it was close work, father,--so close at one moment I telegraphed to Liverpool to secure a berth in the 'Arctic.'"

A sudden start from the old man stopped him, but he quickly resumed: "Don't be alarmed, sir; my message excited no suspicion, for I sent a fellow to New York by the packet, and now all is clear again, and we have good weather before us."

"The shares fell mighty low in the allotment, Davy; how was that?"

"Partly from the cause I have mentioned, father, the tightness in the money market; partly that I suspect we had an enemy in the camp, that daughter of Kellett's--"

"Did n't I say so? Did n't I warn you about her? Did n't I tell you that it was the brood of the serpent that stung us first?" cried out the old man, with a wild energy; "and with all that you would put her there with the Lord and his family, where she 'd know all that was doing, see the letters, and maybe write the answers to them! Where was the sense and prudence of that, Davy?"

"She was an enthusiast, father, and I hoped that she'd have been content to revel in that realm, but I was mistaken."

There was a tone of dejection in the way he spoke the last words that made the old man fix his eyes steadfastly on him. "Well, Davy, go on,"

said he.

"I have no more to say, sir," said he, in the same sad voice. "The Earl has dismissed her, and she has gone away."

"That's right, that's right,--better late than never. Neither luck nor grace could come of Paul Kellett's stock. I hope that's the last we 'll hear of them; and now, Davy, how is the great world doing? How is the Queen?"

Dunn could scarcely suppress a smile as he answered this question, asked as it was in real and earnest anxiety; and for some time the old man continued to press him with eager inquiries as to the truth of various newspaper reports about royal marriages and illustrious visitors, of which it was strange how he preserved the recollection.

"You have not asked me about myself, father," said Dunn at last, "and I think _my_ fortunes might have had the first place in your interest."

"Sure you told me this minute that you didn't see the Queen," said the old man, peevishly.

"Very true, sir, I did not, but I saw her Minister. I placed before him the services I had done his party, my long sacrifices of time, labor, and money in their cause; I showed him that I was a man who had established the strongest claim upon the Government."

"And wouldn't be refused,--wouldn't be denied, eh, Davy?"

"Just so, sir. I intimated that also, so far as it was prudent to do so."

"The stronger the better, Davy; weak words show a faint heart. 'Tis knowing the cost of your enmity will make men your friends."

"I believe, sir, that in such dealings my own tact is my safest guide.

It is not to-day or yesterday that I have made acquaintance with men of this order. For upwards of two-and-twenty years I have treated Ministers as my equals."

The old man heard this proud speech with an expression of almost ecstasy on his features, and grasped his son's hand in a delight too great for words.

"Ay, father, I have made our name a cognate number in this kingdom's arithmetic. Men talk of Davenport Dunn as one recognized in the land."

"'Tis true; 'tis true as the Bible!" muttered the old man.

"And what is more," continued the other, warming with his theme, "what I have done I have done for all time. I have laid the foundations deep, that the edifice might endure. A man of inferior ambition would have been satisfied with wealth, and the enjoyments it secures; he might have held a seat in Parliament, sat on the benches beside the Minister, mayhap have held some Lordship of This or Under-Secretaryship of that, selling his influence ere it matured, as poor farmers sell their crops standing,--but I preferred the' patient path. I made a waiting race of it, father, and see what the prize is to be. Your son is to be a peer of Great Britain!"

The old man's mouth opened wide, and his eyes glared with an almost unnatural brightness, as, catching his son with both arms, he tried to embrace him.

"There, dear father,--there!" said Dunn, calmly; "you must not over-excite yourself."