"You'll marry the highest man, bar one or two, in England. And you'll not
be content with that; for when you bury him, you'll marry the highest man
in Scotland; and if I sat here till tomorrow, I couldn't tell you the half
of the riches and glory that's waiting for you. You'll have to crawl
through the black mud to get the first; but after that 'tis a clear
course, and the mud won't stick to a duchess's gown, young Miss Elizabeth
Gunning!"
A duchess! Elizabeth's eyes were like winter stars, they so sparkled--they
would put out the light of diamonds. She held herself like a young poplar
and says she:--
"And if you're right, old woman, or anything like it, I'll come and see
you when I get promotion, and my Lord Duke shall fill your pockets with
gold."
But Mother Corrigan grinned like a dog.
"I haven't a pocket, my Lady's Honour. My hand's good enough; but I'll not
be here when you come riding back to poor old Dublin in yer coach and
six--and now for the fairy of the world!"--And she took the hand of the
eldest, who was shaking like a leaf and expecting to hear of a prince and
his blue ribbon at the least, and her eyes fixed on the old witch like two
blue lakes with the stars dipping in them.
But she shook her head.
"A great man, but not so big a man as your sister's." (The girl looked
jealous daggers at Elizabeth.) "A fine man, and the gold lace on him, and
velvet and silk stockings, and gold buckles shining in the shoes of him,
and a big house to live in, and fine clothes for your back, and--"
She stopped dead, like a horse pulled up on his haunches; but the young
Maria twitched her by the raggedy sleeve.
"Go on. What is it? I want to hear."
"Don't ask me, and you so beautiful!"
"I do ask, and I'll have it out of you. I suppose you mean I'll get old
and ugly like yourself."
"You'll never be old and ugly. Them that remembers you will remember the
loveliest thing God ever made when he took clay in his two hands."
"I don't know what she means," says Maria fretfully. "But sure some women
are handsome till they die. Tell us when will the luck come, and how?"
"With the Golden Vanity and a woman with a man's name. And now leave me,
my three queens, and I'll have a drop to warm me old bones and a whiff of
the pipe to put the life in me. But don't forget the old woman when the
great lords is kneeling before you and pouring the diamonds out of baskets
before ye--and send the golden guineas, and--"
So she went on mumbling and muttering, and that was the first and last
time the old hag told a fortune for love and not for money. She had not
long to tell any, for she died next May, and not a soul to cry for her.
* * * * *
They stepped out into the sunshine, their heads high, and scarce a word to
say to each other; for all three were thinking of the promises as light
and glittering as soap bubbles. And Maria would not spare a word to
Elizabeth, for not a woman but must walk after the heels of a duchess, and
she was all for leading.
"The Golden Vanity!" says Elizabeth. "Mama, what should that be? When I'm
a duchess--"
"I don't know, and most likely 'tis not worth knowing." Mrs. Gunning was
angry. Her fine brows were drawn together. "Leave talking of duchesses,
you silly fools, and go get the herrings for tea. I have left the
children too long as it is."
So she marched down Britain Street like a queen, for all her burst
shoe,--a shabby street it was for such ladies,--and the two walked off
to Fishmonger's Alley, and not a head but turned to look at them.
"Faith, they're goddesses and no mistake!" says gay Mr Councillor Egan, on
the way from the Law Courts, with his mulberry face and his mulberry
velvet coat. 'Twas to Lawyer Curran he said it, and in a small city like
Dublin the name held, and the two were called the Goddesses from that
time.
Old Corrigan's words gave them courage for a while; but what can hold up
against a diet of herrings day in and day out? And that was all the poor
lady could give her family. What was she to do? Mr Gunning had took
himself off to Castle Coote, his beggarly place in the country, where he
could dice and drink in peace with the neighboring squireens, and live off
claret and the skinny fowls that pecked about the avenue; and she had the
weight of the children on her spare shoulders.
'Twas about this time that young Harry Lepel, the first man they met, in a
way of speaking, fell in love with Elizabeth, the younger. The way it
happened was this. She was walking down Mount Street with Maria, and she
let fall her purse, and nothing in it but a pocket-piece to save her
gentility. Harry was strolling off to my Lord Cappoquin's, from mounting
guard at the Castle (for at that time his Lordship lived in Merrion
Square); and indeed Mr Lepel was as fine a figure of a young man as a girl
could wish to see, in his regimentals all laced with gold and his handsome
head above them--a brown man with dark eyes. And seeing a young madam drop
her purse, he stooped for it and, coming up behind them, saluted very
stiff and offered it, and the two turned and looked him in the face.
'Tis certain a man might come up a thousand times behind a woman's back
and not be startled as Harry Lepel was when he saw them; for there never
was, nor will be, two such sisters. 'Twas like a battery suddenly
unmasked; and what chance had the poor devil that was marching up to it
like an innocent? The only thing he could do was to surrender at
discretion--but to which lady? That was the trouble. Elizabeth Gunning
settled it for him.
"I thank you, Sir," says she, with a smile that had ruined St. Anthony,
for she was one that smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth--a golden
sunshine that the heart opened to naturally.
He was stuttering and stammering. "Madam, I thank you for the happiness of
touching anything your hand hath blessed."
'Twas sudden, I allow; but then, so too was her beauty. At all events, he
dared no more, not having the courage, though all the will, to linger, and
was turning off when a queer thing happened. But 'twas to be.
A drunken poltroon of a bargeman was coming up from Liffey-side, lurching
and yawing like a Dutch hooker in a gale; and seeing them in a little
bunch on the cobblestones, he took an anger at them in his wooden head,
and, whether purposely or not I know not, but he elbowed up against Miss
Maria and drove her into the dirty kennel; and she gave a faint scream,
for her shoes were destroyed with the mud, and it was the only pair she
had to her name. So what does Mr Lepel do but let drive straight from the
shoulder at the offender, and in a minute the shoes and the lady were out
of the kennel and the bargeman lying there as snug as snug, and the oaths
he let out of him blackening the air like a flight of crows. So Mr Lepel,
smiling with set lips like a picture, says to the girls:--
"Ladies, permit me to escort you to your home. 'Tis much to be regretted
the streets are not safe for beauty unattended, though to be sure I have
the happiness to profit by the circumstance. I trust it hath been no shock
to your sensibility?"
And, indeed, tears had gathered in Elizabeth's eyes; but Maria was
laughing like a Hebe, and looking up in his face--the blue-eyed lovely
rogue!
"We thank you, Sir. 'Tis what our own brother had done had he been more
than five. But while he is in the nursery, we must be obliged to kind
strangers for protection."
"Madam, I would not willingly remain a stranger," says Mr Harry, very
eager, and touching his cocked hat. "Permit me to present myself for want
of a better introducer. My name is Harry Lepel."
"I thank you, Sir. 'Twill be remembered with gratitude. May we now bid you
farewell?"
Miss Maria sank down, in a curtsey so well devised that it showed the
littlest foot in the world, save only Elizabeth's. A fortunate bootmaker
later was to make five guineas an afternoon by showing their shoes at a
penny a head to the mob that gathered to stare at them; but that time was
not yet come. Mr Lepel spoke earnestly:--
"Madam, you can't suppose--'tis not possible I can permit you to return
alone after such an adventure. The sun sinks and the streets are mighty
ill lit. If my company is disagreeable, I can walk ten paces behind; but
otherwise--"