The Knight Of Gwynne Volume I Part 39

"There it is fornint ye, Mr. M'Granes," said the lady, in the most dulcet tones; "and if it's thinking of trating me ye are, 't is a 'c.r.a.pper' in a pint of porter I 'd take; nothing stronger would sit on my heart now."

"Ye shall hae it," said Sandy; "but come into the house."

"I darn't do it, sir; the committee is sittin'--don't ye see, besides, the moon lookin' at you?" And she pointed to a rude representation of a crescent moon, formed by a kind of transparency in the middle of a large window, a signal which Sandy well knew portended that the council were a.s.sembled within.

"Wha's the man, noo?" said Sandy, with one foot on the threshold.

"The ould stock still, darlint," said Rhoudlum,--"don't ye know his voice?"

"That's Paul Donellan,--I ken him noo."

"Be my conscience! there's no mistake. Ye can hear his screech from the Poddle to the Pigeon House when the wind's fair."

Sandy put a s.h.i.+lling into the hag's hand, and, without waiting for further parley, entered the little dark hall, and turning a corner he well remembered, pressed a b.u.t.ton and opened the door into the room where the party were a.s.sembled.

"Who the blazes are you? What brings you here?" burst from a score of rude voices together, while every hand grasped some projectile to hurl at the devoted intruder.

"Ask Paul Donellan who I am, and he'll tell ye," said Sandy, sternly, while, with a bold contempt for the hostile demonstrations, he walked straight up to the head of the room.

The recognition on which he reckoned so confidently was not forthcoming, for the old decrepit creature who, cowering beneath the wig of some defunct chancellor, presided, stared at him with eyes bleared with age and intemperance, but seemed unable to detect him as an acquaintance.

"Holy Paul does n't know him!" said half-a-dozen together, as, in pa.s.sionate indignation, they arose to resent the intrusion.

"He may remember this better," said Sandy, as, seizing a full b.u.mper of whiskey from the board, he threw it into the lamp beneath the transparency, and in a moment the moon flashed forth, and displayed its face at the full. The spell was magical, and a burst of savage welcome broke from every mouth, while Donellan, as if recalled to consciousness, put his hand trumpet-fas.h.i.+on to his lips, and gave a shout that made the very gla.s.ses ring upon the board. Place was now made for Sandy at the table, and a wooden vessel called "a noggin" set before him, whose contents he speedily tested by a long draught.

"I may as weel tell you," said Sandy, "that I am Bagenal Daly's man. I mind the time it wad na hae been needful to say so much,--my master's picture used to hang upon that wall."

Had Sandy proclaimed himself the Prince of Wales the announcement could not have met with more honor, and many a coa.r.s.e and rugged grasp of the hand attested the pleasure his presence there afforded.

"We have the picture still," said a young fellow, whose frank, good-humored face contrasted strongly with many of those around him; "but that old divil, Paul, always told us it was a likeness of himself when he was young."

"Confound the scoundrel!" said Sandy, indignantly; "he was no mair like my maister than a Dutch skipper is like a chief of the Delawares. Has the creature lost his senses a'togither?"

"By no manner of manes. He wakes up every now and then wid a speech, or a bit of poethry, or a sentiment."

"Ay," said another, "or if a couple came in to be married, see how the old chap's eyes would brighten, and how he would turn the other side of his wig round before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'"

This was literally correct, and was the simple manouvre by which Holy Paul converted himself into a clerical character, the back of his wig being cut in horse-shoe fas.h.i.+on, in rude imitation of that worn by several of the bishops.

"Watch him now--watch him now!" said one in Sandy's ears; and the old fellow pa.s.sed his hand across his eyes as if to dispel some painful thought, while his careworn features were lit up with a momentary flash of sardonic drollery.

"Your health, sir," said he to Sandy; "or, as Terence has it, 'Hic tibi, Dave'--here 's to you, Davy."

"A toast, Paul! a toast! Something agin the Union,--something agin old Darcy."

"Fill up, gentlemen," said Paul, in a clear and distinct voice. "I beg to propose a sentiment which you will drink with a b.u.mper. Are you ready?"

"Ready!" screamed all together.

"Here, then,--repeat after me:--

"Whether he's out, or whether he's in, It does n't signify one pin; Here's every curse of every sin On Maurice Darcy, Knight of Gwynne."

"Hold!" shouted Sandy, as he drew a double-barrelled pistol from his bosom. "By the saul o' my body the man that drinks that toast shall hae mair in his waim than hot water and whiskey. Maurice Darcy is my maister's friend, and a better gentleman never stepped in leather: who dar say no?"

"Are we to drink it, Paul?"

"As I live by drink," cried Paul, stretching out both hands, "this is my _alter ego_, my duplicate self, Sanders M'Grane's, 'revisiting the glimpses of the moon,' _post totidem annos!_" And a cordial embrace now followed, which at once dispelled the threatened storm.

"Mr. M'Grane's health in three times three, gentlemen;" and, rising, Paul gave the signal for each cheer as he alone could give it.

Sandy had now time to throw a glance around the table, where, however, not one familiar face met his own; that they were of the same calling and order as his quondam a.s.sociates in the same place he could have little doubt, even had that fact not been proclaimed by the names of various popular journals affixed to their hats, and by whose t.i.tles they were themselves addressed. The conversation, too, had the same sprinkling of politics, town gossip, and late calamities he well remembered of yore, interspersed with lively commentaries on public men which, if printed, would have been suggestive of libel.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 292]

The new guest soon made himself free of the guild by a proposal to treat the company, on the condition that he might be permitted to have five minutes' conversation with their president in an adjoining room. He might have asked much more in requital for his liberality, and without a moment's delay, or even apprising Paul of what was intended, the "Dublin Journal" and the "Free Press" took him boldly between them and carried him into a closet off the room where the carouse was held.

"I know what you are at," said Paul, as soon as the door closed. "Daly wants a rising of the Liberty boys for the next debate,--don't deny it, it's no use. Well, now, listen, and don't interrupt me. Tom Conolly came down from the Castle yesterday and offered me five pounds for a good mob to rack a house, and two-ten if they'd draw Lord Clare home; but I refused,--I did, on the virtue of my oath. There's patriotism for ye!--yer soul, where 's the man wid only one s.h.i.+rt and a supplement to his back would do the same?"

"You 're wrang,--we dinna want them devils at a'; it 's a sma' matter of inquiry I cam about. Ye ken Freney?"

"Is it the Captain? Whew!" said Paul, with a long whistle.

"It's no him," resumed Sandy, "but a wee bit of a callant they ca'

Jamie."

"Jemmy the diver,--the divil's own grandson, that he is."

"Where can I find him?" said Sandy, impatiently.

"Wait a bit, and you'll be sure to see him at home in his lodgings in Newgate."

"I must find him out at once; put me on his track, and I 'll gie a goold guinea in yer hand, mon. I mean the young rascal no harm; it's a question I want him to answer me, that's all."

"Well, I'll do my best to find him for you, but I must send down to the country. I'll have to get a man to go beyond Kilcullen."

"We 'll pay any expense."

"Sure I know that." And here Paul began a calculation to himself of distances and charges only audible to Sandy's ears at intervals: "Two and four, and six, with a gla.s.s of punch at Naas--half an hour at Tims'--the coach at Athy--ay, that will do it. Have ye the likes of a pair of ould boots or shoes? I 've nothing but them, and the soles is made out of two pamphlets of Roger Connor's, and them's the driest things I could get."

"I'll gie ye a new pair."

"You 're the son of Fingal of the Hills, divil a less. And now if ye had a cast-off waistcoat--I don't care for the color--orange or green, blue or yellow, _Tros Tyriusve mihiy_ as we said in Trinity."

"Ye shall hae a coat to cover your old bones. But let us hae nae mair o'

this--when may I expect to see the boy?"

"The evening after next, at eight o'clock, at the corner of Ess.e.x Bridge, Capel Street--'on the Rialto'--eh? that's the cue. And now let us join the revellers--_per Jove_, but I'm dry." And so saying, the miserable old creature broke from Sandy, and, a.s.sisted by the wall, tottered back to the room to his drunken companions, where his voice was soon heard high above the discord and din around him.