The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1. Lever Charles James
was well satisfied with the arrangement; and thus began a companionship which had lasted to the very moment we have presented him to our readers.
It is but fair to say that in all this time no one had ever heard from Sandy’s lips one syllable of the adventure we have related, nor did he ever, in the remotest degree, allude to it in intercourse with his master. Sandy was little disposed to descant either on the life or the character of his master; the Scotch element of caution was mingled strongly through his nature, and he preferred any other topic of conversation than such as led to domestic events. Whether that he was less on his guard on this evening, or that, esteeming Tate’s perceptions at no very high rate, so it is, he talked more freely and unadvisedly than was his wont.
“Ye hae a bra berth o’ it here, Maister Sullivan,” said he, as he smacked his lips after the smoking compound, whose odor pronounced it mulled port; “I maun say, that a man wha has seen a good deal of life might do far war’ than settle down in a snug little nook like this; maybe, ye hae no journeyed far in your time either.”
“Indeed, ‘tis true for you, Mr. M’Grane, I had not the opportunities you had of seeing the world, and the strange people in foreign parts; they tell me you was in Jericho, and Jerusalem, and Gibraltar.”
“Further than that, Maister Sullivan. I hae been in very curious places wi’ Mr. Daly; this day nine years we were in the Rocky Mountains, among the Red Indians.”
“The Red Indians! blood alive! them was dangerous neighbors.”
“Not in our case. My master was a chief among them, I was the doctor of the tribe, – the ‘Great Mystery Man,’ they cau’d me; my master’s name was the ‘Howling Wind.’”
“Sorra doubt, but it was not a bad one, – listen to him now;” and Tate lifted his hand to enforce silence, while a cheer loud and sonorous rang out, and floated in rich cadence along the arched corridors of the old abbey; “‘tis singing he is,” added Tate, lower, while he opened the door to listen.
“That’s no a sang, that’s the war-cry of the Manhattas,” said Sandy, gravely.
“The saints be praised it’s no worse!” remarked Tate, with pious horror in every feature. “I thought he was going to raise the divil. And who was the man-haters, Mr. M’Grane?” added he, meekly.
“A vara fine set o’ people; a leetle fond o’ killing and eating their neighbors, but friendly and ceevil to strangers; I hae a wife amang them mysel.”
“A wife! Is she a Christian, then?”
“Nae muck le o’ that, but a douce, good-humored lassie for a’ that.”
“And she’sa black?”
“Na, na; she was a rich copper tint, something deeper than my waistcoat here, but she had twa yellow streaks over her forehead, and the tip o’ her nose was blue.”
“The mother of Heaven be near us! she was a beauty, by all accounts.”
“Ay, that she was; the best-looking squaw of the tribe, and rare handy wi’ a hatchet.”
“Divil fear her,” muttered Tate, between his teeth. “And what was her name, now?”
“Her name was Orroawaccanaboo, the ‘Jumping Wild Cat.’”
“Oh, holy Moses!” exclaimed Tate, unable any longer to subdue his feelings, “I would n’t be her husband for a mine of goold.”
“You are no sae far wrong there, my auld chap,” said Sandy, without showing any displeasure at this burst of feeling.
“And Mr. Daly, had he another – of these craytures?” said Tate, who felt scruples in applying the epithet of the Church in such a predicament.
“He had twa,” said Sandy, “forbye anein the mountains, that was too auld to come down; puir lone body, she was unco’ fond of a child’s head and shoulders wi’ fish gravy!”
“To ate it! Do you mane for ating, Mr. M’Grane?”
“Ay, just so; butchers’ shops is no sae plenty down in them parts. But what’s that! dinna ye hear a ringing o’ the bell at the gate there?”
“I hear nothing, I can think of nothing! sorra bit! with the thought of that ould baste in my head, bad luck to her!” exclaimed Tate, ruefully. “A child’s head and shoulders! Sure enough, that’s the bell, and them that’s ringing it knows the way, too.” And with these words Tate lighted his lantern and issued forth to the gate tower, the keys of which were each night deposited in his care.
As the massive gates fell back, four splashed and heated horses drew forward a calèche, from which, disengaging himself with speed, Dick Forester descended, and endeavored, as well as the darkness would permit, to survey the great pile of building around him.
“Coming to stop, yer honor?” said Tate, courteously uncovering his white head.
“Yes. Will you present these letters and this card to your master?”
“I must show you your room first, – that’s my orders always. – Tim, bring up this luggage to 27. – Will yer honor have supper in the hall, or in your own dressing-room?”
There is nothing more decisive as to the general tone of hospitality pervading any house than the manner of the servants towards strangers; and thus, few and simple as the old butler’s words were, they were amply sufficient to satisfy Forester that his reception would be a kindly one, even though less ably accredited than by Lionel Darcy’s introduction; and he followed Tate Sullivan with the pleasant consciousness that he was to lay his head beneath a friendly roof.
“Never mind the supper,” said he; “a good night’s rest is what I stand most in need of. Show me to my room, and to-morrow I ‘ll pay my respects to the Knight.”
“This way then, sir,” said Tate, entering a large hall, and leading the way up a wide oak staircase, at the top of which was a corridor of immense extent. Turning short at the head of this, Tate opened a small empanelled door, and with a gesture of caution moved forwards. Forester followed, not a little curious to know the meaning of the precaution, and at the same instant the loud sounds of merry voices laughing and talking reached him, but from what quarter he could not guess, when, suddenly, his guide drew back a heavy cloth curtain, and he perceived that they were traversing a long gallery, which ran along the entire length of a great room, in the lower part of which a large company was assembled. So sudden and unexpected was the sight that Forester started with amazement, and stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, while Tate Sullivan, as if enjoying his surprise, leaned his hands on his knees and stared steadily at him.
The scene below was indeed enough to warrant his astonishment. In the great hail, which had once been the refectory of the abbey, a party of about thirty gentlemen were now seated around a table covered with drinking vessels of every shape and material, as the tastes of the guests inclined their potations. Claret, in great glass jugs holding the quantity of two or three ordinary bottles; port, in huge square decanters, both being drunk from the wood, as was the fashion of the day; large china bowls of mulled wine, in which the oranges and limes floated fragrantly; and here and there a great measure made of wood and hooped with silver, called the “mether,” contained the native beverage in all its simplicity, and supplied the hard drinker with the liquor he preferred to all, – “poteen.” The guests were no less various than the good things of which they partook. Old, young, and middle-aged; some men stamped with the air and seeming of the very highest class; others as undeniably drawn from the ranks of the mere country squire; a few were dressed in all the accuracy of dinner costume; some wore the well-known livery of Daly’s Club, and others were in the easy negligence of morning dress; while, scattered up and down, could be seen the red coat of a hunter, whose splashed and stained scarlet spoke rather for the daring than the dandyism of its wearer. But conspicuous above all was a figure who, on an elevated seat, sat at the head of the table and presided over the entertainment. He was a tall – a very tall – and powerfully built man, whose age might have been guessed at anything, from five-and-forty to seventy; for though his frame and figure indicated few touches of time, his seared and wrinkled forehead