CHAPTER VI. A MESSAGE
While Forester slept soundly and without a dream, his long, light breathing scarce audible within the quiet chamber, a glance within the room of Bagenal Daly would have shown that, whatever the consequences of the past night’s troubles, he, at least, was not likely to be taken unprepared. On the table in the middle of the apartment two wax candles burned, two others, as yet unlighted, stood ready on the chimney-piece, a pistol case lay open, displaying the weapons, whose trim and orderly appearance denoted recent care, a fact attested by certain cloths and flannels which lay about; a mould for bullets, and about a dozen newly-cast balls most carefully filed and rubbed smooth with sandpaper, were flanked by a small case of surgical instruments, with an ample supply of lint and ligatures such as are used to secure bleeding vessels, in the use of which few unprofessional persons could vie with Bagenal Daly. A few sheets of paper lay also there, on which appeared some recent writing; and in a large, deep armchair, ready dressed for the day, sat Daly himself, sound asleep; one arm hung listlessly over the chair, the other was supported in the breast of his waistcoat. The strong, stern features, unrelaxed by repose, had the same impassive expression of cold defiance as when awake, and if his lips muttered, the accents were not less determined and firm than in his moments of self-possession. He awoke from time to time and looked at his watch, and once threw open the sash, and held out his hand to ascertain if it were raining; but these interruptions did not interfere with his rest, for, the minute after, he slept as soundly as before. Nor was he the only one within that house who counted the hours thus anxiously. A lantern in the stable beamed brightly, showing three horses ready saddled, the bridles on the neck of each, and ready at a moment’s notice to be bitted; while pacing slowly to and fro, like a sentinel on his post, was the tall figure of Sandy M’Grane, wrapped in a long cloth cloak, and his head covered by a cap, whose shape and material spoke of a far-off land and wild companionship; for it was the skin of a black fox, and the workmanship the product of a squaw’s fair fingers.
Sandy’s patrol was occasionally extended to the gateway, where he usually halted for a few seconds to listen, and then resumed his path as leisurely as before. At last, he remained somewhat longer at the gate, and bent his head more cautiously to hear; then, noiselessly unbarring and unlocking the door, he leaned out. To an ear less practised than his own the silence would have been complete. Not so with Sandy, whose perceptions had received the last finish of an Indian education. He retired hastily, and, approaching that part of the court beneath his master’s window, gave a long, low whistle. The next moment the casement was opened, and Daly’s head appeared.
“What now, Sandy? It is but a quarter past five.”
“It may be so; but there ‘s a horse coming fast up the lower road.”
“Listen again, and try if you hear it still.”
Sandy did so, and was back in a few moments. “He’s crossing the bridge at ‘the elms’ now, and will be here in less than three minutes more.”
“Watch the gate, then – let there be no noise – and come up by the back stairs.” With these words Daly closed the sash, and Sandy returned to his post.
Ere many minutes elapsed, the door of Mr. Daly’s chamber was opened, and Sandy announced Major Hackett of Brough. As Bagenal Daly rose to meet him, an expression of more than ordinary sternness was stamped upon his bold features.
“Your servant informed me that I should find you in readiness to receive me, Mr. Bagenal Daly,” said the Major, a coarse-looking, carbuncled-face man of about forty; “but perhaps the object of my visit would be better accomplished if I could have a few minutes’ conversation with a Captain Forester who is here.”
“If you can show me no sufficient cause to the contrary, sir,” replied Daly, proudly, “I shall act for him on this occasion.”
“I beg pardon,” said Hackett, smiling dubiously. “The business I came upon induced me to suspect that, at your time of life – ”
“Go on, sir, – finish your speech,” said Daly, with’ a fixed and steady stare which, very far from reassuring, seemed only to increase the Major’s confusion.
“After all, Mr. Daly,” resumed he, more hurriedly, “I have nothing whatever to do with that. My duty is to convey a message from Mr. Alexander MacDonough to a gentleman named Forester, here. If you will accept the proposition, and assist in the necessary arrangements – ”
“We are ready, sir, – quite ready. One of the consequences of admitting dubious acquaintances to the intimacy of the table is such a case as the present. I was guilty of one fault in this respect, but I shall show you I was not unprepared for what might follow it.” And as he spoke he threw open the window and called out, “Sandy! awaken Captain Forester. I suppose you are ready, Major Hackett, with your friend?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. MacDonough expects us at Cluan Point.”
“And bridle the horses, Sandy,” continued Daly, speaking from the window.
“I conclude, from what I see,” said Hackett, “that your friend is not only decided against offering an apology for his offence, but desirous of a meeting.”
“Who said so, sir? – or what right have you to suppose that any gentleman of good family and good prospects should indulge such an unnatural caprice as to wish to risk character and life in a quarrel with Mr. Alexander MacDonough?”
“Circumstanced as that gentleman is at this moment, your observations are unsuitable, sir,” replied the Major.
“So they are,” said Daly, hastily; “or, rather, so they would have been, if not provoked by your remark. But, hang me! if I think it signifies much; if it were not that some of our country neighbors were good-natured enough to treat this same Mr. MacDonough on terms of equality before, I ‘d have advised Captain Forester not to mind him. My maxim is, there are always low fellows enough to shoot one another, and never come trespassing among the manors of their betters.”
“I must confess myself unprepared, sir, to hear language like this,” said Hackett, sternly.
“Not a whit more than I feel at seeing myself negotiating a meeting with a man turned out of the army with disgrace,” said Daly, as his face grew purple with anger. “Were it not that I would not risk a hint of dishonor on this young Englishman’s fame, I ‘d never interchange three words with Major Hackett.”
“You shall answer for this, sir, and speedily too, by G – d!” said Hackett, moving towards the door.
Daly burst into an insolent laugh, and said, “Your friend waits us at Cluan?” The other bowed. “Well, within an hour we’ll be there also,” continued the old man; and Hackett retired without adding a syllable.
“We ‘ve about five miles to ride, Captain Forester,” said Daly, as they issued forth beneath the deeply arched gate of the abbey; “but the road is a mountain one, and will not admit of fast riding. A fine old place it is,” said he, as, halting his horse, he bestowed a gaze of admiration on the venerable building, now dimly visible in the gray of the breaking dawn. “The pious founders little dreamt of men leaving its portals on such an errand as ours.” Then, suddenly, with a changed voice, he added, “Men are the same in every age and country; what our ancestors did in steel breastplates, we do now in broadcloth; the law, as they call it, must always be subservient to human passions, and the judge and the jury come too late, since their function is penalty, and not prevention.”
“But surely you do not think the world was better in the times when might was right?” said Forester.
“The system worked better than we suspect,” said the old man, gravely; “there was such a thing as public opinion among men in those days, although its exponents were neither pamphlets nor scurrilous newspapers. The unjust and the cruel were held in reprobation, and the good and the charitable had a fame as pure, although their deeds were not trumpeted aloud or graven on marble. Believe me, sir, we are not by any means so much wiser or better than those who went before us, and even if we were both, we certainly are not happier. This eternal warfare, this hand to hand and foot to foot straggle for rank, apd wealth, and power, that goes on amongst us now, had no existence then, when a man’s destiny was carved out for him, and he was all but powerless to alter or control it.”
“That alone was no small evil,” said Forester, interrupting him; “the humbly born and the lowly were debarred from all the prizes of life, no matter how great their deserts or how shining their abilities.”
“Every rank and class had wherewithal to supply its own requirements,” answered Daly, proudly, “and the menial had more time to indulge affection for his master, when removed from the temptation to rival him. That strong bond of attachment has all but disappeared from amongst us.” As he spoke, he turned in his saddle and called out, “Can we cross the sands now, or is the tide making, Sandy?”
“It’s no just making yet,” said the servant, cautiously; “but when the breakers are so heavy off the Point, it’s aye safer to keep the road.”
“The road be it, then,” muttered Daly to himself; “men never are so chary of life as when about to risk it.”
The observation, although not intended, reached Forester’s ears, and he smiled and said, “Naturally enough, perhaps we ought not to be too exacting with fortune.”
Daly turned suddenly round, and, after a brief pause, asked, “What skill have you with the pistol?”
“When the mark is a shilling I can hit it, three times out of four, at twenty paces; but I never fired at a man.”
“That does make a difference,” said Daly, musingly; “nothing short of an arrant coward could look calmly on a fellow-creature while he pointed a loaded pistol at his heart. A brave man will always have self-possession enough to feel the misery of his position. Had the feat been one of vengeance, and not of love, Tell had never hit the apple, sir. But there, – is not that a fire yonder?”
“Yes, I see a red glare through the mist.”
“There’s a fire on Cluan Point,” said Sandy, riding up to his master’s side; “I trow it’s a signal.”
“Ah! meant to quicken us, perhaps; some fear of being surprised,” said Daly, hastily; “let us move on faster.” And they spurred their horses to a sharp trot as they descended the gentle slope, which, projecting far out to sea, formed the promontory of Cluan.
It was at this moment the glorious panorama of Clue Bay broke forth before Forester’s astonished eyes. He looked with rapture on that spacious sheet of water, which, in all the majesty of the great ocean, came heaving and swelling against the rocky coast, or pouring its flood of foam through the narrow channels between the islands. Of these, the diversity seemed endless, some rich and verdant, teeming with abundance and dotted with cottages; others, less fertile, were covered with sheep or goats; while some, rugged and barren, frowned gloomily amid the watery waste, and one, far out to sea, a bold and lofty cliff, showed a faint twinkling star upon its side, the light for the homeward-bound ships over the Atlantic.
“That’s Clare Island yonder,” said Bagenal Daly, as he observed the direction of Forester’s gaze; “I must show you the great cliff there. What say you if we go to-morrow?”
“To-morrow!” repeated Forester, smiling faintly; “perhaps so.”
CHAPTER VII. A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
When speaking of Gwynne Abbey to our readers, we omitted to mention a very beautiful portion of the structure, – a small building which adjoined the chapel, and went, for some reason or other, by name of the “Sub-Prior’s house.” More recent in date than the other parts of the abbey, it seemed as if here the architect had expended his skill in showing of how much ornament and decoration the Gothic was capable. The stone selected was of that pinkish hue that is seen in many of the cathedrals in the North of England, – a material peculiarly favorable to the labors of the chisel, and when protected from the rude influence of weather possessing qualities of great endurance. This building was surrounded on three sides by a flower-garden, which descended by successive terraces to the edge of a small river pursuing its course to the sea, into which it emerged about a mile distant. A very unmindful observer would have been struck at once with the aspect of greater care and cultivation bestowed here than on other portions of the abbey grounds. The trim and orderly appearance of everything, from the flowering shrubs that mingled their blossoms with the rich tracery of the architraves, to the bright gravel of the walks, denoted attention, while flowers of rare beauty, and plants of foreign growth, were seen blending their odors with the wild heaths that shed their perfume from the mountain side. The brilliant beauty of the spot was, indeed, heightened by the wild and rugged grandeur of the scene, like a diamond glittering brighter amid the dark dross of the mine.
On the side nearest to the bay, and with a view extending to the far-off Island of Achill, an apartment opened by three large windows, the upper compartments of which exhibited armorial bearings in stained glass. If the view without presented a scene of the most grand and varied loveliness, within this chamber art seemed to have vied in presenting objects the most strange and beautiful. It was furnished in all the gorgeous taste of the time of Louis XV. The ceiling, a deep mass of carving relieved by gold, presented masses of fruit and flowers fantastically interwoven, and hanging, as though suspended, above the head. The walls were covered with cabinet pictures of great price, the very frames objects of wonder and admiration. Large vases of Dresden and Sèvres porcelain stood on brackets of massive silver, and one great cabinet of ebony, inlaid with gold and tortoiseshell, displayed an inscription that showed it was a present from the great Louis XIV. himself.
It is not, however, to linger over the objects of rare and costly excellence which here abounded that we have conducted our reader to this chamber, and whither we would beg of him to accompany us about two hours later than the events we have narrated in our last chapter.
At a breakfast-table whose equipage was, in price and elegance, in exact keeping with all around, were two ladies. The elder of the two was advanced in life, and although her hair was perfectly white, her regular features and finely pencilled brow bore, even yet, great marks of beauty. If the expression of the face was haughty, it was so without anything of severity; it was a look of pride that denoted rather a conscious sense of position and its duties, than any selfish assumption of personal importance. Habitual delicacy of health contributed to strengthen this expression, lending to it a character which, to an incautious observer, might convey the notion of weariness or ennui. The tones of her voice were low and measured, and perfectly devoid of any peculiar accent. If to those more familiar with the cordial familiarity of Irish manner, Lady Eleanor Darcy might seem cold and frigid, such as knew more of the world at large, and were more conversant with the general habits of society, could detect, through all the seeming impassive-ness of her air, that desire to please, that anxiety to make a favorable impression, which marked the character of one who in early life had been the beauty of her circle. Even now, as she lay back indolently within the deep recess of a cushioned chair, her attitude evinced a gracefulness and ease which long habit seemed to have identified with her nature.
At the opposite side of the table, and busy in the preparation of the breakfast, stood a young girl whose age could not have been more than eighteen. So striking was the resemblance between them that the least acute of physiognomists must have pronounced her the daughter. She was dressed with remarkable simplicity; but not all the absence of ornament could detract from the first impression her appearance conveyed, that she was one of birth and station. Her beauty was of that character which, although attributed peculiarly to the Celtic race, seems strangely enough to present its most striking examples among the Anglo-Irish. Rich auburn hair, the color varying from dark brown to a deep golden hue as the light falls more or less strongly on it, was braided over a brow of classic beauty; her eyes were of blue, that deep color which, in speaking or in moments of excitement, looks like dark hazel or even black; these were fringed with long dark lashes which habitually hung heavily over the eyes, giving them a character of sleepy, almost indolent, beauty. The rest of her features, in unison with these, were of that Greek mould which our historians attribute to the Phoenician origin of our people, – a character by no means rare to be seen to this day among the peasantry. If the mild and gentle indications of womanly delicacy were told in every lineament of her face, there were traits of decision and determination when she spoke not less evident. From her mother she inherited the placid tenderness of English manner, while from her father her nature imbibed the joyous animation and buoyant light-heartedness of the Irish character.
“And there are but two letters, Mamma,” said Helen, “in the bag this morning?”
“But two,” said Lady Eleanor; “one of them from Lionel.”
“Oh, from Lionel!” cried the young girl, eagerly; “let me see it.”
“Read this first,” said Lady Eleanor, as she handed across the table a letter bearing a large seal impressed with an Earl’s coronet; “if I mistake not very much, Helen, that’s my cousin Lord Netherby’s writing; but what eventful circumstance could have caused his affectionate remembrance of me, after something nigh twenty years’ silence, is beyond my power of divination.”
Helen Darcy well knew that the theme on which her mother now touched was the sorest subject on her mind, and, however anxiously she might, under other circumstances, have pressed for a sight of her brother’s letter, she controlled all appearance of the wish, and opened the other without speaking.
“It is dated from Carlton House, Mamma, the 2d – ”
“He is in waiting, I suppose,” said Lady Eleanor, calmly; and Helen began.
“‘My dear cousin – ‘”
“Ah! so he remembers the relationship at least,” muttered the old lady to herself.
“‘My dear cousin, it would be a sad abuse of the small space a letter affords, to inquire into the cause of our long silence; faults on both sides might explain much of it. I was never a brilliant correspondent, you were always an indolent one; if I wrote stupid letters, you sent me very brief answers; and if you at last grew weary of giving gold for brass, I can scarcely reproach you for stopping the exchange. Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more – ‘”
“This is intolerable,” broke in Lady Eleanor; “he never replied to the letter in which I asked him to be your godfather.”
“‘Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more I must throw myself on your mercy. In the selfishness of age, – don’t forget, my dear coz, I am eleven years your senior, – in the selfishness of age – ‘”
The old lady smiled dubiously at these words, and Helen read on: —
“‘I desire to draw closer around me those ties of kindred and family which, however we may affect to think lightly of, all our experiences in life tend to strengthen and support. Yes, my dear Eleanor, we are the only two remaining of all those light-hearted boys and bright-eyed girls that once played upon the terrace at Netherby. Poor Harry, your old sweetheart at Eton, fell at Mysore. Dudley, with ability for anything, would not wait patiently for the crowning honors of his career, took a judgeship in Madras, and he, too, sleeps in the land of the stranger! And our sweet Catherine! your only rival amongst us, how short-lived was her triumph! – for so the world called her marriage with the Margrave: she died of a broken heart at two-and-twenty! I know not why I have called up these sad memories, except it be in the hope that, as desolation deals heavily around us, we may draw more closely to each other.’”
Lady Eleanor concealed her face with her handkerchief, and Helen, who had gradually dropped her voice as she read, stopped altogether at these words.
“Read on, dear,” said the old lady, in a tone whose firmness was slightly shaken.
“‘A heart more worldly than yours, my dear Eleanor, would exclaim that the parti was unequal, – that I, grown old and childless, with few friends left, and no ambitions to strive for, stood in far more need of your affectionate regard, than you, blessed with every tie to existence, did of mine; and the verdict would be a just one, for, by the law of that Nemesis we all feel more or less, even in this world, you, whom we deemed rash and imprudent, have alone amongst us secured the prize of that happiness we each sought by such different paths.’”
A heavy sigh that broke from her mother made Helen cease reading, but at a motion of her hand she resumed: “‘For all our sakes, then, my dear cousin, only remember so much of the past as brings back pleasant memories. Make my peace with your kind-hearted husband. If I can forgive him all the pangs of jealousy he inflicted on me, he may well pardon any slight transgressions on my part, and Lionel, too. – But, first, tell me how have I offended my young kinsman? I have twice endeavored to make his acquaintance, but in vain. Two very cold and chilling answers to my invitations to Netherby are all I have been able to obtain from him: the first was a plea of duty, which I could easily have arranged; but the second note was too plain to be mistaken: “I’ll none of you,” was the tone of every line of it. But I will not be so easily repulsed: I am determined to know him, and, more still, determined that he shall know me. If you knew, my dear Eleanor, how proudly my heart beat at hearing his Royal Highness speak of him! – he had seen him at Hounslow at a review. It was a slight incident, but I am certain your son never told it, and so I must. Lionel, in passing with his company, forgot to lower the regimental flag before the Prince, on which Lord Maxwell, the colonel, the most passionate man in England, rode up, and said something in an angry tone. “I beg pardon, Colonel,” said the Prince, “if I interfere with the details of duty, but I have remarked that young officer before, and, trust me, he ‘ll come off ‘with flying colors,’ on more occasions than the present.” The mot was slight, but the flattery was perfect; indeed, there is not another man in the kingdom can compete with his Royal Highness on this ground. Fascination is the only word that can express the charm of his manner. To bring Lionel more particularly under the Prince’s notice, has long been a favorite scheme of mine; and I may say, without arrogance, that my opportunities are not inferior to most men’s in this respect; I am an old courtier now, – no small boast for one who still retains his share of favor. If the son have any of his father’s gifts, his success with the Prince is certain. The manner of the highly-bred Irish gentleman has been already pronounced by his Royal Highness as the type of what manner should be, and, with your assistance, I have little doubt of seeing Lionel appointed on the staff, here.
“‘Now, I must hazard my reputation a little, and ask what is the name of your second boy, and what is he doing?’”
Helen burst into a fit of laughter at these words, nor could Lady Eleanor’s chagrin prevent her joining in the emotion.
“This, he shall certainly have an answer to,” said the old lady, recovering her self-possession and her pride; “he shall hear that my second boy is called Helen.”
“After all, Mamma, is it not very kind of him to remember even so much?”
“I remember even more, Helen,” interrupted Lady Eleanor; “and no great kindness in the act either.”
“Shall I read all the possible and impossible chances of pushing my fortune in the Army or Navy, Mamma?” said Helen, archly, “for I see that his Lordship is most profuse in offers for my advancement, – nay, if I have a clerical vocation, here is a living actually waiting my acceptance.”
“Let us rather look for something that may explain the riddle, my dear,” said Lady Eleanor, taking the letter in her own hand, while she lightly skimmed over the last page. “No, I can find no clew to it here – Stay, what have we in this corner? – ‘Politically speaking, there is no news here; indeed, in that respect, your side of the Channel engrosses all the interest; the great question of the “Union” still occupies all attention. Virtually, we know the ministry have the majority, but there will be still a very respectable fight, to amuse the world withal. How does the Knight vote? With us, I hope and trust, for although I may tell you, in confidence, the result is certain, his support would be very grateful to the Government, and, while he himself can afford to smile at ministerial flatteries, Lionel is a young fellow whom rapid promotion would well become, and who would speedily distinguish himself, if the occasion were favorable. At all events, let the Knight not vote against the minister; this would be a crime never to be forgiven, and personally offensive to his Royal Highness; and I trust Darcy is too good a sportsman to prefer riding the last horse, even should he not wish to mount the winner.’”
Here the letter concluded, amid protestations of regard most affectionately worded, and warm wishes for a renewal of intimacy, only to cease with life. Across this was written, with a different ink, and in a hurried hand: “I have this moment seen Mr. Pitt; the Knight’s vote is very important. He may make any terms he pleases, – Pitt spoke of a peerage; but I suppose that would not be thought advisable. Let me hear your opinion. Lionel has been gazetted to a company this morning, en attendant better.”
Lady Eleanor, who had read these last lines to herself, here laid down the letter without speaking, while the slight flush of her cheek and the increased brilliancy of her eyes showed that her feelings were deeply and powerfully excited.
“Well, Mamma, have you found the solution to this mystery?” said Helen, as she gazed with affectionate solicitude on her mother’s features.
“How unchangeable a thing is nature!” muttered Lady Eleanor, unconsciously, aloud; “that boy was a crafty tuft-hunter at Eton.”
“Of whom are you speaking, Mamma?”
“Lord Netherby, my dear, who would seem to have cultivated his natural gift with great success; but,” added she, after a pause, and in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “I am scarcely as easy a dupe now as when he persuaded me to take ash-berries in exchange for cherries. Let us hear what Lionel says.”
“As usual, Mamma, four lines in each page, and the last a blank,” said Helen, laughing: – “‘My dear mother, what blandishments have you been throwing over the War Office? They have just given me my company, which, by the ordinary rules of the service, I had no pretension to hope for, these five years to come! Our colonel, too, a perfect Tartar, overwhelms me with civilities, and promises me a leave of absence on the first vacancy. Have you seen Forester, of ours? and how do you like him? A little cold or so at first, but you will not dislike that. His riding will please my father. Get him to sing, if you can; his taste and voice are both first-rate. Your worthy relative, Lord Netherby, bores me with invitations to his houses, town and country. I say “No;” but he won’t be denied. Was he not rude, or indifferent, or something or other, once upon a time, to the ancient house of Darcy? Give me the consigne, I pray you, for I hear he has the best cock-shooting in England; and let my virtue, if possible, be rewarded by a little indulgence. Tell Helen they are all giving up powder here, and wear their hair as she does; but not one of them half as good-looking.
Yours, as ever,
Lionel Darcy.
Hounslow, January 1st, 1800’”
“Is that Sullivan, there?” said Lady Eleanor, as her daughter finished the reading of this brief epistle. “What does he mean by staring so at the window? The old man seems to have lost his senses!”
“Ochone arie! ochone! ochone!” cried Tate, wringing his hands with the gestures of violent grief, as he moved up and down before the windows.
“What has happened, Tate?” said Helen, as she threw open the sash to address him.
“Ochone! he’s kilt – he’s murthered – cut down like a daisy in a May morning. And he, the iligant, fine young man!”
“Whom do you mean? Speak plainly, Sullivan,” said the commanding voice of Lady Eleanor. “What is it?”
“‘Tis the young officer from England, my lady, that came down the night before last to see the master. Oh, murther! murther! if his honor was here, the sorra bit of this grief we ‘d have to-day – ochone!”
“Well, go on,” said his mistress, sternly.
“And if he came down for joy, ‘t is sorrow he supped for it,’ the young crayture! They soon finished him.”
“Once for all, sir, speak out plainly, and say what has occurred.”
“It’s Mr. Bagenal Daly done it all, my lady, – divil a one of me cares who hears me say it. He’s a cruel man, ould as he is. He made him fight a duel, the darling young man, – the ‘moral’ of Master Lionel himself; and now he’s kilt – ochone! ochone!”
“Can this dreadful story be true, Helen?” said Lady Eleanor, as the faint color left her features. “Call Margaret; or, stay – Sullivan, is Mr. Daly here?”
“That he is, never fear him. He’s looking at his morning’s work – he’s in the room where they carried the corpse; and the fine corpse it is.”
“Go tell Mr. Daly that Lady Eleanor desires to see him at once.”
“Go, and lose no time, Tate,” said Helen, as, almost fainting with terror, she half pushed the old man on his errand.
The mother and daughter sat silently gazing on each other for several minutes, terror and dismay depicted in the face of each, nor were they conscious of the lapse of time, when the door opening presented Mr. Bagenal Daly before them. He was dressed in his usual suit of dark brown, and with all his accustomed neatness. His long cravat, which, edged with deep lace, hung negligently over his waistcoat, was spotless in color and accurate in every fold, while his massive features were devoid of the slightest signs of emotion or excitement.