To preserve the continuity of my story, and not to fatigue the reader
with the journals of my comings and goings from Ormsby Villa to
Glenthorn Castle, and from Glenthorn Castle to Ormsby Villa, I must here
relate the observations I made, and the incidents that occurred, during
various visits at Sir Harry Ormsby’s in the course of the summer.
After the incident of the birds and cage, my sagacity was for some time
at fault. I could not perceive any further signs of intelligence between
the parties: on the contrary, all communication seemed abruptly to
cease. As I was not well versed in such affairs, this quieted my
suspicions, and I began to think that I had been entirely mistaken.
Cecil Devereux spent his days shut up in his own apartment, immersed,
as far as I could understand, in the study of the Persian language.
He talked to me of nothing but his hopes of an appointment which Lord
O’Toole had promised to procure for him in India. When he was not
studying, he was botanizing or _mineralogizing_ with O’Toole’s chaplain.
I did not envy him his new mode of life. Lady Geraldine took no notice
of it. When they did meet, which happened as seldom as possible, there
was an air of haughty displeasure on her part; on his, steady and
apparently calm respect and self-satisfaction. Her spirits were
exuberant, but variable; and, at times, evidently forced: his were not
high, but even and certain. Towards me, her ladyship’s manners were free
from coquetry, yet politely gratifying, as she marked, by the sort of
conversation she addressed to me, her opinion that I was superior in
ability and capability to what she had at first thought me, and to what
I had always thought myself.
Mr. Devereux, though with more effort, treated me with distinction, and
showed a constant desire to cultivate my friendship. On every occasion
he endeavoured to raise my opinion of myself: to give me ambition and
courage to cultivate my mind. Once, when I was arguing in favour of
natural genius, and saying that I thought no cultivation could make the
abilities of one man equal to those of another, he, without seeming
to perceive that I was apologizing at once for my own indolence and my
intellectual inferiority, answered in general terms, “It is difficult to
judge what are the natural powers of the mind, they appear so different
in different circumstances. You can no more judge of a mind in ignorance
than of a plant in darkness. A philosophical friend told me, that he
once thought he had discovered a new and strange plant growing in a
mine. It was common sage; but so degenerated and altered, that he
could not know it: he planted it in the open air and in the light, and
gradually it resumed its natural appearance and character.”
Mr. Devereux excited, without fatiguing, my mind by his conversation;
and I was not yet sufficiently in love to be seriously jealous. I was
resolved, however, to sound him upon the subject of Lady Geraldine, I
waited for a good opportunity: at length, as we were looking together
over the prints of Bürger’s Lenore, he led to the sort of conversation
that I desired, by telling me an anecdote relative to the poet, which he
had lately heard from a German baron.
Burger was charmed with a sonnet, which an unknown fair one addressed to
him, in praise of his poetry; he replied in equal strains; and they
went on flattering one another, till both believed themselves in love:
without ever having met, they determined to marry: they at length met,
and married: they quarrelled and parted: in other words, the gentleman
was terribly disappointed in his unknown mistress; and she consoled
herself by running away from him with another lover.
The imprudence of this poetic couple led us to reflections on love
and marriage in general. Keeping far away from all allusion to Lady
Geraldine, I rallied Mr. Devereux about the fair Clementina, who was
evidently a romantic admirer of his.
“Who, except Cupid, would barter his liberty for a butterfly?” said he;
“and Cupid was a child. Men now-a-days are grown too wise to enslave
themselves for women. Love occupies a vast space in a woman’s thoughts,
but fills a small portion in a man’s life. Women are told, that ‘The
great, th’ important business of their life, is love;’ but men know that
they are born for something better than to sing mournful ditties to a
mistress’s eyebrow. As to marriage, what a serious, terrible thing! Some
quaint old author says, that man is of too smooth and oily a nature to
climb up to heaven, if, to make him less slippery, there be not added to
his composition the vinegar of marriage. This may be; but I will keep as
long as possible from the vinegar.”
“Really, Devereux,” said I, smiling, “you talk so like a cynic and
an old bachelor, and you look so little like either, that it is quite
ridiculous.”
“A man must be ridiculous sometimes,” said he, “and bear to be thought
so. No man ever distinguished himself, who could not bear to be laughed
at.”
Mr. Devereux left the room singing,
“No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
Ambition, I said, will soon cure me of love.”
I was uncertain what to think of all this. I inclined to believe that
ambition was his ruling passion, notwithstanding the description of that
Hell which he showed me in Spenser. His conduct to his patron-lords,
by which a surer judgment of his character could be formed than by his
professions, was not, however, that of a man merely intent upon rising
in the world.
I remember once hearing Lord O’Toole attack a friend of this
gentleman’s, calling him, in a certain tone, _a philosopher._ Mr.
Devereux replied, “that he could not consider that as a term of
reproach; that where a false or pretended philosopher was meant, some
other name should be used, equivalent to the Italian term of reproach,
_filosofastro._”
Lord O’Toole would by no means admit of this Italianism: he would make
no distinctions: he deemed philosophers altogether a race of beings
dangerous and inimical to states.
“For states read statesmen,” said Devereux, who persisted in the
vindication of his friend till Lord O’Toole grew pale with anger, while
Captain Andrews smiled with ineffable contempt at the political _bévue_:
Lady Geraldine glowed with generous indignation.
Afterwards, in speaking to me of Lord O’Toole, Devereux said, “His
lordship’s classification of men is as contracted as the savage’s
classification of animals: he divides mankind into two classes, knaves
and fools; and when he meets with an honest man, he does not know what
to make of him.”
My esteem for Mr. Devereux was much increased by my daily observations
upon his conduct: towards Lady Geraldine, I thought it particularly
honourable: when her displeasure evidently merged in esteem, when
her manners again became most winning and attractive, his continued
uniformly the same; never passing the bounds of friendly respect, or
swerving, in the slightest degree, from the line of conduct which he had
laid down for himself. I thought I now understood him perfectly. That he
liked Lady Geraldine I could scarcely doubt; but I saw that he refrained
from aiming at the prize which he knew he ought not to obtain; that he
perceived her ladyship’s favourable disposition towards him, yet denied
himself not only the gratification of his vanity, but the exquisite
pleasure of conversing with her, lest he should stand in the way of her
happier prospects. He frequently spoke to me of her ladyship in terms of
the warmest approbation. He said, that all the world saw and admired her
talents and beauty, but that he had had opportunities, as a relation,
of studying her domestic life. “With all her vivacity, she has a
heart formed for tenderness,” said he; “a high sense of duty, the best
security for a woman’s conduct; and in generosity and magnanimity, I
never found her superior in either sex. In short, I never saw any woman
whose temper and disposition were more likely to make a man of sense and
feeling supremely happy.”
I could not forbear smiling, and asking Cecil Devereux how all
this accorded with his late professions of hatred to marriage. “My
professions were sincere,” said he. “It would be misery to me to marry
any inferior woman, and I am not in circumstances to marry as I could
wish. I could not think of Lady Geraldine without a breach of trust,
of which your lordship, I hope, cannot suspect me. Her mother places
confidence in me. I am not only a relation, but treated as a friend
of the family. I am not in love with Lady Geraldine. I admire, esteem,
respect her ladyship; and I wish to see her united to a man, if such a
man there be, who may deserve her. We understand one another now.
Your lordship will have the goodness never more to speak to me on this
subject.” He spoke with much emotion, but with steadiness, and left me
penetrated with feelings that were entirely new to me.
Much as I admired his conduct, I was yet undecided as to my own: my
aversion to a second marriage was not yet conquered:--I was amused, I
was captivated by Lady Geraldine; but I could not bring myself to think
of making a distinct proposal. Captain Andrews himself was not more
afraid of being committed than I was upon this tender subject. To gain
time, I now thought it necessary to verify all the praises Mr. Devereux
had bestowed on her ladyship. Magnanimity was a word that particularly
struck my ear as extraordinary when applied to a female. However,
by attending carefully to this lady, I thought I discovered what Mr.
Devereux meant. Lady Geraldine was superior to manoeuvring little arts
and petty stratagems to attract attention: she would not stoop, even to
conquer. From gentlemen she seemed to expect attention as her right, as
the right of her sex; not to beg or accept of it as a favour: if it were
not paid, she deemed the gentleman degraded, not herself. Far from
being mortified by any preference shown to other ladies, her countenance
betrayed only a sarcastic sort of pity for the bad taste of the men,
or an absolute indifference and look of haughty absence. I saw that
she beheld with disdain the paltry competitions of the young ladies her
companions: as her companions, indeed, she hardly seemed to consider
them; she tolerated their foibles, forgave their envy, and never exerted
any superiority, except to show her contempt of vice and meanness. To
be in any degree excepted from the common herd; to be in any degree
distinguished by a lady so proud, and with so many good reasons to
be proud, was flattering to my self-love. She gave me no direct
encouragement; but I never advanced far enough to require encouragement,
much less to justify repulse. Sometimes I observed, or I fancied, that
she treated me with more favour when Mr. Devereux was present than
at other times; perhaps--for she was a woman, not an angel--to pique
Devereux, and try if she could move him from the settled purpose of his
soul. He bore it all with surprising constancy: his spirits, however,
and his health, began visibly to decline.
“If I do not intrude too much on your valuable time, Mr. Devereux,” said
her ladyship to him one evening, in her most attractive manner, “may
I beg you to read to us some of these beautiful poems of Sir William
Jones?”
There was a seat beside her ladyship on the sofa: the book was held out
by the finest arm in the world.
“Nay,” said Lady Geraldine, “do not look so respectfully miserable;
if you have any other engagements, you have only to say so: or if you
cannot speak you may bow: a bow, you know, is an answer to every thing.
And here is my Lord Glenthorn ready to supply your place: pray, do not
let me detain you prisoner. You shall not a second time say, _I can’t
get out_.”
Devereux made no further effort to escape, but took the book and his
dangerous seat. He remained with us, contrary to his custom, the whole
evening. Afterwards, as if he felt that some apology was necessary to me
for the pleasure in which he had indulged himself, “Perhaps, my lord,”
said he, “another man in my situation, and with my feelings, would think
it necessary to retreat, and prudent to secure his safety by flight;
but flight is unworthy of him who can combat and conquer: the man who
is sure of himself does not skulk away to avoid danger, but advances to
meet it, armed secure in honesty.”
This proud and rash security in his own courage, strength of mind, and
integrity, was the only fault of Cecil Devereux. He never prayed not
to be led into temptation, he thought himself so sure of avoiding evil.
Unconscious of his danger, even though his disease was at its height, he
now braved it most imprudently: he was certain that he should never
pass the bounds of friendship; he had proved this to himself, and
was satisfied: he told me that he could with indifference, nay, with
pleasure, see Lady Geraldine mine. In the mean time, upon the same
principle that he deemed flight inglorious, he was proud to expose
himself to the full force of Love’s artillery. He was with us now every
day, and almost all day, and Lady Geraldine was more charming than
ever. The week was fixed for her departure. Still I could not decide.
I understood that her ladyship would pass the ensuing winter in Dublin,
where she would probably meet with new adorers; and even if Mr. Devereux
should not succeed, some adventurous knight might win and wear the
prize. This was an alarming thought. It almost decided me to hazard
the fatal declaration; but then I recollected that I might follow her
ladyship to town the next winter, and that if the impression did not, as
might be hoped, wear off during the intervening autumn, it would be time
enough to _commit_ myself when I should meet my fair one in Dublin. This
was at last my fixed resolution. Respited from the agonies of doubt,
I now waited very tranquilly for that moment to which most lovers look
forward with horror, the moment of separation. I was sensible that I had
accustomed myself to think about this lady so much, that I had gradually
identified my existence with hers, and I thus found my _spirit of
animation_ much increased. I dreaded the departure of Lady Geraldine
less than the return of ennui.
In this frame of mind I was walking one morning in the pleasure grounds
with Lady Geraldine, when a slight accident made me act in direct
contradiction to all my resolutions, and, I think, inconsistently with
my character. But such is the nature of man! and I was doomed to make
a fool of myself, even in the very temple of Minerva. Among the various
ornamental buildings in the grounds at Ormsby Villa, there was a temple
dedicated to this goddess, from which issued a troop of hoyden young
ladies, headed by the widow O’Connor and Lady Kilrush, all calling to us
to come and look at some charming discovery which they had just made in
the temple of Minerva. Thither we proceeded, accompanied by the merry
troop. We found in the temple only a poetical inscription of Lady
Kilrush’s, pompously engraved on a fine marble tablet. We read the lines
with all the attention usually paid to a lady’s poetry in the presence
of the poetess. Lady Geraldine and I turned to pay some compliments on
the performance, when we found that Lady Kilrush and all her companions
were gone.
“Gone! all gone!” said Lady Geraldine; “and there they are, making their
way very fast down to the temple of Folly! Lady Kilrush, you know, is
so ba-a-ashful, she could not possibly stay to receive _nos hommages_. I
love to laugh at affectation. Call them back, do, my lord, and you shall
see the _fair author_ go through all the evolutions of mock humility,
and end by yielding quietly to the notion that she is the tenth Muse.
But run, my lord, or they will be out of our reach.”
I never was seen to run on any occasion; but to obey Lady Geraldine I
walked as fast as I could to the door, and, to my surprise, found it
fastened.
“Locked, I declare! Some of the witty tricks of the widow O’Connor, or
the hoyden Miss Callwells!”
“How I hate hoydens!” cried Lady Geraldine: “but let us take patience;
they will be back presently. If young ladies must perform practical
jokes, because quizzing is the fashion, I wish they would devise
something new. This locking-up is so stale a jest. To be sure it has
lately to boast the authority of high rank in successful practice:
but these bungling imitators never distinguish between cases the most
dissimilar imaginable. Silly creatures! We have only to be wise and
patient.”
Her ladyship sat down to re-peruse the tablet. I never saw her look so
beautiful.--The dignified composure of her manner charmed me; it was so
unlike the paltry affectation of some of the fashionable ladies by whom
I had been disgusted. I recollected the precedent to which she alluded.
I recollected that the locking-up ended in matrimony; and as Lady
Geraldine made some remarks upon the verses, I suppose my answers showed
my absence of mind.
“Why so grave, my lord? why so absent? I assure you I do not suspect
your lordship of having any hand in this vulgar manoeuvre. I acquit you
honourably; therefore you need not stand any longer like a criminal.”
What decided me at this instant I cannot positively tell: whether it
was the awkwardness of my own situation, or the grace of her ladyship’s
manner: but all my prudential arrangements were forgotten, all my doubts
vanished. Before I knew that the words passed my lips, I replied, “That
her ladyship did me justice by such an acquittal; but that though I had
no part in the contrivance, yet I felt irresistibly impelled to avail
myself of the opportunity it afforded of declaring my real sentiments.”
I was at her ladyship’s feet, and making very serious love, before I
knew where I was. In what words my long-delayed declaration was made, I
cannot recollect, but I well remember Lady Geraldine’s answer.
“My lord, I assure you that you do not know what you are saying: you
do not know what you are doing. This is all a mistake, as you will find
half an hour hence. I will not be so cruelly vain as to suppose you
serious.”
“Not serious! no man ever was more serious.”
“No, no--No, no, no.”
I swore, of course, most fervently.
“Oh! rise, rise, I beseech you, my lord, and don’t look so like a hero;
though you have done an heroical action, I grant. How you ever brought
yourself to it, I cannot imagine. But now, for your comfort, you
are safe--Vous voilà quitte pour la peur! Do not, however, let this
encourage you to venture again in the same foolish manner. I know but
few, very few young ladies to whom Lord Glenthorn could offer himself
with any chance or reasonable hope of being refused. So take warning:
never again expect to meet with such another as my whimsical self.”
“Never, never can I expect to meet with any thing resembling your
charming self,” cried I. This was a new text for a lover’s rhapsody. It
is not necessary, and might not be _generally_ interesting to repeat all
the ridiculous things I said, even if I could remember them.
Lady Geraldine listened to me, and then very calmly replied, “Granting
you believe all that you are saying at this minute, which I must grant
from common gratitude, and still more common vanity; nevertheless,
permit me to assure you, my lord, that this is not love; it is only a
fancy--only the nettle-rash, not the plague. You will not die this time.
I will insure your life. So now jump out of the window as fast as
you can, and unlock the door--you need not be afraid of breaking your
neck--you know your life is insured. Come, take the lover’s leap, and
get rid of your passion at once.”
I grew angry.
“Only a cloud,” said Lady Geraldine--“it will blow over.”
I became more passionate--I did not know the force of my own feelings,
till they met with an obstacle; they suddenly rose to a surprising
height.
“Now, my lord,” cried Lady Geraldine with a tone and look of comic
vexation, “this is really the most provoking thing imaginable; you have
no idea how you distress me, nor of what exquisite pleasures you deprive
me--all the pleasures of coquetry; legitimate pleasures, in certain
circumstances, as I am instructed to think them by one of the first
moral authorities. There is a case--I quote from memory, my lord; for
my memory, like that of most other people, on subjects where I am deeply
interested, is tolerably tenacious--there is a case, says the best of
fathers, in his Legacy to the best of daughters--there is a case, where
a woman may coquet justifiably to the utmost verge which her conscience
will allow. It is where a gentleman purposely declines making his
addresses, till such time as he thinks himself perfectly sure of her
consent. Now, my lord, if you had had the goodness to do so, I might
have made this delightful case my own; and what charming latitude I
might have allowed my conscience! But now, alas! it is all over, and I
must be as frank as you have been, under pain of forfeiting what I value
more even than admiration--my own good opinion.”
She paused, and was silent for a few moments; then suddenly changing
her manner, she exclaimed, in a serious, energetic tone, “Yes, I must, I
will be sincere; let it cost me what it may. I will be sincere. My lord,
I never can be yours. My lord, you will believe me, even from the effort
with which I speak:” her voice softened, and her face suffused with
crimson, as she spoke. “I love another--my heart is no longer in my own
possession; whether it will ever be in my power, consistently with my
duty and his principles, to be united with the man of my choice, is
doubtful--more than doubtful--but this is certain, that with such a
prepossession, such a conviction in my mind, I never could nor ought to
think of marrying any other person.”
I pleaded, that however deserving of her preference the object of her
favour might be, yet that if there were, as her own prudence seemed to
suggest, obstacles, rendering the probability of her union with that
person more than doubtful, it might be possible that her superior sense
and strength of mind, joined to the persevering affection of another
lover, who would spare no exertions to render himself worthy of her,
might, perhaps, in time--
“No, no,” said she, interrupting me; “do not deceive yourself. I will
not deceive you. I give you no hopes that my sentiments may change. I
know my own mind--it will not change. My attachment is founded on the
firm basis of esteem; my affection has grown from the intimate knowledge
of the principles and conduct of the man I love. No other man, let his
merits be what they may, could have these advantages in my opinion.
And when I say that the probability of our being united is more than
doubtful, I do not mean to deny that I have distant hope that change of
circumstances might render love and duty compatible. Without hope I know
love cannot long exist. You see I do not talk romantic nonsense to you.
All that you say of prudence, and time, and the effect of the attentions
of another admirer, would be perfectly just and applicable, if my
attachment were a fancy of yesterday--if it were a mere young lady’s
commonplace first love; but I am not a _very_ young lady, nor is this,
though a first love, commonplace. I do not, you see, in the usual style,
tell you that the man I adore is an angel, and that no created form ever
did, or ever can, resemble this _angel in green and gold_; but, on the
contrary, do justice to your lordship’s merit: and believing, as I do,
that you are capable of a real love; still more, believing that such an
attachment would rouse you to exertion, and bring to life and light
a surprising number of good qualities; yet I should deceive you
unpardonably, fatally for my own peace of mind, if not for yours, were
I not frankly and decidedly to assure you, that I never could reward or
return your affection. My attachment to--I trust entirely where I trust
at all--my attachment to Mr. Devereux is for life.”
“He deserves it--deserves it all,” cried I, struggling for utterance;
“that is as much as a rival can say.”
“Not more than I expected from you, my lord.”
“But your ladyship says there is a hope of duty and love being
compatible. _Would_ Lady Kildangan _ever_ consent?”
She looked much disturbed.
“No, certainly; not unless--Lord O’Toole has promised--not that I depend
on courtiers’ promises--but Lord O’Toole is a relation of ours, and
he has promised to obtain an appointment abroad, in India, for Mr.
Devereux. If that were done, he might appear of more consequence in
the eyes of the world. My mother might then, perhaps, be propitious. My
lord, I give you the strongest proof of my esteem, by speaking with such
openness. I have had the honour of your lordship’s acquaintance only a
few months; but without complimenting my own penetration, I may securely
trust to the judgment of Mr. Devereux, and his example has taught me
to feel confidence in your lordship. Your conduct now will, I trust,
justify my good opinion, by your secrecy; and by desisting from useless
pursuit you will entitle yourself to my esteem and gratitude. These, I
presume, you will think worth securing.”
My soul was so completely touched, that I could not articulate.
“Mr. Devereux is right--I see, my lord, that you have a soul that can be
touched.”
“Kissing hands, I protest!” exclaimed a shrill voice at the window. We
turned, and saw Mrs. O’Connor and a group of tittering faces peeping
in. “Kissing hands, after a good hour’s tête-à-tête! Oh, pray, Lady
Kildangan, make haste here,” continued Mrs. O’Connor; “make haste,
before Lady Geraldine’s blushes are over.”
“Were you ever detected in the crime of blushing, in your life, Mrs.
O’Connor?” said I.
“I never was found out locked up with so fine a gentleman,” replied Mrs.
O’Connor.
“Then it hurts your conscience only to be found out, like all the rest
of the vast family of the Surfaces,” said Lady Geraldine, resuming her
spirit.
“Found out!--Locked up!--bless me! bless me! What is all this?” cried
Lady Kildangan, puffing up the hill. “For shame! young ladies; for
shame!” continued her ladyship, with a decent suppression of her
satisfaction, when she saw, or thought she saw, how matters stood.
“Unlock the door, pray. Don’t be vexed, my Geraldine. Fie! fie! Mrs.
O’Connor. But quizzing is now so fashionable--nobody can be angry with
any body. My Geraldine, consider we are all friends.”
The door unlocked, and as we were going out, Lady Geraldine whispered
to me--“For mercy’s sake, my lord, don’t break my poor mother’s heart!
Never let her know that a coronet has been within my grasp, and that I
have not clutched it.”
Lady Kildangan, who thought that all was now approaching that happy
termination she so devoutly wished, was so full of her own happy
presentiments, that it was impossible for me to undeceive her ladyship.
Even when I announced before her, to Sir Harry Ormsby, that I was
obliged to return home immediately, on particular business, she was,
I am sure, persuaded that I was going to prepare matters for
marriage-settlements. When I mounted my horse, Mr. Devereux pressed
through a crowd assembled on the steps at the hall-door, and offered me
his hand, with a look and manner that seemed to say--Have you sufficient
generosity to be still my friend? “I know the value of your friendship,
Mr. Devereux,” said I, “and I hope to deserve it better every year that
I live.”
For the effort which it cost me to say this I was rewarded. Lady
Geraldine, who had retired behind her companions, at this instant
approached with an air of mingled grace and dignity, bowed her head, and
gave me a smile of grateful approbation. This is the last image left on
my mind, the last look of the charming Geraldine--I never saw her again.
After I got home I did not shave for two days, and scarcely ever spoke.
I should have taken to my bed to avoid seeing any human creature; but
I knew that if I declared myself ill, no power would keep my old nurse
Ellinor from coming to moan over me; and I was not in a humour to listen
to stories of the Irish Black Beard, or the ghost of King O’Donoghoe;
nor could I, however troublesome, have repulsed the simplicity of
her affection. Instead of going to bed, therefore, I continued to lie
stretched upon a sofa, ruminating sweet and bitter thoughts, after
giving absolute orders that I should not be disturbed on any account
whatever. Whilst I was in this state of reverie, one of my servants--an
odd Irish fellow, who, under pretence of being half-witted, took more
liberties than his companions--bolted into my presence.
“Plase your lordship, I thought it my duty, in spite of ‘em all below,
to come up to advertise to your lordship of the news that’s going
through the country. That they are all upside down at Ormsby Villa, all
mad entirely--fighting and setting off through the kingdom, every one
their own way; and, they say, it’s all on account of something that Miss
Clemmy Ormsby told, that Lady Geraldine said about my Lord O’Toole’s
being no better than a cat’s paw, or something that way, which made his
lordship quite mad; and he said, in the presence of Captain Andrews,
and my Lady Kildangan, and Lady Geraldine, and all that were in it,
something that vexed Lady Geraldine, which made Mr. Cecil Devereux mad
next; and he said something smart in reply, that Lord O’Toole could
not digest, he said, which made his lordship madder than ever, and he
discharged Mr. Devereux from his favour, and he is not to get that place
that was vacant, the lord-lieutenancy of some place in the Indies that
he was to have had; this made Lady Geraldine mad, and it was found
out she was in love with Mr. Devereux, which made her mother mad, the
maddest of all, they say, so that none can hold her, and she is crying
night and day how her daughter might have had the first coronet in the
kingdom, _maning_ you, my lard, if it had not been that she _prefarred_
a beggar-man, _maning_ Mr. Cecil Devereux, who is as poor, they say, as
a Connaughtman--and he’s forbid to think of her, and she’s forbid, under
pain of bread and water, ever to set her eyes upon him the longest day
ever she lives; so the horses and coaches are ordered, and they are all
to be off with the first light for Dublin: and that’s all, my lard; and
all truth, not a word of lies I’m telling.”
I was inclined not to credit a story so oddly told; but, upon inquiry, I
found it true in its material points. My own words to Mr. Devereux, and
the parting look of Lady Geraldine, were full in my recollection; I was
determined, by an unexpected, exertion, to surprise both the lovers, and
to secure for ever their esteem and gratitude. The appointment, which
Mr. Devereux desired, was not yet given away; the fleet was to sail in
a few days. I started up from my sofa--ordered my carriage
instantly--shaved myself--sent a courier on before to have horses ready
at every stage to carry me to Dublin--got there in the shortest
time possible--found Lord O’Toole but just arrived. Though unused to
diplomatic language and political negotiation, I knew pretty well on
what they all _hinge_. I went directly to the point, and showed that
it would be the interest of the party concerned to grant my request. By
expressing a becoming desire that my boroughs, upon a question where a
majority was required, should _strengthen the hands of government_, I
obtained for my friend the favour he _deserved_. Before I quitted Lord
O’Toole, his secretary, Captain Andrews, was instructed to write a
letter, announcing to Mr. Devereux his appointment. A copy of the former
letter of refusal now lay before me; it was in his lordship’s purest
diplomatic style--as follows:
“_Private_.
“Lord O’Toole is concerned to inform Mr. Devereux that he cannot
feel himself justified in encouraging Mr. D., under the existing
circumstances, to make any direct application relative to the last
conversation his lordship had the honour to hold with Mr. Devereux.”
“To Cecil Devereux, Esq. &c. Thursday ------”
The letter which I obtained, and of which I took possession, ran as
follows:
“_Private_.
“Lord O’Toole is happy to have it in command to inform Mr. Devereux,
that his lordship’s representations on the subject of their last
conversation have been thought sufficient, and that an official
notification of the appointment to India, which Mr. D. desired, will
meet the wishes of Mr. Devereux.
“Captain Andrews has the honour to add his congratulations.”
“To Cecil Devereux, Esq. &c. Thursday ------”
Having despatched this business with a celerity that surprised all the
parties concerned, and most myself, I called at the lodgings of Mr.
Devereux, delivered the letter to his servant, and left town. I could
not bear to see either Mr. Devereux or Lady Geraldine. I had the
pleasure to hear, that the obtaining this appointment was followed by
Lady Kildangan’s consent to their marriage. Soon after my return to
Glenthorn Castle, I received a letter of warm thanks from Devereux, and
a polite postscript from Lady Geraldine, declaring that, though she felt
much pleasure, she could feel no surprise in seeing her opinion of Lord
Glenthorn justified; persuaded, as she and Mr. Devereux had always been,
that only motive and opportunity were wanting to make his lordship’s
superior qualities known to the world, and, what was still more
difficult, to himself. They left Ireland immediately afterwards in
consequence of their appointment in India.
I was raised in my own estimation--I revelled a short time in my
self-complacent reflections; but when nothing more remained to be done,
or to be said--when the hurry of action, the novelty of generosity, the
glow of enthusiasm, and the freshness of gratitude, were over, I felt
that, though large motives could now invigorate my mind, I was still
a prey to habitual indolence, and that I should relapse into my former
state of apathy and disease.