Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1. Lever Charles James
said I, resolutely; ‘all my pocket-money is sure to go before it is over.’
“‘And I,’ said Matty, ‘won’t have poor “Mopsy” tried for a murder again; every time she’s hanged, some of the wax comes off her neck.’”
“We encouraged each other vigorously in these resolves; but before he was half an hour in the house ‘Mopsy’ had undergone the last sentence of the law, and I was insolvent.”
“What a clever rogue he must have been!” said Bella, laughing.
“Was n’t he clever!” exclaimed Kellett. “You could not say how, – nobody could say how, – but he saw everything the moment he came into a new place, and marked every one’s face, and knew, besides, the impression he made on them, just as if he was familiar with them for years.”
“Did you continue to associate with him as you grew up?” asked she.
“No; we only knew each other as children. There was a distressing thing – a very distressing thing – occurred one day; I’m sure to this very hour I think of it with sorrow and shame, for I can’t believe he had any blame in it. We were playing in a room next my father’s study, and running every now and then into the study; and there was an old-fashioned penknife – a family relic, with a long bloodstone handle – lying on the table; and when the play was over, and Davy, as we called him, had gone home, this was missing. There was a search made for it high and low, for my father set great value on it. It was his great-great-grandmother’s, I believe; at all events, no one ever set eyes on it afterwards, and nothing would persuade my father but that Davy stole it! Of course he never told us that he thought so, but the servant did, and Matty and myself cried two nights and a day over it, and got really sick.
“I remember well; I was working by myself in the garden, Matty was ill and in bed, when I saw a tall old man, dressed like a country shopkeeper, shown into the back parlor, where my father was sitting. There was a bit of the window open, and I could hear that high words were passing between them, and, as I thought, my father getting the worst of it; for the old fellow kept repeating, ‘You ‘ll rue it, Mister Kellett, – you ‘ll rue it yet!’ And then my father said, ‘Give him a good horsewhipping, Dunn; take my advice, and you ‘ll spare yourself some sorrow, and save him from even worse hereafter.’ I ‘ll never forget the old fellow’s face as he turned to leave the room. ‘Davy will live to pay you off for this,’ said he; ‘and if you ‘re not to the fore, it will be your children, or your children’s children, will have to ‘quit the debt!’
“We never saw Davy from that hour; indeed, we were strictly forbidden ever to utter his name; and it was only when alone together, that Matty and I would venture to talk of him, and cry over – and many a time we did – the happy days when we had him for our playfellow. There was a species of martyrdom now, too, in his fate, that endeared him the more to our memories; every play he had invented, every spot he was fond of, every toy he liked, were hallowed to our minds like relics. At last poor Matty and I could bear it no longer, and we sat down and wrote a long letter to Davy, assuring him of our fullest confidence in his honor, and our broken-heartedness at separation from him. We inveighed stoutly against parental tyranny, and declared ourselves ready for open rebellion, if he, that was never deficient in a device, could only point out the road. We bribed a stable-boy, with all our conjoined resources of pocket-money, to convey the epistle, and it came back next morning to my father, enclosed in one from Davy himself, stating that he could never countenance acts of disobedience, or be any party to a system by which children should deceive their parents. I was sent off to a boarding-school the same week, and poor Matty committed to the charge of Miss Morse, a vinegar-faced old maid, that poisoned the eight best years of her life!”
“And when did you next hear of him?”
“Of Davy? Let me see; the next time I heard of him was when he attempted to enter college as a sizar, and failed. Somebody or other mentioned it at Kellett’s Court, and said that old Dunn was half out of his mind, insisting that some injustice was dealt out to his son, and vowing he ‘d get the member for somewhere to bring the matter before Parliament. Davy was wiser, however; he persuaded his father that, by agitating the question, they would only give notoriety to what, if left alone, would speedily be forgotten; and Davy was right I don’t think there’s three men now in the kingdom that remember one word about the sizarship, or, if they do, that would be influenced by it in any dealings they might have with Mr. Davenport Dunn.”
“What career did he adopt after that?”
“He became a tutor, I think, in Lord Glengariff’s family. There was some scandal about him there, – I forget it now, – and then he went off to America, and spent some years there, and in Jamaica, where he was employed as an overseer, I think; but I can’t remember it all. My own knowledge of him next was seeing the name ‘D. Dunn, solicitor,’ on a neat brass-plate in Tralee, and hearing that he was a very acute fellow in election contests, and well up to dealing with the priests.”
“And now he has made a large fortune?”
“I believe you well; he’s the richest man in Ireland. There’s scarce a county he has n’t got property in. There’s not a town, nor a borough, where he has n’t some influence, and in every class, too, – gentry, clergy, shopkeepers, people: he has them all with him, and nobody seems to know how he does it.”
“Pretty much, I suppose, as he used to manage Aunt Matty and yourself long ago,” said she, laughingly.
“Well, indeed, I suppose so,” said he, with a half sigh; “and if it be, all I can say is, they ‘ll be puzzled to find out his secret. He’s the deepest fellow I ever heard or read of; for there he stands to-day, without name, family, blood, or station, higher than those that had them all, – able to do more than them; and, what’s stranger still, thought more about in England than the best man amongst us.”
“You have given me quite an interest about him, papa; tell me, what is he like?”
“He’s as tall as myself, but not so strongly built; indeed, he’s slightly round-shouldered; he is dark in the complexion, and has the blackest hair and whiskers I ever saw, and rather good-looking than otherwise, – a calm, cold, patient-looking face you’d call it; he speaks very little, but his voice is soft and low and deliberate, just like one that would n’t throw away a word; and he never moves his hands or arms, but lets them hang down heavily at either side.”
“And his eyes? Tell me of his eyes?”
“They ‘re big, black, sleepy-looking eyes, seldom looking up, and never growing a bit brighter by anything that he says or hears about him. Indeed, any one seeing him for the first time would say, ‘There’s a man whose thoughts are many a mile away; he is n’t minding what’s going on about him here.’ But that is not the case; there is n’t a look, a stir, nor a gesture that he does n’t remark. There ‘s not a chair drawn closer to another, not a glance interchanged, that he has n’t noticed; and I ‘ve heard it said, ‘Many would n’t open a letter before him, he’s so sure to guess the contents from just reading the countenance.’”
“The world is always prone to exaggerate such gifts,” said she, calmly.
“So it may be, dear, but I don’t fancy it could do so here. He’s one of those men that, if he had been born to high station, would be a great politician or a great general. You see that, somehow, without any effort on his part, things come up just as he wished them. I believe, after all,” said he, with a heavy sigh, “it’s just luck! Whatever one man puts his hand to in this world goes on right and smoothly, and another has every mishap and misfortune that can befall him. He may strive, and toil, and fret his brains over it, but devil a good it is. If he is born to ill luck, it will stick to him.”
“It’s not a very cheery philosophy!” said she, gently.
“I suppose not, dear; but what is very cheery in this life, when you come to find it out? Is n’t it nothing but disappointment and vexation?”
Partly to rally him out of this vein of depression, and partly from motives of curiosity, she once more adverted to Dunn, and asked how it happened that they crossed each other