“Le vrai n’est pas toujours vraisemblable,” says an acute observer of
human affairs. The romance of real life certainly goes beyond all other
romances; and there are facts which few writers would dare to put into a
book, as there are skies which few painters would venture to put into a
picture.
When I had leisure to reflect, I considered, that as yet I had no proof
of the truth of Ellinor’s strange story, except her own assertions. I
sent for her again, to examine her more particularly. I was aware that,
if I alarmed her, I should so confuse her imagination, that I should
never obtain the truth; therefore I composed myself, and assumed my
usual external appearance of nonchalance. I received her lolling upon
my sofa, as usual, and I questioned her merely as if to gratify an idle
curiosity.
“Troth, dear,” said she, “I’ll tell you the whole story how it was, to
make your mind asy, which, God knows, mine never was, from that minute
it first came into my head, till this very time being. You mind the time
you got the cut in your head--no, not you, jewel; but the little
lord that was then, Christy there below that is.--Well, the cut was
a terrible cut as ever you seen, got by a fall on the fender from the
nurse’s arms, that was drunk, three days after he was born.”
“I remember to have heard my father talk of some accident of this sort,
which happened to me when I was an infant.”
“Ay, sure enough it did, and that was what first put him in the notion
of taking the little lord out of the hands of the Dublin nurse-tenders,
and them that were about my Lady Glenthom, and did not know how to
manage her, which was the cause of her death: and he said he’d have
his own way about his son and heir any way, and have him nursed by a
wholesome woman in a cabin, and brought up hardy, as he, and the old
lord, and all the family, were before him. So with that he sends for me,
and he puts the young lord, God bless him, into my arms himself, and a
_donny_ thing he was that same time to look at, for he was but just out
of the surgeon’s hands, the head just healed and scarred over like; and
my lord said there should be no more doctors never about him. So I took
him, that is, Christy, and you, to a house at the sea, for the salt
water, and showed him every justice; and my lord often came to see him
whilst he was in the country; but then he was off, after a time, to
Dublin, and I was in a lone place, where nobody came, and the child was
very sick with me, and you was all the time as fine and thriving a child
as ever you see; and I thought, to be sure, one night, that he would die
wid me. He was very bad, very bad indeed; and I was sitting up in bed,
rocking him backwards and forwards this ways: I thought with myself,
what a pity it was, the young lord should die, and he an only son and
heir, and the estate to go out of the family the Lord knows where; and
then the grief the father would be in: and then I thought how happy he
would be if he had such a fine _babby_ as you, dear; and you was a fine
_babby_ to be sure: and then I thought how happy it would be for you, if
you was in the place of the little lord: and then it came into my head,
just like a shot, where would be the harm to change you? for I thought
the real lord would surely die; and then, what a gain it would be to
all, if it was never known, and if the dead child was carried to the
grave, since it must go, as only poor Ellinor O’Donoghoe’s, and no more
about it. Well, if it was a wicked thought, it was the devil himself put
it in my head, to be sure; for, only for him, I should never have had
the sense to think of such a thing, for I was always innocent like, and
not worldly given. But so it was, the devil put it in my head, and made
me do it, and showed me how, and all in a minute. So, I mind, your eyes
and hair were both of the very same colour, dear; and as to the rest,
there’s no telling how those young things alter in a few months, and
my lord would not be down from Dublin in a hurry, so I settled it all
right; and as there was no likelihood at all the real lord would live,
that quieted my conscience; for I argued, it was better the father
should have any sort of child at all than none. So, when my lord came
down, I carried him the child to see, that is you, jewel. He praised me
greatly for all the care I had taken of his boy; and said, how finely
you was come on! and I never see a father in greater joy; and it would
have been a sin, I thought, to tell him the truth, after he took the
change that was put upon him so well, and it made him so happy like.
Well, I was afeard of my life he’d pull off the cap to search for the
scar, so I would not let your head be touched any way, dear, saying it
was tinder and soft still with the fall, and you’d cry if the cap was
stirred; and so I made it out indeed, very well; for, God forgive me,
I twitched the string under your chin, dear, and made you cry like mad,
when they would come to touch you. So there was no more about it, and I
had you home to myself, and, all in good time, the hair grew, and fine
thick hair it was, God bless you; and so there was no more about it, and
I got into no trouble at all, for it all fell out just as I had laid it
out, except that the real little young lord did not die as I thought;
and it was a wonder but he did, for you never saw none so near death,
and backwards and forwards, what turns of sickness he took with me for
months upon months, and year after year, so that none could think, no
more than me, there was any likelihood at all of rearing him to man’s
estate. So that kept me easier in my mind concerning what I’d done; for
as I kept saying to myself, better the family should have an heir to the
estate, suppose not the right, than none at all; and if the father, nor
nobody, never found it out, there was he and all the family made happy
for life, and my child made a lord of, and none the wiser or the worse.
Well, so I down-argued my conscience; and any way I took to little
Christy, as he was now to be called--and I loved him, all as one as if
he was my own--not that he was ever as well-looking as Ody, or any of
the childer I had, but I never made any differ betwixt him and any of my
own--he can’t say as I did, any how, and he has no reason to complain of
my being an unnat’ral mother to him, and being my foster-child I had a
right to love him as I did, and I never wronged him in any way, except
in the one article of changing him at nurse, which he being an infant,
and never knowing, wa” never a bit the worse for, nor never will, now.
So all’s right^ dear, and make your mind asy, jewel; there’s the whole
truth of the story, for you.”
“But it is a very strange story, Ellinor, after all, and--and I have
only your word for it, and may be you are only taking advantage of my
regard for you to make me believe you.”
“What is it, plase your honour?” said she, stepping forward, as if she
did not hear or understand me.
“I say, Ellinor, that after all I have no proof of the truth of this
story, except your word.”
“And is not that enough? and where’s the use of having more? but if it
will make you asy, sure I can give you proof--sure need you go farther
than the scar on his head? If he was shaved to-morrow, I’d engage you’d
see it fast enough. But sure, can’t you put your hand up to your head
this minute, and feel there never was no scar there, nor if all the hair
you have, God save the mark, was shaved this minute, never a bit of a
scar would be to be seen: but proof is it you want?--why, there’s the
surgeon that dressed the cut in the child’s head, before he ever came to
me; sure he’s the man that can’t forget it, and that will tell all: so
to make your mind asy, see him, dear; but for your life don’t let him
see your head to feel it, for he’d miss the scar, and might suspect
something by your going to question him.”
“Where does he live?” interrupted I.
“Not above twelve miles off.”
“Is he alive?”
“Ay, if he been’t dead since Candlemas.”
At first I thought of writing to this man; but afterwards, being afraid
of committing myself by writing, I went to him: he had long before this
time left off business, and had retired to enjoy his fortune in the
decline of life. He was a whimsical sort of character; he had some
remains of his former taste for anatomy, and was a collector of
curiosities. I found him just returned from a lake which he had been
dragging for a moose-deer’s horns, to complete the skeleton of a
moose-deer, which he had mounted in his hall. I introduced myself,
desiring to see his museum, and mentioned to him the thigh-bone of
a giant found in ray neighbourhood; then by favour of this bone I
introduced the able cure that he had made of a cut in my head, when I
was a child.
“A cut in your head, sir? Yes, my lord, I recollect perfectly well, it
was a very ugly cut, especially in an infant’s head; but I am glad to
find you feel no bad effects from it. Have you any cicatrice on the
place?--Eleven feet high, did you say? and is the giant’s skeleton in
your neighbourhood?”
I humoured his fancy, and by degrees he gave me all the information I
wanted without in the least suspecting my secret motives. He described
the length, breadth, and depth, of the wound to me; showed me just where
it was on the head, and observed that it must have left an indelible
mark, but that my fine hair covered it. When he seemed disposed to
search for it, I defended myself with the giant’s thigh-bone, and warded
off his attacks most successfully. To satisfy myself upon this point, I
affected to think that he had not been paid: he said he had been amply
paid, and he showed me his books to prove it. I examined the dates, and
found that they agreed with Ellinor’s precisely. On my return home, the
first thing I did was to make Christy a present of a new wig, which
I was certain would induce him to shave his head; for the lower Irish
agree with the beaux and belles of London and Paris, in preferring wigs
to their own hair. Ellinor told me, that I might safely let his head be
shaved, because to her certain knowledge, he had scars of so many cuts
which he had received at fairs upon his skull, that there would appear
nothing particular _in one more or less_. As soon as the head was
shaved, and the wig was worn, I took an opportunity one day of stopping
at the forge to have one of my horse’s shoes changed; and whilst this
was doing, I took notice of his new wig, and how well it fitted him.
As I expected, he took it off to show it me better, and to pay his own
compliments to it.
“Sure enough, you are a very fine wig,” said he, apostrophising it as he
held it up on the end of his hammer; “and God bless him that give it me,
and it fits me as if it was nailed to my head.”
“You seem to have had a good many nails in your head already, Christy,”
said I, “if one may judge by all these scars.”
“Oh yes, please your honour, my lord,” said he, “there’s no harm in them
neither; they are scratches got when I was no wiser than I should be, at
fairs, fighting with the boys of Shrawd-na-scoob.”
Whilst he fought his battles o’er again, I had leisure to study his
head; and I traced precisely all the boundary lines. The situation,
size, and figure of the cicatrice, which the surgeon and Ellinor had
described to me, were so visible and exact, that no doubt could remain
in my mind of Christy’s being the real son of the late Lord and Lady
Glenthorn. This conviction was still more impressed upon my mind a few
days afterwards. I recollected having seen a file of family pictures in
a lumber-room in the castle; and I rummaged them out to see if I could
discover amongst them any likeness to Christy: I found one; the picture
of my grandfather,--I should say, of _his_ grandfather, to which Christy
bore a striking resemblance, when I saw him with his face washed, and in
his Sunday clothes.
My mind being now perfectly satisfied of the truth of Ellinor’s story,
I was next to consider how I ought to act. To be or not to be Lord
Glenthorn, or, in other words, to be or not to be a villain, was now the
question. I could not dissemble to my conscience this plain state of the
case, that I had no right to keep possession of that which I knew to be
another’s lawful property; yet, educated as I had been, and accustomed
to the long enjoyment of those luxuries, which become necessaries to the
wealthy; habituated to attendance as I had been; and, even amongst the
dissipated and idle, notorious for extravagance the most unbounded and
indolence the most inveterate; how was I at once to change my habits, to
abdicate my rank and power, to encounter the evils of poverty? I was
not compelled to make such sacrifices; for though Ellinor’s transient
passion had prompted her to threaten me with a public discovery, yet I
knew that she would as soon cut off her own right hand as execute her
threats. Her affection for me, and her pride in my consequence, were so
strong, that I knew I might securely rely upon her secrecy. The horrid
idea of being the cause of the death of one of her own children had for
a moment sufficient power to balance her love for me; yet there was but
little probability that any similar trial should occur, nor had I reason
to apprehend that the reproaches of her conscience should induce her to
make a voluntary discovery; for all her ideas of virtue depended on the
principle of fidelity to the objects of her affection, and no
scrupulous notions of justice disturbed her understanding or alarmed her
self-complacency. Conscious that she would willingly sacrifice all she
had in the world for any body she loved, and scarcely comprehending that
any one could be selfish, she, in a confused way, applied the maxim of
“Do as you would be done by,” and was as generous of the property of
others as of her own. At the worst, if a law-suit commenced against
me, I knew that possession was nine points of the law. I also knew that
Ellinor’s health was declining, and that the secret would die with her.
Unlawful possession of the wealth I enjoyed could not, however, satisfy
my own mind; and, after a severe conflict between my love of ease and my
sense of right--between my tastes and my principles--I determined to
act honestly and honourably, and to relinquish what I could no longer
maintain without committing injustice, and feeling remorse. I was,
perhaps, the more ready to do rightly because I felt that I was not
compelled to it. The moment when I made this virtuous decision was the
happiest I had at that time ever felt: my mind seemed suddenly relieved
from an oppressive weight; my whole frame glowed with new life; and
the consciousness of courageous integrity elevated me so much in my own
opinion, that titles, and rank, and fortune, appeared as nothing in my
estimation. I rang my bell eagerly, and ordered that Christy O’Donoghoe
should be immediately sent for. The servant went instantly; but it
seemed to me an immoderately long time before Christy arrived. I walked
up and down the room impatiently, and at last threw myself at full
length upon the sofa: the servant returned.
“The smith is below in the hall, my lord.”
“Show him up.”--He was shown up into the ante-chamber.
“The smith is at the door, my lord.”
“Show him in, cannot you? What detains him?”
“My brogues, my lord! I’d be afraid to come in with ‘em on the carpet.”
Saying this, Christy came in, stepping fearfully, astonished to find
himself in a splendid drawing-room.
“Were you never in this room before, Christy?” said I.
“Never, my lord, plase your honour, barring the day I mended the bolt.”
“It is a fine room, is not it, Christy?”
“Troth, it is the finest ever I see, sure enough.”
“How should you like to have such a room of your own, Christy?”
“Is it I, plase your honour?” replied he, laughing; “what should I do
with the like?”
“How should you feel if you were master of this great castle?”
“It’s a poor figure I should make, to be sure,” said he, turning his
head over his shoulder towards the door, and resting upon the lock: “I’d
rather be at the forge by a great _dale_.”
“Are you sure of that, Christy? Should not you like to be able to live
without working any more, and to have horses and servants of your own?”
“What would I do with them, plase your honour, I that have never been
used to them? sure they’d all laugh at me, and I’d not be the better o’
that, no more than of having nothing to do; I that have been always
used to the work, what should I do all the day without it? But sure,
my lord,” continued he, changing his voice to a more serious tone, “the
horse that I shod yesterday for your honour did not go lame, did he?”
“The horse is very well shod, I believe; I have not ridden him since: I
know nothing of the matter.”
“Because I was thinking, may be, it was that made your honour send for
me up in the hurry--I was afeard I’d find your honour mad with me; and
I’d be very sorry to disoblige you, my lord; and I’m glad to see your
honour looking so well after all the trouble you’ve been put to by them
_rubbles_, the villains, to be _consarting_ against you under-ground.
But, thanks be to God, you have ‘em all in gaol now. I thought my mother
would have died of the fright she took, when the report came that Ody
was one of them. I told her there could not be no truth in it at all,
but she would not mind me: it would be a strange unnatural thing,
indeed, of any belonging to her to be plotting against your honour. I
knew Ody could not be in it, and be a brother of mine; and that’s what
I kept saying all the time but she never heeded me: for, your honour
knows, when the women are frighted, and have taken a thing into their
heads, you can’t asy get it out again.”
“Very true: but to return to what I was saying, should not you like to
change places with me, if you could?”
“Your honour, my lord, is a very happy jantleman, and a very good
jantleman, there’s no doubt, and there’s few but would be proud to be
like you in any thing at all.”
“Thank you for that compliment. But now, in plain English, as to
yourself, would you like to be in my place--to change places with me?”
“In your honour’s place--I! I would _not_, my lord; and that’s the
truth, now,” said he, decidedly. “I would not: no offence--your honour
bid me to speak the truth; for I’ve all I want in the world, a good
mother, and a good wife, and good _childer_, and a reasonable good
little cabin, and my little _pratees_, and the grazing of the cow, and
work enough always, and not called on to slave, and I get my health,
thank God for all; and what more could I have if I should be made a lord
to-morrow? Sure, my good woman would never make a lady; and what should
I do with her? I’d be grieved to see her the laughing-stock of high
and low, besides being the same myself, and my boy after me. That would
never answer for me; so I am not like them that would overturn all to
get uppermost; I never had any hand, art, or part, in a thing of the
kind; I always thought and knew I was best as I am; not but what, if
I was to change with any, it is with you, my lord, I would be proud to
change; because if I was to be a jantleman at all, I’d wish to be of a
_ra-al_ good _ould_ family born.”
“You are then what you wish to be?” said I.
“Och!” said he, laughing and scratching his head, “your honour’s jesting
me about them kings of Ireland, that they say the O’Donoghoes was once:
but that’s what I never think _on_, that’s all idle talk for the like of
me, for sure that’s a long time ago, and what use going back to it? One
might as well be going back to Adam, that was the father of all, but
which makes no differ now.”
“But you do not understand me,” interrupted I; “I am not going back
to the kings of Ireland: I mean to tell you, that you were born a
gentleman--nay, I am perfectly serious; listen to me.”
“I do, plase your honour, though it is mocking me, I know you are; I
would be sorry not to take a joke as well as another.”
“This is no joke; I repeat that I am serious. You are not only a
gentleman, but a nobleman: to you this castle and this great estate
belongs, and to you they shall be surrendered.”
He stood astonished; and, his eyes opening wide, showed a great circle
of white in his black face.
“Eh!” cried he, drawing that long breath, which astonishment had
suppressed. “But how can this be?”
“Your mother can explain better than I can: your mother, did I say? she
is not your mother; Lady Glenthorn was your mother.”
“I can’t understand it at all--I can’t understand it at all. I’ll lave
it all to your honour,” said he, making a motion with his hands, as if
to throw from him the trouble of comprehending it.
“Did you never hear of such a thing as a child’s being changed at
nurse?”
“I did, plase your honour; but _my_ mother would never do the like, I’ll
answer for _her_, any way; and them that said any thing of the kind,
belied her; and don’t be believing them, my lord.”
“But Ellinor was the person who told me this secret.”
“Was she so? Oh, she must have been _draaming_; she was always too good
a mother to me to have sarved me so. But,” added he, struggling to clear
his intellects, “you say it’s not my mother she is; but whose mother is
she then? Can it be that she is yours? ‘tis not possible to think such a
great lord was the son of such as her, to look at you both: and was you
the son of my father Johnny O’Donoghoe? How is that again?”
He rubbed his forehead; and I could scarcely forbear laughing at his odd
perplexity, though the subject was of such serious importance. When he
clearly understood the case, and thoroughly believed the truth, he did
not seem elated by this sudden change of fortune; he really thought more
of me than of himself.
“Well, I’ll tell you what you will do then,” continued he, after a pause
of deep reflection; “say nothing to nobody, but just keep asy on, even
as we are. Don’t let there be any surrendering at all, and I’ll speak to
my mother, that is, Ellinor O’Donoghoe, and settle it so; and let it
be so settled, in the name of God, and no more about it: and none need
never be the wiser; ‘tis so best for all. A good day to your honour, and
I’ll go shoe the mare.”
“Stay,” said I; “you may hereafter repent of this sudden determination.
I insist upon your taking four-and-twenty hours--no, that would be too
little--take a month to consider of it coolly, and then let me know your
final determination.”
“Oh! plase your honour, I will say the same then as now. It would be
a poor thing indeed of me, after all you done for me and mine, to be
putting you to more trouble. It would be a poor thing of me to forget
how you liked to have lost your life all along with me at the time of
the ‘ruction. No, I’ll not take the fortin from you, any how.”
“Put gratitude to me out of the question,” said I. “Far be it from me
to take advantage of your affectionate temper. I do not consider you as
under any obligations to me; nor will I be paid for doing justice.”
“Sure enough, your honour desarved to be born a gentleman,” said
Christy.
“At least I have been bred a gentleman,” said I. “Let me see you again
this day month, and not till then.”
“You shall not--that is, you _shall_, plase your honour: but for fear
any one would suspect any thing, I’d best go shoe the mare, any way.”