CHAPTER I.

“Are you to be at Lady Clonbrony’s gala next week?” said Lady Langdale

to Mrs. Dareville, whilst they were waiting for their carriages in the

crush-room of the opera-house.

“Oh, yes! every body’s to be there, I hear,” replied Mrs. Dareville.

“Your ladyship, of course?”

“Why, I don’t know; if I possibly can. Lady Clonbrony makes it such

a point with me, that I believe I must look in upon her for a few

minutes. They are going to a prodigious expense on this occasion. Soho

tells me the reception rooms are all to be new furnished, and in the

most magnificent style.”

“At what a famous rate those Clonbronies are dashing on,” said colonel

Heathcock. “Up to any thing.”

“Who are they?--these Clonbronies, that one hears of so much of

late?” said her grace of Torcaster. “Irish absentees, I know. But

how do they support all this enormous expense?” “The son _will_ have

a prodigiously fine estate when some Mr. Quin dies,” said Mrs.

Dareville.

“Yes, every body who comes from Ireland _will_ have a fine estate when

somebody dies,” said her grace. “But what have they at present?”

“Twenty thousand a year, they say,” replied Mrs. Dareville.

“Ten thousand, I believe,” cried Lady Langdale.

“Ten thousand, have they?--possibly,” said her grace. “I know nothing

about them--have no acquaintance among the Irish. Torcaster knows

something of Lady Clonbrony; she has fastened herself by some means

upon him; but I charge him not to _commit_ me. Positively, I could not

for any body, and much less for that sort of person, extend the circle

of my acquaintance.”

“Now that is so cruel of your grace,” said Mrs. Dareville, laughing,

“when poor Lady Clonbrony works so hard, and pays so high to get into

certain circles.”

“If you knew all she endures, to look, speak, move, breathe, like an

Englishwoman, you would pity her,” said Lady Langdale.

“Yes, and you _cawnt_ conceive the _peens_ she _teekes_ to talk of the

_teebles_ and _cheers_, and to thank Q, and with so much _teeste_ to

speak pure English,” said Mrs. Dareville.

“Pure cockney, you mean,” said Lady Langdale.

“But does Lady Clonbrony expect to pass for English?” said the

duchess.

“Oh, yes! because she is not quite Irish _bred and born_--only bred,

not born,” said Mrs. Dareville. “And she could not be five minutes

in your grace’s company, before she would tell you that she was

_Henglish_, born in _Hoxfordshire_.”

“She must be a vastly amusing personage--I should like to meet her

if one could see and hear her incog.,” said the duchess. “And Lord

Clonbrony, what is he?”

“Nothing, nobody,” said Mrs. Dareville: “one never even hears of him.”

“A tribe of daughters, too, I suppose?”

“No, no,” said Lady Langdale; “daughters would be past all endurance.”

“There’s a cousin, though, a Miss Nugent,” said Mrs. Dareville, “that

Lady Clonbrony has with her.”

“Best part of her, too,” said Colonel Heathcock--“d----d fine

girl!--never saw her look better than at the opera to-night!”

“Fine _complexion_! as Lady Clonbrony says, when she means a high

colour,” said Lady Langdale.

“Miss Nugent is not a lady’s beauty,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Has she

any fortune, colonel?”

“‘Pon honour, don’t know,” said the colonel.

“There’s a son, somewhere, is not there?” said Lady Langdale.

“Don’t know, ‘pon honour,” replied the colonel.

“Yes--at Cambridge--not of age yet,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Bless me!

here is Lady Clonbrony come back. I thought she was gone half an hour

ago!”

“Mamma,” whispered one of Lady Langdale’s daughters, leaning between

her mother and Mrs. Dareville, “who is that gentleman that passed us

just now?”

“Which way?”

“Towards the door.--There now, mamma, you can see him. He is speaking

to Lady Clonbrony--to Miss Nugent--now Lady Clonbrony is introducing

him to Miss Broadhurst.”

“I see him now,” said Lady Langdale, examining him through her glass;

“a very gentlemanlike looking young man indeed.”

“Not an Irishman, I am sure, by his manner,” said her grace.

“Heathcock!” said Lady Langdale, “who is Miss Broadhurst talking to?”

“Eh! now really--‘pon honour--don’t know,” replied Heathcock.

“And yet he certainly looks like somebody one should know,” pursued

Lady Langdale, “though I don’t recollect seeing him any where before.”

“Really now!” was all the satisfaction she could gain from the

insensible, immovable colonel. However, her ladyship, after sending

a whisper along the line, gained the desired information, that the

young gentleman was Lord Colambre, son, only son, of Lord and Lady

Clonbrony--that he was just come from Cambridge--that he was not yet

of age--that he would be of age within a year; that he would then,

after the death of somebody, come into possession of a fine estate

by the mother’s side; “and therefore, Cat’rine, my dear,” said she,

turning round to the daughter who had first pointed him out, “you

understand we should never talk about other people’s affairs.”

“No, mamma, never. I hope to goodness, mamma, Lord Colambre did not

hear what you and Mrs. Dareville were saying!”

“How could he, child?--He was quite at the other end of the world.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am--he was at my elbow, close behind us; but I

never thought about him till I heard somebody say ‘my lord--’”

“Good heavens!--I hope he didn’t hear.”

“But, for my part, I said nothing,” cried Lady Langdale.

“And for my part, I said nothing but what every body knows,” cried

Mrs. Dareville.

“And for my part, I am guilty only of hearing,” said the duchess. “Do,

pray, Colonel Heathcock, have the goodness to see what my people are

about, and what chance we have of getting away to-night.”

“The Duchess of Torcaster’s carriage stops the way!”--a joyful sound

to Colonel Heathcock and to her grace, and not less agreeable, at this

instant, to Lady Langdale, who, the moment she was disembarrassed

of the duchess, pressed through the crowd to Lady Clonbrony, and

addressing her with smiles and complacency, was charmed to have a

little moment to speak to her--could _not_ sooner get through the

crowd--would certainly do herself the honour to be at her ladyship’s

gala. While Lady Langdale spoke, she never seemed to see or think of

any body but Lady Clonbrony, though, all the time, she was intent upon

every motion of Lord Colambre; and whilst she was obliged to listen

with a face of sympathy to a long complaint of Lady Clonbrony’s,

about Mr. Soho’s want of taste in ottomans, she was vexed to perceive

that his lordship showed no desire to be introduced to her or to

her daughters; but, on the contrary, was standing talking to Miss

Nugent. His mother, at the end of her speech, looked round for

“Colambre”--called him twice before he heard--introduced him to Lady

Langdale, and to Lady Cat’rine, and Lady Anne ----, and to Mrs.

Dareville; to all of whom he bowed with an air of proud coldness,

which gave them reason to regret that their remarks upon his mother

and his family had not been made _sotto voce_.

“Lady Langdale’s carriage stops the way!” Lord Colambre made no offer

of his services, notwithstanding a look from his mother. Incapable of

the meanness of voluntarily listening to a conversation not intended

for him to hear, he had, however, been compelled, by the pressure

of the crowd, to remain a few minutes stationary, where he could not

avoid hearing the remarks of the fashionable friends: disdaining

dissimulation, he made no attempt to conceal his displeasure. Perhaps

his vexation was increased by his consciousness that there was some

mixture of truth in their sarcasms. He was sensible that his mother,

in some points--her manners, for instance--was obvious to ridicule and

satire. In Lady Clonbrony’s address there was a mixture of constraint,

affectation, and indecision, unusual in a person of her birth, rank,

and knowledge of the world. A natural and unnatural manner seemed

struggling in all her gestures, and in every syllable that she

articulated--a naturally free, familiar, good-natured, precipitate,

Irish manner, had been schooled, and schooled late in life, into a

sober, cold, still, stiff deportment, which she mistook for English.

A strong Hibernian accent she had, with infinite difficulty, changed

into an English tone. Mistaking reverse of wrong for right, she

caricatured the English pronunciation; and the extraordinary precision

of her London phraseology betrayed her not to be a Londoner, as the

man who strove to pass for an Athenian was detected by his Attic

dialect. Not aware of her real danger, Lady Clonbrony was, on the

opposite side, in continual apprehension every time she opened her

lips, lest some treacherous _a_ or _e_, some strong _r_, some puzzling

aspirate or non-aspirate, some unguarded note, interrogative, or

expostulatory, should betray her to be an Irishwoman. Mrs. Dareville

had, in her mimicry, perhaps, a little exaggerated, as to the

_teebles_ and _cheers_, but still the general likeness of the

representation of Lady Clonbrony was strong enough to strike and vex

her son. He had now, for the first time, an opportunity of judging of

the estimation in which his mother and his family were held by certain

leaders of the ton, of whom, in her letters, she had spoken so much,

and into whose society, or rather into whose parties, she had been

admitted. He saw that the renegado cowardice with which she denied,

abjured, and reviled her own country, gained nothing but ridicule and

contempt. He loved his mother; and, whilst he endeavoured to conceal

her faults and foibles as much as possible from his own heart, he

could not endure those who dragged them to light and ridicule. The

next morning, the first thing that occurred to Lord Colambre’s

remembrance, when he awoke, was the sound of the contemptuous emphasis

which had been laid on the words IRISH ABSENTEES!--This led to

recollections of his native country, to comparisons of past and

present scenes, to future plans of life. Young and careless as he

seemed, Lord Colambre was capable of serious reflection. Of naturally

quick and strong capacity, ardent affections, impetuous temper, the

early years of his childhood passed at his father’s castle in Ireland,

where, from the lowest servant to the well-dressed dependent of the

family, every body had conspired to wait upon, to fondle, to flatter,

to worship, this darling of their lord. Yet he was not spoiled--not

rendered selfish; for in the midst of this flattery and servility,

some strokes of genuine generous affection had gone home to his little

heart: and though unqualified submission had increased the natural

impetuosity of his temper, and though visions of his future grandeur

had touched his infant thought, yet, fortunately, before he acquired

any fixed habits of insolence or tyranny, he was carried far away

from all that were bound or willing to submit to his commands, far

away from all signs of hereditary grandeur--plunged into one of our

great public schools--into a new world. Forced to struggle, mind and

body, with his equals, his rivals, the little lord became a spirited

school-boy, and in time, a man. Fortunately for him, science and

literature happened to be the fashion among a set of clever young

men with whom he was at Cambridge. His ambition for intellectual

superiority was raised, his views were enlarged, his tastes and

his manners formed. The sobriety of English good sense mixed most

advantageously with Irish vivacity: English prudence governed, but did

not extinguish, his Irish enthusiasm. But, in fact, English and Irish

had not been invidiously contrasted in his mind: he had been so long

resident in England, and so intimately connected with Englishmen, that

he was not obvious to any of the commonplace ridicule thrown upon

Hibernians; and he had lived with men who were too well informed and

liberal to misjudge or depreciate a sister country. He had found, from

experience, that, however reserved the English may be in manner, they

are warm at heart; that, however averse they may be from forming new

acquaintance, their esteem and confidence once gained, they make the

most solid friends. He had formed friendships in England; he was fully

sensible of the superior comforts, refinement, and information, of

English society; but his own country was endeared to him by early

association, and a sense of duty and patriotism attached him to

Ireland.--“And shall I too be an absentee?” was a question which

resulted from these reflections--a question which he was not yet

prepared to answer decidedly.

In the mean time, the first business of the morning was to execute

a commission for a Cambridge friend. Mr. Berryl had bought from Mr.

Mordicai, a famous London coachmaker, a curricle, _warranted sound_,

for which he had paid a sound price, upon express condition that Mr.

Mordicai should be answerable for all repairs of the curricle for six

months. In three, both the carriage and body were found to be good for

nothing--the curricle had been returned to Mordicai--nothing had since

been heard of it, or from him; and Lord Colambre had undertaken to pay

him and it a visit, and to make all proper inquiries. Accordingly,

he went to the coachmaker’s; and, obtaining no satisfaction from the

underlings, desired to see the head of the house. He was answered

that Mr. Mordicai was not at home. His lordship had never seen Mr.

Mordicai; but just then he saw, walking across the yard, a man who

looked something like a Bond-street coxcomb, but not the least like a

gentleman, who called, in the tone of a master, for “Mr. Mordicai’s

barouche!”--It appeared; and he was stepping into it, when Lord

Colambre took the liberty of stopping him; and, pointing to the wreck

of Mr. Berryl’s curricle, now standing in the yard, began a statement

of his friend’s grievances, and an appeal to common justice and

conscience, which he, unknowing the nature of the man with whom he had

to deal, imagined must be irresistible. Mr. Mordicai stood without

moving a muscle of his dark wooden face--indeed, in his face there

appeared to be no muscles, or none which could move; so that, though

he had what are generally called handsome features, there was,

altogether, something unnatural and shocking in his countenance. When,

at last, his eyes turned and his lips opened, this seemed to be done

by machinery, and not by the will of a living creature, or from the

impulse of a rational soul. Lord Colambre was so much struck with

this strange physiognomy, that he actually forgot much he had to say

of springs and wheels--But it was no matter--Whatever he had said, it

would have come to the same thing; and Mordicai would have answered

as he now did; “Sir, it was my partner made that bargain, not myself;

and I don’t hold myself bound by it, for he is the sleeping partner

only, and not empowered to act in the way of business. Had Mr. Berryl

bargained with me, I should have told him that he should have looked

to these things before his carriage went out of our yard.”

The indignation of Lord Colambre kindled at these words--but in vain:

to all that indignation could by word or look urge against Mordicai,

he replied, “May be so, sir: the law is open to your friend--the law

is open to all men, who can pay for it.”

Lord Colambre turned in despair from the callous coachmaker, and

listened to one of his more compassionate-looking workmen, who was

reviewing the disabled curricle; and, whilst he was waiting to know

the sum of his friend’s misfortune, a fat, jolly, Falstaff-looking

personage came into the yard, and accosted Mordicai with a degree of

familiarity which, from a gentleman, appeared to Lord Colambre to be

almost impossible.

“How are you, Mordicai, my good fellow?” cried he, speaking with a

strong Irish accent.

“Who is this?” whispered Lord Colambre to the foreman, who was

examining the curricle.

“Sir Terence O’Fay, sir--There must be entire new wheels.”

“Now tell me, my tight fellow,” continued Sir Terence, holding

Mordicai fast, “when, in the name of all the saints, good or bad, in

the calendar, do you reckon to let us sport the _suicide_?”

“Will you be so good, sir, to finish making out this estimate for me?”

interrupted Lord Colambre.

Mordicai forcibly drew his mouth into what he meant for a smile, and

answered, “As soon as possible, Sir Terence.” Sir Terence, in a tone

of jocose, wheedling expostulation, entreated him to have the carriage

finished _out of hand_: “Ah, now! Mordy, my precious! let us have it

by the birthday, and come and dine with us o’ Monday at the Hibernian

Hotel--there’s a rare one--will you?”

Mordicai accepted the invitation, and promised faithfully that the

_suicide_ should be finished by the birthday. Sir Terence shook hands

upon this promise, and, after telling a good story, which made one of

the workmen in the yard--an Irishman--grin with delight, walked off.

Mordicai, first waiting till the knight was out of hearing, called

aloud, “You grinning rascal! mind, at your peril, and don’t let that

there carriage be touched, d’ye see, till farther orders.”

One of Mr. Mordicai’s clerks, with a huge long feathered pen behind

his ear, observed that Mr. Mordicai was right in that caution, for

that, to the best of his comprehension, Sir Terence O’Fay, and his

principal too, were over head and ears in debt.

Mordicai coolly answered, that he was well aware of that, but that the

estate could afford to dip farther; that, for his part, he was under

no apprehension; he knew how to look sharp, and to bite before he was

bit: that he knew Sir Terence and his principal were leagued together

to give the creditors _the go by_; but that, clever as they were both

at that work, he trusted he was their match.

“Immediately, sir--Sixty-nine pound four, and the perch--Let us

see--Mr. Mordicai, ask him, ask Paddy, about Sir Terence,” said the

foreman, pointing back over his shoulder to the Irish workman, who

was at this moment pretending to be wondrous hard at work. However,

when Mr. Mordicai defied him to tell him any thing he did not know,

Paddy, parting with an untasted bit of tobacco, began and recounted

some of Sir Terence O’Fay’s exploits in evading duns, replevying

cattle, fighting sheriffs, bribing _subs_, managing cants, tricking

_custodees_, in language so strange, and with a countenance and

gestures so full of enjoyment of the jest, that, whilst Mordicai

stood for a moment aghast with astonishment, Lord Colambre could

not help laughing, partly at, and partly with, his countryman. All

the yard were in a roar of laughter, though they did not understand

half of what they heard; but their risible muscles were acted upon

mechanically, or maliciously, merely by the sound of the Irish brogue.

Mordicai, waiting till the laugh was over, dryly observed, that “the

law is executed in another guess sort of way in England from what it

is in Ireland;” therefore, for his part, he desired nothing better

than to set his wits fairly against such _sharks_--that there was a

pleasure in doing up a debtor, which none but a creditor could know.

“In a moment, sir; if you’ll have a moment’s patience, sir, if you

please,” said the slow foreman to Lord Colambre; “I must go down the

pounds once more, and then I’ll let you have it.”

“I’ll tell you what, Smithfield,” continued Mr. Mordicai, coming close

beside his foreman, and speaking very low, but with a voice trembling

with anger, for he was piqued by his foreman’s doubts of his capacity

to cope with Sir Terence O’Fay; “I’ll tell you what, Smithfield, I’ll

be cursed if I don’t get every inch of them into my power--you know

how.”

“You are the best judge, sir,” replied the foreman; “but I would not

undertake Sir Terence; and the question is, whether the estate will

answer the _tote_ of the debts, and whether you know them all for

certain--”

“I do, sir, I tell you: there’s Green--there’s Blancham--there’s

Gray--there’s Soho”--naming several more--“and, to my knowledge, Lord

Clonbrony--”

“Stop, sir,” cried Lord Colambre, in a voice which made Mordicai and

every body present start;--“I am his son--”

“The devil!” said Mordicai.

“God bless every bone in his body, then, he’s an Irishman!” cried

Paddy; “and there was the _ra_son my heart warmed to him from the

first minute he come into the yard, though I did not know it till

now.”

“What, sir! are you my Lord Colambre?” said Mr. Mordicai, recovering,

but not clearly recovering, his intellects: “I beg pardon, but I did

not know you _was_ Lord Colambre--I thought you told me you was the

friend of Mr. Berryl.”

“I do not see the incompatibility of the assertion, sir,” replied Lord

Colambre, taking from the bewildered foreman’s unresisting hand the

account which he had been so long _furnishing_.

“Give me leave, my lord,” said Mordicai--“I beg your pardon, my lord;

perhaps we can compromise that business for your friend Mr. Berryl;

since he is your lordship’s friend, perhaps we can contrive to

_compromise_ and _split the difference_.”

_To compromise_, and _split the difference_, Mordicai thought were

favourite phrases, and approved Hibernian modes of doing business,

which would conciliate this young Irish nobleman, and dissipate the

proud tempest, which had gathered, and now swelled in his breast.

“No, sir, no!” cried Lord Colambre, holding firm the paper: “I want no

favour from you. I will accept of none for my friend or for myself.”

“Favour! No, my lord, I should not presume to offer--But I should

wish, if you’ll allow me, to do your friend justice.”

Lord Colambre, recollecting that he had no right, in his pride, to

fling away his friend’s money, let Mr. Mordicai look at the account;

and his impetuous temper in a few moments recovered by good sense, he

considered, that, as his person was utterly unknown to Mr. Mordicai,

no offence could have been intended to him, and that, perhaps, in what

had been said of his father’s debts and distress, there might be more

truth than he was aware of. Prudently, therefore, controlling his

feelings, and commanding himself, he suffered Mr. Mordicai to show him

into a parlour to _settle_ his friend’s business. In a few minutes the

account was reduced to a reasonable form, and, in consideration of the

partner’s having made the bargain, by which Mr. Mordicai felt himself

influenced in honour, though not bound in law, he undertook to have

the curricle made better than new again, for Mr. Berryl, for twenty

guineas. Then came awkward apologies to Lord Colambre, which he ill

endured. “Between ourselves, my lord,” continued Mordicai--

But the familiarity of the phrase. “Between ourselves”--this

implication of equality--Lord Colambre could not admit: he moved

hastily towards the door, and departed.

CHAPTER II.

Full of what he had heard, and impatient to obtain farther information

respecting the state of his father’s affairs, Lord Colambre hastened

home; but his father was out, and his mother was engaged with Mr.

Soho, directing, or rather being directed, how her apartments should

be fitted up for her gala. As Lord Colambre entered the room, he saw

his mother, Miss Nugent, and Mr. Soho, standing at a large table,

which was covered with rolls of paper, patterns, and drawings of

furniture: Mr. Soho was speaking in a conceited, dictatorial tone,

asserting that there was no “colour in nature for that room equal to

_the belly-o’-the fawn_;” which _belly-o’-the fawn_ he so pronounced,

that Lady Clonbrony understood it to be _la belle uniforme_, and,

under this mistake, repeated and assented to the assertion, till it

was set to rights, with condescending superiority, by the upholsterer.

This first architectural upholsterer of the age, as he styled himself,

and was universally admitted to be by all the world of fashion, then,

with full powers given to him, spoke _en maître_. The whole face of

things must be changed. There must be new hangings, new draperies, new

cornices, new candelabras, new every thing!--

“The upholsterer’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

Glances from ceiling to floor, from floor to ceiling;

And, as imagination bodies forth

The form of things unknown, the upholsterer’s pencil

Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a NAME.”

Of the value of a NAME no one could be more sensible than Mr. Soho.

“Your la’ship sees--this is merely a scratch of my pencil. Your

la’ship’s sensible--just to give you an idea of the shape, the form

of the thing. You fill up your angles here with _encoinières_--round

your walls with the _Turkish tent drapery_--a fancy of my own--in

apricot cloth, or crimson velvet, suppose, or, _en flute_, in

crimson satin draperies, fanned and riched with gold fringes, _en

suite_--intermediate spaces, Apollo’s head with gold rays--and here,

ma’am, you place four _chancelières_, with chimeras at the corners,

covered with blue silk and silver fringe, elegantly fanciful--with

my STATIRA CANOPY here--light blue silk draperies--aërial tint, with

silver balls--and for seats here, the SERAGLIO OTTOMANS, superfine

scarlet--your paws--griffin--golden--and golden tripods, here, with

antique cranes--and oriental alabaster tables here and there--quite

appropriate, your la’ship feels.

“And let me reflect. For the next apartment, it strikes me--as your

la’ship don’t value expense--the _Alhambra hangings_--my own thought

entirely--Now, before I unrol them, Lady Clonbrony, I must beg you’ll

not mention I’ve shown them. I give you my sacred honour, not a

soul has set eye upon the Alhambra hangings except Mrs. Dareville,

who stole a peep; I refused, absolutely refused, the Duchess of

Torcaster--but I can’t refuse your la’ship--So see, ma’am--

(unrolling them)--scagliola porphyry columns supporting the grand

dome--entablature, silvered and decorated with imitative bronze

ornaments: under the entablature, a _valence in pelmets_, of puffed

scarlet silk, would have an unparalleled grand effect, seen through

the arches--with the TREBISOND TRELLICE PAPER, Would make a _tout

ensemble_, novel beyond example. On that trebisond trellice paper, I

confess, ladies, I do pique myself.

“Then, for the little room, I recommend turning it temporarily into a

Chinese pagoda, with this _Chinese pagoda paper_, with the _porcelain

border_, and josses, and jars, and beakers, to match; and I can

venture to promise one vase of pre-eminent size and beauty.--Oh,

indubitably! if your la’ship prefers it, you can have the _Egyptian

hieroglyphic paper_, with the _ibis border_ to match!--The only

objection is, one sees it every where--quite antediluvian--gone to

the hotels even; but, to be sure, if your la’ship has a fancy--at

all events, I humbly recommend, what her grace of Torcaster longs to

patronise, my MOON CURTAINS, with candlelight draperies. A demi-saison

elegance this--I hit off yesterday--and--True, your la’ship’s quite

correct--out of the common completely. And, of course, you’d have

the _sphynx candelabras_, and the phoenix argands--Oh! nothing else

lights now, ma’am!--Expense!--Expense of the whole!--Impossible to

calculate here on the spot!--but nothing at all worth your ladyship’s

consideration!”

At another moment, Lord Colambre might have been amused with all this

rhodomontade, and with the airs and voluble conceit of the orator;

but, after what he had heard at Mr. Mordicai’s, this whole scene

struck him more with melancholy than with mirth. He was alarmed by the

prospect of new and unbounded expense; provoked, almost past enduring,

by the jargon and impertinence of this upholsterer; mortified and

vexed to the heart, to see his mother the dupe, the sport of such a

coxcomb.

“Prince of puppies!--Insufferable!--My own mother!” Lord Colambre

repeated to himself, as he walked hastily up and down the room.

“Colambre, won’t you let us have your judgment--your _teeste_?” said

his mother.

“Excuse me, ma’am--I have no taste, no judgment in these things.”

He sometimes paused, and looked at Mr. Soho, with a strong inclination

to--. But knowing that he should say too much if he said any thing, he

was silent; never dared to approach the council table--but continued

walking up and down the room, till he heard a voice which at once

arrested his attention and soothed his ire. He approached the table

instantly, and listened, whilst Miss Nugent said every thing he wished

to have said, and with all the propriety and delicacy with which he

thought he could not have spoken. He leaned on the table, and fixed

his eyes upon her--years ago he had seen his cousin--last night he had

thought her handsome, pleasing, graceful--but now he saw a new person,

or he saw her in a new light. He marked the superior intelligence,

the animation, the eloquence of her countenance, its variety, whilst

alternately, with arch raillery, or grave humour, she played off Mr.

Soho, and made him magnify the ridicule, till it was apparent even

to Lady Clonbrony. He observed the anxiety lest his mother should

expose her own foibles; he was touched by the respectful, earnest

kindness--the soft tones of persuasion with which she addressed

her--the care not to presume upon her own influence--the good sense,

the taste, she showed, yet not displaying her superiority--the

address, temper, and patience, with which she at last accomplished

her purpose, and prevented Lady Clonbrony from doing any thing

preposterously absurd, or exorbitantly extravagant.

Lord Colambre was actually sorry when the business was ended--when Mr.

Soho departed--for Miss Nugent was then silent; and it was necessary

to remove his eyes from that countenance on which he had gazed

unobserved. Beautiful and graceful, yet so unconscious was she of her

charms, that the eye of admiration could rest upon her without her

perceiving it--she seemed so intent upon others as totally to forget

herself. The whole train of Lord Colambre’s thoughts was so completely

deranged, that, although he was sensible there was something of

importance he had to say to his mother, yet when Mr. Soho’s departure

left him opportunity to speak, he stood silent, unable to recollect

any thing but--Grace Nugent.

When Miss Nugent left the room, after some minutes’ silence, and some

effort, Lord Colambre said to his mother, “Pray, madam, do you know

any thing of Sir Terence O’Fay?”

“I!” said Lady Clonbrony, drawing up her head proudly; “I know he is a

person I cannot endure. He is no friend of mine, I can assure you--nor

any such sort of person.”

“I thought it was impossible!” cried Lord Colambre, with exultation.

“I only wish your father, Colambre, could say as much,” added Lady

Clonbrony.

Lord Colambre’s countenance fell again; and again he was silent for

some time.

“Does my father dine at home, ma’am?”

“I suppose not; he seldom dines at home.”

“Perhaps, ma’am, my father may have some cause to be uneasy about--”

“About?” said Lady Clonbrony, in a tone, and with a look of curiosity,

which convinced her son that she knew nothing of his debts or

distresses, if he had any. “About what?” repeated her ladyship.

Here was no receding, and Lord Colambre never had recourse to

artifice.

“About his affairs, I was going to say, madam. But, since you know

nothing of any difficulties or embarrassments, I am persuaded that

none exist.”

“Nay, I _cawnt_ tell you that, Colambre. There are difficulties for

ready money, I confess, when I ask for it, which surprise me often. I

know nothing of affairs--ladies of a certain rank seldom do, you know.

But, considering your father’s estate, and the fortune I brought him,”

added her ladyship, proudly, “I _cawnt_ conceive it at all. Grace

Nugent, indeed, often talks to me of embarrassments and economy; but

that, poor thing! is very natural for her, because her fortune is not

particularly large, and she has left it all, or almost all, in her

uncle and guardian’s hands. I know she’s often distressed for odd

money to lend me, and that makes her anxious.”

“Is not Miss Nugent very much admired, ma’am, in London?”

“Of course--in the company she is in, you know, she has every

advantage. And she has a natural family air of fashion--Not but what

she would have _got on_ much better, if, when she first appeared

in Lon’on, she had taken my advice, and wrote herself on her cards

Miss de Nogent, which would have taken off the prejudice against the

_Iricism_ of Nugent, you know; and there is a Count de Nogent.”

“I did not know there was any such prejudice, ma’am. There may be

among a certain set; but, I should think, not among well-informed,

well-bred people.”

“I _big_ your _pawdon_, Colambre; surely I, that was born in England,

an Henglishwoman _bawn_, must be well _infawmed_ on this _pint_, any

way.”

Lord Colambre was respectfully silent.

“Mother,” resumed he, “I wonder that Miss Nugent is not married.”

“That is her own fau’t entirely; she has refused very good

offers--establishments that I own I think, as Lady Langdale says,

I was to blame to allow her to let pass: but young _ledies_, till

they are twenty, always think they can do better. Mr. Martingale,

of Martingale, proposed for her, but she objected to him on account

of _he’es_ being on the turf; and Mr. St. Albans’ 7000_l._ a-year,

because--I _reelly_ forget what--I believe only because she did

not like him--and something about principles. Now there is Colonel

Heathcock, one of the most fashionable young men you see, always with

the Duchess of Torcaster and that set--Heathcock takes a vast deal of

notice of her, for him; and yet, I’m persuaded, she would not have him

to-morrow if he came to the _pint_, and for no reason, _reelly_ now,

that she can give me, but because she says he’s a coxcomb. Grace has

a tincture of Irish pride. But, for my part, I rejoice that she is so

difficult; for I don’t know what I should do without her.”

“Miss Nugent is indeed--very much attached to you, mother, I am

convinced,” said Lord Colambre, beginning his sentence with great

enthusiasm, and ending it with great sobriety.

“Indeed, then, she’s a sweet girl, and I am very partial to her,

there’s the truth,” cried Lady Clonbrony, in an undisguised Irish

accent, and with her natural warm manner. But, a moment afterwards,

her features and whole form resumed their constrained stillness and

stiffness, and in her English accent she continued, “Before you put my

_idears_ out of my head, Colambre, I had something to say to you--Oh!

I know what it was--we were talking of embarrassments--and I wish

to do your father the justice to mention to you, that he has been

_uncommon liberal_ to me about this gala, and has _reelly_ given me

carte blanche; and I’ve a notion--indeed I know,--that it is you,

Colambre, I am to thank for this.”

“Me, ma’am!”

“Yes: did not your father give you any hint?”

“No, ma’am; I have seen my father but for half an hour since I came to

town, and in that time he said nothing to me--of his affairs.”

“But what I allude to is more your affair.”

“He did not speak to me of any affairs, ma’am--he spoke only of my

horses.”

“Then I suppose my lord leaves it to me to open the matter to you. I

have the pleasure to tell you, that we have in view for you--and, I

think I may say, with more than the approbation of all her family--an

alliance--”

“Oh, my dear mother! you cannot be serious,” cried Lord Colambre;

“you know I am not of years of discretion yet--I shall not think of

marrying these ten years, at least.”

“Why not? Nay, my dear Colambre, don’t go, I beg--I am serious, I

assure you--and, to convince you of it, I shall tell you candidly, at

once, all your father told me: that now you’ve done with Cambridge,

and are come to Lon’on, he agrees with me in wishing that you should

make the figure you ought to make, Colambre, as sole heir apparent to

the Clonbrony estate, and all that sort of thing; but, on the other

hand, living in Lon’on, and making you the handsome allowance you

ought to have, are, both together, more than your father can afford,

without inconvenience, he tells me.”

“I assure you, mother, I shall be content--”

“No, no; you must not be content, child, and you must hear me: you

must live in a becoming style, and make a proper appearance. I

could not present you to my friends here, nor be happy, if you did

not, Colambre. Now the way is clear before you: you have birth and

title, here is fortune ready made--you will have a noble estate of

your own when old Quin dies, and you will not be any encumbrance

or inconvenience to your father or any body. Marrying an heiress

accomplishes all this at once--and the young lady is every thing we

could wish besides--you will meet again at the gala. Indeed, between

ourselves, she is the grand object of the gala--all her friends will

come _en masse_, and one should wish that they should see things in

proper style. You have seen the young lady in question, Colambre--Miss

Broadhurst--Don’t you recollect the young lady I introduced you to

last night after the opera?”

“The little plain girl, covered with diamonds, who was standing beside

Miss Nugent?”

“In di’monds, yes--But you won’t think her plain when you see more of

her--that wears off--I thought her plain, at first--I hope--”

“I hope,” said Lord Colambre, “that you will not take it unkindly of

me, my dear mother, if I tell you, at once, that I have no thoughts of

marrying at present--and that I never will marry for money: marrying

an heiress is not even a new way of paying old debts--at all events,

it is one to which no distress could persuade me to have recourse; and

as I must, if I outlive old Mr. Quin, have an independent fortune,

_there is no_ occasion to purchase one by marriage.”

“There is no distress that I know of in the case,” cried Lady

Clonbrony. “Where is your imagination running, Colambre? But merely

for your establishment, your independence.”

“Establishment, I want none--independence I do desire, and will

preserve. Assure my father, my _dear mother_, that I will not be

an expense to him--I will live within the allowance he made me at

Cambridge--I will give up half of it--I will do any thing for his

convenience--but marry for money, that I cannot do.”

“Then, Colambre, you are very disobliging,” said Lady Clonbrony, with

an expression of disappointment and displeasure; “for your father says

if you don’t marry Miss Broadhurst, we can’t live in Lon’on another

winter.”

This said--which had she been at the moment mistress of herself, she

would not have betrayed--Lady Clonbrony abruptly quitted the room.

Her son stood motionless, saying to himself, “Is this my mother?--How

altered!”

The next morning he seized an opportunity of speaking to his father,

whom he caught with difficulty just when he was going out, as usual,

for the day. Lord Colambre, with all the respect due to his father,

and with that affectionate manner by which he always knew how

to soften the strength of his expressions, made nearly the same

declarations of his resolution, by which his mother had been so much

surprised and offended. Lord Clonbrony seemed more embarrassed, but

not so much displeased. When Lord Colambre adverted, as delicately

as he could, to the selfishness of desiring from him the sacrifice

of liberty for life, to say nothing of his affections, merely to

enable his family to make a splendid figure in London, Lord Clonbrony

exclaimed, “That’s all nonsense!--cursed nonsense! That’s the way we

are obliged to state the thing to your mother, my dear boy, because I

might talk her deaf before she would understand or listen to any thing

else; but, for my own share, I don’t care a rush if London was sunk in

the salt sea. Little Dublin for my money, as Sir Terence O’Fay says.”

“Who is Sir Terence O’Fay, may I ask, sir?”

“Why, don’t you know Terry?--Ay, you’ve been so long at Cambridge--I

forgot. And did you never see Terry?”

“I have seen him, sir.--I met him yesterday at Mr. Mordicai’s, the

coachmaker’s.”

“Mordicai’s!” exclaimed Lord Clonbrony, with a sudden blush, which he

endeavoured to hide, by taking snuff. “He is a damned rascal, that

Mordicai! I hope you didn’t believe a word he said--nobody does that

knows him.”

“I am glad, sir, that you seem to know him so well, and to be upon

your guard against him,” replied Lord Colambre; “for, from what I

heard of his conversation, when he was not aware who I was, I am

convinced he would do you any injury in his power.”

“He shall never have me in his power, I promise him. We shall take

care of that--But what did he say?”

Lord Colambre repeated the substance of what Mordicai had said, and

Lord Clonbrony reiterated, “Damned rascal!--damned rascal!--I’ll get

out of his hands--I’ll have no more to do with him.” But, as he spoke,

he exhibited evident symptoms of uneasiness, moving continually, and

shifting from leg to leg, like a foundered horse.

He could not bring himself positively to deny that he had debts and

difficulties; but he would by no means open the state of his affairs

to his son: “No father is called upon to do that,” said he to himself;

“none but a fool would do it.”

Lord Colambre, perceiving his father’s embarrassment, withdrew his

eyes, respectfully refrained from all further inquiries, and simply

repeated the assurance he had made to his mother, that he would put

his family to no additional expense; and that, if it was necessary, he

would willingly give up half his allowance.

“Not at all, not at all, my dear boy,” said his father: “I would

rather cramp myself than that you should be cramped, a thousand times

over. But it is all my Lady Clonbrony’s nonsense. If people would but,

as they ought, stay in their own country, live on their own estates,

and kill their own mutton, money need never be wanting.”

For killing their own mutton, Lord Colambre did not see the

indispensable necessity; but he rejoiced to hear his father assert

that people should reside in their own country.

“Ay,” cried Lord Clonbrony, to strengthen his assertion, as he

always thought it necessary to do, by quoting some other person’s

opinion--“so Sir Terence O’Fay always says, and that’s the reason your

mother can’t endure poor Terry--You don’t know Terry? No, you have

only seen him; but, indeed, to see him is to know him; for he is the

most off-hand, good fellow in Europe.”

“I don’t pretend to know him yet,” said Lord Colambre. “I am not so

presumptuous as to form my opinion at first sight.”

“Oh, curse your modesty!” interrupted Lord Clonbrony; “you mean, you

don’t pretend to like him yet; but Terry will make you like him. I

defy you not--I’ll introduce you to him--him to you, I mean--most

warm-hearted, generous dog upon earth--convivial--jovial--with wit and

humour enough, in his own way, to split you--split me if he has not.

You need not cast down your eyes, Colambre. What’s your objection?”

“I have made none, sir--but, if you urge me, I can only say, that, if

he has all these good qualities, it is to be regretted that he does

not look and speak a little more like a gentleman.”

“A gentleman!--he is as much a gentleman as any of your formal

prigs--not the exact Cambridge cut, may be--Curse your English

education! ‘twas none of my advice--I suppose you mean to take after

your mother in the notion, that nothing can be good or genteel but

what’s English.”

“Far from it, sir; I assure you I am as warm a friend to Ireland as

your heart could wish. You will have no reason, in that respect, at

least, nor, I hope, in any other, to curse my English education--and,

if my gratitude and affection can avail, you shall never regret the

kindness and liberality with which you have, I fear, distressed

yourself to afford me the means of becoming all that a British

nobleman ought to be.”

“Gad! you distress me now,” said Lord Clonbrony, “and I didn’t expect

it, or I wouldn’t make a fool of myself this way,” added he, ashamed

of his emotion, and whiffling it off. “You have an Irish heart, that I

see, which no education can spoil. But you must like Terry--I’ll

give you time, as he said to me, when first he taught me to like

usquebaugh--Good morning to you.”

Whilst Lady Clonbrony, in consequence of her residence in London, had

become more of a fine lady, Lord Clonbrony, since he left Ireland,

had become less of a gentleman. Lady Clonbrony, born an Englishwoman,

disclaiming and disencumbering herself of all the Irish in town, had,

by giving splendid entertainments, at an enormous expense, made her

way into a certain set of fashionable company. But Lord Clonbrony,

who was somebody in Ireland, who was a great person in Dublin, found

himself nobody in England, a mere cipher in London. Looked down upon

by the fine people with whom his lady associated, and heartily weary

of them, he retreated from them altogether, and sought entertainment

and self-complacency in society beneath him, indeed, both in rank and

education, but in which he had the satisfaction of feeling himself

the first person in company. Of these associates, the first in

talents, and in jovial profligacy, was Sir Terence O’Fay--a man of

low extraction, who had been knighted by an Irish lord-lieutenant

in some convivial frolic. No one could tell a good story, or sing a

good song, better than Sir Terence; he exaggerated his native brogue,

and his natural propensity to blunder, caring little whether the

company laughed at him or with him, provided they laughed--“Live

and laugh--laugh and live,” was his motto; and certainly he lived

on laughing, as well as many better men can contrive to live on a

thousand a-year.

Lord Clonbrony brought Sir Terence home with him next day, to

introduce him to Lord Colambre; and it happened that, on this

occasion, Terence appeared to peculiar disadvantage, because, like

many other people, “Il gâtoit l’esprit qu’il avoit, en voulant avoir

celui qu’il n’avoit pas.”

Having been apprised that Lord Colambre was a fine scholar, fresh from

Cambridge, and being conscious of his own deficiencies of literature,

instead of trusting to his natural talents, he summoned to his aid,

with no small effort, all the scraps of learning he had acquired in

early days, and even brought before the company all the gods and

goddesses with whom he had formed an acquaintance at school. Though

embarrassed by this unusual encumbrance of learning, he endeavoured

to make all subservient to his immediate design, of paying his court

to Lady Clonbrony, by forwarding the object she had most anxiously in

view--the match between her son and Miss Broadhurst.

“And so, Miss Nugent,” said he, not daring, with all his assurance, to

address himself directly to Lady Clonbrony, “and so, Miss Nugent, you

are going to have great doings, I’m told, and a wonderful grand gala.

There’s nothing in the wide world equal to being in a good handsome

crowd. No later now than the last ball at the Castle, that was before

I left Dublin, Miss Nugent, the apartments, owing to the popularity

of my lady lieutenant, was so throng--so throng--that I remember

very well, in the doorway, a lady--and a very genteel woman she was,

too--though a stranger to me, saying to me, ‘Sir, your finger’s in my

ear.’--‘I know it, madam,” says I; ‘but I can’t take it out till the

crowd give me elbow-room.’

“But it’s the gala I’m thinking of now--I hear you are to have the

golden Venus, my Lady Clonbrony, won’t you?”

“Sir!”

This freezing monosyllable notwithstanding, Sir Terence pursued his

course fluently. “The golden Venus!--sure, Miss Nugent, you that are

so quick, can’t but know I would apostrophize Miss Broadhurst that

is--but that won’t be long so, I hope. My Lord Colambre, have you seen

much yet of that young lady?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I hope you won’t be long so. I hear great talk now of the Venus

of Medici, and the Venus of this and that, with the Florence Venus,

and the sable Venus, and that other Venus, that’s washing of her hair,

and a hundred other Venuses, some good, some bad. But, be that as it

will, my lord, trust a fool--ye may, when he tells you truth--the

golden Venus is the only one on earth that can stand, or that will

stand, through all ages and temperatures; for gold rules the court,

gold rules the camp, and men below, and heaven above.”

“Heaven above!--Take care, Terry! Do you know what you are saying?”

interrupted Lord Clonbrony.

“Do I?--Don’t I?” replied Terry. “Deny, if you please, my lord, that

it was for a golden pippin that the three goddesses _fit_--and that

the _Hippomenes_ was about golden apples--and did not Hercules rob a

garden for golden apples?--and did not the pious Æneas himself take a

golden branch with him to make himself welcome to his father in hell?”

said Sir Terence, winking at Lord Colambre.

“Why, Terry, you know more about books than I should have suspected,”

said Lord Clonbrony.

“Nor you would not have suspected me to have such a great acquaintance

among the goddesses neither, would you, my lord? But, apropos, before

we quit, of what material, think ye, was that same Venus’s famous

girdle, now, that made roses and lilies so quickly appear? Why, what

was it but a girdle of sterling gold, I’ll engage?--for gold is the

only true thing for a young man to look after in a wife.”

Sir Terence paused, but no applause ensued.

“Let them talk of Cupids and darts, and the mother of the Loves and

Graces--Minerva may sing odes and _dythambrics_, or whatsoever her

wisdomship pleases. Let her sing, or let her say, she’ll never get a

husband, in this world or the other, without she had a good thumping

_fortin_, and then she’d go off like wildfire.”

“No, no, Terry, there you’re out: Minerva has too bad a character for

learning to be a favourite with gentlemen,” said Lord Clonbrony.

“Tut--Don’t tell me!--I’d get her off before you could say Jack

Robinson, and thank you too, if she had 50,000_l._ down, or 1,000_l._

a-year in land. Would you have a man so d----d nice as to balk,

when house and land is agoing--a going--a going!--because of the

incumbrance of a little learning? But, after all, I never heard that

Miss Broadhurst was any thing of a learned lady.”

“Miss Broadhurst!” said Miss Nugent: “how did you get round to Miss

Broadhurst?”

“Oh! by the way of Tipperary,” said Lord Colambre.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, it was apropos to good fortune, which,

I hope, will not be out of your way, even if you went by Tipperary.

She has, besides 100,000_l._ in the funds, a clear landed property of

10,000_l._ per annum. _Well! some people talk of morality, and some of

religion, bat give me a little snug_ PROPERTY.--But, my lord, I’ve a

little business to transact this morning, and must not be idling and

indulging myself here.” So, bowing to the ladies, he departed.

“Really, I am glad that man is gone,” said Lady Clonbrony. “What a

relief to one’s ears! I am sure I wonder, my lord, how you can bear

to carry that strange creature always about with you--so vulgar as he

is.”

“He diverts me,” said Lord Clonbrony; “while many of your

correct-mannered fine ladies or gentlemen put me to sleep. What

signifies what accent people speak in, that have nothing to say, hey,

Colambre?”

Lord Colambre, from respect to his father, did not express his

opinion; but his aversion to Sir Terence O’Fay was stronger even than

his mother’s, though Lady Clonbrony’s detestation of him was much

increased by perceiving that his coarse hints about Miss Broadhurst

had operated against her favourite scheme.

The next morning, at breakfast, Lord Clonbrony talked of bringing Sir

Terence with him that night to her gala--she absolutely grew pale with

horror.

“Good Heavens!--Lady Langdale, Mrs. Dareville, Lady Pococke, Lady

Chatterton, Lady D----, Lady G----, His Grace of V----; what would

they think of him! And Miss Broadhurst, to see him going about with

my Lord Clonbrony!”--It could not be. No--her ladyship made the most

solemn and desperate protestation, that she would sooner give up her

gala altogether--tie up the knocker--say she was sick--rather be sick,

or be dead, than be obliged to have such a creature as Sir Terence

O’Fay at her gala.

“Have it your own way, my dear, as you have every thing else,” cried

Lord Clonbrony, taking up his hat, and preparing to decamp; “but, take

notice, if you won’t receive him, you need not expect me. So a good

morning to you, my Lady Clonbrony. You may find a worse friend in need

yet, than that same Sir Terence O’Fay.”

“I trust I shall never be in need, my lord,” replied her ladyship. “It

would be strange indeed if I were, with the fortune I brought.”

“Oh, that fortune of hers!” cried Lord Clonbrony, stopping both his

ears as he ran out of his room: “shall I never hear the end of that

fortune, when I’ve seen the end of it long ago?”

During this matrimonial dialogue, Miss Nugent and Lord Colambre never

once looked at each other. She was very diligently trying the changes

that could be made in the positions of a china-mouse, a cat, a dog, a

cup, and a brahmin, on the mantel-piece; Lord Colambre as diligently

reading the newspaper.

“Now, my dear Colambre,” said Lady Clonbrony, “put down the paper,

and listen to me. Let me entreat you not to neglect Miss Broadhurst

to-night, as I know that the family come here chiefly on your

account.”

“My dear mother, I never can neglect any one of your guests; but

I shall be careful not to show any particular attention to Miss

Broadhurst, for I never will pretend what I do not feel.”

“But, my dear Colambre, Miss Broadhurst is every thing you could wish,

except being a beauty.”

“Perhaps, madam,” said Lord Colambre, fixing his eyes on Miss Nugent,

“you think that I can see no farther than a handsome face?”

The unconscious Grace Nugent now made a warm eulogium of Miss

Broadhurst’s sense, and wit, and independence of character.

“I did not know that Miss Broadhurst was a friend of yours, Miss

Nugent?”

“She is, I assure you, a friend of mine; and, as a proof, I will not

praise her at this moment. I will go farther still--I will promise

that I never will praise her to you till you begin to praise her to

me.”

Lord Colambre smiled, and now listened as if he wished that she should

go on speaking, even of Miss Broadhurst.

“That’s my sweet Grace!” cried Lady Clonbrony. “Oh! she knows how to

manage these men--not one of them can resist her!”

Lord Colambre, for his part, did not deny the truth of this assertion.

“Grace,” added Lady Clonbrony, “make him promise to do as we would

have him.”

“No--promises are dangerous things to ask or to give,” said Grace.

“Men and naughty children never make promises, especially promises to

be good, without longing to break them the next minute.”

“Well, at least, child, persuade him, I charge you, to make my gala go

off well. That’s the first thing we ought to think of now. Ring the

bell!--And all heads and hands I put in requisition for the gala.”

CHAPTER III.

The opening of her gala, the display of her splendid reception rooms,

the Turkish tent, the Alhambra, the pagoda, formed a proud moment

to Lady Clonbrony. Much did she enjoy, and much too naturally,

notwithstanding all her efforts to be stiff and stately, much too

naturally did she show her enjoyment of the surprise excited in some

and affected by others on their first entrance.

One young, very young lady expressed her astonishment so audibly as to

attract the notice of all the bystanders. Lady Clonbrony, delighted,

seized both her hands, shook them, and laughed heartily; then, as the

young lady with her party passed on, her ladyship recovered herself,

drew up her head, and said to the company near her, “Poor thing! I

hope I covered her little _naïveté_ properly. How NEW she must be!”

Then with well practised dignity, and half subdued self-complacency

of aspect, her ladyship went gliding about--most importantly busy,

introducing my lady _this_ to the sphynx candelabra, and my lady

_that_ to the Trebisond trellice; placing some delightfully for

the perspective of the Alhambra; establishing others quite to her

satisfaction on seraglio ottomans; and honouring others with a seat

under the Statira canopy. Receiving and answering compliments from

successive crowds of select friends, imagining herself the mirror

of fashion, and the admiration of the whole world, Lady Clonbrony

was, for her hour, as happy certainly as ever woman was in similar

circumstances.

Her son looked at her, and wished that this happiness could last.

Naturally inclined to sympathy, Lord Colambre reproached himself for

not feeling as gay at this instant as the occasion required. But the

festive scene, the blazing lights, the “universal hubbub,” failed to

raise his spirits. As a dead weight upon them hung the remembrance

of Mordicai’s denunciations; and, through the midst of this eastern

magnificence, this unbounded profusion, he thought he saw future

domestic misery and ruin to those he loved best in the world.

The only object present on which his eye rested with pleasure was

Grace Nugent. Beautiful--in elegant and dignified simplicity--

thoughtless of herself--yet with a look of thought, and with an air

of melancholy, which accorded exactly with his own feelings, and

which he believed to arise from the same reflections that had

passed in his own mind.

“Miss Broadhurst, Colambre! all the Broadhursts!” said his mother,

wakening him as she passed by to receive them as they entered.

Miss Broadhurst appeared, plainly dressed--plainly even to

singularity--without any diamonds or ornament.

“Brought Philippa to you, my dear Lady Clonbrony, this figure, rather

than not bring her at all,” said puffing Mrs. Broadhurst, “and had

all the difficulty in the world to get her out at all, and now I’ve

promised she shall stay but half an hour. Sore throat--terrible cold

she took in the morning. I’ll swear for her, she’d not have come for

any one but you.”

The young lady did not seem inclined to swear, or even to say this

for herself; she stood wonderfully unconcerned and passive, with an

expression of humour lurking in her eyes, and about the corners of

her mouth; whilst Lady Clonbrony was “shocked,” and “gratified,”

and “concerned,” and “flattered;” and whilst every body was hoping,

and fearing, and busying themselves about her, “Miss Broadhurst,

you’d better sit here!”--“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Miss Broadhurst,

not there!” “Miss Broadhurst, if you’ll take my opinion,” and “Miss

Broadhurst, if I may advise--.”

“Grace Nugent!” cried Lady Clonbrony. “Miss Broadhurst always listens

to you. Do, my dear, persuade Miss Broadhurst to take care of herself,

and let us take her to the inner little pagoda, where she can be so

warm and so retired--the very thing for an invalid--Colambre! pioneer

the way for us, for the crowd’s immense.”

Lady Anne and Lady Catherine H----, Lady Langdale’s daughters, were

at this time leaning on Miss Nugent’s arm, and moved along with this

party to the inner pagoda. There were to be cards in one room, music

in another, dancing in a third, and in this little room there were

prints and chess-boards, &c.

“Here you will be quite to yourselves,” said Lady Clonbrony; “let

me establish you comfortably in this, which I call my sanctuary--my

_snuggery_--Colambre, that little table!--Miss Broadhurst, you play

chess?--Colambre, you’ll play with Miss Broadhurst--”

“I thank your ladyship,” said Miss Broadhurst, “but I know nothing of

chess but the moves: Lady Catherine, you will play, and I will look

on.”

Miss Broadhurst drew her seat to the fire; Lady Catherine sat down to

play with Lord Colambre: Lady Clonbrony withdrew, again recommending

Miss Broadhurst to Grace Nugent’s care. After some commonplace

conversation, Lady Anne H----, looking at the company in the adjoining

apartment, asked her sister how old Miss Somebody was who passed

by. This led to reflections upon the comparative age and youthful

appearance of several of their acquaintance, and upon the care with

which mothers concealed the age of their daughters. Glances passed

between Lady Catherine and Lady Anne.

“For my part,” said Miss Broadhurst, “my mother would labour that

point of secrecy in vain for me; for I am willing to tell my age, even

if my face did not tell it for me, to all whom it may concern--I am

passed three-and-twenty--shall be four-and-twenty the fifth of next

July.”

“Three-and-twenty!--Bless me!--I thought you were not twenty!” cried

Lady Anne.

“Four-and-twenty next July!--impossible!” cried Lady Catherine.

“Very possible,” said Miss Broadhurst, quite unconcerned.

“Now, Lord Colambre, would you believe it? Can you believe it?” asked

Lady Catherine.

“Yes, he can,” said Miss Broadhurst. “Don’t you see that he believes

it as firmly as you and I do? Why should you force his lordship to pay

a compliment contrary to his better judgment, or extort a smile from

him under false pretences? I am sure he sees that you, and I trust he

perceives that I, do not think the worse of him for this.”

Lord Colambre smiled now without any false pretence; and, relieved at

once from all apprehension of her joining in his mother’s views, or of

her expecting particular attention from him, he became at ease with

Miss Broadhurst, showed a desire to converse with her, and listened

eagerly to what she said. He recollected that Miss Nugent had told

him, that this young lady had no common character; and, neglecting his

move at chess, he looked up at Miss Nugent, as much as to say, “_Draw

her out_, pray.”

But Grace was too good a friend to comply with that request; she left

Miss Broadhurst to unfold her own character.

“It is your move, my lord,” said Lady Catherine.

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon--”

“Are not these rooms beautiful, Miss Broadhurst?” said Lady Catherine,

determined, if possible, to turn the conversation into a commonplace,

safe channel; for she had just felt, what most of Miss Broadhurst’s

acquaintance had in their turn felt, that she had an odd way of

startling people, by setting their own secret little motives suddenly

before them.

“Are not these rooms beautiful?”

“Beautiful!--Certainly.”

The beauty of the rooms would have answered Lady Catherine’s purpose

for some time, had not Lady Anne imprudently brought the conversation

back again to Miss Broadhurst.

“Do you know, Miss Broadhurst,” said she, “that if I had fifty sore

throats, I could not have refrained from my diamonds on this GALA

night; and such diamonds as you have! Now, really, I could not believe

you to be the same person we saw blazing at the opera the other

night!”

“Really! could not you, Lady Anne? That is the very thing that

entertains me. I only wish that I could lay aside my fortune

sometimes, as well as my diamonds, and see how few people would know

me then. Might not I, Grace, by the golden rule, which, next to

practice, is the best rule in the world, calculate and answer that

question?”

“I am persuaded,” said Lord Colambre, “that Miss Broadhurst has

friends on whom the experiment would make no difference.”

“I am convinced of it,” said Miss Broadhurst; “and that is what makes

me tolerably happy, though I have the misfortune to be an heiress.”

“That is the oddest speech,” said Lady Anne. “Now I should so like

to be a great heiress, and to have, like you, such thousands and

thousands at command.”

“And what can the thousands upon thousands do for me? Hearts, you

know, Lady Anne, are to be won only by radiant eyes. Bought hearts

your ladyship certainly would not recommend. They’re such poor

things--no wear at all. Turn them which way you will, you can make

nothing of them.”

“You’ve tried, then, have you?” said Lady Catherine.

“To my cost.--Very nearly taken in by them half a dozen times; for

they are brought to me by dozens; and they are so made up for sale,

and the people do so swear to you that it’s real, real love, and it

looks so like it: and, if you stoop to examine it, you hear it pressed

upon you by such elegant oaths.--By all that’s lovely!--By all my

hopes of happiness!--By your own charming self! Why, what can one do

but look like a fool, and believe? for these men, at the time, all

look so like gentlemen, that one cannot bring oneself flatly to tell

them that they are cheats and swindlers, that they are perjuring their

precious souls. Besides, to call a lover a perjured creature is to

encourage him. He would have a right to complain if you went back

after that.”

“O dear! what a move was there!” cried Lady Catherine. “Miss

Broadhurst is so entertaining to-night, notwithstanding her sore

throat, that one can positively attend to nothing else. And she talks

of love and lovers too with such _connoissance de fait_--counts her

lovers by dozens, tied up in true lovers’ knots!”

“Lovers!--no, no! Did I say lovers?--suitors I should have said.

There’s nothing less like a lover, a true lover, than a suitor, as all

the world knows, ever since the days of Penelope. Dozens!--never had a

lover in my life!--And fear, with much reason, I never shall have one

to my mind.”

“My lord, you’ve given up the game,” cried Lady Catherine; “but you

make no battle.”

“It would be so vain to combat against your ladyship,” said Lord

Colambre, rising, and bowing politely to Lady Catherine, but turning

the next instant to converse with Miss Broadhurst.

“But when I talked of liking to be an heiress,” said Lady Anne, “I was

not thinking of lovers.”

“Certainly.--One is not always thinking of lovers, you know,” added

Lady Catherine.

“Not always,” replied Miss Broadhurst. “Well, lovers out of the

question on all sides, what would your ladyship buy with the thousands

upon thousands?”

“Oh, every thing, if I were you,” said Lady Anne.

“Rank, to begin with,” said Lady Catherine.

“Still my old objection--bought rank is but a shabby thing.”

“But there is so little difference made between bought and hereditary

rank in these days,” said Lady Catherine.

“I see a great deal still,” said Miss Broadhurst; “so much, that I

would never buy a title.”

“A title, without birth, to be sure,” said Lady Anne, “would not be so

well worth buying; and as birth certainly is not to be bought--”

“And even birth, were it to be bought, I would not buy,” said

Miss Broadhurst, “unless I could be sure to have it with all the

politeness, all the noble sentiments, all the magnanimity, in short,

all that should grace and dignify high birth.”

“Admirable!” said Lord Colambre. Grace Nugent smiled.

“Lord Colambre, will you have the goodness to put my mother in mind, I

must go away?”

“I am bound to obey, but I am very sorry for it,” said his lordship.

“Are we to have any dancing to-night, I wonder?” said Lady Anne. “Miss

Nugent, I am afraid we have made Miss Broadhurst talk so much, in

spite of her hoarseness, that Lady Clonbrony will be quite angry with

us. And here she comes, Lady Catherine.”

My Lady Clonbrony came to hope, to beg, that Miss Broadhurst would not

think of running away; but Miss Broadhurst could not be prevailed upon

to stay. Lady Clonbrony was delighted to see that her son assisted

Grace Nugent most carefully in _shawling_ the young heiress--his

lordship conducted her to her carriage, and his mother drew many happy

auguries from the gallantry of his manner, and from the young lady’s

having stayed three quarters, instead of half an hour--a circumstance

which Lady Catherine did not fail to remark.

The dancing, which, under various pretences, Lady Clonbrony had

delayed till Lord Colambre was at liberty, began immediately after

Miss Broadhurst’s departure; and the chalked mosaic pavement of the

Alhambra was, in a few minutes, effaced by the dancers’ feet. How

transient are all human joys, especially those of vanity! Even on this

long meditated, this long desired, this gala night, Lady Clonbrony

found her triumph incomplete--inadequate to her expectations. For the

first hour all had been compliment, success, and smiles; presently

came the _buts_, and the hesitated objections, and the “damning

with faint praise”--all _that_ could be borne--every body has his

taste--and one person’s taste is as good as another’s; and while

she had Mr. Soho to cite, Lady Clonbrony thought she might be well

satisfied. But she could not be satisfied with Colonel Heathcock, who,

dressed in black, had stretched his “fashionable length of limb” under

the Statira canopy, upon the snow-white swandown couch. When, after

having monopolized attention, and been the subject of much bad wit,

about black swans and rare birds, and swans being geese and geese

being swans, the colonel condescended to rise, and, as Mrs. Dareville

said, to vacate his couch--that couch was no longer white--the black

impression of the colonel remained on the sullied snow.

“Eh, now! really didn’t recollect I was in black,” was all the apology

he made. Lady Clonbrony was particularly vexed that the appearance of

the Statira canopy should be spoiled before the effect had been seen

by Lady Pococke, and Lady Chatterton, and Lady G----, Lady P----, and

the Duke of V----, and a party of superlative fashionables, who had

promised _to look in upon her_, but who, late as it was, had not yet

arrived. They came in at last. But Lady Clonbrony had no reason to

regret for their sake the Statira couch. It would have been lost upon

them, as was every thing else which she had prepared with so much

pains and cost to excite their admiration. They came resolute not to

admire. Skilled in the art of making others unhappy, they just looked

round with an air of apathy.--“Ah! you’ve had Soho!--Soho has done

wonders for you here!--Vastly well!--Vastly well!--Soho’s very clever

in his way!”

Others of great importance came in, full of some slight accident that

had happened to themselves, or their horses, or their carriages; and,

with privileged selfishness, engrossed the attention of all within

their sphere of conversation. Well, Lady Clonbrony got over all this;

and got over the history of a letter about a chimney that was on fire,

a week ago, at the Duke of V----‘s old house, in Brecknockshire. In

gratitude for the smiling patience with which she listened to him,

his Grace of V---- fixed his glass to look at the Alhambra, and had

just pronounced it to be “Well!--very well!” when the Dowager Lady

Chatterton made a terrible discovery--a discovery that filled Lady

Clonbrony with astonishment and indignation--Mr. Soho had played her

false! What was her mortification, when the dowager assured her that

these identical Alhambra hangings had not only been shown by Mr. Soho

to the Duchess of Torcaster, but that her grace had had the refusal of

them, and had actually criticised them, in consequence of Sir Horace

Grant, the great traveller’s objecting to some of the proportions of

the pillars--Soho had engaged to make a new set, vastly improved, by

Sir Horace’s suggestions, for her Grace of Torcaster.

Now Lady Chatterton was the greatest talker extant; and she went

about the rooms telling every body of her acquaintance--and she was

acquainted with every body--how shamefully Soho had imposed upon poor

Lady Clonbrony, protesting she could not forgive the man. “For,” said

she, “though the Duchess of Torcaster had been his constant customer

for ages, and his patroness, and all that, yet this does not excuse

him--and Lady Clonbrony’s being a stranger, and from Ireland, makes

the thing worse.” From Ireland!--that was the unkindest cut of

all--but there was no remedy.

In vain poor Lady Clonbrony followed the dowager about the rooms to

correct this mistake, and to represent, in justice to Mr. Soho, though

he had used her so ill, that he knew she was an Englishwoman. The

dowager was deaf, and no whisper could reach her ear. And when Lady

Clonbrony was obliged to bawl an explanation in her ear, the dowager

only repeated, “In justice to Mr. Soho!--No, no; he has not done

you justice, my dear Lady Clonbrony! and I’ll expose him to every

body. Englishwoman!--no, no, no!--Soho could not take you for an

Englishwoman!”

All who secretly envied or ridiculed Lady Clonbrony enjoyed this

scene. The Alhambra hangings, which had been in one short hour before

the admiration of the world, were now regarded by every eye with

contempt, as _cast_ hangings, and every tongue was busy declaiming

against Mr. Soho; every body declared, that from the first, the want

of proportion “struck them, but that they would not mention it till

others found it out.”

People usually revenge themselves for having admired too much, by

afterwards despising and depreciating without mercy--in all great

assemblies the perception of ridicule is quickly caught, and quickly

too revealed. Lady Clonbrony, even in her own house, on her gala

night, became an object of ridicule,--decently masked, indeed, under

the appearance of condolence with her ladyship, and of indignation

against “that abominable Mr. Soho!”

Lady Langdale, who was now, for reasons of her own, upon her good

behaviour, did penance, as she said, for her former imprudence,

by abstaining even from whispered sarcasms. She looked on with

penitential gravity, said nothing herself, and endeavoured to keep

Mrs. Dareville in order; but that was no easy task. Mrs. Dareville

had no daughters, had nothing to gain from the acquaintance of my Lady

Clonbrony; and conscious that her ladyship would bear a vast deal

from her presence, rather than forego the honour of her sanction,

Mrs. Dareville, without any motives of interest, or good-nature of

sufficient power to restrain her talent and habit of ridicule, free

from hope or fear, gave full scope to all the malice of mockery, and

all the insolence of fashion. Her slings and arrows, numerous as they

were and outrageous, were directed against such petty objects, and the

mischief was so quick in its aim and its operation, that, felt but not

seen, it is scarcely possible to register the hits, or to describe the

nature of the wounds.

Some hits, sufficiently palpable, however, are recorded for the

advantage of posterity. When Lady Clonbrony led her to look at the

Chinese pagoda, the lady paused, with her foot on the threshold, as

if afraid to enter this porcelain Elysium, as she called it--Fool’s

Paradise, she would have said; and, by her hesitation, and by the

half pronounced word, suggested the idea,--“None but belles without

petticoats can enter here,” said she, drawing her clothes tight round

her; “fortunately, I have but two, and Lady Langdale has but one.”

Prevailed upon to venture in, she walked on with prodigious care and

trepidation, affecting to be alarmed at the crowd of strange forms and

monsters by which she was surrounded.

“Not a creature here that I ever saw before in nature!--Well, now I

may boast I’ve been in a real Chinese pagoda!”

“Why, yes, every thing is appropriate here, I flatter my self,” said

Lady Clonbrony.

“And how good of you, my dear Lady Clonbrony, in defiance of bulls

and blunders, to allow us a comfortable English fire-place and plenty

of Newcastle coal in China!--And a white marble--no! white velvet

hearthrug painted with beautiful flowers--Oh! the delicate, the

_useful_ thing!”

Vexed by the emphasis on the word _useful_, Lady Clonbrony endeavoured

to turn off the attention of the company. “Lady Langdale, your

ladyship’s a judge of china--this vase is an unique, I am told.”

“I am told,” interrupted Mrs. Dareville, “this is the very vase in

which B----, the nabob’s father, who was, you know, a China captain,

smuggled his dear little Chinese wife and all her fortune out of

Canton--positively, actually put the lid on, packed her up, and sent

her off on shipboard!--True! true! upon my veracity! I’ll tell you my

authority!”

With this story, Mrs. Dareville drew all attention from the jar, to

Lady Clonbrony’s infinite mortification.

Lady Langdale at length turned to look at a vast range of china jars.

“Ali Baba and the forty thieves!” exclaimed Mrs. Dareville: “I hope

you have boiling oil ready!”

Lady Clonbrony was obliged to laugh, and to vow that Mrs. Dareville

was uncommon pleasant to-night--“But now,” said her ladyship, “let me

take you to the Turkish tent.”

Having with great difficulty got the malicious wit out of the pagoda

and into the Turkish tent, Lady Clonbrony began to breathe move

freely; for here she thought she was upon safe ground:--“Every thing,

I flatter myself,” said she, “is correct, and appropriate, and quite

picturesque”--The company, dispersed in happy groups, or reposing on

seraglio ottomans, drinking lemonade and sherbet--beautiful Fatimas

admiring, or being admired--“Every thing here quite correct,

appropriate, and picturesque,” repeated Mrs. Dareville.

This lady’s powers as a mimic were extraordinary, and she found them

irresistible. Hitherto she had imitated Lady Clonbrony’s air and

accent only behind her back; but, bolder grown, she now ventured, in

spite of Lady Langdale’s warning pinches, to mimic her kind hostess

before her face, and to her face. Now, whenever Lady Clonbrony saw any

thing that struck her fancy in the dress of her fashionable friends,

she had a way of hanging her head aside, and saying, with a peculiarly

sentimental drawl, “How pretty!--How elegant!--Now that quite suits

my _teeste_.” this phrase, precisely in the same accent, and with the

head set to the same angle of affectation, Mrs. Dareville had the

assurance to address to her ladyship, apropos to something which she

pretended to admire in Lady Clonbrony’s _costume_--a costume, which,

excessively fashionable in each of its parts, was, altogether, so

extraordinarily unbecoming, as to be fit for a print-shop. The

perception of this, added to the effect of Mrs. Dareville’s mimicry,

was almost too much for Lady Langdale; she could not possibly have

stood it, but for the appearance of Miss Nugent at this instant behind

Lady Clonbrony. Grace gave one glance of indignation, which seemed

suddenly to strike Mrs. Dareville. Silence for a moment ensued, and

afterwards the tone of the conversation was changed.

“Salisbury!--explain this to me,” said a lady, drawing Mr. Salisbury

aside. “If you are in the secret, do explain this to me; for unless I

had seen it, I could not have believed it. Nay, though I have seen it,

I do not believe it. How was that daring spirit laid? By what spell?”

“By the spell which superior minds always cast on inferior spirits.”

“Very fine,” said the lady, laughing, “but as old as the days of

Leonora de Galigai, quoted a million times. Now tell me something new

and to the purpose, and better suited to modern days.”

“Well, then, since you will not allow me to talk of superior minds in

the present day, let me ask you if you have never observed that a wit,

once conquered in company by a wit of higher order, is thenceforward

in complete subjection to the conqueror; whenever and wherever they

meet.”

“You would not persuade me that yonder gentle-looking girl could ever

be a match for the veteran Mrs. Dareville? She may have the wit, but

has she the courage?”

“Yes; no one has more courage, more civil courage, where her own

dignity, or the interests of her friends are concerned--I will tell

you an instance or two to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!--To-night!--tell it me now.”

“Not a safe place.”

“The safest in the world, in such a crowd as this--Follow my example.

Take a glass of orgeat--sip from time to time, thus--speak low,

looking innocent all the while straight forward, or now and then up at

the lamps--keep on in an even tone--use no names--and you may tell any

thing.”

“Well, then, when Miss Nugent first came to London, Mrs. Dareville--”

“Two names already--did not I warn ye?”

“But how can I make myself intelligible?”

“Initials--can’t you use--or genealogy?--What stops you?--It is only

Lord Colambre, a very safe person, I have a notion, when the eulogium

is of Miss Nugent.”

Lord Colambre, who had now performed his arduous duties as a dancer,

and had disembarrassed himself of all his partners, came into the

Turkish tent just at this moment to refresh himself, and just in time

to hear Mr. Salisbury’s anecdotes.

“Now go on.”

“Mrs. Dareville, you remember, some years ago, went to Ireland, with

some lady lieutenant, to whom she was related--there she was most

hospitably received by Lord and Lady Clonbrony--went to their country

house--was as intimate with Lady Clonbrony and with Miss Nugent as

possible--stayed at Clonbrony Castle for a month; and yet, when

Lady Clonbrony came to London, never took the least notice of her.

At last, meeting at the house of a common friend, Mrs. Dareville

could not avoid recognizing her ladyship; but, even then, did it in

the least civil manner and most cursory style possible--‘Ho! Lady

Clonbrony!--didn’t know you were in England!--When did you come?--How

long shall you stay in town?--Hope, before you leave England, your

ladyship and Miss Nugent will give us a day?’--_A day!_--Lady

Clonbrony was so astonished by this impudence of ingratitude, that she

hesitated how to _take it_; but Miss Nugent, quite coolly, and with a

smile, answered, ‘A day!--Certainly--to you, who gave us a month!’”

“Admirable!--Now I comprehend perfectly why Mrs. Dareville declines

insulting Miss Nugent’s friends in her presence.”

Lord Colambre said nothing, but thought much. “How I wish my mother,”

thought he, “had some of Grace Nugent’s proper pride! She would not

then waste her fortune, spirits, health, and life, in courting such

people as these.”

He had not seen--he could not have borne to have beheld--the manner

in which his mother had been treated by some of her guests; but he

observed that she now looked harassed and vexed; and he was provoked

and mortified, by hearing her begging and beseeching some of the saucy

leaders of the ton to oblige her, to do her the favour, to do her the

honour, to stay to supper. It was just ready--actually announced. “No,

they would not, they could not; they were obliged to run away: engaged

to the Duchess of Torcaster.”

“Lord Colambre, what is the matter?” said Miss Nugent, going up to

him, as he stood aloof and indignant: “Don’t look so like a chafed

lion; others may perhaps read your countenance, as well as I do.”

“None can read my mind so well,” replied he. “Oh, my dear Grace!--”

“Supper!--Supper!” cried she: “your duty to your neighbour, your hand

to your partner.”

The supper room, fitted up at great expense, with scenery to imitate

Vauxhall, opened into a superb greenhouse, lighted with coloured

lamps, a band of music at a distance--every delicacy, every luxury

that could gratify the senses, appeared in profusion. The company

ate and drank--enjoyed themselves--went away--and laughed at their

hostess. Some, indeed, who thought they had been neglected, were in

too bad humour to laugh, but abused her in sober earnest; for Lady

Clonbrony had offended half, nay, three quarters of her guests, by

what they termed her exclusive attention to those very leaders of the

ton, from whom she had suffered so much, and who had made it obvious

to all that they thought they did her too much honour in appearing

at her gala. So ended the gala for which she had lavished such sums;

for which she had laboured so indefatigably; and from which she had

expected such triumph.

“Colambre, bid the musicians stop--they are playing to empty benches,”

said Lady Clonbrony. “Grace, my dear, will you see that these lamps

are safely put out? I am so tired, so _worn out_, I must go to bed;

and I am sure I have caught cold, too. What a _nervous business_ it is

to manage these things! I wonder how one gets through it, or _why_ one

does it!”

CHAPTER IV.

Lady Clonbrony was taken ill the day after her gala; she had caught

cold by standing, when much overheated, in a violent draught of wind,

paying her parting compliments to the Duke of V----, who thought her a

_bore_, and wished her in heaven all the time for keeping his horses

standing. Her ladyship’s illness was severe and long; she was confined

to her room for some weeks by a rheumatic fever, and an inflammation

in her eyes. Every day, when Lord Colambre went to see his mother,

he found Miss Nugent in her apartment, and every hour he found fresh

reason to admire this charming girl. The affectionate tenderness, the

indefatigable patience, the strong attachment she showed for her aunt,

actually raised Lady Clonbrony in her son’s opinion. He was persuaded

she must surely have some good or great qualities, or she could not

have excited such strong affection. A few foibles out of the question,

such as her love of fine people, her affectation of being English, and

other affectations too tedious to mention, Lady Clonbrony was really a

good woman, had good principles, moral and religious, and, selfishness

not immediately interfering, she was good-natured; and, though

her whole soul and attention were so completely absorbed in the

duties of acquaintanceship that she did not know it, she really had

affections--they were concentrated upon a few near relations. She was

extremely fond and extremely proud of her son. Next to her son, she

was fonder of her niece than of any other creature. She had received

Grace Nugent into her family when she was left an orphan, and deserted

by some of her other relations. She had bred her up, and had treated

her with constant kindness. This kindness and these obligations had

raised the warmest gratitude in Miss Nugent’s heart; and it was the

strong principle of gratitude which rendered her capable of endurance

and exertions seemingly far above her strength. This young lady was

not of a robust appearance, though she now underwent extraordinary

fatigue. Her aunt could scarcely bear that she should leave her for

a moment: she could not close her eyes, unless Grace sat up with her

many hours every night. Night after night she bore this fatigue; and

yet, with little sleep or rest, she preserved her health, at least,

supported her spirits; and every morning when Lord Colambre came into

his mother’s room, he saw Miss Nugent look as blooming as if she had

enjoyed the most refreshing sleep. The bloom was, as he observed, not

permanent; it came and went with every emotion of her feeling heart;

and he soon learned to fancy her almost as handsome when she was pale

as when she had a colour. He had thought her beautiful when he beheld

her in all the radiance of light, and with all the advantages of dress

at the gala, but he found her infinitely more lovely and interesting

now, when he saw her in a sick-room--a half-darkened chamber--where

often he could but just discern her form, or distinguish her, except

by her graceful motion as she passed, or when, but for a moment, a

window-curtain drawn aside let the sun shine upon her face, or on the

ringlets of her hair.

Much must be allowed for an inflammation in the eyes, and something

for a rheumatic fever; yet it may seem strange that Lady Clonbrony

should be so blind and deaf as neither to see nor hear all this

time; that having lived so long in the world, it should never occur

to her that it was rather imprudent to have a young lady, not

eighteen, nursing her--and such a young lady!--when her son, not

one-and-twenty--and such a son!--came to visit her daily. But, so it

was, Lady Clonbrony knew nothing of love--she had read of it, indeed,

in novels, which sometimes for fashion’s sake she had looked at, and

over which she had been obliged to dose; but this was only love in

books--love in real life she had never met with--in the life she led,

how should she? She had heard of its making young people, and old

people even, do foolish things; but those were foolish people; and if

they were worse than foolish, why it was shocking, and nobody visited

them. But Lady Clonbrony had not, for her own part, the slightest

notion how people could be brought to this pass, nor how any body

out of Bedlam could prefer, to a good house, a decent equipage, and

a proper establishment, what is called love in a cottage. As to

Colambre, she had too good an opinion of his understanding--to say

nothing of his duty to his family, his pride, his rank, and his being

her son--to let such an idea cross her imagination. As to her niece;

in the first place, she was her niece, and first cousins should never

marry, because they form no new connexions to strengthen the family

interest, or raise its consequence. This doctrine her ladyship had

repeated for years so often and so dogmatically, that she conceived

it to be incontrovertible, and of as full force as any law of the

land, or as any moral or religious obligation. She would as soon have

suspected her niece of an intention of stealing her diamond necklace

as of purloining Colambre’s heart, or marrying this heir of the house

of Clonbrony.

Miss Nugent was so well apprized, and so thoroughly convinced of

all this, that she never for one moment allowed herself to think of

Lord Colambre as a lover. Duty, honour, and gratitude--gratitude,

the strong feeling and principle of her mind--forbade it; she had

so prepared and accustomed herself to consider him as a person with

whom she could not possibly be united, that, with perfect ease

and simplicity, she behaved towards him exactly as if he were her

brother--not in the equivocating sentimental romance style in which

ladies talk of treating men as their brothers, whom they are all the

time secretly thinking of and endeavouring to please as lovers--not

using this phrase, as a convenient pretence, a safe mode of securing

herself from suspicion or scandal, and of enjoying the advantages of

confidence and the intimacy of friendship, till the propitious moment,

when it should be time to declare or avow _the secret of the heart_.

No: this young lady was quite above all double dealing; she had no

mental reservation--no metaphysical subtleties--but, with plain,

unsophisticated morality, in good faith and simple truth, acted as she

professed, thought what she said, and was that which she seemed to be.

As soon as Lady Clonbrony was able to see any body, her niece sent to

Mrs. Broadhurst, who was very intimate with the family; she used to

come frequently, almost every evening, to sit with the invalid. Miss

Broadhurst accompanied her mother, for she did not like to go out with

any other chaperon--it was disagreeable to spend her time alone at

home, and most agreeable to spend it with her friend Miss Nugent. In

this she had no design; Miss Broadhurst had too lofty and independent

a spirit to stoop to coquetry: she thought that, in their interview

at the gala, she understood Lord Colambre, and that he understood

her--that he was not inclined to court her for her fortune--that she

would not be content with any suitor who was not a lover. She was two

or three years older than Lord Colambre, perfectly aware of her want

of beauty, yet with a just sense of her own merit, and of what was

becoming and due to the dignity of her sex. This, she trusted, was

visible in her manners, and established in Lord Colambre’s mind; so

that she ran no risk of being misunderstood by him; and as to what the

rest of the world thought, she was so well used to hear weekly and

daily reports of her going to be married to fifty different people,

that she cared little for what was said on this subject. Indeed,

conscious of rectitude, and with an utter contempt for mean and

commonplace gossiping, she was, for a woman, and a young woman, rather

too disdainful of the opinion of the world. Mrs. Broadhurst, though

her daughter had fully explained herself respecting Lord Colambre,

before she began this course of visiting, yet rejoiced that even on

this footing there should be constant intercourse between them. It was

Mrs. Broadhurst’s warmest wish that her daughter should obtain rank,

and connect herself with an ancient family; she was sensible that the

young lady’s being older than the gentleman might be an obstacle; and

very sorry she was to find that her daughter had so imprudently, so

unnecessarily, declared her age: but still this little obstacle might

be overcome, much greater difficulties in the marriage of inferior

heiresses being every day got over, and thought nothing of. Then, as

to the young lady’s own sentiments, her mother knew them better than

she did herself: she understood her daughter’s pride, that she dreaded

to be made an object of bargain and sale; but Mrs. Broadhurst, who,

with all her coarseness of mind, had rather a better notion of love

matters than Lady Clonbrony, perceived, through her daughter’s horror

of being offered to Lord Colambre, through her anxiety that nothing

approaching to an advance on the part of her family should be made,

that if Lord Colambre should himself advance, he would stand a better

chance of being accepted than any other of the numerous persons who

had yet aspired to the favour of this heiress. The very circumstance

of his having paid no court to her at first operated in his favour;

for it proved that he was not mercenary, and that, whatever attention

he might afterwards show, she must be sure would be sincere and

disinterested.

“And now, let them but see one another in this easy, intimate, kind

of way; and you will find, my dear Lady Clonbrony, things will go on

of their own accord, all the better for our--minding our cards--and

never minding any thing else. I remember, when I was young--but let

that pass--let the young people see one another, and manage their

own affairs their own way--let them be together--that’s all I say.

Ask half the men you are acquainted with why they married, and

their answer, if they speak truth, will be--‘because I met Miss

Such-a-one at such a place, and we were continually together.’

Propinquity!--Propinquity!--as my father used to say--And he was

married five times, and twice to heiresses.”

In consequence of this plan of leaving things to themselves, every

evening Lady Clonbrony made out her own little card-table with Mrs.

Broadhurst, and a Mr. and Miss Pratt, a brother and sister, who were

the most obliging, convenient neighbours imaginable. From time to

time, as Lady Clonbrony gathered up her cards, she would direct an

inquiring glance to the group of young people at the other table;

whilst the more prudent Mrs. Broadhurst sat plump with her back to

them, pursing up her lips, and contracting her brows in token of

deep calculation, looking down impenetrable at her cards, never even

noticing Lady Clonbrony’s glances, but inquiring from her partner,

“How many they were by honours?”

The young party generally consisted of Miss Broadhurst, Lord Colambre,

Miss Nugent, and her admirer, Mr. Salisbury. Mr. Salisbury was a

middle-aged gentleman, very agreeable, and well informed; he had

travelled; had seen a great deal of the world; had lived in the

best company; had acquired what is called good _tact_; was full of

anecdote, not mere gossiping anecdotes that lead to nothing, but

characteristic of national manners, of human nature in general, or

of those illustrious individuals who excite public curiosity and

interest. Miss Nugent had seen him always in large companies, where he

was admired for his sçavoir-vivre, and for his entertaining anecdotes,

but where he had no opportunity of producing any of the higher powers

of his understanding, or showing character. She found that Mr.

Salisbury appeared to her quite a different person when conversing

with Lord Colambre. Lord Colambre, with that ardent thirst for

knowledge which it is always agreeable to gratify, had an air of

openness and generosity, a frankness, a warmth of manner, which,

with good breeding, but with something beyond it and superior to its

established forms, irresistibly won the confidence and attracted the

affection of those with whom he conversed. His manners were peculiarly

agreeable to a person like Mr. Salisbury, tired of the sameness and

egotism of men of the world.

Miss Nugent had seldom till now had the advantage of hearing

much conversation on literary subjects. In the life she had been

compelled to lead she had acquired accomplishments, had exercised

her understanding upon every thing that passed before her, and from

circumstances had formed her judgment and her taste by observations

on real life; but the ample page of knowledge had never been unrolled

to her eyes. She had never had opportunities of acquiring a taste

for literature herself, but she admired it in others, particularly

in her friend Miss Broadhurst. Miss Broadhurst had received all the

advantages of education which money could procure, and had benefited

by them in a manner uncommon among those for whom they are purchased

in such abundance: she not only had had many masters, and read many

books, but had thought of what she read, and had supplied, by the

strength and energy of her own mind, what cannot be acquired by

the assistance of masters. Miss Nugent, perhaps overvaluing the

information that she did not possess, and free from all idea of

envy, looked up to her friend as to a superior being, with a sort of

enthusiastic admiration; and now, with “charmed attention,” listened,

by turns, to her, to Mr. Salisbury, and to Lord Colambre, whilst they

conversed on literary subjects--listened, with a countenance so full

of intelligence, of animation, so expressive of every good and kind

affection, that the gentlemen did not always know what they were

saying.

“Pray go on,” said she, once, to Mr. Salisbury: “you stop, perhaps,

from politeness to me--from compassion to my ignorance; but though I

am ignorant, you do not tire me, I assure you. Did you ever condescend

to read the Arabian Tales? Like him whose eyes were touched by the

magical application from the dervise, I am enabled at once to see the

riches of a new world--Oh! how unlike, how superior to that in which I

have lived--the GREAT world, as it is called!”

Lord Colambre brought down a beautiful edition of the Arabian Tales,

looked for the story to which Miss Nugent had alluded, and showed it

to Miss Broadhurst, who was also searching for it in another volume.

Lady Clonbrony, from her card-table, saw the young people thus

engaged--

“I profess not to understand these things so well as you say you do,

my dear Mrs. Broadhurst,” whispered she; “but look there now; they are

at their books! What do you expect can come of that sort of thing? So

ill bred, and downright rude of Colambre, I must give him a hint.”

“No, no, for mercy’s sake! my dear Lady Clonbrony, no hints, no hints,

no remarks! What would you have?--she reading, and my lord at the back

of her chair leaning over--and allowed, mind, to lean over to read the

same thing. Can’t be better!--Never saw any man yet allowed to come so

near her!--Now, Lady Clonbrony, not a word, not a look, I beseech.”

“Well, well!--but if they had a little music.”

“My daughter’s tired of music. How much do I owe your ladyship

now?--three rubbers, I think. Now, though you would not believe it of

a young girl,” continued Mrs. Broadhurst, “I can assure your ladyship,

my daughter would often rather go to a book than a ball.”

“Well, now, that’s very extraordinary, in the style in which she has

been brought up; yet books and all that are so fashionable now, that

it’s very natural,” said Lady Clonbrony.

About this time, Mr. Berryl, Lord Colambre’s Cambridge friend, for

whom his lordship had fought the battle of the curricle with Mordicai,

came to town. Lord Colambre introduced him to his mother, by whom he

was graciously received; for Mr. Berryl was a young gentleman of good

figure, good address, good family, heir to a good fortune, and in

every respect a fit match for Miss Nugent. Lady Clonbrony thought that

it would be wise to secure him for her niece before he should make

his appearance in the London world, where mothers and daughters would

soon make him feel his own consequence. Mr. Berryl, as Lord Colambre’s

intimate friend, was admitted to the private evening parties at Lady

Clonbrony’s; and he contributed to render them still more agreeable.

His information, his habits of thinking, and his views, were

all totally different from Mr. Salisbury’s; and their collision

continually struck out that sparkling novelty which pleases peculiarly

in conversation. Mr. Berryl’s education, disposition, and tastes,

fitted him exactly for the station which he was destined to fill in

society--that of _a country gentleman_; not meaning by that expression

a mere eating, drinking, hunting, shooting, ignorant, country squire

of the old race, which is now nearly extinct; but a cultivated,

enlightened, independent English country gentleman--the happiest,

perhaps, of human beings. On the comparative felicity of the town

and country life; on the dignity, utility, elegance, and interesting

nature of their different occupations, and general scheme of passing

their time, Mr. Berryl and Mr. Salisbury had one evening a playful,

entertaining, and, perhaps, instructive conversation; each party,

at the end, remaining, as frequently happens, of their own opinion.

It was observed, that Miss Broadhurst ably and warmly defended

Mr. Berryl’s side of the question; and in their views, plans, and

estimates of life, there appeared a remarkable and, as Lord Colambre

thought, a happy coincidence. When she was at last called upon to give

her decisive judgment between a town and a country life, she declared

that if she were condemned to the extremes of either, she should

prefer a country life, as much as she should prefer Robinson Crusoe’s

diary to the journal of the idle man in the Spectator.

“Lord bless me!--Mrs. Broadhurst, do you hear what your daughter is

saying?” cried Lady Clonbrony, who, from the card-table, lent an

attentive ear to all that was going forward. “Is it possible that Miss

Broadhurst, with her fortune, and pretensions, and sense, can really

be serious in saying she would be content to live in the country?”

“What’s that you say, child, about living in the country?” said Mrs.

Broadhurst.

Miss Broadhurst repeated what she had said.

“Girls always think so who have lived in town,” said Mrs. Broadhurst:

“they are always dreaming of sheep and sheep-hooks; but the first

winter in the country cures them: a shepherdess in winter is a sad and

sorry sort of personage, except at a masquerade.”

“Colambre,” said Lady Clonbrony, “I am sure Miss Broadhurst’s

sentiments about town life, and all that, must delight you--For do you

know, ma’am, he is always trying to persuade me to give up living in

town? Colambre and Miss Broadhurst perfectly agree.”

“Mind your cards, my dear Lady Clonbrony,” interrupted Mrs.

Broadhurst, “in pity to your partner. Mr. Pratt has certainly the

patience of Job--your ladyship has revoked twice this hand.”

Lady Clonbrony begged a thousand pardons, fixed her eyes, and

endeavoured to fix her mind on the cards; but there was something

said at the other end of the room, about an estate in Cambridgeshire,

which soon distracted her attention again. Mr. Pratt certainly had the

patience of Job. She revoked again, and lost the game, though they had

four by honours.

As soon as she rose from the card-table, and could speak to Mrs.

Broadhurst apart, she communicated her apprehensions. “Seriously, my

dear madam,” said she, “I believe I have done very wrong to admit

Mr. Berryl just now, though it was on Grace’s account I did it. But,

ma’am, I did not know Miss Broadhurst had an estate in Cambridgeshire;

their two estates just close to one another, I heard them say--Lord

bless me, ma’am! there’s the danger of propinquity indeed!”

“No danger, no danger,” persisted Mrs. Broadhurst. “I know my girl

better than you do, begging your ladyship’s pardon. No one thinks less

of estates than she does.”

“Well, I only know I heard her talking of them, and earnestly too.”

“Yes, very likely; but don’t you know that girls never think of what

they are talking about, or rather never talk of what they are thinking

about? And they have always ten times more to say to the man they

don’t care for than to him they do.”

“Very extraordinary!” said Lady Clonbrony: “I only hope you are

right.”

“I am sure of it,” said Mrs. Broadhurst. “Only let things go on,

and mind your cards, I beseech you, to-morrow night better than

you did to-night; and you will see that things will turn out just

as I prophesied. Lord Colambre will come to a point-blank proposal

before the end of the week, and will be accepted, or my name’s not

Broadhurst. Why, in plain English, I am clear my girl likes him; and

when that’s the case, you know, can you doubt how the thing will end?”

Mrs. Broadhurst was perfectly right in every point of her reasoning

but one. From long habit of seeing and considering that such an

heiress as her daughter might marry whom she pleased,--from constantly

seeing that she was the person to decide and to reject,--Mrs.

Broadhurst had literally taken it for granted that every thing was to

depend upon her daughter’s inclinations: she was not mistaken, in the

present case, in opining that the young lady would not be averse to

Lord Colambre, if he came to what she called a point-blank proposal.

It really never occurred to Mrs. Broadhurst, that any man whom her

daughter was the least inclined to favour, could think of any body

else. Quick-sighted in these affairs as the matron thought herself,

she saw but one side of the question: blind and dull of comprehension

as she thought Lady Clonbrony on this subject, Mrs. Broadhurst

was herself so completely blinded by her own prejudices, as to be

incapable of discerning the plain thing that was before her eyes;

_videlicet_, that Lord Colambre preferred Grace Nugent. Lord Colambre

made no proposal before the end of the week; but this Mrs. Broadhurst

attributed to an unexpected occurrence, which prevented things from

going on in the train in which they had been proceeding so smoothly.

Sir John Berryl, Mr. Berryl’s father, was suddenly seized with a

dangerous illness. The news was brought to Mr. Berryl one evening

whilst he was at Lady Clonbrony’s. The circumstances of domestic

distress which afterwards occurred in the family of his friend,

entirely occupied Lord Colambre’s time and attention. All thoughts

of love were suspended, and his whole mind was given up to the

active services of friendship. The sudden illness of Sir John Berryl

spread an alarm among his creditors, which brought to light at once

the disorder of his affairs, of which his son had no knowledge or

suspicion. Lady Berryl had been a very expensive woman, especially in

equipages; and Mordicai, the coachmaker, appeared at this time the

foremost and the most inexorable of their creditors. Conscious that

the charges in his account were exorbitant, and that they would not be

allowed if examined by a court of justice; that it was a debt which

only ignorance and extravagance could have in the first instance

incurred, swelled afterwards to an amazing amount by interest, and

interest upon interest; Mordicai was impatient to obtain payment,

whilst Sir John yet lived, or at least to obtain legal security for

the whole sum from the heir. Mr. Berryl offered his bond for the

amount of the reasonable charges in his account; but this Mordicai

absolutely refused, declaring that now he had the power in his own

hands, he would use it to obtain the utmost penny of his debt; that

he would not let the thing slip through his fingers; that a debtor

never yet escaped him, and never should; that a man’s lying upon his

deathbed was no excuse to a creditor; that he was not a whiffler to

stand upon ceremony about disturbing a gentleman in his last moments;

that he was not to be cheated out of his due by such niceties; that he

was prepared to go all lengths the law would allow; for that, as to

what people said of him, he did not care a doit--“Cover your face with

your hands, if you like it, Mr. Berryl; you may be ashamed for me, but

I feel no shame for myself--I am not so weak.” Mordicai’s countenance

said more than his words; livid with malice, and with atrocious

determination in his eyes, he stood. “Yes, sir,” said he, “you may

look at me as you please--it is possible--I am in earnest. Consult

what you’ll do now behind my back, or before my face, it comes to the

same thing; for nothing will do but my money or your bond, Mr. Berryl.

The arrest is made on the person of your father, luckily made while

the breath is still in the body--Yes--start forward to strike me, if

you dare--Your father, Sir John Berryl, sick or well, is my prisoner.”

Lady Berryl and Mr. Berryl’s sisters, in an agony of grief, rushed

into the room.

“It’s all useless,” cried Mordicai, turning his back upon the ladies:

“these tricks upon creditors won’t do with me; I’m used to these

scenes; I’m not made of such stuff as you think. Leave a gentleman in

peace in his last moments--No! he ought not, nor sha’n’t die in peace,

if he don’t pay his debts; and if you are all so mighty sorry, ladies,

there’s the gentleman you may kneel to: if tenderness is the order of

the day, it’s for the son to show it, not me. Ay, now, Mr. Berryl,”

cried he, as Mr. Berryl took up the bond to sign it, “you’re beginning

to know I’m not a fool to be trifled with. Stop your hand, if you

choose it, sir,--it’s all the same to me: the person, or the money,

I’ll carry with me out of this house.”

Mr. Berryl signed the bond, and threw it to him.

“There, monster!--quit the house!”

“_Monster_ is not actionable--I wish you had called me _knave_,”

said Mordicai, grinning a horrible smile; and taking up the bond

deliberately, returned it to Mr. Berryl: “This paper is worth nothing

to me, sir--it is not witnessed.”

Mr. Berryl hastily left the room, and returned with Lord Colambre.

Mordicai changed countenance and grew pale, for a moment, at sight of

Lord Colambre.

“Well, my lord, since it so happens, I am not sorry that you should be

witness to this paper,” said he; “and indeed not sorry that you should

witness the whole proceedings; for I trust I shall be able to explain

to you my conduct.”

“I do not come here, sir,” interrupted Lord Colambre, “to listen to

any explanations of your conduct, which I perfectly understand;--I

come to witness a bond for my friend Mr. Berryl, if you think proper

to extort from him such a bond.”

“I extort nothing, my lord. Mr. Berryl, it is quite a voluntary act,

take notice, on your part; sign or not, witness or not, as you please,

gentlemen,” said Mordicai, sticking his hands in his pockets, and

recovering his look of black and fixed determination.

“Witness it, witness it, my dear lord,” said Mr. Berryl, looking at

his mother and weeping sisters; “witness it, quick!”

“Mr. Berryl must just run over his name again in your presence,

my lord, with a dry pen,” said Mordicai, putting the pen into Mr.

Berryl’s hand.

“No, sir,” said Lord Colambre, “my friend shall never sign it.”

“As you please, my lord--the bond or the body, before I quit this

house,” said Mordicai.

“Neither, sir, shall you have: and you quit this house directly.”

“How! how!--my lord, how’s this?”

“Sir, the arrest you have made is as illegal as it is inhuman.”

“Illegal, my lord!” said Mordicai, startled.

“Illegal, sir. I came into this house at the moment when your bailiff

asked and was refused admittance. Afterwards, in the confusion of the

family above stairs, he forced open the house-door with an iron bar--I

saw him--I am ready to give evidence of the fact. Now proceed at your

peril.”

Mordicai, without reply, snatched up his hat, and walked towards the

door; but Lord Colambre held the door open--it was immediately at the

head of the stairs--and Mordicai, seeing his indignant look and proud

form, hesitated to pass; for he had always heard that Irishmen are

“quick in the executive part of justice.”

“Pass on, sir,” repeated Lord Colambre, with an air of ineffable

contempt: “I am a gentleman--you have nothing to fear!”

Mordicai ran down stairs; Lord Colambre, before he went back into

the room, waited to see him and his bailiff out of the house. When

Mordicai was fairly at the bottom of the stairs, he turned, and, white

with rage, looked up at Lord Colambre.

“Charity begins at home, my lord,” said he. “Look at home--you shall

pay for this,” added he, standing half-shielded by the house-door, for

Lord Colambre moved forward as he spoke the last words; “and I give

you this warning, because I know it will be of no use to you--Your

most obedient, my lord.” The house-door closed after him.

“Thank Heaven,” thought Lord Colambre, “that I did not horsewhip that

mean wretch!--This warning shall be of use to me. But it is not time

to think of that yet.”

Lord Colambre turned from his own affairs to those of his friend, to

offer all the assistance and consolation in his power. Sir John Berryl

died that night. His daughters, who had lived in the highest style in

London, were left totally unprovided for. His widow had mortgaged her

jointure. Mr. Berryl had an estate now left to him, but without any

income. He could not be so dishonest as to refuse to pay his father’s

just debts; he could not let his mother and sisters starve. The scene

of distress to which Lord Colambre was witness in this family made a

still greater impression upon him than had been made by the warning or

the threats of Mordicai. The similarity between the circumstances of

his friend’s family and of his own struck him forcibly.

All this evil had arisen from Lady Berryl’s passion for living

in London and at watering places. She had made her husband an

ABSENTEE--an absentee from his home, his affairs, his duties, and his

estate. The sea, the Irish Channel, did not, indeed, flow between him

and his estate; but it was of little importance whether the separation

was effected by land or water--the consequences, the negligence, the

extravagance, were the same.

Of the few people of his age who are capable of benefiting by the

experience of others, Lord Colambre was one. “Experience,” as an

elegant writer has observed, “is an article that may be borrowed with

safety, and is often dearly bought.”

CHAPTER V.

In the mean time, Lady Clonbrony had been occupied with thoughts very

different from those which passed in the mind of her son. Though she

had never completely recovered from her rheumatic pains, she had

become inordinately impatient of confinement to her own house, and

weary of those dull evenings at home, which had, in her son’s absence,

become insupportable. She told over her visiting tickets regularly

twice a day, and gave to every card of invitation a heartfelt sigh.

Miss Pratt alarmed her ladyship, by bringing intelligence of some

parties given by persons of consequence, to which she was not invited.

She feared that she should be forgotten in the world, well knowing

how soon the world forgets those they do not see every day and every

where. How miserable is the fine lady’s lot, who cannot forget, and

who is forgotten by the world in a moment! How much more miserable

still is the condition of a would-be fine lady, working her way up in

the world with care and pains! By her, every the slightest failure of

attention, from persons of rank and fashion, is marked and felt with a

jealous anxiety, and with a sense of mortification the most acute--an

invitation omitted is a matter of the most serious consequence, not

only as it regards the present but the future; for if she be not

invited by Lady A, it will lower her in the eyes of Lady B, and of

all the ladies in the alphabet. It will form a precedent of the most

dangerous and inevitable application. If she have nine invitations,

and the tenth be wanting, the nine have no power to make her happy.

This was precisely Lady Clonbrony’s case--there was to be a party at

Lady St. James’s, for which Lady Clonbrony had no card.

“So ungrateful, so monstrous, of Lady St. James!--What! was the gala

so soon forgotten, and all the marked attentions paid that night to

Lady St. James!--attentions, you know, Pratt, which were looked upon

with a jealous eye, and made me enemies enough, I am told, in another

quarter!--Of all people, I did not expect to be slighted by Lady St.

James!”

Miss Pratt, who was ever ready to undertake the defence of any person

who had a title, pleaded, in mitigation of censure that perhaps Lady

St. James might not be aware that her ladyship was yet well enough to

venture out.

“Oh, my dear Miss Pratt, that cannot be the thing; for, in spite of my

rheumatism, which really was bad enough last Sunday, I went on purpose

to the Royal Chapel, to show myself in the closet, and knelt close to

her ladyship.--And, my dear, we curtsied, and she congratulated me,

after church, upon my being abroad again, and was so happy to see me

look so well, and all that--Oh! it is something very extraordinary and

unaccountable!”

“But, I dare say, a card will come yet,” said Miss Pratt.

Upon this hint, Lady Clonbrony’s hope revived; and, staying her anger,

she began to consider how she could manage to get herself invited.

Refreshing tickets were left next morning at Lady St. James’s with

their corners properly turned up; to do the thing better, separate

tickets from herself and Miss Nugent were left for each member of the

family; and her civil messages, left with the footmen, extended to the

utmost possibility of remainder. It had occurred to her ladyship, that

for Miss Somebody, _the companion_, of whom she had never in her life

thought before, she had omitted to leave a card last time, and she

now left a note of explanation; she farther, with her rheumatic head

and arm out of the coach-window, sat, the wind blowing keen upon

her, explaining to the porter and the footman, to discover whether

her former tickets had gone safely up to Lady St. James; and on the

present occasion, to make assurance doubly sure, she slid handsome

expedition money into the servant’s hand--“Sir, you will be sure to

remember”--“Oh, certainly, your ladyship.”

She well knew what dire offence has frequently been taken, what sad

disasters have occurred in the fashionable world, from the neglect of

a porter in delivering, or of a footman in carrying up, one of those

talismanic cards. But, in spite of all her manoeuvres, no invitation

to the party arrived next day. Pratt was next set to work. Miss Pratt

was a most convenient go-between, who, in consequence of doing a

thousand little services, to which few others of her rank in life

would stoop, had obtained the entrée to a number of great houses, and

was behind the scenes in many fashionable families. Pratt could find

out, and Pratt could hint, and Pratt could manage to get things done

cleverly--and hints were given, in all directions, to _work round_

to Lady St. James. But still they did not take effect. At last Pratt

suggested, that perhaps, though every thing else had failed, dried

salmon might be tried with success. Lord Clonbrony had just had some

uncommonly good from Ireland, which Pratt knew Lady St. James would

like to have at her supper, because a certain personage, whom she

would not name, was particularly fond of it--Wheel within wheel in

the fine world, as well as in the political world!--Bribes for all

occasions and for all ranks!--The timely present was sent, accepted

with many thanks, and understood as it was meant. Per favour of this

propitiatory offering, and of a promise of half a dozen pair of

real Limerick gloves to Miss Pratt--a promise which Pratt clearly

comprehended to be a conditional promise--the grand object was at

length accomplished. The very day before the party was to take place

came cards of invitation to Lady Clonbrony and to Miss Nugent, with

Lady St. James’s apologies: her ladyship was concerned to find that,

by some negligence of her servants, these cards were not sent in

proper time. “How slight an apology will do from some people!” thought

Miss Nugent; “how eager to forgive, when it is for our interest or

our pleasure! how well people act the being deceived, even when all

parties know that they see the whole truth! and how low pride will

stoop to gain its object!”

Ashamed of the whole transaction, Miss Nugent earnestly wished that a

refusal should be sent, and reminded her aunt of her rheumatism; but

rheumatism and all other objections were overruled--Lady Clonbrony

would go. It was just when this affair was thus, in her opinion,

successfully settled, that Lord Colambre came in, with a countenance

of unusual seriousness, his mind full of the melancholy scenes he had

witnessed in his friend’s family.

“What is the matter, Colambre?”

He related what had passed; he described the brutal conduct of

Mordicai; the anguish of the mother and sisters; the distress of

Mr. Berryl. Tears rolled down Miss Nugent’s cheeks--Lady Clonbrony

declared it was very _shocking_; listened with attention to all the

particulars; but never failed to correct her son, whenever he said Mr.

Berryl--

“_Sir Arthur_ Berryl, you mean.”

She was, however, really touched with compassion when he spoke of Lady

Berryl’s destitute condition; and her son was going on to repeat what

Mordicai had said to him, but Lady Clonbrony interrupted, “Oh, my dear

Colambre! don’t repeat that detestable man’s impertinent speeches to

me. If there is any thing really about business, speak to your father.

At any rate don’t tell us of it now, because I’ve a hundred things

to do,” said her ladyship, hurrying out of the room--“Grace, Grace

Nugent! I want you!”

Lord Colambre sighed deeply.

“Don’t despair,” said Miss Nugent, as she followed to obey her aunt’s

summons. “Don’t despair; don’t attempt to speak to her again till

to-morrow morning. Her head is now full of Lady St. James’s party.

When it is emptied of that, you will have a better chance. Never

despair.”

“Never, while you encourage me to hope--that any good can be done.”

Lady Clonbrony was particularly glad that she had carried her point

about this party at Lady St. James’s; because, from the first private

intimation that the Duchess of Torcaster was to be there, her ladyship

flattered herself that the long-desired introduction might then be

accomplished. But of this hope Lady St. James had likewise received

intimation from the double-dealing Miss Pratt; and a warning note was

despatched to the duchess to let her grace know that circumstances

had occurred which had rendered it impossible not to _ask the

Clonbronies_. An excuse, of course, for not going to this party, was

sent by the duchess--her grace did not like large parties--she would

have the pleasure of accepting Lady St. James’s invitation for her

select party on Wednesday, the 10th. Into these select parties Lady

Clonbrony had never been admitted. In return for great entertainments

she was invited to great entertainments, to large parties; but further

she could never penetrate.

At Lady St. James’s, and with her set, Lady Clonbrony suffered a

different kind of mortification from that which Lady Langdale and Mrs.

Dareville made her endure. She was safe from the witty raillery,

the sly inuendo, the insolent mimicry; but she was kept at a cold,

impassable distance, by ceremony--“So far shalt thou go, and no

further,” was expressed in every look, in every word, and in a

thousand different ways.

By the most punctilious respect and nice regard to precedency, even

by words of courtesy--“Your ladyship does me honour,” &c.--Lady St.

James contrived to mortify and to mark the difference between those

with whom she was, and with whom she was not, upon terms of intimacy

and equality. Thus the ancient grandees of Spain drew a line of

demarcation between themselves and the newly created nobility.

Whenever or wherever they met, they treated the new nobles with the

utmost respect, never addressed them but with all their titles, with

low bows, and with all the appearance of being, with the most perfect

consideration, anything but their equals; whilst towards one another

the grandees laid aside their state, and omitting their titles, it was

“Alcalá--Medina Sidonia--Infantado,” and a freedom and familiarity

which marked equality. Entrenched in etiquette in this manner, and

mocked with marks of respect, it was impossible either to intrude or

to complain of being excluded.

At supper at Lady St. James’s, Lady Clonbrony’s present was pronounced

by some gentlemen to be remarkably high flavoured. This observation

turned the conversation to Irish commodities and Ireland. Lady

Clonbrony, possessed by the idea that it was disadvantageous to appear

as an Irishwoman or as a favourer of Ireland, began to be embarrassed

by Lady St. James’s repeated thanks. Had it been in her power to offer

any thing else with propriety, she would not have thought of sending

her ladyship any thing from Ireland. Vexed by the questions that were

asked her about her _country_, Lady Clonbrony, as usual, denied it to

be her country, and went on to depreciate and abuse every thing Irish;

to declare that there was no possibility of living in Ireland; and

that, for her own part, she was resolved never to return thither. Lady

St. James, preserving perfect silence, let her go on. Lady Clonbrony

imagining that this silence arose from coincidence of opinion,

proceeded with all the eloquence she possessed, which was very little,

repeating the same exclamations, and reiterating her vow of perpetual

expatriation; till at last an elderly lady, who was a stranger to

her, and whom she had till this moment scarcely noticed, took up the

defence of Ireland with much warmth and energy: the eloquence with

which she spoke, and the respect with which she was heard, astonished

Lady Clonbrony.

“Who is she?” whispered her ladyship.

“Does not your ladyship know Lady Oranmore--the Irish Lady Oranmore?”

“Lord bless me!--what have I said!--what have I done!--Oh! why did you

not give me a hint, Lady St. James?”

“I was not aware that your ladyship was not acquainted with Lady

Oranmore,” replied Lady St. James, unmoved by her distress.

Every body sympathized with Lady Oranmore, and admired the honest zeal

with which she abided by her country, and defended it against unjust

aspersions and affected execrations. Every one present enjoyed Lady

Clonbrony’s confusion, except Miss Nugent, who sat with her eyes bowed

down by penetrative shame during the whole of this scene: she was glad

that Lord Colambre was not witness to it; and comforted herself with

the hope that, upon the whole, Lady Clonbrony would be benefited by

the pain she had felt. This instance might convince her that it was

not necessary to deny her country to be received in any company in

England; and that those who have the courage and steadiness to be

themselves, and to support what they feel and believe to be the truth,

must command respect. Miss Nugent hoped that in consequence of this

conviction Lady Clonbrony would lay aside the little affectations by

which her manners were painfully constrained and ridiculous; and,

above all, she hoped that what Lady Oranmore had said of Ireland might

dispose her aunt to listen with patience to all Lord Colambre might

urge in favour of returning to her home. But Miss Nugent hoped in

vain. Lady Clonbrony never in her life generalized any observations,

or drew any but a partial conclusion from the most striking facts.

“Lord! my dear Grace!” said she, as soon as they were seated in

their carriage, “what a scrape I got into to-night at supper, and

what disgrace I came to!--and all this because I did not know Lady

Oranmore. Now you see the inconceivable disadvantage of not knowing

every body--every body of a certain rank, of course, I mean.”

Miss Nugent endeavoured to slide in her own moral on the occasion, but

it would not do.

“Yes, my dear, Lady Oranmore may talk in that kind of style of

Ireland, because, on the other hand, she is so highly connected in

England; and, besides, she is an old lady, and may take liberties; in

short, she is Lady Oranmore, and that’s enough.”

The next morning, when they all met at breakfast, Lady Clonbrony

complained bitterly of her increased rheumatism, of the disagreeable,

stupid party they had had the preceding night, and of the necessity of

going to another formal party to-morrow night, and the next, and the

next night, and, in the true fine lady style, deplored her situation,

and the impossibility of avoiding those things,

“Which felt they curse, yet covet still to feel.”

Miss Nugent determined to retire as soon as she could from the

breakfast-room, to leave Lord Colambre an opportunity of talking over

his family affairs at full liberty. She knew by the seriousness of

his countenance that his mind was intent upon doing so, and she hoped

that his influence with his father and mother would not be exerted in

vain. But just as she was rising from the breakfast-table, in came Sir

Terence O’Fay, and seating himself quite at his ease, in spite of Lady

Clonbrony’s repulsive looks, his awe of Lord Colambre having now worn

off, “I’m tired,” said he, “and have a right to be tired; for it’s no

small walk I’ve taken for the good of this noble family this morning.

And, Miss Nugent, before I say more, I’ll take a cup of _ta_ from you,

if you please.”

Lady Clonbrony rose, with great stateliness, and walked to the

farthest end of the room, where she established herself at her

writing-table, and began to write notes.

Sir Terence wiped his forehead deliberately.--“Then I’ve had a fine

run--Miss Nugent, I believe you never saw me run; but I can run, I

promise you, when it’s to serve a friend--And my lord (turning to

Lord Clonbrony), what do you think I run for this morning--to buy a

bargain--and of what?--a bargain of a bad debt--a debt of yours, which

I bargained for, and up just in time--and Mordicai’s ready to hang

himself this minute--For what do you think that rascal was bringing

upon you--but an execution?--he was.”

“An execution!” repeated every body present, except Lord Colambre.

“And how has this been prevented, sir?” said Lord Colambre.

“Oh! let me alone for that,” said Sir Terence. “I got a hint from

my little friend, Paddy Brady, who would not be paid for it either,

though he’s as poor as a rat. Well! as soon as I got the hint, I

dropped the thing I had in my hand, which was the Dublin Evening,

and ran for the bare life--for there wasn’t a coach--in my slippers,

as I was, to get into the prior creditor’s shoes, who is the little

solicitor that lives in Crutched Friars, which Mordicai never dreamt

of, luckily; so he was very genteel, though he was taken on a sudden,

and from his breakfast, which an Englishman don’t like particularly--I

popped him a douceur of a draft, at thirty-one days, on Garraghty,

the agent; of which he must get notice; but I won’t descant on the

law before the ladies--he handed me over his debt and execution, and

he made me prior creditor in a trice. Then I took coach in state, the

first I met, and away with me to Long Acre--saw Mordicai. ‘Sir,’ says

I, ‘I hear you’re meditating an execution on a friend of mine.’--‘Am

I?’ said the rascal; ‘who told you so?’--‘No matter,’ said I; ‘but

I just called in to let you know there’s no use in life of your

execution; for there’s a prior creditor with his execution to be

satisfied first.’ So he made a great many black faces, and said a

great deal, which I never listened to, but came off here clean to tell

you all the story.”

“Not one word of which do I understand,” said Lady Clonbrony.

“Then, my dear, you are very ungrateful,” said Lord Clonbrony.

Lord Colambre said nothing, for he wished to learn more of Sir Terence

O’Fay’s character, of the state of his father’s affairs, and of the

family methods of proceeding in matters of business.

“Faith! Terry, I know I’m very thankful to you--But an execution’s an

ugly thing,--and I hope there’s no danger.”

“Never fear!” said Sir Terence: “hav’n’t I been at my wits’ ends for

myself or my friends ever since I come to man’s estate--to years of

discretion, I should say, for the deuce a foot of estate have I! But

use has sharpened my wits pretty well for your service; so never be in

dread, my good lord; for look ye!” cried the reckless knight, sticking

his arms akimbo, “look ye here! in Sir Terence O’Fay stands a host

that desires no better than to encounter, single-witted, all the duns

in the united kingdoms, Mordicai the Jew inclusive.”

“Ah! that’s the devil, that Mordicai,” said Lord Clonbrony; “that’s

the only man on earth I dread.”

“Why, he is only a coachmaker, is not he?” said Lady Clonbrony: “I

can’t think how you can talk, my lord, of dreading such a low man.

Tell him, if he’s troublesome, we won’t bespeak any more carriages;

and, I’m sure, I wish you would not be so silly, my lord, to employ

him any more, when you know he disappointed me the last birthday about

the landau, which I have not got yet.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Lord Clonbrony; “you don’t know what you are

talking of--Terry, I say, even a friendly execution is an ugly thing.”

“Phoo! phoo!--an ugly thing!--So is a fit of the gout--but one’s all

the better for it after. ‘Tis just a renewal of life, my, lord, for

which one must pay a bit of a fine, you know. Take patience, and leave

me to manage all properly--you know I’m used to these things: only you

recollect, if you please, how I managed my friend Lord----it’s bad to

be mentioning names--but Lord _Every-body-knows-who_--didn’t I bring

him through cleverly, when there was that rascally attempt to seize

the family plate? I had notice, and what did I do, but broke open

a partition between that lord’s house and my lodgings, which I had

taken next door; and so, when the sheriffs officers were searching

below on the ground floor, I just shoved the plate easy through to

my bedchamber at a moment’s warning, and then bid the gentlemen walk

in, for they couldn’t set a foot in my paradise, the devils!--So they

stood looking at it through the wall, and cursing me, and I holding

both my sides with laughter at their fallen faces.”

Sir Terence and Lord Clonbrony laughed in concert.

“This is a good story,” said Miss Nugent, smiling; “but surely, Sir

Terence, such things are never done in real life?”

“Done! ay, are they; and I could tell you a hundred better strokes, my

dear Miss Nugent.”

“Grace!” cried Lady Clonbrony, “do pray have the goodness to seal and

send these notes; for really,” whispered she, as her niece came to the

table, “I _cawnt stee_, I _cawnt_ bear that man’s _vice_, his accent

grows horrider and horrider!”

Her ladyship rose, and left the room.

“Why, then,” continued Sir Terence, following Miss Nugent to the

table, where she was sealing letters--“I must tell you how I _sa_rved

that same man on another occasion, and got the victory, too.”

No general officer could talk of his victories, or fight his battles

o’er again, with more complacency than Sir Terence O’Fay recounted his

_civil_ exploits.

“Now I’ll tell you, Miss Nugent. There was a footman in the family,

not an Irishman, but one of your powdered English scoundrels that

ladies are so fond of having hanging to the backs of their carriages;

one Fleming he was, that turned spy, and traitor, and informer, went

privately and gave notice to the creditors where the plate was hid

in the thickness of the chimney; but if he did, what happened? Why,

I had my counter-spy, an honest little Irish boy, in the creditor’s

shop, that I had secured with a little douceur of usquebaugh; and

he outwitted, as was natural, the English lying valet, and gave us

notice, just in the nick, and I got ready for their reception; and,

Miss Nugent, I only wish you’d seen the excellent sport we had,

letting them follow the scent they got; and when they were sure of

their game, what did they find?--Ha! ha! ha!--dragged out, after a

world of labour, a heavy box of--a load of brick-bats; not an item

of my friend’s plate, that was all snug in the coal-hole, where them

dunces never thought of looking for it--Ha! ha! ha!”

“But come, Terry,” cried Lord Clonbrony, “I’ll pull down your

pride.--How finely, another time, your job of the false ceiling

answered in the hall. I’ve heard that story, and have been told how

the sheriff’s fellow thrust his bayonet up through your false plaster,

and down came tumbling the family plate--hey! Terry?--That hit cost

your friend, Lord Every-body-knows-who, more than your head’s worth,

Terry.”

“I ask your pardon, my lord, it never cost him a farthing.”

“When he paid 7000_l._ for the plate, to redeem it?”

“Well! and did not I make up for that at the races of ----? The

creditors learned that my lord’s horse, Naboclish, was to run at ----

races; and, as the sheriff’s officer knew he dare not touch him on the

race-ground, what does he do, but he comes down early in the morning

on the mail-coach, and walks straight down to the livery stables.

He had an exact description of the stables, and the stall, and the

horse’s body clothes.

“I was there, seeing the horse taken care of; and, knowing the cut

of the fellow’s jib, what does I do, but whips the body clothes off

Naboclish, and claps them upon a garrone, that the priest would not

ride.

“In comes the bailiff--‘Good morrow to you, sir,’ says I, leading out

of the stable my lord’s horse, with an _ould_ saddle and bridle on.

“‘Tim Neal,’ says I to the groom, who was rubbing down the garrone’s

heels, ‘mind your hits to-day, and _wee’l_ wet the plate to-night.”

“‘Not so fast, neither,’ says the bailiff--‘here’s my writ for seizing

the horse.’

“‘Och,’ says I, ‘you wouldn’t be so cruel.’

“‘That’s all my eye,’ says he, seizing the garrone, while I mounted

Naboclish, and rode him off deliberately.”

“Ha! ha! ha!--That _was_ neat, I grant you, Terry,” said Lord

Clonbrony. “But what a dolt of a born ignoramus must that sheriff’s

fellow have been, not to know Naboclish when he saw him!”

“But stay, my lord--stay, Miss Nugent--I have more for you,” following

her wherever she moved--“I did not let him off so, even. At the cant,

I bid and bid against them for the pretended Naboclish, till I left

him on their hands for 500 guineas--ha! ha! ha!--was not that famous?”

“But,” said Miss Nugent, “I cannot believe you are in earnest, Sir

Terence--Surely this would be--”

“What?--out with it, my dear Miss Nugent.”

“I am afraid of offending you.”

“You can’t, my dear, I defy you--say the word that came to the

tongue’s end; it’s always the best.”

“I was going to say, swindling,” said the young lady, colouring

deeply.

“Oh, you was going to say wrong, then! It’s not called swindling

amongst gentlemen who know the world--it’s only jockeying--fine

sport--and very honourable to help a friend at a dead lift. Any thing

to help a friend out of a present pressing difficulty.”

“And when the present difficulty is over, do your friends never think

of the future?”

“The future! leave the future to posterity,” said Sir Terence; “I’m

counsel only for the present; and when the evil comes, it’s time

enough to think of it. I can’t bring the guns of my wits to bear till

the enemy’s alongside of me, or within sight of me at the least. And

besides, there never was a good commander yet, by sea or land, that

would tell his little expedients beforehand, or before the very day of

battle.”

“It must be a sad thing,” said Miss Nugent, sighing deeply, “to be

reduced to live by little expedients--daily expedients.”

Lord Colambre struck his forehead, but said nothing.

“But if you are beating your brains about your own affairs, my Lord

Colambre, my dear,” said Sir Terence, “there’s an easy way of settling

your family affairs at once; and since you don’t like little daily

expedients, Miss Nugent, there’s one great expedient, and an expedient

for life, that will settle it all to your satisfaction--and ours. I

hinted it delicately to you before; but, between friends, delicacy is

impertinent; so I tell you, in plain English, you’ve nothing to do but

go and propose yourself, just as you stand, to the heiress Miss B----,

that desires no better--”

“Sir!” cried Lord Colambre, stepping forward, red with sudden anger.

Miss Nugent laid her hand upon his arm. “Oh, my lord!”

“Sir Terence O’Fay,” continued Lord Colambre, in a moderated tone,

“you are wrong to mention that young lady’s name in such a manner.”

“Why then I said only Miss B----, and there are a whole hive of

_bees_. But I’ll engage she’d thank me for what I suggested, and think

herself the queen bee if my expedient was adopted by you.”

“Sir Terence,” said his lordship, smiling, “if my father thinks proper

that you should manage his affairs, and devise expedients for him, I

have nothing to say on that point; but I must beg you will not trouble

yourself to suggest expedients for me, and that you will have the

goodness to leave me to settle my own affairs.”

Sir Terence made a low bow, and was silent for five seconds; then

turning to Lord Clonbrony, who looked much more abashed than he

did, “By the wise one, my good lord, I believe there are some

men--noblemen, too--that don’t know their friends from their enemies.

It’s my firm persuasion, now, that if I had served you as I served my

friend I was talking of, your son there would, ten to one, think I had

done him an injury by saving the family plate.”

“I certainly should, sir. The family plate, sir, is not the first

object in my mind,” replied Lord Colambre; “family honour--Nay, Miss

Nugent, I must speak,” continued his lordship; perceiving, by her

countenance, that she was alarmed.

“Never fear, Miss Nugent, dear,” said Sir Terence; “I’m as cool as

a cucumber.--Faith! then, my Lord Colambre, I agree with you, that

family honour’s a mighty fine thing, only troublesome to one’s self

and one’s friends, and expensive to keep up with all the other

expenses and debts a gentleman has now-a-days. So I, that am under no

natural obligations to it by birth or otherwise, have just stood by it

through life, and asked myself, before I would volunteer being bound

to it, what could this same family honour do for a man in this world?

And, first and foremost, I never remember to see family honour stand

a man in much stead in a court of law--never saw family honour stand

against an execution, or a custodiam, or an injunction even.--‘Tis

a rare thing, this same family honour, and a very fine thing; but I

never knew it yet, at a pinch, pay for a pair of boots even,” added

Sir Terence, drawing up his own with much complacency.

At this moment, Sir Terence was called out of the room by one who

wanted to speak to him on particular business.

“My dear father,” cried Lord Colambre, “do not follow him; stay, for

one moment, and hear your son, your true friend.”

Miss Nugent left the room.

“Hear your natural friend for one moment,” cried Lord Colambre. “Let

me beseech you, father, not to have recourse to any of these paltry

expedients, but trust your son with the state of your affairs, and we

shall find some honourable means--”

“Yes, yes, yes, very true; when you’re of age, Colambre, we’ll talk of

it; but nothing can be done till then. We shall get on, we shall get

through, very well, till then, with Terry’s assistance; and I must beg

you will not say a word more against Terry--I can’t bear it--I can’t

bear it--I can’t do without him. Pray don’t detain me--I can say no

more--except,” added he, returning to his usual concluding sentence,

“that there need, at all events, be none of this, if people would but

live upon their own estates, and kill their own mutton.” He stole

out of the room, glad to escape, however shabbily, from present

explanation and present pain. There are persons without resource, who,

in difficulties, return always to the same point, and usually to the

same words.

While Lord Colambre was walking up and down the room, much vexed

and disappointed at finding that he could make no impression on his

father’s mind, nor obtain his confidence, Lady Clonbrony’s woman, Mrs.

Petito, knocked at the door, with a message from her lady, to beg, if

Lord Colambre was _by himself_, he would go to her dressing-room, as

she wished to have a conference with him. He obeyed her summons.

“Sit down, my dear Colambre--” And she began precisely with her old

sentence--“With the fortune I brought your father, and with my lord’s

estate, I _cawnt_ understand the meaning of all these pecuniary

difficulties; and all that strange creature Sir Terence says is

algebra to me, who speak English. And I am particularly sorry he was

let in this morning--but he’s such a brute that he does not think any

thing of forcing one’s door, and he tells my footman he does not mind

_not at home_ a pinch of snuff. Now what can you do with a man who

could say that sort of thing, you know?--the world’s at an end.”

“I wish my father had nothing to do with him, ma’am, as much as you

can wish it,” said Lord Colambre; “but I have said all that a son can

say, and without effect.”

“What particularly provokes me against him,” continued Lady Clonbrony,

“is what I have just heard from Grace, who was really hurt by it, too,

for she is the warmest friend in the world: I allude to the creature’s

indelicate way of touching upon a tender _pint_, and mentioning an

amiable young heiress’s name. My dear Colambre, I trust you have given

me credit for my inviolable silence all this time, upon the _pint_

nearest my heart. I am rejoiced to hear you _was_ so warm when she

was mentioned inadvertently by that brute, and I trust you now see

the advantages of the projected union in as strong and agreeable a

_pint_ of view as I do, my own Colambre; and I should leave things to

themselves, and let you prolong the _dees_ of courtship as you please,

only for what I now hear incidentally from my lord and the brute,

about pecuniary embarrassments, and the necessity of something being

done before next winter. And, indeed, I think now, in propriety, the

proposal cannot be delayed much longer; for the world begins to talk

of the thing as done; and even Mrs. Broadhurst, I know, had no doubt

that, if this _contretemps_ about the poor Berryls had not occurred,

your proposal would have been made before the end of last week.”

Our hero was not a man to make a proposal because Mrs. Broadhurst

expected it, or to marry because the world said he was going to be

married. He steadily said, that, from the first moment the subject had

been mentioned, he had explained himself distinctly; that the young

lady’s friends could not, therefore, be under any doubt as to his

intentions; that, if they had voluntarily deceived themselves, or

exposed the lady in situations from which the world was led to make

false conclusions, he was not answerable: he felt his conscience at

ease--entirely so, as he was convinced that the young lady herself,

for whose merit, talents, independence, and generosity of character he

professed high respect, esteem, and admiration, had no doubts either

of the extent or the nature of his regard.

“Regard, respect, esteem, admiration!--Why, my dearest Colambre! this

is saying all I want; satisfies me, and I am sure would satisfy Mrs.

Broadhurst, and Miss Broadhurst too.”

“No doubt it will, ma’am: but not if I aspired to the honour of Miss

Broadhurst’s hand, or professed myself her lover.”

“My dear, you are mistaken: Miss Broadhurst is too sensible a girl,

a vast deal, to look for love, and a dying lover, and all that sort

of stuff: I am persuaded--indeed I have it from good, from the best

authority, that the young lady--you know one must be delicate in these

cases, where a young lady of such fortune, and no despicable family

too, is concerned; therefore I cannot speak quite plainly--but I say

I have it from the best authority, that you would be preferred to any

other suitor, and, in short, that--”

“I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you,” cried Lord Colambre,

colouring a good deal; “but you must excuse me if I say, that the only

authority on which I could believe this is one from which I am morally

certain I shall never hear it--from Miss Broadhurst herself.”

“Lord, child! if you only ask her the question, she would tell you it

is truth, I dare say.”

“But as I have no curiosity on the subject, ma’am--”

“Lord bless me! I thought everybody had curiosity. But still, without

curiosity, I am sure it would gratify you when you did hear it; and

can’t you just put the simple question?”

“Impossible!”

“Impossible!--now that is so very provoking when the thing is all but

done. Well, take your own time; all I will ask of you then is, to let

things go on as they are going--smoothly and pleasantly; and I’ll

not press you further on the subject at present. Let things go on

smoothly, that’s all I ask, and say nothing.”

“I wish I could oblige you, mother; but I cannot do this. Since you

tell me that the world and Miss Broadhurst’s friends have already

misunderstood my intentions, it becomes necessary, in justice to

the young lady and to myself, that I should make all further doubt

impossible--I shall, therefore, put an end to it at once, by leaving

town to-morrow.”

Lady Clonbrony, breathless for a moment with surprise, exclaimed,

“Bless me! leave town to-morrow! Just at the beginning of the season!

Impossible!--I never saw such a precipitate rash young man. But stay

only a few weeks, Colambre; the physicians advise Buxton for my

rheumatism, and you shall take us to Buxton early in the season--you

cannot refuse me that. Why, if Miss Broadhurst was a dragon, you could

not be in a greater hurry to run away from her. What are you afraid

of?”

“Of doing what is wrong--the only thing, I trust, of which I shall

ever be afraid.”

Lady Clonbrony tried persuasion and argument--such argument as she

could use--but all in vain--Lord Colambre was firm in his resolution;

at last, she came to tears; and her son, in much agitation, said, “I

cannot bear this, mother!--I would do any thing you ask, that I could

do with honour; but this is impossible.”

“Why impossible? I will take all blame upon myself; and you are sure

that Miss Broadhurst does not misunderstand you, and you esteem her,

and admire her, and all that; and all I ask; is, that you’ll go on as

you are, and see more of her; and how do you know but you may fall in

love with her, as you call it, to-morrow?”

“Because, madam, since you press me so far, my affections are engaged

to another person. Do not look so dreadfully shocked, my dear

mother--I have told you truly, that I think myself too young, much too

young, yet to marry. In the circumstances in which I know my family

are, it is probable that I shall not for some years be able to marry

as I wish. You may depend upon it that I shall not take any step, I

shall not even declare my attachment to the object of my affection,

without your knowledge; and, far from being inclined headlong to

follow my own passions--strong as they are--be assured that the honour

of my family, your happiness, my mother, my father’s, are my first

objects: I shall never think of my own till these are secured.”

Of the conclusion of this speech, Lady Clonbrony heard only the

sound of the words; from the moment her son had pronounced that his

affections were engaged, she had been running over in her head every

probable and improbable person she could think of; at last, suddenly

starting up, she opened one of the folding-doors into the next

apartment, and called, “Grace!--Grace Nugent!--put down your pencil,

Grace, this minute, and come here!”

Miss Nugent obeyed with her usual alacrity; and the moment she entered

the room, Lady Clonbrony, fixing her eyes full upon her, said,

“There’s your cousin Colambre tells me his affections are engaged.”

“Yes, to Miss Broadhurst, no doubt,” said Miss Nugent, smiling, with a

simplicity and openness of countenance, which assured Lady Clonbrony

that all was safe in that quarter: a suspicion which had darted into

her mind was dispelled.

“No doubt--Ay, do you hear that _no doubt_, Colambre?--Grace, you see,

has no doubt; nobody has any doubt but yourself, Colambre.”

“And are your affections engaged, and not to Miss Broadhurst?” said

Miss Nugent, approaching Lord Colambre.

“There now! you see how you surprise and disappoint every body,

Colambre.”

“I am sorry that Miss Nugent should be disappointed,” said Lord

Colambre.

“But because I am disappointed, pray do not call me Miss Nugent, or

turn away from me, as if you were displeased.”

“It must, then, be some Cambridgeshire lady,” said Lady Clonbrony. “I

am sure I am very sorry he ever went to Cambridge--Oxford I advised:

one of the Miss Berryls, I presume, who have nothing. I’ll have no

more to do with those Berryls--there was the reason of the son’s vast

intimacy. Grace, you may give up all thoughts of Sir Arthur.”

“I have no thoughts to give up, ma’am,” said Miss Nugent, smiling.

“Miss Broadhurst,” continued she, going on eagerly with what she was

saying to Lord Colambre, “Miss Broadhurst is my friend, a friend I

love and admire; but you will allow that I strictly kept my promise,

never to praise her to you, till you should begin to praise her to me.

Now recollect, last night, you did praise her to me, so justly, that

I thought you liked her, I confess; so that it is natural I should

feel a little disappointed. Now you know the whole of my mind; I have

no intention to encroach on your confidence; therefore, there is no

occasion to look so embarrassed. I give you my word, I will never

speak to you again upon the subject,” said she, holding out her hand

to him, “provided you will never again call me Miss Nugent. Am I not

your own cousin Grace?--Do not be displeased with her.”

“You are my own dear cousin Grace; and nothing can be farther from my

mind than any thought of being displeased with her; especially just at

this moment, when I am going away, probably, for a considerable time.”

“Away!--when?--where?”

“To-morrow morning, for Ireland.”

“Ireland! of all places,” cried Lady Clonbrony. “What upon earth puts

it into your head to go to Ireland? You do very well to go out of the

way of falling in love ridiculously, since that is the reason of your

going; but what put Ireland into your head, child?”

“I will not presume to ask my mother what put Ireland out of her

head,” said Lord Colambre, smiling; “but she will recollect that it is

my native country.”

“That was your father’s fault, not mine,” said Lady Clonbrony; “for

I wished to have been confined in England: but he would have it to

say that his son and heir was born at Clonbrony Castle--and there was

a great argument between him and my uncle, and something about the

Prince of Wales and Caernarvon Castle was thrown in, and that turned

the scale, much against my will; for it was my wish that my son should

be an Englishman born--like myself. But, after all, I don’t see that

having the misfortune to be born in a country should tie one to it in

any sort of way; and I should have hoped your English _edication_,

Colambre, would have given you too liberal _idears_ for that--so I

_reely_ don’t see why you should go to Ireland merely because it’s

your native country.”

“Not merely because it is my native country--but I wish to go

thither--I desire to become acquainted with it--because it is the

country in which my father’s property lies, and from which we draw our

subsistence.”

“Subsistence! Lord bless me, what a word! fitter for a pauper than

a nobleman--subsistence! Then, if you are going to look after your

father’s property, I hope you will make the agents do their duty, and

send us remittances. And pray how long do you mean to stay?”

“Till I am of age, madam, if you have no objection. I will spend the

ensuing months in travelling in Ireland; and I will return here by the

time I am of age, unless you and my father should, before that time,

be in Ireland.”

“Not the least chance of that, if I can prevent it, I promise you,”

said Lady Clonbrony.

Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent sighed.

“And I am sure I shall take it very unkindly of you, Colambre, if you

go and turn out a partisan for Ireland, after all, like Grace Nugent.”

“A partisan! no;--I hope not a partisan, but a friend,” said Miss

Nugent.

“Nonsense, child!--I hate to hear people, women especially, and young

ladies particularly, talk of being friends to this country or that

country. What can they know about countries? Better think of being

friends to themselves, and friends to their friends.”

“I was wrong,” said Miss Nugent, “to call myself a friend to Ireland;

I meant to say, that Ireland had been a friend to me: that I found

Irish friends, when I had no others; an Irish home, when I had no

other; that my earliest and happiest years, under your kind care, had

been spent there; and I can never forget _that_, my dear aunt--I hope

you do not wish that I should.”

“Heaven forbid, my sweet Grace!” said Lady Clonbrony, touched by her

voice and manner; “Heaven forbid! I don’t wish you to do or be any

thing but what you are; for I am convinced there’s nothing I could ask

you would not do for me: and, I can tell you, there’s few things you

could ask, love, I would not do for you.”

A wish was instantly expressed in the eyes of her niece.

Lady Clonbrony, though not usually quick at interpreting the wishes

of others, understood and answered before she ventured to make her

request in words.

“Ask any thing but _that_, Grace--Return to Clonbrony, while I am able

to live in London? That I never can or will do for you or any body!”

looking at her son in all the pride of obstinacy: “so there is an end

of the matter. Go you where you please, Colambre; and I shall stay

where I please:--I suppose, as your mother, I have a right to say this

much?”

Her son, with the utmost respect, assured her that he had no design to

infringe upon her undoubted liberty of judging for herself; that he

had never interfered, except so far as to tell her circumstances of

her affairs with which she seemed to be totally unacquainted, and of

which it might he dangerous to her to continue in ignorance.

“Don’t talk to me about affairs,” cried she, drawing her hand away

from her son. “Talk to my lord, or my lord’s agents, since you are

going to Ireland about business--I know nothing about business; but

this I know, I shall stay in England, and be in London, every season,

as long as I can afford it; and when I cannot afford to live here, I

hope I shall not live any where. That’s my notion of life; and that’s

my determination, once for all; for, if none of the rest of the

Clonbrony family have any, I thank Heaven I have some spirit.” Saying

this, in her most stately manner she walked out of the room. Lord

Colambre instantly followed her: for after the resolution and the

promise he had made, he did not dare to trust himself at this moment

with Miss Nugent.

There was to be a concert this night at Lady Clonbrony’s, at which

Mrs. and Miss Broadhurst were of course expected. That they might not

he quite unprepared for the event of her son’s going to Ireland, Lady

Clonbrony wrote a note to Mrs. Broadhurst, begging her to come half

an hour earlier than the time mentioned in the cards, “that she might

talk over something _particular_ that had just occurred.”

What passed at this cabinet council, as it seems to have had no

immediate influence on affairs, we need not record. Suffice it

to observe, that a great deal was said, and nothing done. Miss

Broadhurst, however, was not a young lady who could easily be

deceived, even where her passions were concerned. The moment her

mother told her of Lord Colambre’s intended departure, she saw the

whole truth. She had a strong mind, capable of looking steadily at

truth. Surrounded as she had been from her childhood by every means

of self-indulgence which wealth and flattery could bestow, she had

discovered early what few persons in her situation discover till late

in life, that selfish gratifications may render us incapable of other

happiness, but can never, of themselves, make us happy. Despising

flatterers, she had determined to make herself friends--to make them

in the only possible way--by deserving them. Her father realized

his immense fortune by the power and habit of constant, bold, and

just calculation. The power and habit which she had learned from

him she applied on a far larger scale: with him it was confined to

speculations for the acquisition of money; with her, it extended to

the attainment of happiness. He was calculating and mercenary: she was

estimative and generous.

Miss Nugent was dressing for the concert, or rather was sitting

half-dressed before her glass, reflecting, when Miss Broadhurst came

into her room. Miss Nugent immediately sent her maid out of the room.

“Grace,” said Miss Broadhurst, looking at Grace with an air of open

deliberate composure, “you and I are thinking of the same thing--of

the same person.”

“Yes, of Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent, ingenuously and

sorrowfully.

“Then I can put your mind at ease, at once, my dear friend, by

assuring you that I shall think of him no more. That I have thought

of him, I do not deny--I have thought, that if, notwithstanding the

difference in our ages and other differences, he had preferred me, I

should have preferred him to any person who has ever yet addressed

me. On our first acquaintance, I clearly saw that he was not disposed

to pay court to my fortune; and I had also then coolness of judgment

sufficient to perceive that it was not probable he should fall in

love with my person. But I was too proud in my humility, too strong

in my honesty, too brave, too ignorant; in short, I knew nothing of

the matter. We are all of us, more or less, subject to the delusions

of vanity, or hope, or love--I--even I!--who thought myself so

clear-sighted, did not know how, with one flutter of his wings, Cupid

can set the whole atmosphere in motion; change the proportions, size,

colour, value, of every object; lead us into a _mirage_, and leave us

in a dismal desert.”

“My dearest friend!” said Miss Nugent in a tone of true sympathy.

“But none but a coward or a fool would sit down in the desert and

weep, instead of trying to make his way back before the storm rises,

obliterates the track, and overwhelms every thing. Poetry apart, my

dear Grace, you may be assured that I shall think no more of Lord

Colambre.”

“I believe you are right. But I am sorry, very sorry, it must be so.”

“Oh, spare me your sorrow!”

“My sorrow is for Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent. “Where will he

find such a wife?--Not in Miss Berryl, I am sure, pretty as she is; a

mere fine lady!--Is it possible that Lord Colambre should prefer such

a girl--Lord Colambre!”

Miss Broadhurst looked at her friend as she spoke, and saw truth in

her eyes; saw that she had no suspicion that she was herself the

person beloved.

“Tell me, Grace, are you sorry that Lord Colambre is going away?”

“No, I am glad. I was sorry when I first heard it; but now I am glad,

very glad: it may save him from a marriage unworthy of him, restore

him to himself, and reserve him for--, the only woman I ever saw who

is suited to him, who is equal to him, who would value and love him as

he deserves to be valued and loved.”

“Stop, my dear; if you mean me, I am not, and I never can be, that

woman. Therefore, as you are my friend, and wish my happiness, as I

sincerely believe you do, never, I conjure you, present such an idea

before my mind again--it is out of my mind, I hope, for ever. It is

important to me that you should know and believe this. At least I

will preserve my friends. Now let this subject never be mentioned

or alluded to again between us, my dear. We have subjects enough of

conversation; we need not have recourse to pernicious sentimental

gossipings. There is great difference between wanting _a confidante_,

and treating a friend with confidence. My confidence you possess; all

that ought, all that is to be known of my mind, you know, and--Now I

will leave you in peace to dress for the concert.”

“Oh, don’t go! you don’t interrupt me. I shall be dressed in a few

minutes; stay with me, and you may be assured, that neither now,

nor at any other time, shall I ever speak to you on the subject you

desire me to avoid. I entirely agree with you about _confidantes_ and

sentimental gossipings: I love you for not loving them.”

A loud knock at the door announced the arrival of company.

“Think no more of love, but as much as you please of admiration--dress

yourself as fast as you can,” said Miss Broadhurst. “Dress, dress, is

the order of the day.”

“Order of the day and order of the night, and all for people I don’t

care for in the least,” said Grace. “So life passes!”

“Dear me, Miss Nugent,” cried Petito, Lady Clonbrony’s woman, coming

in with a face of alarm, “not dressed yet! My lady is gone down, and

Mrs. Broadhurst and my Lady Pococke’s come, and the Honourable Mrs.

Trembleham; and signor, the Italian singing gentleman, has been

walking up and down the apartments there by himself, disconsolate,

this half hour. Oh, merciful! Miss Nugent, if you could stand still

for one single particle of a second. So then I thought of stepping in

to Miss Nugent; for the young ladies are talking so fast, says I to

myself, at the door, they will never know how time goes, unless I give

‘em a hint. But now my lady is below, there’s no need, to be sure,

to be nervous, so we may take the thing quietly, without being in a

flustrum. Dear ladies, is not this now a very sudden motion of our

young lord’s for Ireland? Lud a mercy! Miss Nugent, I’m sure your

motions is sudden enough; and your dress behind is all, I’m sure, I

can’t tell how.”

“Oh, never mind,” said the young lady, escaping from her; “it will do

very well, thank you, Petito.”

“It will do very well, never mind,” repeated Petito, muttering

to herself, as she looked after the ladies, whilst they ran down

stairs. “I can’t abide to dress any young lady who says never

mind, and it will do very well. That, and her never talking to one

confi_dan_tially, or trusting one with the least bit of her secrets,

is the thing I can’t put up with from Miss Nugent; and Miss Broadhurst

holding the pins to me, as much as to say, do your business, Petito,

and don’t talk.--Now, that’s so impertinent, as if one wasn’t the same

flesh and blood, and had not as good a right to talk of every thing,

and hear of every thing, as themselves. And Mrs. Broadhurst, too,

cabinet-councilling with my lady, and pursing up her city mouth, when

I come in, and turning off the discourse to snuff, forsooth; as if I

was an ignoramus, to think they closeted themselves to talk of snuff.

Now, I think a lady of quality’s woman has as good a right to be

trusted with her lady’s secrets as with her jewels; and if my Lady

Clonbrony was a real lady of quality, she’d know that, and consider

the one as much my paraphernalia as the other. So I shall tell my lady

to-night, as I always do when she vexes me, that I never lived in an

Irish family before, and don’t know the ways of it--then she’ll tell

me she was born in Hoxfordshire--then I shall say, with my saucy look,

‘Oh, was you, my lady--I always forget that you was an Englishwoman:’

then may be she’ll say, ‘Forget! you forget yourself strangely,

Petito.’ Then I shall say, with a great deal of dignity, ‘If your

ladyship thinks so, my lady, I’d better go.’ And I’d desire no better

than that she would take me at my word; for my Lady Dashfort’s is a

much better place, I’m told, and she’s dying to have me, I know.”

And having formed this resolution, Petito concluded her apparently

interminable soliloquy, and went with my lord’s gentleman into the

antechamber, to hear the concert, and give her judgment on every

thing: as she peeped in through the vista of heads into the Apollo

saloon--for to-night the Alhambra was transformed into the Apollo

saloon--she saw that whilst the company, rank behind rank, in close

semicircles, had crowded round the performers to hear a favourite

singer, Miss Broadhurst and Lord Colambre were standing in the outer

semicircle, talking to one another earnestly. Now would Petito have

given up her reversionary chance of the three nearly new gowns she

expected from Lady Clonbrony, in case she stayed; or, in case she

went, the reversionary chance of any dress of Lady Dashfort’s, except

her scarlet velvet, merely to hear what Miss Broadhurst and Lord

Colambre were saying. Alas! she could only see their lips move; and

of what they were talking, whether of music or love, and whether

the match was to be on or off, she could only conjecture. But the

diplomatic style having now descended to waiting-maids, Mrs. Petito

talked to her friends in the antechamber with as mysterious and

consequential an air and tone as a chargé d’affaires, or as the

lady of a chargé d’affaires, could have assumed. She spoke of her

_private belief_; of _the impression left upon her mind_; and her

_confidential_ reasons for thinking as she did; of her “having had it

from the _fountain’s_ head;” and of “her fear of any _committal_ of

her authorities.”

Notwithstanding all these authorities, Lord Colambre left London next

day, and pursued his way to Ireland, determined that he would see and

judge of that country for himself, and decide whether his mother’s

dislike to residing there was founded on caprice or on reasonable

causes.

In the mean time, it was reported in London that his lordship was

gone to Ireland to make out the title to some estate, which would be

necessary for his marriage settlement with the great heiress, Miss

Broadhurst. Whether Mrs. Petito or Sir Terence O’Fay had the greater

share in raising and spreading this report, it would be difficult to

determine; but it is certain, however or by whomsoever raised, it was

most useful to Lord Clonbrony, by keeping his creditors quiet.

CHAPTER VI.

The tide did not permit the packet to reach the Pigeon-house, and the

impatient Lord Colambre stepped into a boat, and was rowed across the

Bay of Dublin. It was a fine summer morning. The sun shone bright on

the Wicklow mountains. He admired, he exulted in the beauty of the

prospect; and all the early associations of his childhood, and the

patriotic hopes of his riper years, swelled his heart as he approached

the shores of his native land. But scarcely had he touched his mother

earth, when the whole course of his ideas was changed; and if his

heart swelled, it swelled no more with pleasurable sensations, for

instantly he found himself surrounded and attacked by a swarm of

beggars and harpies, with strange figures and stranger tones; some

craving his charity, some snatching away his luggage, and at the same

time bidding him “never trouble himself,” and “never fear.” A scramble

in the boat and on shore for bags and parcels began, and an amphibious

fight betwixt men, who had one foot on sea and one on land, was seen;

and long and loud the battle of trunks and portmanteaus raged! The

vanquished departed, clinching their empty hands at their opponents,

and swearing inextinguishable hatred; while the smiling victors stood

at ease, each grasping his booty--bag, basket, parcel, or portmanteau:

“And, your honour, where _will_ these go?--Where _will_ we carry ‘em

all to for your honour?” was now the question. Without waiting for

an answer, most of the goods were carried at the discretion of the

porters to the custom-house, where, to his lordship’s astonishment,

after this scene of confusion, he found that he had lost nothing but

his patience; all his goods were safe, and a few _tinpennies_ made

his officious porters happy men and boys; blessings were showered

upon his honour, and he was left in peace at an excellent hotel, in

---- street, Dublin. He rested, refreshed himself, recovered his

good-humour, and walked into the coffee-house, where he found several

officers, English, Irish, and Scotch. One English officer, a very

gentlemanlike, sensible-looking man, of middle age, was sitting

reading a little pamphlet, when Lord Colambre entered: he looked

up from time to time, and in a few minutes rose and joined the

conversation; it turned upon the beauties and defects of the city of

Dublin. Sir James Brooke (for that was the name of the gentleman)

showed one of his brother officers the book which he had been reading,

observing that, in his opinion, it contained one of the best views

of Dublin which he had ever seen, evidently drawn by the hand of a

master, though in a slight, playful, and ironical style: it was “An

intercepted Letter from China.” The conversation extended from Dublin

to various parts of Ireland, with all which Sir James Brooke showed

that he was well acquainted. Observing that this conversation was

particularly interesting to Lord Colambre, and quickly perceiving

that he was speaking to one not ignorant of books, Sir James spoke of

different representations and misrepresentations of Ireland. In answer

to Lord Colambre’s inquiries, he named the works which had afforded

him the most satisfaction; and with discriminative, not superficial

celerity, touched on all ancient and modern authors on this subject,

from Spenser and Davies to Young and Beaufort. Lord Colambre became

anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of a gentleman who appeared

so able and willing to afford him information. Sir James Brooke, on

his part, was flattered by this eagerness of attention, and pleased

by our hero’s manners and conversation: so that, to their mutual

satisfaction, they spent much of their time together whilst they were

at this hotel; and meeting frequently in society in Dublin, their

acquaintance every day increased and grew into intimacy; an intimacy

which was highly advantageous to Lord Colambre’s views of obtaining a

just idea of the state of manners in Ireland. Sir James Brooke had at

different periods been quartered in various parts of the country--had

resided long enough in each to become familiar with the people, and

had varied his residence sufficiently to form comparisons between

different counties, their habits, and characteristics. Hence he had it

in his power to direct the attention of our young observer at once to

the points most worthy of his examination, and to save him from the

common error of travellers--the deducing general conclusions from a

few particular cases, or arguing from exceptions, as if they were

rules. Lord Colambre, from his family connexions, had of course

immediate introduction into the best society in Dublin, or rather into

all the good society of Dublin. In Dublin there is positively good

company, and positively bad; but not, as in London, many degrees of

comparison: not innumerable luminaries of the polite world, moving in

different orbits of fashion; but all the bright planets of note and

name move and revolve in the same narrow limits. Lord Colambre did

not find that either his father’s or his mother’s representations of

society resembled the reality which he now beheld. Lady Clonbrony had,

in terms of detestation, described Dublin such as it appeared to her

soon after the Union; Lord Clonbrony had painted it with convivial

enthusiasm, such as he saw it long and long before the Union, when

_first_ he drank claret at the fashionable clubs. This picture,

unchanged in his memory, and unchangeable by his imagination, had

remained, and ever would remain, the same. The hospitality of which

the father boasted, the son found in all its warmth, but meliorated

and refined; less convivial, more social; the fashion of hospitality

had improved. To make the stranger eat or drink to excess, to set

before him old wine and old plate, was no longer the sum of good

breeding. The guest now escaped the pomp of grand entertainments;

was allowed to enjoy ease and conversation, and to taste some of

that feast of reason and that flow of soul so often talked of, and

so seldom enjoyed. Lord Colambre found a spirit of improvement, a

desire for knowledge, and a taste for science and literature, in most

companies, particularly among gentlemen belonging to the Irish bar:

nor did he in Dublin society see any of that confusion of ranks or

predominance of vulgarity, of which his mother had complained. Lady

Clonbrony had assured him, that, the last time she had been at the

drawing-room at the Castle, a lady, whom she afterwards found to be a

grocer’s wife, had turned angrily when her ladyship had accidentally

trodden on her train, and had exclaimed with a strong brogue, “I’ll

thank you, ma’am, for the rest of my tail.”

Sir James Brooke, to whom Lord Colambre, without _giving up his

authority_, mentioned the fact, declared that he had no doubt the

thing had happened precisely as it was stated; but that this was one

of the extraordinary cases which ought not to pass into a general

rule,--that it was a slight instance of that influence of temporary

causes, from which no conclusions, as to national manners, should be

drawn.

“I happened,” continued Sir James, “to be quartered in Dublin soon

after the Union took place; and I remember the great but transient

change that appeared from the removal of both houses of parliament:

most of the nobility and many of the principal families among the

Irish commoners, either hurried in high hopes to London, or retired

disgusted and in despair to their houses in the country. Immediately,

in Dublin, commerce rose into the vacated seats of rank; wealth rose

into the place of birth. New faces and new equipages appeared: people,

who had never been heard of before, started into notice, pushed

themselves forward, not scrupling to elbow their way even at the

castle; and they were presented to my lord-lieutenant and to my

lady-lieutenant; for their excellencies might have played their

vice-regal parts to empty benches, had they not admitted such

persons for the moment to fill their court. Those of former times,

of hereditary pretensions and high-bred minds and manners, were

scandalized at all this; and they complained with justice, that the

whole _tone_ of society was altered; that the decorum, elegance,

polish, and charm of society was gone. And I, among the rest,” said

Sir James, “felt and deplored their change. But, now it’s all over, we

may acknowledge, that, perhaps, even those things which we felt most

disagreeable at the time were productive of eventual benefit.

“Formerly, a few families had set the fashion. From time immemorial

every thing had, in Dublin, been submitted to their hereditary

authority; and conversation, though it had been rendered polite by

their example, was, at the same time, limited within narrow bounds.

Young people, educated upon a more enlarged plan, in time grew up;

and, no authority or fashion forbidding it, necessarily rose to their

just place, and enjoyed their due influence in society. The want of

manners, joined to the want of knowledge, in the _nouveaux riches_,

created universal disgust: they were compelled, some by ridicule, some

by bankruptcies, to fall back into their former places, from which

they could never more emerge. In the mean time, some of the Irish

nobility and gentry, who had been living at an unusual expense in

London--an expense beyond their incomes--were glad to return home to

refit; and they brought with them a new stock of ideas, and some taste

for science and literature, which, within these latter years, have

become fashionable, indeed indispensable, in London. That part of the

Irish aristocracy, who, immediately upon the first incursions of the

vulgarians, had fled in despair to their fastnesses in the country,

hearing of the improvements which had gradually taken place in

society, and assured of the final expulsion of the barbarians,

ventured from their retreats, and returned to their posts in town. So

that now,” concluded Sir James, “you find a society in Dublin composed

of a most agreeable and salutary mixture of birth and education,

gentility and knowledge, manner and matter; and you see, pervading the

whole, new life and energy, new talent, new ambition, a desire and a

determination to improve and be improved--a perception that higher

distinction can now be obtained in almost all company, by genius and

merit, than by airs and address.... So much for the higher order. Now,

among the class of tradesmen and shopkeepers, you may amuse yourself,

my lord, with marking the difference between them and persons of the

same rank in London.”

Lord Colambre had several commissions to execute for his English

friends, and he made it his amusement in every shop to observe the

manners and habits of the people. He remarked that there are in Dublin

two classes of tradespeople: one, who go into business with intent to

make it their occupation for life, and as a slow but sure means of

providing for themselves and their families; another class, who take

up trade merely as a temporary resource, to which they condescend for

a few years; trusting that they shall, in that time, make a fortune,

retire, and commence or re-commence gentlemen. The Irish regular men

of business are like all other men of business--punctual, frugal,

careful, and so forth; with the addition of more intelligence,

invention, and enterprise, than are usually found in Englishmen of

the same rank. But the Dublin tradesmen _pro tempore_ are a class by

themselves: they begin without capital, buy stock upon credit, in

hopes of making large profits, and, in the same hopes, sell upon

credit.

Now, if the credit they can obtain is longer than that which they are

forced to give, they go on and prosper; if not, they break, become

bankrupts, and sometimes, as bankrupts, thrive. By such men, of

course, every _short cut_ to fortune is followed: whilst every habit,

which requires time to prove its advantage, is disregarded; nor, with

such views, can a character for _punctuality_ have its just value.

In the head of a man, who intends to be a tradesman to-day, and a

gentleman to-morrow, the ideas of the honesty and the duties of a

tradesman, and of the honour and the accomplishments of a gentleman,

are oddly jumbled together, and the characteristics of both are lost

in the compound.

He will _oblige_ you, but he will not obey you; he will do you a

favour, but he will not do you _justice_; he will do _anything to

serve you_, but the particular thing you order he neglects; he asks

your pardon, for he would not, for all the goods in his warehouse,

_disoblige_ you; not for the sake of your custom, but he has a

particular regard for your family. Economy, in the eyes of such a

tradesman, is, if not a mean vice, at least a shabby virtue, of which

he is too polite to suspect his customers, and to which he is proud of

proving himself superior. Many London tradesmen, after making their

thousands and their tens of thousands, feel pride in still continuing

to live like plain men of business; but from the moment a Dublin

tradesman of this style has made a few hundreds, he sets up his

gig, and then his head is in his carriage, and not in his business;

and when he has made a few thousands, he buys or builds a country

house--and, then, and thenceforward, his head, heart, and soul, are in

his country-house, and only his body in the shop with his customers.

Whilst he is making money, his wife, or rather his lady, is

spending twice as much out of town as he makes in it. At the word

country-house, let no one figure to himself a snug little box like

that in which a _warm_ London citizen, after long years of toil,

indulges himself, one day out of seven, in repose--enjoying, from his

gazabo, the smell of the dust, and the view of passing coaches on the

London road: no, these Hibernian villas are on a much more magnificent

scale; some of them formerly belonged to Irish members of parliament,

who were at a distance from their country-seats. After the Union these

were bought by citizens and tradesmen, who spoiled, by the mixture of

their own fancies, what had originally been designed by men of good

taste.

Some time after Lord Colambre’s arrival in Dublin, he had an

opportunity of seeing one of these villas, which belonged to Mrs.

Raffarty, a grocer’s lady, and sister to one of Lord Clonbrony’s

agents, Mr. Nicholas Garraghty. Lord Colambre was surprised to find

that his father’s agent resided in Dublin: he had been used to see

agents, or stewards, as they are called in England, live in the

country, and usually on the estate of which they have the management.

Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, however, had a handsome house in a fashionable

part of Dublin. Lord Colambre called several times to see him, but he

was out of town, receiving rents for some other gentlemen, as he was

agent for more than one property.

Though our hero had not the honour of seeing Mr. Garraghty, he had the

pleasure of finding Mrs. Raffarty one day at her brother’s house. Just

as his lordship came to the door, she was going, on her jaunting-car,

to her villa, called Tusculum, situate near Bray. She spoke much of

the beauties of the vicinity of Dublin; found his lordship was going

with Sir James Brooke, and a party of gentlemen, to see the county

of Wicklow; and his lordship and party were entreated to do her the

honour of taking in their way a little collation at Tusculum.

Our hero was glad to have an opportunity of seeing more of a species

of fine lady with which he was unacquainted.

The invitation was verbally made, and verbally accepted; but the lady

afterwards thought it necessary to send a written invitation in due

form, and the note she sent directed to the _Most Right Honourable_

the Lord Viscount Colambre. On opening it he perceived that it could

not have been intended for him. It ran as follows:

“MY DEAR JULIANA O’LEARY,

“I have got a promise from Colambre, that he will be with us

at Tusculum on Friday, the 20th, in his way from the county of

Wicklow, for the collation I mentioned; and expect a large party

of officers: so pray come early, with your house, or as many as

the jaunting-car can bring. And pray, my dear, be _elegant_. You

need not let it transpire to Mrs. O’G----; but make my apologies

to Miss O’G----, if she says any thing, and tell her I’m quite

concerned I can’t ask her for that day; because, tell her, I’m so

crowded, and am to have none that day but _real quality_.

“Yours ever and ever,

“ANASTASIA RAFFARTY.

“P.S. And I hope to make the gentlemen stop the night with me: so

will not have beds. Excuse haste and compliments, &c.

“_Tusculum, Sunday 15._”

After a charming tour in the county of Wicklow, where the beauty of

the natural scenery, and the taste with which those natural beauties

had been cultivated, far surpassed the sanguine expectations Lord

Colambre had formed, his lordship and his companions arrived at

Tusculum, where he found Mrs. Raffarty, and Miss Juliana O’Leary,

very elegant, with a large party of the ladies and gentlemen of Bray,

assembled in a drawing-room, fine with bad pictures and gaudy gilding;

the windows were all shut, and the company were playing cards with all

their might. This was the fashion of the neighbourhood. In compliment

to Lord Colambre and the officers, the ladies left the card-tables;

and Mrs. Raffarty, observing that his lordship seemed _partial_ to

walking, took him out, as she said, “to do the honours of nature and

art.”

His lordship was much amused by the mixture, which was now exhibited

to him, of taste and incongruity, ingenuity and absurdity, genius

and blunder; by the contrast between the finery and vulgarity, the

affectation and ignorance, of the lady of the villa. We should be

obliged to _stop_ too long at Tusculum were we to attempt to detail

all the odd circumstances of this visit; but we may record an example

or two, which may give a sufficient idea of the whole.

In the first place, before they left the drawing-room, Miss Juliana

O’Leary pointed out to his lordship’s attention a picture over the

drawing-room chimney-piece. “Is not it a fine piece, my lord?” said

she, naming the price Mrs. Raffarty had lately paid for it at an

auction. “It has a right to be a fine piece, indeed; for it cost a

fine price!” Nevertheless this _fine_ piece was a vile daub; and our

hero could only avoid the sin of flattery, or the danger of offending

the lady, by protesting that he had no judgment in pictures.

“Indeed! I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur or conoscenti myself; but

I’m told the style is undeniably modern. And was not I lucky, Juliana,

not to let that _Medona_ be knocked down to me? I was just going to

bid, when I heard such smart bidding; but, fortunately, the auctioneer

let out that it was done by a very old master--a hundred years old.

Oh! your most obedient, thinks I!--if that’s the case, it’s not for my

money: so I bought this, in lieu of the smoke-dried thing, and had it

a bargain.”

In architecture, Mrs. Raffarty had as good a taste and as much skill

as in painting. There had been a handsome portico in front of the

house: but this interfering with the lady’s desire to have a viranda,

which she said could not he dispensed with, she had raised the whole

portico to the second story, where it stood, or seemed to stand, upon

a tarpaulin roof. But Mrs. Raffarty explained, that the pillars,

though they looked so properly substantial, were really hollow

and as light as feathers, and were supported with cramps, without

_disobliging_ the front wall of the house at all to signify.

Before she showed the company any farther, she said, she must premise

to his lordship, that she had been originally stinted in room for

her improvements, so that she could not follow her genius liberally;

she had been reduced to have some things on a confined scale, and

occasionally to consult her pocket-compass; but she prided herself

upon having put as much into a tight pattern as could well be;

that had been her whole ambition, study, and problem; for she was

determined to have at least the honour of having a little _taste_ of

every thing at Tusculum.

So she led the way to a little conservatory, and a little pinery, and

a little grapery, and a little aviary, and a little pheasantry, and a

little dairy for show, and a little cottage for ditto, with a grotto

full of shells, and a little hermitage full of earwigs, and a little

ruin full of looking-glass, “to enlarge and multiply the effect of the

Gothic.”--“But you could only put your head in, because it was just

fresh painted, and though there had been a fire ordered in the ruin

all night, it had only smoked.”

In all Mrs. Raffarty’s buildings, whether ancient or modern, there was

a studied crookedness.

Yes, she said, she hated every thing straight, it was so formal and

_unpicturesque_. “Uniformity and conformity,” she observed, “had their

day; but now, thank the stars of the present day, irregularity and

deformity bear the bell, and have the majority.”

As they proceeded and walked through the grounds, from which Mrs.

Raffarty, though she had done her best, could not take that which

nature had given, she pointed out to my lord “a happy moving

termination,” consisting of a Chinese bridge, with a fisherman leaning

over the rails. On a sudden, the fisherman was seen to tumble over the

bridge into the water. The gentlemen ran to extricate the poor fellow,

while they heard Mrs. Raffarty bawling to his lordship to beg he would

never mind, and not trouble himself.

When they arrived at the bridge, they saw the man hanging from part

of the bridge, and apparently struggling in the water; but when they

attempted to pull him up, they found it was only a stuffed figure,

which had been pulled into the stream by a real fish, which had seized

hold of the bait.

Mrs. Raffarty, vexed by the fisherman’s fall, and by the laughter

it occasioned, did not recover herself sufficiently to be happily

ridiculous during the remainder of the walk, nor till dinner was

announced, when she apologized for having changed the collation, at

first intended, into a dinner, which she hoped would be found no bad

substitute, and which she flattered herself might prevail on my lord

and the gentlemen to sleep, as there was no moon.

The dinner had two great faults--profusion and pretension. There was,

in fact, ten times more on the table than was necessary; and the

entertainment was far above the circumstances of the person by whom it

was given: for instance, the dish of fish at the head of the table had

been brought across the island from Sligo, and had cost five guineas;

as the lady of the house failed not to make known. But, after all,

things were not of a piece; there was a disparity between the

entertainment and the attendants; there was no proportion or fitness

of things; a painful endeavour at what could not be attained, and a

toiling in vain to conceal and repair deficiencies and blunders. Had

the mistress of the house been quiet; had she, as Mrs. Broadhurst

would say, but let things alone, let things take their course, all

would have passed off with well-bred people; but she was incessantly

apologizing, and fussing, and fretting inwardly and outwardly, and

directing and calling to her servants--striving to make a butler who

was deaf, and a boy who was harebrained, do the business of five

accomplished footmen of _parts and figure_. The mistress of the house

called for “plates, clean plates!--plates!”

“But none did come, when she did call.”

Mrs. Raffarty called “Lanty! Lanty! My lord’s plate, there!--James!

bread to Captain Bowles!--James! port wine to the major!--James! James

Kenny! James!”

“And panting _James_ toiled after her in vain.”

At length one course was fairly got through, and after a torturing

half hour, the second course appeared, and James Kenny was intent upon

one thing, and Lanty upon another, so that the wine-sauce for the hare

was spilt by their collision; but, what was worse, there seemed little

chance that the whole of this second course should ever be placed

altogether rightly upon the table. Mrs. Raffarty cleared her throat,

and nodded, and pointed, and sighed, and sent Lanty after Kenny, and

Kenny after Lanty; for what one did, the other undid; and at last the

lady’s anger kindled, and she spoke: “Kenny! James Kenny! set the

sea-cale at this corner, and put down the grass cross-corners; and

match your maccaroni yonder with _them_ puddens, set--Ogh! James! the

pyramid in the middle, can’t ye?”

The pyramid, in changing places, was overturned. Then it was that the

mistress of the feast, falling back in her seat, and lifting up her

hands and eyes in despair, ejaculated, “Oh, James! James!”

The pyramid was raised by the assistance of the military engineers,

and stood trembling again on its base; but the lady’s temper could not

be so easily restored to its equilibrium. She vented her ill humour on

her unfortunate husband, who happening not to hear her order to help

my lord to some hare, she exclaimed loud, that all the world might

hear, “Corny Raffarty! Corny Raffarty! you’re no more _gud_ at the

_fut_ of my table than a stick of celery!”

The comedy of errors, which this day’s visit exhibited, amused all

the spectators. But Lord Colambre, after he had smiled, sometimes

sighed.--Similar foibles and follies in persons of different rank,

fortune, and manner, appear to common observers so unlike that they

laugh without scruples of conscience in one case, at what in another

ought to touch themselves most nearly. It was the same desire to

appear what they were not, the same vain ambition to vie with superior

rank and fortune, or fashion, which actuated Lady Clonbrony and Mrs.

Raffarty; and whilst this ridiculous grocer’s wife made herself the

sport of some of her guests, Lord Colambre sighed, from the reflection

that what she was to them, his mother was to persons in a higher rank

of fashion.--He sighed still more deeply, when he considered, that,

in whatever station or with whatever fortune, extravagance, that is,

the living beyond our income, must lead to distress and meanness, and

end in shame and ruin. In the morning as they were riding away from

Tusculum and talking over their visit, the officers laughed heartily,

and rallying Lord Colambre upon his seriousness, accused him of having

fallen in love with Mrs. Raffarty, or with the _elegant_ Miss Juliana.

Our hero, who wished never to be nice over much, or serious out of

season, laughed with those that laughed, and endeavoured to catch the

spirit of the jest. But Sir James Brooke, who now was well acquainted

with his countenance, and who knew something of the history of his

family, understood his real feelings, and, sympathizing in them,

endeavoured to give the conversation a new turn.

“Look there, Bowles,” said he, as they were just riding into the town

of Bray; “look at the barouche standing at that green door, at the

farthest end of the town. Is not that Lady Dashfort’s barouche?”

“It looks like what she sported in Dublin last year,” said Bowles;

“but you don’t think she’d give us the same two seasons. Besides, she

is not in Ireland, is she? I did not hear of her intending to come

over again.”

“I beg your pardon,” said another officer; “she will come again to

so good a market, to marry her other daughter. I hear she said or

swore that she will marry the young widow, Lady Isabel, to an Irish

nobleman.”

“Whatever she says, she swears, and whatever she swears, she’ll do,”

replied Bowles.

“Have a care, my Lord Colambre; if she sets her heart upon you for

Lady Isabel, she has you. Nothing can save you. Heart she has none,

so there you’re safe, my lord,” said the other officer; “but if Lady

Isabel sets her eye upon you, no basilisk’s is surer.”

“But if Lady Dashfort had landed I am sure we should have heard of it,

for she makes noise enough wherever she goes; especially in Dublin,

where all she said and did was echoed and magnified, till one could

hear of nothing else. I don’t think she has landed.”

“I hope to Heaven they may never land again in Ireland!” cried

Sir James Brooke: “one worthless woman, especially one worthless

Englishwoman of rank, does incalculable mischief in a country like

this, which looks up to the sister country for fashion. For my own

part, as a warm friend to Ireland, I would rather see all the toads

and serpents, and venomous reptiles, that St. Patrick carried off in

his bag, come back to this island, than these two _dashers_. Why, they

would bite half the women and girls in the kingdom with the rage for

mischief, before half the husbands and fathers could turn their heads

about. And, once bit, there’s no cure in nature or art.”

“No horses to this barouche!” cried Captain Bowles.--“Pray, sir, whose

carriage is this?” said the captain to a servant, who was standing

beside it.

“My Lady Dashfort, sir, it belongs to,” answered the servant, in

rather a surly English tone; and turning to a boy who was lounging at

the door, “Pat, bid them bring out the horses, for my ladies is in a

hurry to get home.”

Captain Bowles stopped to make his servant alter the girths of his

horse, and to satisfy his curiosity; and the whole party halted.

Captain Bowles beckoned to the landlord of the inn, who was standing

at his door.

“So, Lady Dashfort is here again?--This is her barouche, is not it?”

“Yes, sir, she is--it is.”

“And has she sold her fine horses?”

“Oh, no, sir--this is not her carriage at all--she is not here. That

is, she is here, in Ireland; but down in the county of Wicklow, on

a visit. And this is not her own carriage at all;--that is to say,

not that which she has with herself, driving; but only just the cast

barouche like, as she keeps for the lady’s maids.”

“For the lady’s maids! that is good! that is new, faith! Sir James, do

you hear that?”

“Indeed, then, and it’s true, and not a word of a lie!” said the

honest landlord. “And this minute, we’ve got a directory of five of

them Abigails, sitting within our house; as fine ladies, as great

dashers too, every bit, as their principals; and kicking up as much

dust on the road, every grain!--Think of them, now! The likes of

them, that must have four horses, and would not stir a foot with one

less!--As the gentleman’s gentleman there was telling and boasting

to me about now, when the barouche was ordered for them there at the

lady’s house, where Lady Dashfort is on a visit--they said they would

not get in till they’d get four horses; and their ladies backed them;

and so the four horses was got; and they just drove out here to see

the points of view for fashion’s sake, like their betters; and up with

their glasses, like their ladies; and then out with their watches, and

‘Isn’t it time to lunch?’ So there they have been lunching within on

what they brought with them; for nothing in our house could they touch

of course! They brought themselves a _pick-nick_ lunch, with Madeira

and Champagne to wash it down. Why, gentlemen, what do you think,

but a set of them, as they were bragging to me, turned out of a

boarding-house at Cheltenham, last year, because they had not peach

pies to their lunch!--But, here they come! shawls, and veils, and

all!--streamers flying! But mum is my cue!--Captain, are these girths

to your fancy now?” said the landlord, aloud: then, as he stooped to

alter a buckle, he said in a voice meant to be heard only by Captain

Bowles, “If there’s a tongue, male or female, in the three kingdoms,

it’s in that foremost woman, Mrs. Petito.”

“Mrs. Petito!” repeated Lord Colambre, as the name caught his ear;

and, approaching the barouche, in which the five Abigails were now

seated, he saw the identical Mrs. Petito, who, when he left London,

had been in his mother’s service.

She recognized his lordship with very gracious intimacy; and, before

he had time to ask any questions, she answered all she conceived he

was going to ask, and with a volubility which justified the landlord’s

eulogium of her tongue.

“Yes, my lord! I left my Lady Clonbrony some time back--the day after

you left town; and both her ladyship and Miss Nugent was charmingly,

and would have sent their loves to your lordship, I’m sure, if they’d

any notion I should have met you, my lord, so soon. And I was very

sorry to part with them; but the fact was, my lord,” said Mrs. Petito,

laying a detaining hand upon Lord Colambre’s whip, one end of which

he unwittingly trusted within her reach, “I and my lady had a little

difference, which the best friends, you know, sometimes have: so

my Lady Clonbrony was so condescending to give me up to my Lady

Dashfort--and I knew no more than the child unborn that her ladyship

had it in contemplation to cross the seas. But, to oblige my lady,

and as Colonel Heathcock, with his regiment of militia, was coming

for purtection in the packet at the same time, and we to have the

government-yacht, I waived my objections to Ireland. And, indeed,

though I was greatly frighted at first, having heard all we’ve heard,

you know, my lord, from Lady Clonbrony, of there being no living

in Ireland, and expecting to see no trees, nor accommodation, nor

any thing but bogs all along; yet I declare, I was very agreeably

surprised; for, as far as I’ve seen at Dublin and in the vicinity,

the accommodations, and every thing of that nature now, is vastly

put-up-able with!”

“My lord,” said Sir James Brooke, “we shall be late.”

Lord Colambre, withdrawing his whip from Mrs. Petito, turned his

horse away. She, stretching over the back of the barouche as he rode

off, bawled to him, “My lord, we’re at Stephen’s Green, when we’re at

Dublin.” But as he did not choose to hear, she raised her voice to its

highest pitch, adding, “And where are you, my lord, to be found?--as I

have a parcel of Miss Nugent’s for you.”

Lord Colambre instantly turned back, and gave his direction.

“Cleverly done, faith!” said the major.

“I did not hear her say when Lady Dashfort is to be in town,” said

Captain Bowles.

“What, Bowles! have you a mind to lose more of your guineas to Lady

Dashfort, and to be jockeyed out of another horse by Lady Isabel?”

“Oh, confound it--no! I’ll keep out of the way of that--I have had

enough,” said Captain Bowles; “it is my Lord Colambre’s turn now; you

hear that Lady Dashfort would be very _proud_ to see him. His lordship

is in for it, and with such an auxiliary as Mrs. Petito, Lady Dashfort

has him far Lady Isabel, as sure as he has a heart or hand.”

“My compliments to the ladies, but my heart is engaged,” said Lord

Colambre; “and my hand shall go with my heart, or not at all.”

“Engaged! engaged to a very amiable, charming woman, no doubt,” said

Sir James Brooke. “I have an excellent opinion of your taste; and if

you can return the compliment to my judgment, take my advice: don’t

trust to your heart’s being engaged, much less plead that engagement;

for it would be Lady Dashfort’s sport, and Lady Isabel’s joy, to

make you break your engagement, and break your mistress’s heart; the

fairer, the more amiable, the more beloved, the greater the triumph,

the greater the delight in giving pain. All the time love would be out

of the question; neither mother nor daughter would care if you were

hanged, or, as Lady Dashfort would herself have expressed it, if you

were d----d.”

“With such women I should think a man’s heart could be in no great

danger,” said Lord Colambre.

“There you might be mistaken, my lord; there’s a way to every man’s

heart, which no man in his own case is aware of, but which every woman

knows right well, and none better than these ladies--by his vanity.”

“True,” said Captain Bowles.

“I am not so vain as to think myself without vanity,” said Lord

Colambre; “but love, I should imagine, is a stronger passion than

vanity.”

“You should imagine! Stay till you are tried, my lord. Excuse me,”

said Captain Bowles, laughing.

Lord Colambre felt the good sense of this, and determined to have

nothing to do with these dangerous ladies: indeed, though he had

talked, he had scarcely yet thought of them; for his imagination was

intent upon that packet from Miss Nugent, which Mrs. Petito said she

had for him. He heard nothing of it, or of her, for some days. He sent

his servant every day to Stephen’s Green, to inquire if Lady Dashfort

had returned to town. Her ladyship at last returned; but Mrs. Petito

could not deliver the parcel to any hand but Lord Colambre’s own, and

she would not stir out, because her lady was indisposed. No longer

able to restrain his impatience, Lord Colambre went himself--knocked

at Lady Dashfort’s door--inquired for Mrs. Petito--was shown into

her parlour. The parcel was delivered to him; but, to his utter

disappointment, it was a parcel _for_, not _from_ Miss Nugent. It

contained merely an odd volume of some book of Miss Nugent’s which

Mrs. Petito said she had put up along with her things _in a mistake_,

and she thought it her duty to return it by the first opportunity of a

safe conveyance.

Whilst Lord Colambre, to comfort himself for his disappointment, was

fixing his eyes upon Miss Nugent’s name, written by her own hand, in

the first leaf of the book, the door opened, and the figure of an

interesting-looking lady, in deep mourning, appeared--appeared for one

moment, and retired.

“Only my Lord Colambre, about a parcel I was bringing for him from

England, my lady--my Lady Isabel, my lord,” said Mrs. Petito.

Whilst Mrs. Petito was saying this, the entrance and retreat had

been made, and made with such dignity, grace, and modesty: with

such innocence, dove-like eyes had been raised upon him, fixed and

withdrawn; with such a gracious bend the Lady Isabel had bowed to

him as she retired; with such a smile, and with so soft a voice, had

repeated “Lord Colambre!” that his lordship, though well aware that

all this was mere acting, could not help saying to himself, as he

left the house, “It is a pity it is only acting. There is certainly

something very engaging in this woman. It is a pity she is an actress.

And so young! A much younger woman than I expected. A widow before

most women are wives. So young, surely she cannot be such a fiend as

they described her to be!”

A few nights afterwards Lord Colambre was with some of his

acquaintance at the theatre, when Lady Isabel and her mother came

into the box, where seats had been reserved for them, and where their

appearance instantly made that _sensation_, which is usually created

by the entrance of persons of the first notoriety in the fashionable

world. Lord Colambre was not a man to be dazzled by fashion, or to

mistake notoriety for deference paid to merit, and for the admiration

commanded by beauty or talents. Lady Dashfort’s coarse person, loud

voice, daring manners, and indelicate wit, disgusted him almost

past endurance. He saw Sir James Brooke in the box opposite to him;

and twice determined to go round to him. His lordship had crossed

the benches, and once his hand was upon the lock of the door; but,

attracted as much by the daughter as repelled by the mother, he could

move no farther. The mother’s masculine boldness heightened, by

contrast, the charms of the daughter’s soft sentimentality. The Lady

Isabel seemed to shrink from the indelicacy of her mother’s manners,

and appeared peculiarly distressed by the strange efforts Lady

Dashfort made, from time to time, to drag her forward, and to fix

upon her the attention of gentlemen. Colonel Heathcock, who, as Mrs.

Petito had informed Lord Colambre, had come over with his regiment to

Ireland, was beckoned into their box by Lady Dashfort, by her squeezed

into a seat next to Lady Isabel; but Lady Isabel seemed to feel

sovereign contempt, properly repressed by politeness, for what, in a

low whisper to a female friend on the other side of her, she called,

“the self-sufficient inanity of this sad coxcomb.” Other coxcombs, of

a more vivacious style, who stationed themselves round her mother, or

to whom her mother stretched from box to box to talk, seemed to engage

no more of Lady Isabel’s attention than just what she was compelled to

give by Lady Dashfort’s repeated calls of, “Isabel! Isabel! Colonel

G----, Isabel! Lord D---- bowing to you. Bell! Bell! Sir Harry B----.

Isabel, child, with your eyes on the stage? Did you never see a play

before? Novice! Major P---- waiting to catch your eye this quarter of

an hour; and now her eyes gone down to her play-bill! Sir Harry, do

take it from her.

“‘Were eyes so radiant only made to read?’”

Lady Isabel appeared to suffer so exquisitely and so naturally from

this persecution, that Lord Colambre said to himself, “If this be

acting, it is the best acting I ever saw. If this be art, it deserves

to be nature.”

And with this sentiment, he did himself the honour of handing Lady

Isabel to her carriage this night, and with this sentiment he awoke

next morning; and by the time he had dressed and breakfasted, he

determined that it was impossible all that he had seen could be

acting. “No woman, no young woman, could have such art.” Sir James

Brooke had been unwarrantably severe; he would go and tell him so.

But Sir James Brooke this day received orders for his regiment to

march to quarters in a distant part of Ireland. His head was full of

arms, and ammunition, and knapsacks, and billets, and routes; and

there was no possibility, even in the present chivalrous disposition

of our hero, to enter upon the defence of the Lady Isabel. Indeed, in

the regret he felt for the approaching and unexpected departure of his

friend, Lord Colambre forgot the fair lady. But just when Sir James

had his foot in the stirrup, he stopped.

“By-the-bye, my dear lord, I saw you at the play last night. You

seemed to be much interested. Don’t think me impertinent if I remind

you of our conversation when we were riding home from Tusculum;

and if I warn you,” said he, mounting his horse, “to beware of

counterfeits--for such are abroad.” Reining in his impatient steed,

Sir James turned again, and added “_Deeds, not words_, is my motto.

Remember, we can judge better by the conduct of people towards others

than by their manner towards ourselves.”

CHAPTER VII.

Our hero was quite convinced of the good sense of his friend’s last

remark, that it is safer to judge of people by their conduct to others

than by their manners towards ourselves; but as yet, he felt scarcely

any interest on the subject of Lady Dashfort’s or Lady Isabel’s

characters: however, he inquired and listened to all the evidence he

could obtain respecting this mother and daughter.

He heard terrible reports of the mischief they had done in families;

the extravagance into which they had led men; the imprudence, to say

no worse, into which they had betrayed women. Matches broken off,

reputations ruined, husbands alienated from their wives, and wives

made jealous of their husbands. But in some of these stories he

discovered exaggeration so flagrant as to make him doubt the whole; in

others, it could not be positively determined whether the mother or

daughter had been the person most to blame.

Lord Colambre always followed the charitable rule of believing only

half what the world says, and here he thought it fair to believe

which half he pleased. He farther observed, that, though all joined

in abusing these ladies in their absence, when present they seemed

universally admired. Though every body cried “shame!” and “shocking!”

yet every body visited them. No parties so crowded as Lady Dashfort’s;

no party deemed pleasant or fashionable where Lady Dashfort or Lady

Isabel was not. The bon-mots of the mother were every where repeated;

the dress and air of the daughter every where imitated. Yet Lord

Colambre could not help being surprised at their popularity in Dublin,

because, independently of all moral objections, there were causes of

a different sort, sufficient, he thought, to prevent Lady Dashfort

from being liked by the Irish, indeed by any society. She in general

affected to be ill-bred, and inattentive to the feelings and opinions

of others; careless whom she offended by her wit or by her decided

tone. There are some persons in so high a region of fashion, that they

imagine themselves above the thunder of vulgar censure. Lady Dashfort

felt herself in this exalted situation, and fancied she might

“Hear the innocuous thunder roll below.”

Her rank was so high that none could dare to call her vulgar: what

would have been gross in any one of meaner note, in her was freedom or

originality, or Lady Dashfort’s way. It was Lady Dashfort’s pleasure

and pride to show her power in perverting the public taste. She often

said to those English companions with whom she was intimate, “Now see

what follies I can lead these fools into. Hear the nonsense I can make

them repeat as wit.” Upon some occasion, one of her friends _ventured_

to fear that something she had said was _too strong_. “Too strong,

was it? Well, I like to be strong--woe be to the weak!” On another

occasion she was told that certain visitors had seen her ladyship

yawning. “Yawn, did I?--glad of it--the yawn sent them away, or I

should have snored;--rude, was I? they won’t complain. To say I was

rude to them, would be to say, that I did not think it worth my while

to be otherwise. Barbarians! are not we the civilized English, come to

teach them manners and fashions? Whoever does not conform, and swear

allegiance too, we shall keep out of the English pale.”

Lady Dashfort forced her way, and she set the fashion: fashion, which

converts the ugliest dress into what is beautiful and charming,

governs the public mode in morals and in manners; and thus, when great

talents and high rank combine, they can debase or elevate the public

taste.

With Lord Colambre she played more artfully: she drew him out in

defence of his beloved country, and gave him opportunities of

appearing to advantage; this he could not help feeling, especially

when the Lady Isabel was present. Lady Dashfort had dealt long enough

with human nature to know, that to make any man pleased with her, she

should begin by making him pleased with himself.

Insensibly the antipathy that Lord Colambre had originally felt to

Lady Dashfort wore off; her faults, he began to think, were assumed;

he pardoned her defiance of good-breeding, when he observed that she

could, when she chose it, be most engagingly polite. It was not that

she did not know what was right, but that she did not think it always

for her interest to practise it.

The party opposed to Lady Dashfort affirmed that her wit depended

merely on unexpectedness; a characteristic which may be applied to any

impropriety of speech, manner, or conduct. In some of her ladyship’s

repartees, however, Lord Colambre now acknowledged there was more

than unexpectedness; there was real wit; but it was of a sort utterly

unfit for a woman, and he was sorry that Lady Isabel should hear

it. In short, exceptionable as it was altogether, Lady Dashfort’s

conversation had become entertaining to him; and though he could never

esteem, or feel in the least interested about her, he began to allow

that she could be agreeable.

“Ay, I knew how it would be,” said she, when some of her friends told

her this. “He began by detesting me, and did I not tell you that,

if I thought it worth my while to make him like me, he must, sooner

or later? I delight in seeing people begin with me as they do with

olives, making all manner of horrid faces, and silly protestations

that they will never touch an olive again as long as they live; but,

after a little time, these very folk grow so desperately fond of

olives, that there is no dessert without them. Isabel, child, you are

in the sweet line--but sweets cloy. You never heard of any body living

on marmalade, did ye?”

Lady Isabel answered by a sweet smile.

“To do you justice, you play Lydia Languish vastly well,” pursued the

mother; “but Lydia, by herself, would soon tire; somebody must keep up

the spirit and bustle, and carry on the plot of the piece, and I am

that somebody--as you shall see. Is not that our hero’s voice which I

hear on the stairs?”

It was Lord Colambre. His lordship had by this time become a constant

visitor at Lady Dashfort’s. Not that he had forgotten, or that he

meant to disregard his friend Sir James Brooke’s parting words. He

promised himself faithfully, that if any thing should occur to give

him reason to suspect designs, such as those to which the warning

pointed, he would be on his guard, and would prove his generalship by

an able retreat. But to imagine attacks where none were attempted,

to suspect ambuscades in the open country, would be ridiculous and

cowardly.

“No,” thought our hero; “Heaven forefend I should be such a coxcomb

as to fancy every woman who speaks to me has designs upon my precious

heart, or on my more precious estate!” As he walked from his hotel to

Lady Dashfort’s house, ingeniously wrong, he came to this conclusion,

just as he ascended the stairs, and just as her ladyship had settled

her future plan of operations.

After talking over the nothings of the day, and after having given

two or three _cuts_ at the society of Dublin, with two or three

compliments to individuals, who she knew were favourites with his

lordship, she suddenly turned to him. “My lord, I think you told me,

or my own sagacity discovered, that you want to see something of

Ireland, and that you don’t intend, like most travellers, to turn

round, see nothing, and go home content.”

Lord Colambre assured her ladyship that she had judged him rightly,

for that nothing would content him but seeing all that was possible to

be seen of his native country. It was for this special purpose he came

to Ireland.

“Ah!--well--very good purpose--can’t be better; but now how to

accomplish it. You know the Portuguese proverb says, ‘You go to hell

for the good things you _intend_ to do, and to heaven for those you

do.’ Now let us see what you will do. Dublin, I suppose, you’ve seen

enough of by this time; through and through--round and round--this

makes me first giddy, and then sick. Let me show you the country--not

the face of it, but the body of it--the people.--Not Castle this, or

Newtown that, but their inhabitants. I know them; I have the key, or

the pick-lock to their minds. An Irishman is as different an animal on

his guard and off his guard, as a miss in school from a miss out of

school. A fine country for game, I’ll show you; and if you are a good

marksman, you may have plenty of shots ‘at folly as it flies.’”

Lord Colambre smiled.

“As to Isabel,” pursued her ladyship, “I shall put her in charge of

Heathcock, who is going with us. She won’t thank me for that, but you

will. Nay, no fibs, man; you know, I know, as who does not that has

seen the world? that, though a pretty woman is a mighty pretty thing,

yet she is confoundedly in one’s way, when any thing else is to be

seen, heard,--or understood.”

Every objection anticipated and removed, and so far a prospect held

out of attaining all the information he desired, with more than all

the amusement he could have expected, Lord Colambre seemed much

tempted to accept the invitation; but he hesitated, because, as he

said, her ladyship might be going to pay visits where he was not

acquainted.

“Bless you! don’t let that be a stumbling-block in the way of your

tender conscience. I am going to Killpatricks-town, where you’ll

be as welcome as light. You know them, they know you; at least you

shall have a proper letter of invitation from my Lord and my Lady

Killpatrick, and all that. And as to the rest, you know a young man is

always welcome every where, a young nobleman kindly welcome--I won’t

say such a young man, and such a young nobleman, for that might put

you to your bows or your blushes--but _nobilitas_ by itself, nobility

is virtue enough in all parties, in all families, where there are

girls, and of course balls, as there are always at Killpatricks-town.

Don’t be alarmed; you shall not be forced to dance, or asked to marry.

I’ll be your security. You shall be at full liberty; and it is a house

where you can do just what you will. Indeed, I go to no others. These

Killpatricks are the best creatures in the world; they think nothing

good or grand enough for me. If I’d let them, they would lay down

cloth of gold over their bogs for me to walk upon. Good-hearted

beings!” added Lady Dashfort, marking a cloud gathering on Lord

Colambre’s countenance. “I laugh at them, because I love them. I could

not love any thing I might not laugh at--your lordship excepted. So

you’ll come--that’s settled.”

And so it was settled. Our hero went to Killpatricks-town.

“Every thing here sumptuous and unfinished, you see,” said Lady

Dashfort to Lord Colambre, the day after their arrival. “All begun as

if the projectors thought they had the command of the mines of Peru,

and ended as if the possessors had not sixpence. Luxuries enough for

an English prince of the blood: comforts not enough for an English

yeoman. And you may be sure that great repairs and alterations have

gone on to fit this house for our reception, and for our English

eyes!--Poor people!--English visitors, in this point of view, are

horribly expensive to the Irish. Did you ever hear, that in the last

century, or in the century before the last, to put my story far enough

back, so that it shall not touch any body living; when a certain

English nobleman, Lord Blank A----, sent to let his Irish friend, Lord

Blank B----, know that he and all his train were coming over to pay

him a visit; the Irish nobleman, Blank B----, knowing the deplorable

condition of his castle, sat down fairly to calculate whether it would

cost him most to put the building in good and sufficient repair,

fit to receive these English visitors, or to burn it to the ground.

He found the balance to be in favour of burning, which was wisely

accomplished next day.[1] Perhaps Killpatrick would have done well

to follow this example. Resolve me which is worst, to be burnt

out of house and home, or to be eaten out of house and home. In

this house, above and below stairs, including first and second

table, housekeeper’s room, lady’s maids’ room, butler’s room, and

gentleman’s, one hundred and four people sit down to dinner every

day, as Petito informs me, besides kitchen boys, and what they call

_char_-women, who never sit down, but who do not eat or waste the less

for that; and retainers and friends, friends to the fifth and sixth

generation, who ‘must get their bit and their sup;’ for ‘sure, it’s

only Biddy,’ they say;” continued Lady Dashfort, imitating their Irish

brogue. “And ‘sure, ‘tis nothing at all, out of all his honour my lord

has. How could he _feel_ it[2]?--Long life to him!--He’s not that way:

not a couple in all Ireland, and that’s saying a great dale, looks

less after their own, nor is more off-handeder, or open-hearteder, or

greater openhouse-keeper, _nor_[3] my Lord and my Lady Killpatrick.’

Now there’s encouragement for a lord and a lady to ruin themselves.”

Lady Dashfort imitated the Irish brogue in perfection; boasted that

“she was mistress of fourteen different brogues, and had brogues for

all occasions.” By her mixture of mimicry, sarcasm, exaggeration, and

truth, she succeeded continually in making Lord Colambre laugh at

every thing at which she wished to make him laugh; at every _thing_,

but not at every _body_: whenever she became personal, he became

serious, or at least endeavoured to become serious; and if he could

not instantly resume the command of his risible muscles, he reproached

himself.

“It is shameful to laugh at these people, indeed, Lady Dashfort, in

their own house--these hospitable people, who are entertaining us.”

“Entertaining us! true, and if we are _entertained_, how can we help

laughing?”

All expostulation was thus turned off by a jest, as it was her

pride to make Lord Colambre laugh in spite of his better feelings

and principles. This he saw, and this seemed to him to be her sole

object; but there he was mistaken. _Off-handed_ as she pretended to

be, none dealt more in the _impromptu fait à loisir_; and, mentally

short-sighted as she affected to be, none had more _longanimity_ for

their own interest.

It was her settled purpose to make the Irish and Ireland ridiculous

and contemptible to Lord Colambre; to disgust him with his native

country; to make him abandon the wish of residing on his own estate.

To confirm him an absentee was her object, previously to her ultimate

plan of marrying him to her daughter. Her daughter was poor, she would

therefore be glad to _get_ an Irish peer for her; but would be very

sorry, she said, to see Isabel banished to Ireland; and the young

widow declared she could never bring herself to be buried alive in

Clonbrony Castle.

In addition to these considerations, Lady Dashfort received certain

hints from Mrs. Petito, which worked all to the same point.

“Why, yes, my lady; I heard a great deal about all that, when I was

at Lady Clonbrony’s,” said Petito, one day, as she was attending at

her lady’s toilette, and encouraged to begin chattering. “And I own

I was originally under the universal error that my Lord Colambre was

to be married to the great heiress, Miss Broadhurst; but I have been

converted and reformed on that score, and am at present quite in

another way of thinking.”

Petito paused, in hopes that her lady would ask what was her present

way of thinking? But Lady Dashfort, certain that she would tell her

without being asked, did not take the trouble to speak, particularly

as she did not choose to appear violently interested on the subject.

“My present way of thinking,” resumed Petito, “is in consequence of

my having, with my own eyes and ears, witnessed and overheard his

lordship’s behaviour and words, the morning he was coming away from

_Lunnun_ for Ireland; when he was morally certain nobody was up, nor

overhearing nor overseeing him, there did I notice him, my lady,

stopping in the antechamber, ejaculating over one of Miss Nugent’s

gloves, which he had picked up. ‘Limerick!’ said he, quite loud enough

to himself; for it was a Limerick glove, my lady--‘Limerick!--dear

Ireland! she loves you as well as I do!’--or words to that effect;

and then a sigh, and down stairs and off. So, thinks I, now the cat’s

out of the bag. And I wouldn’t give much myself for Miss Broadhurst’s

chance of that young lord, with all her Bank stock, scrip, and

_omnum_. Now, I see how the land lies, and I’m sorry for it; for she’s

no _fortin_; and she’s so proud, she never said a hint to me of the

matter: but my Lord Colambre is a sweet gentleman; and--”

“Petito! don’t run on so; you must not meddle with what you don’t

understand: the Miss Killpatricks, to be sure, are sweet girls,

particularly the youngest.”

Her ladyship’s toilette was finished; and she left Petito to go down

to my Lady Killpatrick’s woman, to tell, as a very great secret, the

schemes that were in contemplation, among the higher powers, in favour

of the youngest of the Miss Killpatricks.

“So Ireland is at the bottom of his heart, is it?” repeated Lady

Dashfort to herself: “it shall not be long so.”

From this time forward, not a day, scarcely an hour passed, but her

ladyship did or said something to depreciate the country, or its

inhabitants, in our hero’s estimation. With treacherous ability,

she knew and followed all the arts of misrepresentation; all those

injurious arts which his friend, Sir James Brooke, had, with such

honest indignation, reprobated. She knew how, not only to seize the

ridiculous points, to make the most respectable people ridiculous,

but she knew how to select the worst instances, the worst exceptions;

and to produce them as examples, as precedents, from which to condemn

whole classes, and establish general false conclusions respecting a

nation.

In the neighbourhood of Killpatrick’s-town, Lady Dashfort said,

there were several _squireens_, or little squires; a race of men who

have succeeded to the _buckeens_, described by Young and Crumpe.

_Squireens_ are persons who, with good long leases, or valuable farms,

possess incomes from three to eight hundred a year, who keep a pack

of hounds; _take out_ a commission of the peace, sometimes before

they can spell (as her ladyship said), and almost always before they

know any thing of law or justice. Busy and loud about small matters;

_jobbers at assizes_; combining with one another, and trying upon

every occasion, public or private, to push themselves forward, to the

annoyance of their superiors, and the terror of those below them.

In the usual course of things, these men are not often to be found

in the society of gentry except, perhaps, among those gentlemen or

noblemen who like to see hangers-on at their, tables: or who find it

for their convenience to have underling magistrates, to _protect_

their favourites, or to propose and _carry_ jobs for them on grand

juries. At election times, however, these persons rise into sudden

importance with all who have views upon the county. Lady Dashfort

hinted to Lord Killpatrick, that her private letters from England

spoke of an approaching dissolution of parliament: she knew that, upon

this hint, a round of invitations would be sent to the squireens; and

she was morally certain that they would be more disagreeable to Lord

Colambre, and give him a worse idea of the country, than any other

people who could be produced. Day after day some of these personages

made their appearance; and Lady Dashfort took care to draw them out

upon the subjects on which she knew that they would show the most

self-sufficient ignorance, and the most illiberal spirit. They

succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations.

“Lord Colambre! how I pity you, for being compelled to these permanent

sittings after dinner!” said Lady Isabel to him one night, when he

came late to the ladies from the dining-room.

“Lord Killpatrick insisted upon my staying to help him to push about

that never-ending, still-beginning electioneering bottle,” said Lord

Colambre.

“Oh! if that were all; if these gentlemen would only drink:--but their

conversation!” “I don’t wonder my mother dreads returning to Clonbrony

Castle, if my father must have such company as this. But, surely, it

cannot be necessary.”

“Oh, indispensable! positively indispensable!” cried Lady Dashfort;

“no living in Ireland without it. You know, in every country in the

world, you must live with the people of the country, or be torn to

pieces: for my part, I should prefer being torn to pieces.”

Lady Dashfort and Lady Isabel knew how to take advantage of the

contrast between their own conversation, and that of the persons by

whom Lord Colambre was so justly disgusted: they happily relieved his

fatigue with wit, satire, poetry, and sentiment; so that he every day

became more exclusively fond of their company; for Lady Killpatrick

and the Miss Killpatricks were mere commonplace people. In the

mornings, he rode or walked with Lady Dashfort and Lady Isabel: Lady

Dashfort, by way of fulfilling her promise of showing him the people,

used frequently to take him into the cabins, and talk to their

inhabitants. Lord and Lady Killpatrick, who had lived always for the

fashionable world, had taken little pains to improve the condition of

their tenants: the few attempts they had made were injudicious. They

had built ornamented, picturesque cottages, within view of their park;

and favourite followers of the family, people with half a century’s

habit of indolence and dirt, were _promoted_ to these fine dwellings.

The consequences were such as Lady Dashfort delighted to point out:

every thing let to go to ruin for the want of a moment’s care, or

pulled to pieces for the sake of the most surreptitious profit: the

people most assisted always appearing proportionally wretched and

discontented. No one could, with more ease and more knowledge of her

ground, than Lady Dashfort, do the _dishonours_ of a country. In

every cabin that she entered, by the first glance of her eye at the

head, kerchiefed in no comely guise, or by the drawn-down corners of

the mouth, or by the bit of a broken pipe, which in Ireland never

characterizes _stout labour_, or by the first sound of the voice, the

drawling accent on “your honour,” or, “my lady,” she could distinguish

the proper objects of her charitable designs, that is to say, those

of the old uneducated race, whom no one can help, because they will

never help themselves. To these she constantly addressed herself,

making them give, in all their despairing tones, a history of their

complaints and grievances; then asking them questions, aptly contrived

to expose their habits of self-contradiction, their servility and

flattery one moment, and their litigious and encroaching spirit the

next: thus giving Lord Colambre the most unfavourable idea of the

disposition and character of the lower class of the Irish people. Lady

Isabel the while standing by, with the most amiable air of pity, with

expressions of the finest moral sensibility, softening all her mother

said, finding ever some excuse for the poor creatures, and following,

with angelic sweetness, to heal the wounds her mother inflicted.

When Lady Dashfort thought she had sufficiently worked upon Lord

Colambre’s mind to weaken his enthusiasm for his native country; and

when Lady Isabel had, by the appearance of every virtue, added to

a delicate preference, if not partiality for our hero, ingratiated

herself into his good opinion, and obtained an interest in his mind,

the wily mother ventured an attack of a more decisive nature; and so

contrived it was, that if it failed, it should appear to have been

made without design to injure, and in total ignorance.

One day, Lady Dashfort, who, in fact, was not proud of her family,

though she pretended to be so, was herself prevailed on, though with

much difficulty, by Lady Killpatrick, to do the very thing she wanted

to do, to show her genealogy, which had been beautifully blazoned, and

which was to be produced in evidence in the lawsuit that brought her

to Ireland. Lord Colambre stood politely looking on and listening,

while her ladyship explained the splendid intermarriages of her

family, pointing to each medallion that was filled gloriously with

noble, and even with royal names, till at last she stopped short, and

covering one medallion with her finger, she said, “Pass over that,

dear Lady Killpatrick. You are not to see that, Lord Colambre--that’s

a little blot in our scutcheon. You know, Isabel, we never talk of

that prudent match of great uncle John’s: what could he expect by

marrying into _that_ family, where, you know, all the men were not

_sans peur_, and none of the women _sans reproche_?”

“Oh, mamma!” cried Lady Isabel, “not one exception!”

“Not one, Isabel,” persisted Lady Dashfort: “there was Lady ----, and

the other sister, that married the man with the long nose; and the

daughter again, of whom they contrived to make an honest woman, by

getting her married in time to a _blue riband_, and who contrived to

get herself into Doctors’ Commons the very next year.”

“Well, dear mamma, that is enough, and too much. Oh! pray don’t go

on,” cried Lady Isabel, who had appeared very much distressed during

her mother’s speech. “You don’t know what you are saying: indeed,

ma’am, you don’t.”

“Very likely, child; but that compliment I can return to you on the

spot, and with interest; for you seem to me, at this instant, not to

know either what you are saying, or what you are doing. Come, come,

explain.”

“Oh, no, ma’am--Pray say no more; I will explain myself another time.”

“Nay, there you are wrong, Isabel; in point of good-breeding, any

thing is better than hints and mystery. Since I have been so unlucky

as to touch upon the subject, better go through with it, and, with

all the boldness of innocence, I ask the question, Are you, my Lord

Colambre, or are you not, related to or connected with any of the St.

Omars?”

“Not that I know of,” said Lord Colambre; “but I really am so bad a

genealogist, that I cannot answer positively.”

“Then I must put the substance of my question into a new form. Have

you, or have you not, a cousin of the name of Nugent?”

“Miss Nugent!--Grace Nugent!--Yes,” said Lord Colambre, with as much

firmness of voice as he could command, and with as little change

of countenance as possible; but, as the question came upon him so

unexpectedly, it was not in his power to answer with an air of

absolute indifference and composure.

“And her mother was--” said Lady Dashfort.

“My aunt, by marriage; her maiden name was Reynolds, I think. But she

died when I was quite a child. I know very little about her. I never

saw her in my life; but I am certain she was a Reynolds.”

“Oh, my dear lord,” continued Lady Dashfort; “I am perfectly aware

that she did take and bear the name of Reynolds; but that was not her

maiden name--her maiden name was--; but perhaps it is a family secret

that has been kept, for some good reason, from you, and from the poor

girl herself; the maiden name was St. Omar, depend upon it. Nay, I

would not have told this to you, my lord, if I could have conceived

that it would affect you so violently,” pursued Lady Dashfort, in a

tone of raillery; “you see you are no worse off than we are. We have

an intermarriage with the St. Omars. I did not think you would be so

much shocked at a discovery, which proves that our family and yours

have some little connexion.”

Lord Colambre endeavoured to answer, and mechanically said something

about “happy to have the honour.” Lady Dashfort, truly happy to see

that her blow had hit the mark so well, turned from his lordship

without seeming to observe how seriously he was affected; and Lady

Isabel sighed, and looked with compassion on Lord Colambre, and then

reproachfully at her mother. But Lord Colambre heeded not her looks,

and heard none of her sighs; he heard nothing, saw nothing, though his

eyes were intently fixed on the genealogy, on which Lady Dashfort was

still descanting to Lady Killpatrick. He took the first opportunity he

could of quitting the room, and went out to take a solitary walk.

“There he is, departed, but not in peace, to reflect upon what has

been said,” whispered Lady Dashfort to her daughter. “I hope it will

do him a vast deal of good.”

“None of the women _sans reproche_! None!--without one exception,”

said Lord Colambre to himself; “and Grace Nugent’s mother a St.

Omar!--Is it possible? Lady Dashfort seems certain. She could not

assert a positive falsehood--no motive. She does not know that Miss

Nugent is the person to whom I am attached--she spoke at random. And

I have heard it first from a stranger,--not from my mother. Why was

it kept secret from me? Now I understand the reason why my mother

evidently never wished that I should think of Miss Nugent--why she

always spoke so vehemently against the marriages of relations, of

cousins. Why not tell me the truth? It would have had the strongest

effect, had she known my mind.”

Lord Colambre had the greatest dread of marrying any woman whose

mother had conducted herself ill. His reason, his prejudices, his

pride, his delicacy, and even his limited experience were all against

it. All his hopes, his plans of future happiness, were shaken to their

very foundation; he felt as if he had received a blow that stunned his

mind, and from which he could not recover his faculties. The whole

of that day he was like one in a dream. At night the painful idea

continually recurred to him; and whenever he was fallen asleep, the

sound of Lady Dashfort’s voice returned upon his ear, saying the

words, “What could he expect when he married one of the St. Omars?

None of the women _sans reproche_.”

In the morning he rose early; and the first thing he did was to write

a letter to his mother, requesting (unless there was some important

reason for her declining to answer the question) that she would

immediately relieve his mind from a great _uneasiness_ (he altered the

word four times, but at last left it uneasiness). He stated what he

had heard, and besought his mother to tell him the whole truth without

reserve.

CHAPTER VIII.

One morning Lady Dashfort had formed an ingenious scheme for leaving

Lady Isabel and Lord Colambre _tête-à-tête_; but the sudden entrance

of Heathcock disconcerted her intentions. He came to beg Lady

Dashfort’s interest with Count O’Halloran, for permission to hunt

and shoot on his grounds next season.--“Not for myself, ‘pon honour,

but for two officers who are quartered at the next _town_ here, who

will indubitably hang or drown themselves if they are debarred from

sporting.”

“Who is this Count O’Halloran?” said Lord Colambre.

Miss White, Lady Killpatrick’s companion, said, “he was a great

oddity;” Lady Dashfort, “that he was singular;” and the clergyman

of the parish, who was at breakfast, declared “that he was a man of

uncommon knowledge, merit, and politeness.”

“All I know of him,” said Heathcock, “is, that he is a great

sportsman, with a long queue, a gold-laced hat, and long skirts to a

laced waistcoat.”

Lord Colambre expressed a wish to see this extraordinary personage;

and Lady Dashfort, to cover her former design, and, perhaps thinking

absence might be as effectual as too much propinquity, immediately

offered to call upon the officers in their way, and carry them with

Heathcock and Lord Colambre to Halloran Castle.

Lady Isabel retired with much mortification, but with becoming grace;

and Major Benson and Captain Williamson were taken to the count’s.

Major Benson, who was a famous _whip_, took his seat on the box of

the barouche; and the rest of the party had the pleasure of her

ladyship’s conversation for three or four miles: of her ladyship’s

conversation--for Lord Colambre’s thoughts were far distant; Captain

Williamson had not any thing to say; and Heathcock nothing but “Eh!

re’lly now!--‘pon honour!”

They arrived at Halloran Castle--a fine old building, part of it in

ruins, and part repaired with great judgment and taste. When the

carriage stopped, a respectable-looking man-servant appeared on the

steps, at the open hall-door.

Count O’Halloran was out fishing; but his servant said that he would

he at home immediately, if Lady Dashfort and the gentlemen would be

pleased to walk in.

On one side of the lofty and spacious hall stood the skeleton of an

elk; on the other side, the perfect skeleton of a moose-deer, which,

as the servant said, his master had made out, with great care, from

the different bones of many of this curious species of deer, found

in the lakes in the neighbourhood. The leash of officers witnessed

their wonder with sundry strange oaths and exclamations.--“Eh! ‘pon

honour--re’lly now!” said Heathcock; and, too genteel to wonder at

or admire any thing in the creation, dragged out his watch with some

difficulty, saying, “I wonder now whether they are likely to think of

giving us any thing to eat in this place?” And, turning his back upon

the moose-deer, he straight walked out again upon the steps, called to

his groom, and began to make some inquiry about his led horse. Lord

Colambre surveyed the prodigious skeletons with rational curiosity,

and with that sense of awe and admiration, by which a superior mind is

always struck on beholding any of the great works of Providence.

“Come, my dear lord!” said Lady Dashfort; “with our sublime

sensations, we are keeping my old friend, Mr. Ulick Brady, this

venerable person, waiting to show us into the reception-room.”

The servant bowed respectfully--more respectfully than servants of

modern date.

“My lady, the reception-room has been lately painted,--the smell of

paint may be disagreeable; with your leave, I will take the liberty of

showing you into my master’s study.”

He opened the door, went in before her, and stood holding up his

finger, as if making a signal of silence to some one within. Her

ladyship entered, and found herself in the midst of an odd assembly:

an eagle, a goat, a dog, an otter, several gold and silver fish in a

glass globe, and a white mouse in a cage. The eagle, quick of eye but

quiet of demeanour, was perched upon his stand; the otter lay under

the table, perfectly harmless; the Angora goat, a beautiful and

remarkably little creature of its kind, with long, curling, silky

hair, was walking about the room with the air of a beauty and a

favourite; the dog, a tall Irish greyhound--one of the few of that

fine race, which is now almost extinct--had been given to Count

O’Halloran by an Irish nobleman, a relation of Lady Dashfort’s. This

dog, who had formerly known her ladyship, looked at her with ears

erect, recognized her, and went to meet her the moment she entered.

The servant answered for the peaceable behaviour of all the rest of

the company of animals, and retired. Lady Dashfort began to feed the

eagle from a silver plate on his stand; Lord Colambre examined the

inscription on his collar; the other men stood in amaze. Heathcock,

who came in last, astonished out of his constant “Eh! re’lly now!”

the moment he put himself in at the door, exclaimed, “Zounds! what’s

all this live lumber?” and he stumbled over the goat, who was at that

moment crossing the way. The colonel’s spur caught in the goat’s curly

beard; the colonel shook his foot, and entangled the spur worse and

worse; the goat struggled and butted; the colonel skated forward on

the polished oak floor, balancing himself with outstretched arms.

The indignant eagle screamed, and, passing by, perched on Heathcock’s

shoulders. Too well bred to have recourse to the terrors of his beak,

he scrupled not to scream, and flap his wings about the colonel’s

ears. Lady Dashfort, the while, threw herself back in her chair,

laughing, and begging Heathcock’s pardon. “Oh, take care of the dog,

my dear colonel!” cried she; “for this kind of dog seizes his enemy by

the back, and shakes him to death.” The officers, holding their sides,

laughed and begged--no pardon; while Lord Colambre, the only person

who was not absolutely incapacitated, tried to disentangle the spur,

and to liberate the colonel from the goat, and the goat from the

colonel; an attempt in which he at last succeeded, at the expense of

a considerable portion of the goat’s beard. The eagle, however, still

kept his place; and, yet mindful of the wrongs of his insulted friend

the goat, had stretched his wings to give another buffet. Count

O’Halloran entered; and the bird, quitting his prey, flew down to

greet his master. The count was a fine old military-looking gentleman,

fresh from fishing: his fishing accoutrements hanging carelessly

about him, he advanced, unembarrassed, to Lady Dashfort; and received

his other guests with a mixture of military ease and gentlemanlike

dignity.

Without adverting to the awkward and ridiculous situation in which he

had found poor Heathcock, he apologized in general for his troublesome

favourites. “For one of them,” said he, patting the head of the dog,

which lay quiet at Lady Dashfort’s feet, “I see I have no need to

apologize; he is where he ought to be. Poor fellow! he has never lost

his taste for the good company to which he was early accustomed. As

to the rest,” said he, turning to Lady Dashfort, “a mouse, a bird,

and a fish, are, you know, tribute from earth, air, and water, to a

conqueror--”

“But from no barbarous Scythian!” said Lord Colambre, smiling. The

count looked at Lord Colambre, as at a person worthy his attention;

but his first care was to keep the peace between his loving subjects

and his foreign visitors. It was difficult to dislodge the old

settlers, to make room for the new comers: but he adjusted these

things with admirable facility; and, with a master’s hand and master’s

eye, compelled each favourite to retreat into the back settlements.

With becoming attention, he stroked and kept quiet old Victory, his

eagle, who eyed Colonel Heathcock still, as if he did not like him;

and whom the colonel eyed as if he wished his neck fairly wrung off.

The little goat had nestled himself close up to his liberator, Lord

Colambre, and lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed, going very

wisely to sleep, and submitting philosophically to the loss of one

half of his beard. Conversation now commenced, and was carried on by

Count O’Halloran with much ability and spirit, and with such quickness

of discrimination and delicacy of taste, as quite surprised and

delighted our hero. To the lady the count’s attention was first

directed: he listened to her as she spoke, bending with an air of

deference and devotion. She made her request for permission for Major

Benson and Captain Williamson to hunt and shoot in his grounds next

season: this was instantly granted.

Her ladyship’s requests were to him commands, the count said.--His

gamekeeper should be instructed to give the gentlemen, her friends,

every liberty, and all possible assistance.

Then, turning to the officers, he said, he had just heard that

several regiments of English militia had lately landed in Ireland;

that one regiment was arrived at Killpatrick’s-town. He rejoiced in

the advantages Ireland, and he hoped he might be permitted to add,

England, would probably derive from the exchange of the militia

of both countries: habits would be improved, ideas enlarged. The

two countries have the same interest; and, from the inhabitants

discovering more of each other’s good qualities, and interchanging

little good offices in common life, their esteem and affection for

each other would increase, and rest upon the firm basis of mutual

utility.

To all this Major Benson answered only, “We are not militia officers.”

“The major looks so like a stuffed man of straw,” whispered Lady

Dashfort to Lord Colambre, “and the captain so like the king of

spades, putting forth one manly leg.”

Count O’Halloran now turned the conversation to field sports, and then

the captain and major opened at once.

“Pray now, sir,” said the major, “you fox-hunt in this country, I

suppose; and now do you manage the thing here as we do? Over night,

you know, before the hunt, when the fox is out, stopping up the earths

of the cover we mean to draw, and all the rest for four miles round.

Next morning we assemble at the cover’s side, and the huntsman throws

in the hounds. The gossip here is no small part of the entertainment:

but as soon as we hear the hounds give tongue--”

“The favourite hounds,” interposed Williamson.

“The favourite hounds, to be sure,” continued Benson: “there is a dead

silence till pug is well out of cover, and the whole pack well in:

then cheer the hounds with tally-ho! till your lungs crack. Away he

goes in gallant style, and the whole field is hard up, till pug takes

a stiff country: then they who haven’t pluck lag, see no more of him,

and, with a fine blazing scent, there are but few of us in at the

death.”

“Well, we are fairly in at the death, I hope,” said Lady Dashfort: “I

was thrown out sadly at one time in the chase.”

Lord Colambre, with the count’s permission, took up a book in which

the count’s pencil lay, “Pasley on the Military Policy of Great

Britain;” it was marked with many notes of admiration, and with hands

pointing to remarkable passages.

“That is a book that leaves a strong impression on the mind,” said the

count.

Lord Colambre read one of the marked passages, beginning with “All

that distinguishes a soldier in outward appearance from a citizen

is so trifling--” but at this instant our hero’s attention was

distracted by seeing in a black-letter book this title of a chapter:

“Burial-place of the Nugents.”

“Pray now, sir,” said Captain Williamson, “if I don’t interrupt you,

as you are a fisherman too; now in Ireland do you, _Mr._--”

A smart pinch on his elbow from his major, who stood behind him,

stopped the captain short, as he pronounced the word _Mr._ Like all

awkward people, he turned directly to ask, by his looks, what was the

matter.

The major took advantage of his discomfiture, and, stepping before

him, determined to have the fishing to himself, and went on with,

“Count O’Halloran, I presume you understand fishing, too, as well as

hunting?”

The count bowed: “I do not presume to say that, sir.”

“But pray, count, in this country, do you arm your hook this ways?

Give me leave;” taking the whip from Williamson’s reluctant hand,

“this ways, laying the outermost part of your feather this fashion

next to your hook, and the point next to your shank, this wise, and

that wise; and then, sir,--count, you take the hackle of a cock’s

neck--”

“A plover’s topping’s better,” said Williamson.

“And work your gold and silver thread,” pursued Benson, “up to your

wings, and when your head’s made, you fasten all.”

“But you never showed how your head’s made,” interrupted Williamson.

“The gentleman knows how a head’s made; any man can make a head, I

suppose: so, sir, you fasten all.”

“You’ll never get your head fast on that way, while the world stands,”

cried Williamson.

“Fast enough for all purposes; I’ll bet you a rump and dozen, captain:

and then, sir,--count, you divide your wings with a needle.”

“A pin’s point will do,” said Williamson.

The count, to reconcile matters, produced from an Indian cabinet,

which he had opened for Lady Dashfort’s inspection, a little basket

containing a variety of artificial flies of curious construction,

which, as he spread them on the table, made Williamson and Benson’s

eyes almost sparkle with delight. There was the _dun-fly_, for the

month of March; and the _stone-fly_, much in vogue for April; and the

_ruddy-fly_, of red wool, black silk, and red capon’s feathers.

Lord Colambre, whose head was in the burial-place of the Nugents,

wished them all at the bottom of the sea.

“And the _green-fly_, and the _moorish-fly_!” cried Benson, snatching

them up with transport; “and, chief, the _sad-yellow-fly_, in which

the fish delight in June; the _sad-yellow-fly_, made with the

buzzard’s wings, bound with black braked hemp, and the _shell-fly_,

for the middle of July, made of greenish wool, wrapped about with the

herle of a peacock’s tail, famous for creating excellent sport.” All

these and more were spread upon the table before the sportsmen’s

wondering eyes.

“Capital flies! capital, faith!” cried Williamson.

“Treasures, faith, real treasures, by G--!” cried Benson.

“Eh! ‘pon honour! re’lly now,” were the first words which Heathcock

had uttered since his battle with the goat.

“My dear Heathcock, are you alive still?” said Lady Dashfort: “I had

really forgotten your existence.”

So had Count O’Halloran, but he did not say so.

“Your ladyship has the advantage of me there,” said Heathcock,

stretching himself; “I wish I could forget my existence, for, in my

mind, existence is a horrible _bore_.”

“I thought you _was_ a sportsman,” said Williamson.

“Well, sir?”

“And a fisherman?”

“Well, sir?”

“Why look you there, sir,” pointing to the flies, “and tell a body

life’s a bore.”

“One can’t _always_ fish or shoot, I apprehend, sir,” said Heathcock.

“Not always--but sometimes,” said Williamson, laughing; “for I suspect

shrewdly you’ve forgot some of your sporting in Bond-street.”

“Eh! ‘pon honour! re’lly now!” said the colonel, retreating again

to his safe entrenchment of affectation, from which he never could

venture without imminent danger.

“‘Pon honour,” cried Lady Dashfort, “I can swear for Heathcock, that

I have eaten excellent hares and ducks of his shooting, which, to my

knowledge,” added she, in a loud whisper, “he bought in the market.”

“_Emptum aprum!_” said Lord Colambre to the count, without danger of

being understood by those whom it concerned.

The count smiled a second time; but politely turning the attention of

the company from the unfortunate colonel, by addressing himself to

the laughing sportsmen, “Gentlemen, you seem to value these,” said he,

sweeping the artificial flies from the table into the little basket

from which they had been taken; “would you do me the honour to accept

of them? They are all of my own making, and consequently of Irish

manufacture.” Then, ringing the bell, he asked Lady Dashfort’s

permission to have the basket put into her carriage.

Benson and Williamson followed the servant, to prevent them from being

tossed into the boot. Heathcock stood still in the middle of the room,

taking snuff.

Count O’Halloran turned from him to Lord Colambre, who had just got

happily to _the burial-place of the Nugents_, when Lady Dashfort,

coming between them, and spying the title of the chapter, exclaimed,

“What have you there?--Antiquities! my delight!--but I never look at

engravings when I can see realities.”

Lord Colambre was then compelled to follow, as she led the way, into

the hall, where the count took down golden ornaments, and brass-headed

spears, and jointed horns of curious workmanship, that had been found

on his estate; and he told of spermaceti wrapped in carpets, and he

showed small urns, enclosing ashes; and from among these urns he

selected one, which he put into the hands of Lord Colambre, telling

him, that it had been lately found in an old abbey-ground in his

neighbourhood, which had been the burial-place of some of the Nugent

family.

“I was just looking at the account of it, in the book which you saw

open on my table.--And as you seem to take an interest in that family,

my lord, perhaps,” said the count, “you may think this urn worth your

acceptance.”

Lord Colambre said, “It would be highly valuable to him--as the

Nugents were his near relations.”

Lady Dashfort little expected this blow; she, however, carried him off

to the moose-deer, and from moose-deer to round-towers, to various

architectural antiquities, and to the real and fabulous history of

Ireland, on all which the count spoke with learning and enthusiasm.

But now, to Colonel Heathcock’s great joy and relief, a handsome

collation appeared in the dining-room, of which Ulick opened the

folding-doors.

“Count, you have made an excellent house of your castle,” said Lady

Dashfort.

“It will be, when it is finished,” said the count. “I am afraid,”

added he, smiling, “I live like many other Irish gentlemen, who never

are, but always to be, blessed with a good house. I began on too large

a scale, and can never hope to live to finish it.”

“‘Pon honour! here’s a good thing, which I hope we shall live to

finish,” said Heathcock, sitting down before the collation; and

heartily did he eat of eel-pie, and of Irish ortolans [4], which, as

Lady Dashfort observed, “afforded him indemnity for the past, and

security for the future.”

“Eh! re’lly now! your Irish ortolans are famous good eating,” said

Heathcock.

“Worth being quartered in Ireland, faith! to taste ‘em,” said Benson.

The count recommended to Lady Dashfort some of “that delicate

sweetmeat, the Irish plum.”

“Bless me, sir,--count!” cried Williamson, “it’s by far the best thing

of the kind I ever tasted in all my life: where could you get this?”

“In Dublin, at my dear Mrs. Godey’s; where _only_, in his majesty’s

dominions, it is to be had,” said the count.

The whole vanished in a few seconds.

“‘Pon honour! I do believe this is the thing the queen’s so fond of,”

said Heathcock.

Then heartily did he drink of the count’s excellent Hungarian wines;

and, by the common bond of sympathy between those who have no other

tastes but eating and drinking, the colonel, the major, and the

captain, were now all the best companions possible for one another.

Whilst “they prolonged the rich repast,” Lady Dashfort and Lord

Colambre went to the window to admire the prospect: Lady Dashfort

asked the count the name of some distant hill.

“Ah!” said the count, “that hill was once covered with fine wood; but

it was all cut down two years ago.”

“Who could have been so cruel?” said her ladyship.

“I forget the present proprietor’s name,” said the count; “but he

is one of those who, according to _the clause of distress_ in their

leases, _lead, drive, and carry away_, but never _enter_ their lands;

one of those enemies to Ireland--those cruel absentees!”

Lady Dashfort looked through her glass at the mountain:--Lord Colambre

sighed, and, endeavouring to pass it off with a smile, said frankly to

the count, “You are not aware, I am sure, count, that you are speaking

to the son of an Irish absentee family. Nay, do not be shocked, my

dear sir; I tell you only because I thought it fair to do so: but let

me assure you, that nothing you could say on that subject could hurt

me personally, because I feel that I am not, that I never can be, an

enemy to Ireland. An absentee, voluntarily, I never yet have been; and

as to the future, I declare--”

“I declare you know nothing of the future,” interrupted Lady Dashfort,

in a half peremptory, half playful tone--“you know nothing: make no

rash vows, and you will break none.”

The undaunted assurance of Lady Dashfort’s genius for intrigue gave

her an air of frank imprudence, which prevented Lord Colambre from

suspecting that more was meant than met the ear. The count and he took

leave of one another with mutual regard; and Lady Dashfort rejoiced to

have got our hero out of Halloran Castle.

CHAPTER IX.

Lord Colambre had waited with great impatience for an answer to the

letter of inquiry which he had written about Miss Nugent’s mother. A

letter from Lady Clonbrony arrived: he opened it with the greatest

eagerness--passed over “Rheumatism--warm weather--warm bath--Buxton

balls--Miss Broadhurst--your _friend_, Sir Arthur Berryl, very

assiduous!” The name of Grace Nugent he found at last, and read as

follows:--

“Her mother’s maiden name was _St. Omar_; and there was a _faux

pas_, certainly. She was, I am told, (for it was before my time,)

educated at a convent abroad; and there was an affair with a

Captain Reynolds, a young officer, which her friends were obliged

to hush up. She brought an infant to England with her, and took

the name of Reynolds--but none of that family would acknowledge

her: and she lived in great obscurity, till your Uncle Nugent saw,

fell in love with her, and (knowing her whole history) married

her. He adopted the child, gave her his name, and, after some

years, the whole story was forgotten. Nothing could be more

disadvantageous to Grace than to have it revived: this is the

reason we kept it secret.”

Lord Colambre tore the letter to bits.

From the perturbation which Lady Dashfort saw in his countenance, she

guessed the nature of the letter which he had been reading, and for

the arrival of which he had been so impatient.

“It has worked!” said she to herself. “_Pour le coup Philippe je te

tiens_!”

Lord Colambre appeared this day more sensible than he had ever yet

seemed to the charms of the fair Isabel.

“Many a tennis-ball, and many a heart, is caught at the rebound,” said

Lady Dashfort. “Isabel! now is your time!”

And so it was--or so, perhaps, it would have been, but for a

circumstance which her ladyship, with all her genius for intrigue,

had never taken into her consideration. Count O’Halloran came to

return the visit which had been paid to him; and, in the course of

conversation, he spoke of the officers who had been introduced to him,

and told Lady Dashfort that he had heard a report which shocked him

much--he hoped it could not be true--that one of these officers had

introduced his mistress as his wife to Lady Oranmore, who lived in the

neighbourhood. This officer, it was said, had let Lady Oranmore send

her carriage for this woman; and that she had dined at Oranmore with

her ladyship and her daughters. “But I cannot believe it! I cannot

believe it to be possible, that any gentleman, that any _officer_

could do such a thing!” said the count.

“And is this all?” exclaimed Lady Dashfort. “Is this all the terrible

affair, my good count, which has brought your face to this prodigious

length?”

The count looked at Lady Dashfort with astonishment.

“Such a look of virtuous indignation,” continued she, “did I never

behold on or off the stage. Forgive me for laughing, count; but,

believe me, comedy goes through the world better than tragedy, and,

take it all in all, does rather less mischief. As to the thing in

question, I know nothing about it; I dare say it is not true: but,

now, suppose it were--it is only a silly _quiz_ of a raw young officer

upon a prudish old dowager. I know nothing about it, for my part:

but, after all, what irreparable mischief has been done? Laugh at the

thing, and then it is a jest--a bad one, perhaps, but still only a

jest--and there’s an end of it: but take it seriously, and there is

no knowing where it might end--in this poor man’s being broke, and in

half a dozen duels, may be.”

“Of that, madam,” said the count, “Lady Oranmore’s prudence and

presence of mind have prevented all danger. Her ladyship _would_ not

understand the insult. She said, or she acted as if she said, ‘_Je ne

veux rien voir, rien écouter, rien savoir._’ Lady Oranmore is one of

the most respectable--”

“Count, I beg your pardon!” interrupted Lady Dashfort; “but I must

tell you, that your favourite, Lady Oranmore, has behaved very ill

to me; purposely omitted to invite Isabel to her ball; offended and

insulted me:--her praises, therefore, cannot be the most agreeable

subject of conversation you can choose for my amusement; and as to the

rest, you, who have such variety and so much politeness, will, I am

sure, have the goodness to indulge my caprice in this instance.”

“I shall obey your ladyship, and be silent, whatever pleasure it might

give me to speak on that subject,” said the count; “and I trust Lady

Dashfort will reward me by the assurance, that, however playfully she

may have just now spoken, she seriously disapproves, and is shocked.”

“Oh, shocked! shocked to death! if that will satisfy you, my dear

count.”

The count, obviously, was not satisfied: he had civil, as well as

military courage, and his sense of right and wrong could stand against

the raillery and ridicule of a fine lady.

The conversation ended: Lady Dashfort thought it would have no farther

consequences; and she did not regret the loss of a man like Count

O’Halloran, who lived retired in his castle, and who could not have

any influence upon the opinion of the fashionable world. However, upon

turning from the count to Lord Colambre, who she thought had been

occupied with Lady Isabel, and to whom she imagined all this dispute

was uninteresting, she perceived, by his countenance, that she had

made a great mistake. Still she trusted that her power over Lord

Colambre was sufficient easily to efface whatever unfavourable

impression this conversation had made upon his mind. He had no

personal interest in the affair; and she had generally found that

people are easily satisfied about any wrong or insult, public or

private, in which they have no immediate concern. But all the charms

of her conversation were now tried in vain to reclaim him from the

reverie into which he had fallen.

His friend Sir James Brooke’s parting advice occurred to our hero: his

eyes began to open to Lady Dashfort’s character; and he was, from this

moment, freed from her power. Lady Isabel, however, had taken no part

in all this--she was blameless; and, independently of her mother, and

in pretended opposition of sentiment, she might have continued to

retain the influence she had gained over Lord Colambre, but that a

slight accident revealed to him _her_ real disposition.

It happened, on the evening of this day, that Lady Isabel came into

the library with one of the young ladies of the house, talking very

eagerly, without perceiving Lord Colambre, who was sitting in one of

the recesses reading.

“My dear creature, you are quite mistaken,” said Lady Isabel, “he was

never a favourite of mine; I always detested him; I only flirted with

him to plague his wife. Oh, that wife! my dear Elizabeth, I do hate,”

cried she, clasping her hands, and expressing hatred with all her

soul, and with all her strength. “I detest that Lady de Cressy to such

a degree, that, to purchase the pleasure of making her feel the pangs

of jealousy for one hour, look, I would this moment lay down this

finger and let it be cut off.”

The face, the whole figure of Lady Isabel, at this moment, appeared

to Lord Colambre suddenly metamorphosed; instead of the soft, gentle,

amiable female, all sweet charity and tender sympathy, formed to love

and to be loved, he beheld one possessed and convulsed by an evil

spirit--her beauty, if beauty it could be called, the beauty of a

fiend. Some ejaculation, which he unconsciously uttered, made Lady

Isabel start. She saw him--saw the expression of his countenance, and

knew that all was over.

Lord Colambre, to the utter astonishment and disappointment of Lady

Dashfort, and to the still greater mortification of Lady Isabel,

announced this night that it was necessary he should immediately

pursue his tour in Ireland. We pass over all the castles in the air

which the young ladies of the family had built, and which now fell

to the ground. We pass all the civil speeches of Lord and Lady

Killpatrick; all the vehement remonstrances of Lady Dashfort; and the

vain sighs of Lady Isabel. To the last moment Lady Dashfort said, “He

will not go.”

But he went; and, when he was gone, Lady Dashfort exclaimed, “That man

has escaped from me.” After a pause, turning to her daughter, she,

in the most taunting and contemptuous terms, reproached her as the

cause of this failure, concluding by a declaration, that she must in

future manage her own affairs, and had best settle her mind to marry

Heathcock, since every one else was too wise to think of her.

Lady Isabel of course retorted. But we leave this amiable mother and

daughter to recriminate in appropriate terms, and we follow our hero,

rejoiced that he has been disentangled from their snares. Those who

have never been in similar peril will wonder much that he did not

escape sooner; those who have ever been in like danger will wonder

more that he escaped at all. They who are best acquainted with the

heart or imagination of man will be most ready to acknowledge that the

combined charms of wit, beauty, and flattery, may, for a time, suspend

the action of right reason in the mind of the greatest philosopher, or

operate against the resolutions of the greatest of heroes.

Lord Colambre pursued his way to Halloran Castle, desirous, before

he quitted this part of the country, to take leave of the count, who

had shown him much civility, and for whose honourable conduct and

generous character he had conceived a high esteem, which no little

peculiarities of antiquated dress or manner could diminish. Indeed,

the old-fashioned politeness of what was formerly called a well-bred

gentleman pleased him better than the indolent or insolent selfishness

of modern men of the ton. Perhaps, notwithstanding our hero’s

determination to turn his mind from every thing connected with the

idea of Miss Nugent, some latent curiosity about the burial-place

of the Nugents might have operated to make him call upon the count.

In this hope he was disappointed; for a cross miller, to whom the

abbey-ground was let, on which the burial-place was found, had taken

it into his head to refuse admittance, and none could enter his

ground.

Count O’Halloran was much pleased by Lord Colambre’s visit. The

very day of his arrival at Halloran Castle, the count was going to

Oranmore; he was dressed, and his carriage was waiting: therefore Lord

Colambre begged that he might not detain him, and the count requested

his lordship to accompany him.

“Let me have the honour of introducing you, my lord, to a family,

with whom, I am persuaded, you will he pleased; by whom you will be

appreciated; and at whose house you will have an opportunity of seeing

the best manner of living of the Irish nobility.”

Lord Colambre accepted the invitation, and was introduced at Oranmore.

The dignified appearance and respectable character of Lady Oranmore;

the charming unaffected manners of her daughters; the air of domestic

happiness and comfort in her family; the becoming magnificence,

free from ostentation, in her whole establishment; the respect and

affection with which she was treated by all who approached her,

delighted and touched Lord Colambre; the more, perhaps, because he had

heard this family so unjustly abused; and because he saw Lady Oranmore

and her daughter in immediate contrast with Lady Dashfort and Lady

Isabel.

A little circumstance which occurred during this visit, increased his

interest for the family. When Lady de Cressy’s little boys came in

after dinner, one of them was playing with a seal, which had just been

torn from a letter. The child showed it to Lord Colambre, and asked

him to read the motto. The motto was, “Deeds, not words.” His friend

Sir James Brooke’s motto, and his arms. Lord Colambre eagerly inquired

if this family was acquainted with Sir James, and he soon perceived

that they were not only acquainted with him, but that they were

particularly interested about him.

Lady Oranmore’s second daughter, Lady Harriet, appeared particularly

pleased by the manner in which Lord Colambre spoke of Sir James. And

the child, who had now established himself on his lordship’s knee,

turned round, and whispered in his ear, “‘Twas aunt Harriet gave me

the seal; Sir James is to be married to aunt Harriet, and then he will

be my uncle.”

Some of the principal gentry of this part of the country happened to

dine at Oranmore on one of the days Lord Colambre was there. He

was surprised at the discovery, that there were so many agreeable,

well-informed, and well-bred people, of whom, while he was at

Killpatrick’s-town, he had seen nothing. He now discerned how far he

had been deceived by Lady Dashfort.

Both the count, and Lord and Lady Oranmore, who were warmly attached

to their country, exhorted him to make himself amends for the time

he had lost, by seeing with his own eyes, and judging with his

own understanding, of the country and its inhabitants, during the

remainder of the time he was to stay in Ireland. The higher classes,

in most countries, they observed, were generally similar; but, in the

lower class, he would find many characteristic differences.

When he first came to Ireland, he had been very eager to go and see

his father’s estate, and to judge of the conduct of his agents, and

the condition of his tenantry; but this eagerness had subsided, and

the design had almost faded from his mind, whilst under the influence

of Lady Dashfort’s misrepresentations. A mistake, relative to some

remittance from his banker in Dublin, obliged him to delay his journey

a few days, and during that time, Lord and Lady Oranmore showed him

the neat cottages, and well-attended schools, in their neighbourhood.

They showed him not only what could be done, but what had been done,

by the influence of great proprietors residing on their own estates,

and encouraging the people by judicious kindness.

He saw,--he acknowledged the truth of this; but it did not come home

to his feelings now as it would have done a little while ago. His

views and plans were altered: he had looked forward to the idea of

marrying and settling in Ireland, and then every thing in the country

was interesting to him; but since he had forbidden himself to think of

a union with Miss Nugent, his mind had lost its object and its spring;

he was not sufficiently calm to think of the public good; his thoughts

were absorbed by his private concerns. He knew and repeated to

himself, that he ought to visit his own and his father’s estates, and

to see the condition of his tenantry; he desired to fulfil his duties,

but they ceased to appear to him easy and pleasurable, for hope and

love no longer brightened his prospects.

That he might see and hear more than he could as heir-apparent to

the estate, he sent his servant to Dublin to wait for him there. He

travelled _incognito_, wrapped himself in a shabby great-coat, and

took the name of Evans. He arrived at a village, or, as it was called,

a town, which bore the name of Colambre. He was agreeably surprised by

the air of neatness and finish in the houses and in the street, which

had a nicely swept paved footway. He slept at a small but excellent

inn,--excellent, perhaps, because it was small, and proportioned to

the situation and business of the place. Good supper, good bed, good

attendance; nothing out of repair; no things pressed into services

for which they were never intended by nature or art. No chambermaid

slipshod, or waiter smelling of whiskey; but all tight and right, and

every body doing their own business, and doing it as if it were their

every day occupation, not as if it were done by particular desire, for

the first or last time this season. The landlord came in at supper

to inquire whether any thing was wanted. Lord Colambre took this

opportunity of entering into conversation with him, and asked him

to whom the town belonged, and who were the proprietors of the

neighbouring estates.

“The town belongs to an absentee lord--one Lord Clonbrony, who lives

always beyond the seas, in London; and who had never seen the town

since it was a town, to call a town.”

“And does the land in the neighbourhood belong to this Lord

Clonbrony?”

“It does, sir; he’s a great proprietor, but knows nothing of his

property, nor of us. Never set foot among us, to my knowledge, since

I was as high as the table. He might as well be a West India planter,

and we negroes, for any thing he knows to the contrary--has no more

care, nor thought about us, than if he were in Jamaica, or the

other world. Shame for him! But there’s too many to keep him in

countenance.”

Lord Colambre asked him what wine he could have; and then inquired who

managed the estate for this absentee.

“Mr. Burke, sir. And I don’t know why God was so kind to give so good

an agent to an absentee like Lord Clonbrony, except it was for the

sake of us, who is under him, and knows the blessing, and is thankful

for the same.”

“Very good cutlets,” said Lord Colambre.

“I am happy to hear it, sir. They have a right to be good, for Mrs.

Burke sent her own cook to teach my wife to dress cutlets.”

“So the agent is a good agent, is he?”

“He is, thanks be to Heaven! And that’s what few can boast, especially

when the landlord’s living over the seas: we have the luck to have got

a good agent over us, in Mr. Burke, who is a right bred gentleman; a

snug little property of his own, honestly made; with the good-will,

and good wishes, and respect of all.”

“Does he live in the neighbourhood?”

“Just _convanient_.[5] At the end of the town; in the house on the

hill as you passed, sir; to the left, with the trees about it, all of

his own planting, grown too; for there’s a blessing on all he does,

and he has done a deal.--There’s salad, sir, if you are _partial_ to

it. Very fine lettuce. Mrs. Burke sent us the plants herself.”

“Excellent salad! So this Mr. Burke has done a great deal, has he? In

what way?”

“In every way, sir,--sure was not it he that had improved, and

fostered, and _made_ the town of Colambre?--no thanks to the

proprietor, nor to the young man whose name it bears, neither!”

“Have you any porter, pray, sir?”

“We have, sir, as good, I hope, as you’d drink in London, for it’s the

same you get there, I understand, from Cork. And I have some of my own

brewing, which, they say, you could not tell the difference between it

and Cork quality--if you’d be pleased to try.--Harry, the corkscrew.”

The porter of his own brewing was pronounced to be extremely good;

and the landlord observed it was Mr. Burke encouraged him to learn to

brew, and lent him his own brewer for a time to teach him.

“Your Mr. Burke, I find, is _apropos_ to porter, _apropos_ to salad,

_apropos_ to cutlets, _apropos_ to every thing,” said Lord Colambre,

smiling: “he seems to be a very uncommon agent I suppose you are a

great favourite of his, and you do what you please with him.”

“Oh, no, sir, I could not say that; Mr. Burke does not have favourites

any way; but, according to my deserts, I trust I stand well enough

with him; for, in truth, he is a right good agent.”

Lord Colambre still pressed for particulars; he was an Englishman,

and a stranger, he said, and did not exactly know what was meant in

Ireland by a good agent.

“Why, he is the man that will encourage the improving tenant; and show

no favour or affection, but justice, which comes even to all, and does

best for all at the long run; and, residing always in the country,

like Mr. Burke, and understanding country business, and going about

continually among the tenantry, he knows when to press for the rent,

and when to leave the money to lay out upon the land; and, according

as they would want it, can give a tenant a help or a check properly.

Then no duty work called for, no presents, nor _glove money_, nor

_sealing money_ even, taken or offered; no underhand hints about

proposals, when land would be out of lease; but a considerable

preference, if desarved, to the old tenant, and if not, a fair

advertisement, and the best offer and tenant accepted: no screwing of

the land to the highest penny, just to please the head landlord for

the minute, and ruin him at the end, by the tenant’s racking the land,

and running off with the year’s rent; nor no bargains to his own

relations or friends did Mr. Burke ever give or grant, but all fair

between landlord and tenant; and that’s the thing that will last; and

that’s what I call the good agent.”

Lord Colambre poured out a glass of wine, and begged the innkeeper to

drink the good agent’s health, in which he was heartily pledged. “I

thank your honour:--Mr. Burke’s health! and long may he live over and

amongst us; he saved me from drink and ruin, when I was once inclined

to it, and made a man of me and all my family.”

The particulars we cannot stay to detail; this grateful man, however,

took pleasure in sounding the praises of his benefactor, and in

raising him in the opinion of the traveller.

“As you’ve time, and are curious about such things, sir, perhaps you’d

walk up to the school that Mrs. Burke has for the poor children; and

look at the market house, and see how clean he takes a pride to keep

the town: and any house in the town, from the priest to the parson’s,

that you’d go into, will give you the same character as I do of Mr.

Burke; from the brogue to the boot, all speak the same of him, and can

say no other. God for ever bless and keep him over us!”

Upon making further inquiries, every thing the innkeeper had said

was confirmed by different inhabitants of the village. Lord Colambre

conversed with the shopkeepers, with the cottagers; and, without

making any alarming inquiries, he obtained all the information he

wanted. He went to the village-school--a pretty, cheerful house, with

a neat garden and a play-green; met Mrs. Burke; introduced himself to

her as a traveller. The school was shown to him: it was just what it

ought to be--neither too much nor too little had been attempted; there

was neither too much interference nor too little attention. Nothing

for exhibition; care to teach well, without any vain attempt to teach

in a wonderfully short time. All that experience proves to be useful,

in both Dr. Bell’s and Mr. Lancaster’s modes of teaching, Mrs. Burke

had adopted; leaving it to “graceless zealots” to fight about the

rest. That no attempts at proselytism had been made, and that no

illiberal distinctions had been made in his school, Lord Colambre was

convinced, in the best manner possible, by seeing the children of

protestants and catholics sitting on the same benches, learning from

the same books, and speaking to one another with the same cordial

familiarity. Mrs. Burke was an unaffected, sensible woman, free from

all party prejudices, and without ostentation, desirous and capable

of doing good. Lord Colambre was much pleased with her, and very glad

that she invited him to tea.

Mr. Burke did not come in till late; for he had been detained

portioning out some meadows, which were of great consequence to the

inhabitants of the town. He brought home to tea with him the clergyman

and the priest of the parish, both of whom he had taken successful

pains to accommodate with the land which suited their respective

convenience. The good terms on which they seemed to be with each

other, and with him, appeared to Lord Colambre to do honour to Mr.

Burke. All the favourable accounts his lordship had received of this

gentleman were confirmed by what he saw and heard. After the clergyman

and priest had taken leave, upon Lord Colambre’s expressing some

surprise, mixed with satisfaction, at seeing the harmony which

subsisted between them, Mr. Burke assured him that this was the

same in many parts of Ireland. He observed, that “as the suspicion

of ill-will never fails to produce it,” so he had often found,

that taking it for granted that no ill-will exists, has the most

conciliating effect. He said, to please opposite parties, he used

no arts; but he tried to make all his neighbours live comfortably

together, by making them acquainted with each other’s good qualities;

by giving them opportunities of meeting sociably, and, from time

to time, of doing each other little services and good offices.

Fortunately, he had so much to do, he said, that he had no time for

controversy. He was a plain man, made it a rule not to meddle with

speculative points, and to avoid all irritating discussions: he was

not to rule the country, but to live in it, and make others live as

happily as he could.

Having nothing to conceal in his character, opinions, or

circumstances, Mr. Burke was perfectly open and unreserved in

his manner and conversation; freely answered all the traveller’s

inquiries, and took pains to show him every thing he desired to

see. Lord Colambre said he had thoughts of settling in Ireland; and

declared, with truth, that he had not seen any part of the country he

should like better to live in than this neighbourhood. He went over

most of the estate with Mr. Burke, and had ample opportunities of

convincing himself that this gentleman was indeed, as the innkeeper

had described him, “a right good gentleman, and a right good agent.”

He paid Mr. Burke some just compliments on the state of the tenantry,

and the neat and flourishing appearance of the town of Colambre.

“What pleasure it will give the proprietor when he sees all you have

done!” said Lord Colambre.

“Oh, sir, don’t speak of it!--that breaks my heart; he never has shown

the least interest in any thing I have done: he is quite dissatisfied

with me, because I have not ruined his tenantry, by forcing them to

pay more than the land is worth; because I have not squeezed money

from them, by fining down rents; and--but all this, as an Englishman,

sir, must be unintelligible to you. The end of the matter is, that,

attached as I am to this place and the people about me, and, as I

hope, the tenantry are to me,--I fear I shall he obliged to give up

the agency.

“Give up the agency! How so? you must not,” cried Lord Colambre, and,

for the moment, he forgot himself; but Mr. Burke took this only for an

expression of good-will.

“I must, I am afraid,” continued he. “My employer, Lord Clonbrony,

is displeased with me--continual calls for money come upon me from

England, and complaints of my slow remittances.”

“Perhaps Lord Clonbrony is in embarrassed circumstances,” said Lord

Colambre.

“I never speak of my employer’s affairs, sir,” replied Mr. Burke; now

for the first time assuming an air of reserve.

“I beg pardon, sir--I seem to have asked an indiscreet question.” Mr.

Burke was silent.

“Lest my reserve should give you a false impression, I will add, sir,”

resumed Mr. Burke, “that I really am not acquainted with the state of

his lordship’s affairs in general. I know only what belongs to the

estate under my own management. The principal part of his lordship’s

property, the Clonbrony estate, is under another agent, Mr.

Garraghty.”

“Garraghty!” repeated Lord Colambre; “what sort of a person is he? But

I may take it for granted, that it cannot fall to the lot of one and

the same absentee to have two such agents as Mr. Burke.”

Mr. Burke bowed, and seemed pleased with the compliment, which he

knew he deserved--but not a word did he say of Mr. Garraghty; and

Lord Colambre, afraid of betraying himself by some other indiscreet

question, changed the conversation.

The next night the post brought a letter to Mr. Burke, from Lord

Clonbrony, which he gave to his wife as soon as he had read it,

saying, “See the reward of all my services!”

Mrs. Burke glanced her eye over the letter, and being extremely fond

of her husband, and sensible of his deserving far different treatment,

burst into indignant exclamations--“See the reward of all your

services, indeed!--What an unreasonable, ungrateful man!--So, this is

the thanks for all you have done for Lord Clonbrony!”

“He does not know what I have done, my dear. He never has seen what I

have done.”

“More shame for him!”

“He never, I suppose, looks over his accounts, or understands them.”

“More shame for him!”

“He listens to foolish reports, or misrepresentations, perhaps. He is

at a distance, and cannot find out the truth.”

“More shame for him!”

“Take it quietly, my dear; we have the comfort of a good conscience.

The agency may be taken from me by this lord; but the sense of having

done my duty, no lord or man upon earth can give or take away.”

“Such a letter!” said Mrs. Burke, taking it up again. “Not even the

civility to write with his own hand!--only his signature to the

scrawl--looks as if it was written by a drunken man, does not it, Mr.

Evans?” said she, showing the letter to Lord Colambre, who immediately

recognized the writing of Sir Terence O’Fay.

“It does not look like the hand of a gentleman, indeed,” said Lord

Colambre.

“It has Lord Clonbrony’s own signature, let it be what it will,” said

Mr. Burke, looking closely at it; “Lord Clonbrony’s own writing the

signature is, I am clear of that.”

Lord Clonbrony’s son was clear of it, also; but he took care not to

give any opinion on that point.

“Oh, pray read it, sir, read it,” said Mrs. Burke; “read it, pray; a

gentleman may write a bad hand, but no _gentleman_ could write such

a letter as that to Mr. Burke--pray read it, sir; you who have seen

something of what he has done for the town of Colambre, and what he

has made of the tenantry and the estate of Lord Clonbrony.”

Lord Colambre read, and was convinced that his father had never

written or read the letter, but had signed it, trusting to Sir Terence

O’Fay’s having expressed his sentiments properly.

“SIR,

“As I have no farther occasion for your services, you will take

notice, that I hereby request you will forthwith hand over, on or

before the 1st of November next, your accounts, with the balance

due of the _hanging-gale_ (which, I understand, is more than ought

to be at this season) to Nicholas Garraghty, Esq., College-green,

Dublin, who, in future, will act as agent, and shall get, by post,

immediately, a power of attorney for the same, entitling him to

receive and manage the Colambre, as well as the Clonbrony estate,

for,

“Sir, your obedient humble servant,

“CLONBRONY.

“_Grosvenor-square_.”

Though misrepresentation, caprice, or interest, might have induced

Lord Clonbrony to desire to change his agent, yet Lord Colambre knew

that his father never could have announced his wishes in such a style;

and, as he returned the letter to Mrs. Burke, he repeated, he was

convinced that it was impossible that any nobleman could have written

such a letter; that it must have been written by some inferior person;

and that his lordship had signed it without reading it.

“My dear, I’m sorry you showed that letter to Mr. Evans,” said Mr.

Burke; “I don’t like to expose Lord Clonbrony; he is a well-meaning

gentleman, misled by ignorant or designing people; at all events, it

is not for us to expose him.”

“He has exposed himself,” said Mrs. Burke; “and the world should know

it.”

“He was very kind to me when I was a young man,” said Mr. Burke; “we

must not forget that now, because we are angry, my love.”

“Why, no, my love, to be sure we should not; but who could have

recollected it just at this minute but yourself? And now, sir,”

turning to Lord Colambre, “you see what kind of a man this is: now is

it not difficult for me to bear patiently to see him ill-treated?”

“Not only difficult, but impossible, I should think, madam,” said Lord

Colambre; “I know even I, who am a stranger, cannot help feeling for

both of you, as you must see I do.”

“But half the world, who don’t know him,” continued Mrs. Burke, “when

they hear that Lord Clonbrony’s agency is taken from him, will think

perhaps that he is to blame.”

“No, madam,” said Lord Colambre, “that you need not fear; Mr. Burke

may safely trust to his character: from what I have within these two

days seen and heard, I am convinced that such is the respect he has

deserved and acquired, that no blame can touch him.”

“Sir, I thank you,” said Mrs. Burke, the tears coming into her eyes:

“you can judge--you do him justice; but there are so many who don’t

know him, and who will decide without knowing any of the facts.”

“That, my dear, happens about every thing to every body,” said Mr.

Burke; “but we must have patience; time sets all judgments right,

sooner or later.”

“But the sooner the better,” said Mrs. Burke. “Mr. Evans, I hope you

will be so kind, if ever you hear this business talked of--”

“Mr. Evans lives in Wales, my dear.”

“But he is travelling through Ireland, my dear, and he said he should

return to Dublin, and, you know, there he certainly will hear it

talked of; and I hope he will do me the favour to state what he has

seen and knows to be the truth.”

“Be assured that I will do Mr. Burke justice--as far as it is in my

power,” said Lord Colambre, restraining himself much, that he might

not say more than became his assumed character. He took leave of this

worthy family that night, and, early the next morning, departed.

“Ah!” thought he, as he drove away from this well-regulated and

flourishing place, “how happy I might be, settled here with such a

wife as--her of whom I must think no more.”

He pursued his way to Clonbrony, his father’s other estate, which was

at a considerable distance from Colambre: he was resolved to know what

kind of agent Mr. Nicholas Garraghty might be, who was to supersede

Mr. Burke, and, by power of attorney, to be immediately entitled to

receive and manage the Colambre as well as the Clonbrony estate.

CHAPTER X.

Towards the evening of the second day’s journey, the driver of Lord

Colambre’s hackney chaise stopped, and jumping off the wooden bar, on

which he had been seated, exclaimed, “We’re come to the bad step, now.

The bad road’s beginning upon us, please your honour.”

“Bad road! that is very uncommon in this country. I never saw such

fine roads as you have in Ireland.”

“That’s true; and God bless your honour, that’s sensible of that same,

for it’s not what all the foreign quality I drive have the manners to

notice. God bless your honour! I heard you’re a Welshman, but whether

or no, I am sure you are a jantleman, any way, Welsh or other.”

Notwithstanding the shabby great coat, the shrewd postilion perceived,

by our hero’s language, that he was a gentleman. After much dragging

at the horses’ heads, and pushing and lifting, the carriage was got

over what the postilion said was the worst part of the _bad step_; but

as the road “was not yet to say good,” he continued walking beside the

carriage.

“It’s only bad just hereabouts, and that by accident,” said he, “on

account of there being no jantleman resident in it, nor near; but only

a bit of an under-agent, a great little rogue, who gets his own turn

out of the roads, and every thing else in life. I, Larry Brady, that

am telling your honour, have a good right to know; for myself, and my

father, and my brother, Pat Brady, the wheelwright, had once a farm

under him; but was ruined, horse and foot, all along with him, and

cast out, and my brother forced to fly the country, and is now working

in some coachmaker’s yard, in London; banished he is!--and here am I,

forced to be what I am--and now that I’m reduced to drive a hack, the

agent’s a curse to me still, with these bad roads, killing my horses

and wheels--and a shame to the country, which I think more of--Bad

luck to him!”

“I know your brother; he lives with Mr. Mordicai, in Long-Acre, in

London.”

“Oh, God bless you for that!”

They came at this time within view of a range of about four-and-twenty

men and boys, sitting astride on four-and-twenty heaps of broken

stones, on each side of the road; they were all armed with hammers,

with which they began to pound with great diligence and noise as soon

as they saw the carriage. The chaise passed between these batteries,

the stones flying on all sides.

“How are you, Jem?--How are you Phil?” said Larry. “But hold your

hand, can’t ye, while I stop and get the stones out of the horses’

_feet_. So you’re making up the rent, are you, for St. Dennis?”

“Whoosh!” said one of the pounders, coming close to the postilion, and

pointing his thumb back towards the chaise. “Who have you in it?”

“Oh, you need not scruple, he’s a very honest man;--he’s only a man

from North Wales, one Mr. Evans, an innocent jantleman, that’s sent

over to travel up and down the country, to find is there any copper

mines in it.”

“How do you know, Larry?”

“Because I know very well, from one that was tould, and I _seen_ him

tax the man of the King’s Head with a copper half-crown at first

sight, which was only lead to look at, you’d think, to them that was

not skilful in copper. So lend me a knife, till I cut a linchpin out

of the hedge, for this one won’t go far.”

Whilst Larry was making the linchpin, all scruple being removed, his

question about St. Dennis and the rent was answered.

“Ay, it’s the rint, sure enough, we’re pounding out for him; for he

sent the driver round last night-was-eight days, to warn us Old Nick

would be down a’-Monday, to take a sweep among us; and there’s only

six clear days, Saturday night, before the assizes, sure: so we must

see and get it finished any way, to clear the presentment again’ the

swearing day, for he and Paddy Hart was the overseers themselves, and

Paddy is to swear to it.”

“St. Dennis, is it? Then you’ve one great comfort and security--that

he won’t be _particular_ about the swearing; for since ever he had his

head on his shoulders, an oath never stuck in St. Dennis’s throat,

more than in his own brother, Old Nick’s.”

“His head upon his shoulders!” repeated Lord Colambre. “Pray, did you

ever hear that St. Dennis’s head was off his shoulders?”

“It never was, plase your honour, to my knowledge.”

“Did you never, among your saints, hear of St. Dennis carrying his

head in his hand?” said Lord Colambre.

“The _rael_ saint!” said the postilion, suddenly changing his tone,

and looking shocked. “Oh, don’t be talking that way of the saints,

plase your honour.”

“Then of what St. Dennis were you talking just now?--Whom do you mean

by St. Dennis, and whom do you call Old Nick?”

“Old Nick,” answered the postilion, coming close to the side of the

carriage, and whispering,--“Old Nick, plase your honour, is our

nickname for one Nicholas Garraghty, Esq., of College-green, Dublin,

and St. Dennis is his brother Dennis, who is Old Nick’s brother in all

things, and would fain be a saint, only he’s a sinner. He lives just

by here, in the country, under-agent to Lord Clonbrony, as Old Nick is

upper-agent--it’s only a joke among the people, that are not fond of

them at all. Lord Clonbrony himself is a very good jantleman, if he

was not an absentee, resident in London, leaving us and every thing to

the likes of them.”

Lord Colambre listened with all possible composure and attention;

but the postilion, having now made his linchpin of wood, and _fixed

himself_, he mounted his bar, and drove on, saying to Lord Colambre,

as he looked at the road-makers, “Poor _cratures_! They couldn’t keep

their cattle out of pound, or themselves out of jail, but by making

this road.”

“Is road-making, then, a very profitable business!--Have road-makers

higher wages than other men in this part of the country?”

“It is, and it is not--they have, and they have not--plase your

honour.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“No, beca-ase you’re an Englishman--that is, a Welshman--beg your

honour’s pardon. But I’ll tell you how that is, and I’ll go slow over

these broken stones--for I can’t go fast: it is where there’s no

jantleman over these under-agents, as here, they do as they plase;

and when they have set the land they get rasonable from the head

landlords, to poor cratures at a rackrent, that they can’t live and

pay the rent, they say--”

“Who says?”

“Them under-agents, that have no conscience at all. Not all--but

_some_, like Dennis, says, says he, ‘I’ll get you a road to make

up the rent:’ that is, plase your honour, the agent gets them a

presentment for so many perches of road from the grand jury, at twice

the price that would make the road. And tenants are, by this means, as

they take the road by contract, at the price given by the county, able

to pay all they get by the job, over and above potatoes and salt, back

again to the agent, for the arrear on the land. Do I make your honour

_sensible_[6]?”

“You make me much more sensible than I ever was before,” said Lord

Colambre: “but is not this cheating the county?”

“Well, and suppose,” replied Larry, “is not it all for my good, and

yours too, plase your honour?” said Larry, looking very shrewdly.

“My good!” said Lord Colambre, startled. “What have I to do with it?”

“Haven’t you to do with the roads as well as me, when you’re

travelling upon them, plase your honour? And sure, they’d never be

got made at all, if they wern’t made this ways; and it’s the best way

in the wide world, and the finest roads we have. And when the _rael_

jantleman’s resident in the country, there’s no jobbing can be,

because they’re then the leading men on the grand jury; and these

journeymen jantlemen are then kept in order, and all’s right.”

Lord Colambre was much surprised at Larry’s knowledge of the manner in

which county business is managed, as well as by his shrewd good sense:

he did not know that this is not uncommon in his rank of life in

Ireland.

Whilst Larry was speaking, Lord Colambre was looking from side to side

at the desolation of the prospect.

“So this is Lord Clonbrony’s estate, is it?”

“Ay, all you see, and as far and farther than you can see. My Lord

Clonbrony wrote, and ordered plantations here, time back; and enough

was paid to labourers for ditching and planting. And, what next?--Why,

what did the under-agent do, but let the goats in through gaps, left

o’ purpose, to bark the trees, and then the trees was all banished.

And next, the cattle was let in trespassing, and winked at, till the

land was all poached: and then the land was waste, and cried down:

and Saint Dennis wrote up to Dublin to Old Nick, and he over to the

landlord, how none would take it, or bid any thing at all for it: so

then it fell to him a cheap bargain. Oh, the tricks of them! who knows

‘em, if I don’t?” Presently, Lord Colambre’s attention was roused

again, by seeing a man running, as if for his life, across a bog, near

the roadside: he leaped over the ditch, and was upon the road in an

instant. He seemed startled at first, at the sight of the carriage;

but, looking at the postilion, Larry nodded, and he smiled and said,

“All’s safe!” “Pray, my good friend, may I ask what that is you have

on your shoulder?” said Lord Colambre. “_Plase_ your honour, it

is only a private still, which I’ve just caught out yonder in the

bog; and I’m carrying it in with all speed to the gauger, to make a

discovery, that the jantleman may benefit by the reward: I expect

he’ll make me a compliment.”

“Get up behind, and I’ll give you a lift,” said the postilion.

“Thank you kindly--but better my legs!” said the man; and, turning

down a lane, off he ran again, as fast as possible.

“Expect he’ll make me a compliment,” repeated Lord Colambre, “to make

a discovery!”

“Ay, plase your honour; for the law is,” said Larry, “that, if an

unlawful still, that is, a still without licence for whiskey, is

found, half the benefit of the fine that’s put upon the parish goes to

him that made the discovery: that’s what that man is after; for he’s

an informer.”

“I should not have thought, from what I see of you,” said Lord

Colambre, smiling, “that you, Larry, would have offered an informer a

lift.”

“Oh, plase your honour!” said Larry, smiling archly, “would not I give

the laws a lift, when in my power?”

Scarcely had he uttered these words, and scarcely was the informer out

of sight, when, across the same bog, and over the ditch, came another

man, a half kind of gentleman, with a red silk handkerchief about his

neck, and a silver-handled whip in his hand.

“Did you see any man pass the road, friend?” said he to the postilion.

“Oh! who would I see? or why would I tell?” replied Larry in a sulky

tone.

“Come, come, be smart!” said the man with the silver whip, offering

to put half-a-crown into the postilion’s hand; “point me which way he

took.”

“I’ll have none o’ your silver! don’t touch me with it!” said Larry.

“But, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll strike across back, and follow

the fields, out to Killogenesawce.”

The exciseman set out again immediately, in an opposite direction to

that which the man who carried the still had taken. Lord Colambre now

perceived that the pretended informer had been running off to conceal

a still of his own.

“The gauger, plase your honour,” said Larry, looking back at Lord

Colambre; “the gauger is a _still-hunting_!”

“And you put him on a wrong scent!” said Lord Colambre.

“Sure, I told him no lie: I only said, ‘If you’ll take my advice.’ And

why was he such a fool as to take my advice, when I wouldn’t take his

fee?”

“So this is the way, Larry, you give a lift to the laws!”

“If the laws would give a lift to me, plase your honour, may be I’d do

as much by them. But it’s only these revenue laws I mean; for I never,

to my knowledge, broke another commandment: but it’s what no honest

poor man among his neighbours would scruple to take--a glass of

_potsheen_.”

“A glass of what, in the name of Heaven?” said Lord Colambre.

“_Potsheen_, plase your honour;--beca-ase it’s the little whiskey

that’s made in the private still or pot; and _sheen_, because it’s a

fond word for whatsoever we’d like, and for what we have little of,

and would make much of: after taking the glass of it, no man could go

and inform to ruin the _cratures_; for they all shelter on that estate

under favour of them that go shares, and make rent of ‘em--but I’d

never inform again’ ‘em. And, after all, if the truth was known, and

my Lord Clonbrony should be informed against, and presented, for it’s

his neglect is the bottom of the nuisance--”

“I find all the blame is thrown upon this poor Lord Clonbrony,” said

Lord Colambre.

“Because he is absent,” said Larry: “it would not be so was he

_prisint_. But your honour was talking to me about the laws. Your

honour’s a stranger in this country, and astray about them things.

Sure, why would I mind the laws about whiskey, more than the quality,

or the _jidge_ on the bench?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why! was not I _prisint_ in the court-house myself, when the _jidge_

was on the bench judging a still, and across the court came in one

with a sly jug of _potsheen_ for the _jidge_ himself, who _prefarred_

it, when the right thing, to claret; and when I _seen_ that, by the

laws! a man might talk himself dumb to me after again’ potsheen, or in

favour of the revenue, or revenue officers. And there they may go on,

with their gaugers, and their surveyors, and their supervisors, and

their watching officers, and their coursing officers, setting ‘em

one after another, or one over the head of another, or what way they

will--we can baffle and laugh at ‘em. Didn’t I know, next door to our

inn, last year, ten _watching officers_ set upon one distiller, and

he was too cunning for them; and it will always be so, while ever

the people think it no sin. No, till then, not all their dockets and

permits signify a rush, or a turf. And the gauging rod, even! who

fears it? They may spare that rod, for it will never mend the child.”

How much longer Larry’s dissertation on the distillery laws would have

continued, had not his ideas been interrupted, we cannot guess; but he

saw he was coming to a town, and he gathered up the reins, and plied

the whip, ambitious to make a figure in the eyes of its inhabitants.

This _town_ consisted of one row of miserable huts, sunk beneath the

side of the road, the mud walls crooked in every direction; some of

them opening in wide cracks, or zigzag fissures, from top to bottom,

as if there had just been an earthquake--all the roofs sunk in various

places--thatch off, or overgrown with grass--no chimneys, the smoke

making its way through a hole in the roof, or rising in clouds from

the top of the open door--dunghills before the doors, and green

standing puddles--squalid children, with scarcely rags to cover them,

gazing at the carriage.

“Nugent’s town,” said the postilion, “once a snug place, when my Lady

Clonbrony was at home to white-wash it, and the like.”

As they drove by, some men and women put their heads through the smoke

out of the cabins; pale women, with long, black, or yellow locks--men

with countenances and figures bereft of hope and energy.

“Wretched, wretched people!” said Lord Colambre.

“Then it’s not their fault, neither,” said Larry; “for my uncle’s one

of them, and as thriving and hard a working man as could be in all

Ireland, he was, _afore_ he was tramped under foot, and his heart

broke. I was at his funeral, this time last year; and for it, may the

agent’s own heart, if he has any, burn in--”

Lord Colambre interrupted this denunciation by touching Larry’s

shoulder, and asking some question, which, as Larry did not distinctly

comprehend, he pulled up the reins, and the various noises of the

vehicle stopped suddenly.

“I did not hear well, plase your honour.”

“What are those people?” pointing to a man and woman, curious figures,

who had come out of a cabin, the door of which the woman, who came out

last, locked, and carefully hiding the key in the thatch, turned her

back upon the man, and they walked away in different directions: the

woman bending under a huge bundle on her back, covered by a yellow

petticoat turned over her shoulders; from the top of this bundle the

head of an infant appeared; a little boy, almost naked, followed her

with a kettle, and two girls, one of whom could but just walk, held

her hand and clung to her ragged petticoat; forming, all together, a

complete group of beggars. The woman stopped, and looked after the

man.

The man was a Spanish-looking figure, with gray hair; a wallet hung

at the end of a stick over one shoulder, a reaping-hook in the other

hand: he walked off stoutly, without ever casting a look behind him.

“A kind harvest to you, John Dolan,” cried the postilion, “and success

to ye, Winny, with the quality. There’s a luck-penny for the child

to begin with,” added he, throwing the child a penny. “Your honour,

they’re only poor _cratures_ going up the country to beg, while the

man goes over to reap the harvest in England. Nor this would not be,

neither, if the lord was in it to give ‘em _employ_. That man, now,

was a good and willing _slave_ in his day: I mind him working with

myself in the shrubberies at Clonbrony Castle, when I was a boy--but

I’ll not be detaining your honour, now the road’s better.”

The postilion drove on at a good rate for some time, till he came to

a piece of the road freshly covered with broken stones, where he was

obliged again to go slowly.

They overtook a string of cars, on which were piled up high, beds,

tables, chairs, trunks, boxes, band-boxes.

“How are you, Finnucan? you’ve fine loading there--from Dublin, are

you?”

“From Bray.”

“And what news?”

“_Great_ news and bad for Old Nick, or some belonging to him, thanks

be to Heaven! for myself hates him.”

“What’s happened him?”

“His sister’s husband that’s failed, the great grocer that was, the

man that had the wife that _ow’d_[7] the fine house near Bray, that

they got that time the parliament _flitted_, and that I seen in her

carriage flaming--well, it’s all out; they’re all _done up_.”

“Tut! is that all? then they’ll thrive, and set up again grander than

ever, I’ll engage: have not they Old Nick for an attorney at their

back? a good warrant?”

“Oh, trust him for that! he won’t go _security_, nor pay a farthing,

for his _shister_, nor wouldn’t, was she his father; I heard him

telling her so, which I could not have done in his place, at that

time, and she crying as if her heart would break, and I standing by in

the parlour.”

“The _neger_[8]! And did he speak that way, and you by?”

“Ay, did he; and said, ‘Mrs. Raffarty,’ says he, ‘it’s all your own

fault; you’re an extravagant fool, and ever was, and I wash my hands

of you.’ that was the word he spoke; and she answered, and said, ‘And

mayn’t I send the beds and blankets?’ said she, ‘and what I can, by

the cars, out of the way of the creditors, to Clonbrony Castle? and

won’t you let me hide there, from the shame, till the bustle’s over?’

‘You may do that,’ says he, ‘for what I care; but remember,’ says he,

‘that I’ve the first claim to them goods;’ and that’s all he would

grant. So they are coming down all o’ Monday--them are the band-boxes,

and all--to settle it; and faith it was a pity of her! to hear her

sobbing, and to see her own brother speak and look so hard! and she a

lady.”

“Sure, she’s not a lady born, no more than himself,” said Larry; “but

that’s no excuse for him. His heart’s as hard as that stone,” said

Larry; “and my own people knew that long ago, and now his own know it:

and what right have we to complain, since he’s as bad to his own flesh

and blood as to us?”

With this consolation, and with a “God speed you,” given to the

carman, Larry was driving off; but the carman called to him, and

pointed to a house, at the corner of which, on a high pole, was

swinging an iron sign of three horse-shoes, set in a crooked frame,

and at the window hung an empty bottle, proclaiming whiskey within.

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” said Larry; “for I’ve no other comfort

left me in life now. I beg your honour’s pardon, sir, for a minute,”

added he, throwing the reins into the carriage to Lord Colambre, as he

leaped down. All remonstrance and power of lungs to reclaim him were

vain! He darted into the whiskey-house with the carman--re-appeared

before Lord Colambre could accomplish getting out, remounted his seat,

and, taking the reins, “I thank your honour,” said he; “and I’ll bring

you into Clonbrony before it’s pitch-dark, though it’s nightfall, and

that’s four good miles, but ‘a spur in the head is worth two in the

heel.’”

Larry, to demonstrate the truth of his favourite axiom, drove off at

such a furious rate over great stones left in the middle of the road

by carmen, who had been driving in the gudgeons of their axletrees to

hinder them from lacing[9], that Lord Colambre thought life and limb

in imminent danger; and feeling that, at all events, the jolting and

bumping was past endurance, he had recourse to Larry’s shoulder, and

shook and pulled, and called to him to go slower, but in vain: at

last the wheel struck full against a heap of stones at a turn of the

road, the wooden linchpin came off, and the chaise was overset: Lord

Colambre was a little bruised, but glad to escape without fractured

bones.

“I beg your honour’s pardon,” said Larry, completely sobered; “I’m as

glad as the best pair of boots ever I see, to see your honour nothing

the worse for it. It was the linchpin, and them barrows of loose

stones, that ought to be fined any way, if there was any justice in

the country.”

“The pole is broke; how are we to get on?” said Lord Colambre.

“Murder! murder!--and no smith nearer than Clonbrony; nor rope even.

It’s a folly to talk, we can’t get to Clonbrony, nor stir a step

backward or forward the night.”

“What, then, do you mean to leave me all night in the middle of the

road?” cried Lord Colambre, quite exasperated.

“Is it me? plase your honour. I would not use any jantleman so ill,

_barring_ I could do no other,” replied the postilion, coolly: then,

leaping across the ditch, or, as he called it, the _gripe_ of the

ditch, he scrambled up, and while he was scrambling, said, “If your

honour will lend me your hand, till I pull you up the back of the

ditch, the horses will stand while we go. I’ll find you as pretty

a lodging for the night, with a widow of a brother of my shister’s

husband that was, as ever you slept in your life; for Old Nick or St.

Dennis has not found ‘em out yet: and your honour will he, no compare,

snugger than at the inn at Clonbrony, which has no roof, the devil a

stick. But where will I get your honour’s hand; for it’s coming on so

dark, I can’t see rightly. There, you’re up now safe. Yonder candle’s

the house.”

“Go and ask whether they can give us a night’s lodging.”

“Is it _ask_? when I see the light!--Sure they’d be proud to give the

traveller all the beds in the house, let alone one. Take care of the

potatoe furrows, that’s all, and follow me straight. I’ll go on to

meet the dog, who knows me, and might be strange to your honour.”

“Kindly welcome,” were the first words Lord Colambre heard when he

approached the cottage; and “kindly welcome” was in the sound of the

voice and in the countenance of the old woman who came out, shading

her rush-candle from the wind, and holding it so as to light the path.

When he entered the cottage, he saw a cheerful fire and a neat pretty

young woman making it blaze; she curtsied, put her spinning-wheel out

of the way, set a stool by the fire for the stranger, and repeating,

in a very low tone of voice, “Kindly welcome, sir,” retired.

“Put down some eggs, dear, there’s plenty in the bowl,” said the old

woman, calling to her; “I’ll do the bacon. Was not we lucky to be

up?--The boy’s gone to bed, but waken him,” said she, turning to the

postilion; “and he’ll help you with the chay, and put your horses in

the bier for the night.”

No: Larry chose to go on to Clonbrony with the horses, that he might

get the chaise mended betimes for his honour. The table was set; clean

trenchers, hot potatoes, milk, eggs, bacon, and “kindly welcome to

all.”

“Set the salt, dear; and the butter, love: where’s your head, Grace,

dear.”

“Grace!” repeated Lord Colambre, looking up: and, to apologize for

his involuntary exclamation, he added, “Is Grace a common name in

Ireland?”

“I can’t say, plase your honour; but it was give her by Lady

Clonbrony, from a niece of her own, God bless her! and a very kind

lady she was to us and to all when she was living in it; but those

times are gone past,” said the old woman, with a sigh. The young woman

sighed too; and, sitting down by the fire, began to count the notches

in a little bit of stick, which she held in her hand; and after she

had counted them, sighed again.

“But don’t be sighing, Grace, now,” said the old woman; “sighs is bad

sauce for the traveller’s supper; and we won’t be troubling him with

more,” added she, turning to Lord Colambre with a smile.

“Is your egg done to your liking?”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

“Then I wish it was a chicken, for your sake, which it should have

been, and roast too, had we time. I wish I could see you eat another

egg.”

“No more, thank you, my good lady; I never ate a better supper, nor

received a more hospitable welcome.”

“Oh, the welcome is all we have to offer.”

“May I ask what that is?” said Lord Colambre, looking at the notched

stick, which the young woman held in her hand, and on which her eyes

were still fixed.

“It’s a _tally_, plase your honour. Oh, you’re a foreigner;--it’s

the way the labourers do keep the account of the day’s work with the

overseer, the bailiff; a notch for every day the bailiff makes on his

stick, and the labourer the like on his stick, to tally; and when we

come to make up the account, it’s by the notches we go. And there’s

been a mistake, and is a dispute here between our boy and the

overseer: and she was counting the boy’s tally, that’s in bed, tired,

for in truth he’s overworked.”

“Would you want any thing more from me, mother?” said the girl, rising

and turning her head away.

“No, child; get away, for your heart’s full.”

She went instantly.

“Is the boy her brother?” said Lord Colambre.

“No; he’s her bachelor,” said the old woman, lowering her voice.

“Her bachelor?”

“That is, her sweetheart: for she is not my daughter, though you heard

her call me mother. The boy’s my son; but I am _afeard_ they must give

it up; for they’re too poor, and the times is hard, and the agent’s

harder than the times: there’s two of them, the under and the upper;

and they grind the substance of one between them, and then blow one

away like chaff; but we’ll not be talking of that, to spoil your

honour’s night’s rest. The room’s ready, and here’s the rushlight.”

She showed him into a very small but neat room.

“What a comfortable-looking bed!” said Lord Colambre.

“Ah, these red check curtains,” said she, letting them down; “these

have lasted well: they were give me by a good friend, now far away,

over the seas--my Lady Clonbrony; and made by the prettiest hands ever

you see, her niece’s, Miss Grace Nugent’s, and she a little child that

time; sweet love! all gone!”

The old woman wiped a tear from her eye, and Lord Colambre did what

he could to appear indifferent. She set down the candle, and left the

room; Lord Colambre went to bed, but he lay awake,

“Revolving sweet and bitter thoughts”

CHAPTER XI.

The kettle was on the fire, tea-things set, every thing prepared for

her guest by the hospitable hostess, who thinking the gentleman would

take tea to his breakfast, had sent off a _gossoon_ by the _first

light_ to Clonbrony, for an ounce of tea, a _quarter of sugar_, and

a loaf of white bread; and there was on the little table good cream,

milk, butter, eggs--all the promise of an excellent breakfast. It was

a _fresh_ morning, and there was a pleasant fire on the hearth, neatly

swept up. The old woman was sitting in her chimney corner, behind a

little skreen of whitewashed wall, built out into the room, for the

purpose of keeping those who sat at the fire from the _blast of the

door_. There was a loop-hole in this wall, to let the light in, just

at the height of a person’s head, who was sitting near the chimney.

The rays of the morning sun now came through it, shining across the

face of the old woman, as she sat knitting: Lord Colambre thought

he had seldom seen a more agreeable countenance, intelligent eyes,

benevolent smile, a natural expression of cheerfulness, subdued by age

and misfortune.

“A good morrow to you kindly, sir, and I hope you got the night

well?--A fine day for us this holyday morning; my Grace is gone to

early prayers, so your honour will be content with an old woman to

make your tea. Oh, let me put in plenty of tea, for it will never be

good; and if your honour takes stirabout, an old hand will engage to

make that to your liking, any way; for by great happiness, we have

what will just answer for you of the nicest meal the miller made my

Grace a compliment of, last time she went to the mill.”

Lord Colambre observed, that this miller had good taste; and his

lordship paid some compliment to Grace’s beauty, which the old woman

received with a smile, but turned off the conversation.

“Then,” said she, looking out of the window, “is not that there a nice

little garden the boy dug for her and me, at his breakfast and dinner

hours? Ah! he’s a good boy, and good warrant to work; and the good son

_desarves_ the good wife, and it’s he that will make the good husband;

and with my good-will he, and no other, shall get her, and with her

good-will the same; and I bid ‘em keep up their heart, and hope the

best, for there’s no use in fearing the worst till it comes.”

Lord Colambre wished very much to know the worst. “If you would not

think a stranger impertinent for asking,” said he, “and if it would

not be painful to you to explain.”

“Oh, impertinent, your honour! it’s very kind--and, sure, none’s a

stranger to one’s heart, that feels for one. And for myself, I can

talk of my troubles without thinking of them. So, I’ll tell you

all--if the worst comes to the worst--all that is, is, that we must

quit, and give up this little snug place, and house, and farm, and

all, to the agent--which would be hard on us, and me a widow, when my

husband did all that is done to the land; and if your honour was a

judge, you could see, if you stepped out, there has been a deal done,

and built the house, and all--but it plased Heaven to take him. Well,

he was too good for this world, and I’m satisfied--I’m not saying

a word again’ that--I trust we shall meet in heaven, and be happy,

surely. And, meantime, here’s my boy, that will make me as happy as

ever widow was on earth--if the agent will let him. And I can’t think

the agent, though they that know him best call him Old Nick, would be

so wicked to take from us that which he never gave us. The good lord

himself granted us the _lase_; the life’s dropped, and the years is

out; but we had a promise of renewal in writing from the landlord. God

bless him! if he was not away, he’d be a good gentleman, and we’d be

happy and safe.”

“But if you have a promise in writing of a renewal, surely you are

safe, whether your landlord is absent or present.”

“Ah, no! that makes a great _differ_, when there’s no eye or hand over

the agent. I would not wish to speak or think ill of him or any man;

but was he an angel, he could not know to do the tenantry justice, the

way he is living always in Dublin, and coming down to the country only

the receiving days, to make a sweep among us, and gather up the rents

in a hurry, and he in such haste back to town--can just stay to count

over our money, and give the receipts. Happy for us if we get that

same!--but can’t expect he should have time to see or hear us, or mind

our improvements, any more than listen to our complaints! Oh, there’s

great excuse for the gentleman, if that was any comfort for us,” added

she, smiling.

“But, if he does not live amongst you himself, has not he some under

agent, who lives in the country?” said Lord Colambre.

“He has so.”

“And he should know your concerns: does he mind them?”

“He should know--he should know better; but as to minding our

concerns, your honour knows,” continued she, smiling again, “every one

in this world must mind their own concerns: and it would be a good

world, if it was even so. There’s a great deal in all things, that

don’t appear at first sight. Mr. Dennis wanted Grace for a wife for

his bailiff, but she would not have him; and Mr. Dennis was very sweet

to her himself--but Grace is rather high with him as proper, and he

has a grudge _again’_ us ever since. Yet, indeed, there,” added she,

after another pause, “as you say, I think we are safe; for we have

that memorandum in writing, with a pencil, given under his own hand,

on the back of the _lase_ to me, by the same token when my good lord

had his foot on the step of the coach, going away; and I’ll never

forget the smile of her that got that good turn done for me, Miss

Grace. And just when she was going to England and London, and, young

as she was, to have the thought to stop and turn to the likes of me!

Oh, then, if you could see her, and know her, as I did! _That_ was the

comforting angel upon earth--look, and voice, and heart, and all! Oh,

that she was here present, this minute!--But did you scald yourself?”

said the widow to Lord Colambre. “Sure you must have scalded yourself;

for you poured the kettle straight over your hand, and it boiling!--O

_deear_; to think of so young a gentleman’s hand shaking so like my

own.”

Luckily, to prevent her pursuing her observations from the hand to the

face, which might have betrayed more than Lord Colambre wished she

should know, her own Grace came in at this instant--“There it’s for

you, safe, mother dear--the _lase_!” said Grace, throwing a packet

into her lap. The old woman lifted up her hands to heaven, with the

lease between them--“Thanks be to Heaven!” Grace passed on, and

sunk down on the first seat she could reach. Her face flushed, and,

looking much fatigued, she loosened the strings of her bonnet and

cloak--“Then, I’m tired;” but, recollecting herself, she rose, and

curtsied to the gentleman.

“What tired ye, dear?”

“Why, after prayers, we had to go--for the agent was not at prayers,

nor at home for us, when we called--we had to go all the way up to the

castle; and there, by great good luck, we found Mr. Nick Garraghty

himself, come from Dublin, and the _lase_ in his hands; and he sealed

it up that way, and handed it to me very civil. I never saw him so

good--though he offered me a glass of spirits, which was not manners

to a decent young woman, in a morning--as Brian noticed after. Brian

would not take any either, nor never does. We met Mr. Dennis and the

driver coming home; and he says, the rent must be paid to-morrow, or,

instead of renewing, he’ll seize, and sell all. Mother dear, I would

have dropped with the walk, but for Brian’s arm.”

“It’s a wonder, dear, what makes you so weak, that used to be so

strong.”

“But if we can sell the cow for any thing at all to Mr. Dennis, since

his eye is set upon her, better let him have her mother, dear; and

that and my yarn, which Mrs. Garraghty says she’ll allow me for, will

make up the rent--and Brian need not talk of America. But it must be

in golden guineas, the agent will take the rent no other way; and you

won’t get a guinea for less than five shillings. Well, even so, it’s

easy selling my new gown to one that covets it, and that will give me

in exchange the price of the gold; or, suppose that would not do, add

this cloak--it’s handsome, and I know a friend would be glad to take

it, and I’d part it as ready as look at it--Any thing at all, sure,

rather than that he should be forced to talk of emigrating: or, oh,

worse again, listing for the bounty--to save us from the cant or the

jail, by going to the hospital, or his grave, maybe--oh, mother!”

“Oh, child! This is what makes you weak, fretting. Don’t be that way.

Sure here’s the _lase_, and that’s good comfort; and the soldiers will

be gone out of Clonbrony to-morrow, and then that’s off your mind.

And as to America, it’s only talk--I won’t let him, he’s dutiful; and

would sooner sell my dresser, and down to my bed, dear, than see you

sell any thing of yours, love. Promise me you won’t. Why didn’t Brian

come home all the way with you, Grace?”

“He would have seen me home,” said Grace, “only that he went up a

piece of the mountain for some stones or ore for the gentleman,--for

he had the manners to think of him this morning, though, shame for me,

I had not, when I come in, or I would not have told you all this, and

he by. See, there _he_ is, mother.”

Brian came in very hot, out of breath, with his hat full of stones.

“Good morrow to your honour. I was in bed last night; and sorry they

did not call me up to be of _sarvice_. Larry was telling us, this

morning, your honour’s from Wales, and looking for mines in Ireland,

and I heard talk that there was one on our mountain--may be, you’d be

_curous_ to see, and so I brought the best I could, but I’m no judge.”

“Nor I, neither,” thought Lord Colambre; but he thanked the young man,

and determined to avail himself of Larry’s misconception of false

report; examined the stones very gravely, and said, “This promises

well. Lapis caliminaris, schist, plum-pudding stone, rhomboidal,

crystal, blend, garrawachy,” and all the strange names he could think

of, jumbling them together at a venture.

“The _lase_!” cried the young man, with joy sparkling in his eyes, as

his mother held up the packet. “Lend me the papers.”

He cracked the seals, and taking off the cover--“Ay, I know it’s the

_lase_ sure enough. But stay, where’s the memorandum?”

“It’s there, sure,” said his mother, “where my lord’s pencil writ it.

I don’t read. Grace, dear, look.”

The young man put it into her hands, and stood without power to utter

a syllable.

“It’s not here! It’s gone!--no sign of it.”

“Gracious Heaven! that can’t be,” said the old woman, putting on her

spectacles; “let me see,’--I remember the very spot.”

“It’s taken away--it’s rubbed clean out!--Oh, wasn’t I fool?--But who

could have thought he’d be the villain!”

The young man seemed neither to see nor hear, but to be absorbed

in thought. Grace, with her eyes fixed upon him, grew as pale as

death.--“He’ll go--he’s gone.”

“She’s gone!” cried Lord Colambre, and the mother just caught her in

her arms as she was falling.

“The chaise is ready, plase your honour,” said Larry, coming into the

room. “Death! what’s here?”

“Air!--she’s coming to,” said the young man--“Take a drop of water, my

own Grace.”

“Young man, I promise you,” cried Lord Colambre, (speaking in the tone

of a master,) striking the young man’s shoulder, who was kneeling at

Grace’s feet, but recollecting and restraining himself, he added, in

a quiet voice--“I promise you I shall never forget the hospitality I

have received in this house, and I am sorry to be obliged to leave you

in distress.”

These words uttered with difficulty, he hurried out of the house, and

into his carriage. “Go back to them,” said he to the postilion: “go

back and ask whether, if I should stay a day or two longer in this

country, they would let me return at night and lodge with them. And

here, man, stay, take this,” putting money into his hands, “for the

good woman of the house.”

The postilion went in, and returned.

“She won’t at all--I knew she would not.”

“Well, I am obliged to her for the night’s lodging she did give me; I

have no right to expect more.”

“What is it?--Sure she bid me tell you,--‘and welcome to the lodging;

for,’ said she, ‘he’s a kind-hearted gentleman;’ but here’s the money;

it’s that I was telling you she would not have at all.”

“Thank you. Now, my good friend, Larry, drive me to Clonbrony, and do

not say another word, for I’m not in a talking humour.”

Larry nodded, mounted, and drove to Clonbrony. Clonbrony was now a

melancholy scene. The houses, which had been built in a better style

of architecture than usual, were in a ruinous condition; the dashing

was off the walls, no glass in the windows, and many of the roofs

without slates. For the stillness of the place Lord Colambre in some

measure accounted, by considering that it was holiday; therefore, of

course, all the shops were shut up, and all the people at prayers. He

alighted at the inn, which completely answered Larry’s representation

of it. Nobody to be seen but a drunken waiter, who, as well as he

could articulate, informed Lord Colambre, that “his mistress was in

her bed since Thursday-was-a-week; the hostler at the _wash-woman’s_,

and the cook at second prayers.”

Lord Colambre walked to the church, but the church gate was locked and

broken--a calf, two pigs, and an ass, in the church-yard; and several

boys (with more of skin apparent than clothes) were playing at pitch

and toss upon a tombstone, which, upon nearer observation, he saw was

the monument of his own family. One of the boys came to the gate,

and told Lord Colambre, “There was no use in going into the church,

because there was no church there; nor had not been this twelvemonth;

beca-ase there was no curate: and the parson was away always, since

the lord was at home--that is, was not at home--he nor the family.”

Lord Colambre returned to the inn, where, after waiting a considerable

time, he gave up the point--he could not get any dinner--and in

the evening he walked out again into the town. He found several

public-houses, however, open, which were full of people; all of them

as busy and as noisy as possible. He observed that the interest was

created by an advertisement of several farms on the Clonbrony estate,

to be set by Nicholas Garraghty, Esq. He could not help smiling at

his being witness _incognito_ to various schemes for outwitting the

agents, and defrauding the landlord; but, on a sudden, the scene was

changed; a boy ran in, crying out, that “St. Dennis was riding down

the hill into the town; and, if you would not have the licence,” said

the boy, “take care of yourself, Brannagan.” “_If you wouldn’t have

the licence_,” Lord Colambre perceived, by what followed, meant, “_If

you have not a licence_.” Brannagan immediately snatched an untasted

glass of whiskey from a customer’s lips (who cried, murder!), gave

it and the bottle he held in his hand to his wife, who swallowed the

spirits, and ran away with the bottle and glass into some back hole;

whilst the bystanders laughed, saying, “Well thought of, Peggy!”

“Clear out all of you at the back door, for the love of Heaven, if

you wouldn’t be the ruin of me,” said the man of the house, setting

a ladder to a corner of the shop. “Phil, hoist me up the keg to the

loft,” added he, running up the ladder; “and one of _yees_ step up

street, and give Rose McGivney notice, for she’s selling, too.”

The keg was hoisted up; the ladder removed; the shop cleared of

all the customers; the shutters shut; the door barred; the counter

cleaned.

“Lift your stones, sir, if you plase,” said the wife, as she rubbed

the counter, “and say nothing of what you _seen_ at all; but that

you’re a stranger and a traveller seeking a lodging, if you’re

questioned, or waiting to see Mr. Dennis. There’s no smell of whiskey

in it now, is there, sir?”

Lord Colambre could not flatter her so far as to say this--he could

only hope no one would perceive it.

“Oh, and if he would, the smell of whiskey was nothing,” as the wife

affirmed, “for it was every where in nature, and no proof again’ any

one, good or bad.”

“Now, St. Dennis may come when he will, or Old Nick himself!” So she

tied up a blue handkerchief over her head, and had the toothache “very

bad.”

Lord Colambre turned to look for the man of the house.

“He’s safe in bed,” said the wife.

“In bed! When?”

“Whilst you turned your head, while I was tying the handkerchief over

my face. Within the room, look, he is snug.”

And there he was in bed certainly, and his clothes on the chest.

A knock, a loud knock at the door.

“St. Dennis himself!--Stay, till I unbar the door,” said the woman;

and, making a great difficulty, she let him in, groaning and saying.

“We was all done up for the night, _plase_ your honour, and myself

with the toothache, very bad--And the lodger, that’s going to take an

egg only, before he’d go into his bed. My man’s in it, and asleep long

ago.”

With a magisterial air, though with a look of blank disappointment,

Mr. Dennis Garraghty walked on, looked into _the room_, saw the good

man of the house asleep, heard him snore, and then, returning, asked

Lord Colambre, “who he was, and what brought him there?”

Our hero said, he was from England, and a traveller; and now, bolder

grown as a geologist, he talked of his specimens, and his hopes of

finding a mine in the neighbouring mountains; then adopting, as well

as he could, the servile tone and abject manner, in which he found Mr.

Dennis was to be addressed, “he hoped he might get encouragement from

the gentlemen at the head of the estate.”

“To bore, is it?--Well, don’t _bore_ me about it. I can’t give you any

answer now, my good friend; I am engaged.”

Out he strutted. “Stick to him up the town, if you have a mind to get

your answer,” whispered the woman. Lord Colambre followed, for he

wished to see the end of this scene.

“Well, sir, what are you following and sticking to me, like my shadow,

for?” said Mr. Dennis, turning suddenly upon Lord Colambre.

His lordship bowed low. “Waiting for my answer, sir, when you are at

leisure. Or, may I call upon you to-morrow?”

“You seem to be a civil kind of fellow; but, as to boring, I don’t

know--if you undertake it at your own expense. I dare say there may be

minerals in the ground. Well, you may call at the castle to-morrow,

and when my brother has done with the tenantry, I’ll speak to him

_for_ you, and we’ll consult together, and see what we think. It’s too

late to-night. In Ireland, nobody speaks to a gentleman about business

after dinner,--your servant, sir; any body can show you the way to the

castle in the morning.” And, pushing by his lordship, he called to a

man on the other side of the street, who had obviously been waiting

for him; he went under a gateway with this man, and gave him a bag of

guineas. He then called for his horse, which was brought to him by a

man whom Lord Colambre had heard declaring that he would bid for the

land that was advertised; whilst another, who had the same intentions,

most respectfully held his stirrup, whilst he mounted without thanking

either of these men. St. Dennis clapped spurs to his steed, and rode

away. No thanks, indeed, were deserved; for the moment he was out of

hearing, both cursed him after the manner of their country.

“Bad luck go with you, then!--And may you break your neck before you

get home, if it was not for the _lase_ I’m to get, and that’s paid

for.”

Lord Colambre followed the crowd into a public-house, where a new

scene presented itself to his view.

The man to whom St. Dennis gave the bag of gold was now selling this

very gold to the tenants, who were to pay their rent next day at the

castle.

The agent would take nothing but gold. The same guineas were bought

and sold several times over, to the great profit of the agent and loss

of the poor tenants; for as the rents were paid, the guineas were

resold to another set: and the remittances made through bankers to the

landlord, who, as the poor man that explained the transaction to Lord

Colambre expressed it, “gained nothing by the business, bad or good,

but the ill-will of the tenantry.”

The higgling for the price of the gold; the time lost in disputing

about the goodness of the notes, among some poor tenants, who could

not read or write, and who were at the mercy of the man with the bag

in his hand; the vexation, the useless harassing of all who were

obliged to submit ultimately--Lord Colambre saw: and all this time he

endured the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and the sound of various

brogues, the din of men wrangling, brawling, threatening, whining,

drawling, cajoling, cursing, and every variety of wretchedness.

“And is this my father’s town of Clonbrony?” thought Lord Colambre.

“Is this Ireland? No, it is not Ireland. Let me not, like most of

those who forsake their native country, traduce it. Let me not, even

to my own mind, commit the injustice of taking a speck for the whole.

What I have just seen is the picture only of that to which an Irish

estate and Irish tenantry may be degraded in the absence of those

whose duty and interest it is to reside in Ireland, to uphold justice

by example and authority; but who, neglecting this duty, commit power

to bad hands and bad hearts--abandon their tenantry to oppression, and

their property to ruin.”

It was now fine moonlight, and Lord Colambre met with a boy, who said

he could show him a short way across the fields to the widow O’Neil’s

cottage.

CHAPTER XII.

All were asleep at the cottage, when Lord Colambre arrived, except

the widow, who was sitting up, waiting for him; and who had brought

her dog into the house, that he might not fly at him, or bark at his

return. She had a roast chicken ready for her guest, and it was--but

this she never told him--the only chicken she had left; all the others

had been sent with the _duty fowl_, as a present to the under-agent’s

lady. While he was eating his supper, which he ate with the better

appetite, as he had had no dinner, the good woman took down from the

shelf a pocket-book, which she gave him: “Is not that your book?” said

she. “My boy Brian found it after you in the potatoe furrow, where you

dropped it.”

“Thank you,” said Lord Colambre; “there are bank notes in it, which I

could not afford to lose.”

“Are there?” said she: “he never opened it--nor I.”

Then, in answer to his inquiries about Grace and the young man, the

widow answered, “They are all in heart now, I thank ye kindly, sir,

for asking; they’ll sleep easy to-night, any way, and I’m in great

spirits for them and myself--for all’s smooth now. After we parted

you, Brian saw Mr. Dennis himself about the _lase_ and memorandum,

which he never denied, but knew nothing about. ‘But, be that as it

may,’ says he, ‘you’re improving tenants, and I’m confident my brother

will consider ye; so what you’ll do is, you’ll give up the possession

to-morrow to myself, that will call for it by cock-crow, just for

form’s sake; and then go up to the castle with the new _lase_ ready

drawn, in your hand, and if all’s paid off clear of the rent, and all

that’s due, you’ll get the new _lase_ signed: I’ll promise you this

upon the word and honour of a gentleman.’ And there’s no going beyond

that, you know, sir. So my boy came home as light as a feather, and as

gay as a lark, to bring us the good news; only he was afraid we might

not make up the rent, guineas and all; and because he could not get

paid for the work he done, on account of the mistake in the overseer’s

tally, I sold the cow to a neighbour, dog-cheap; but needs must, as

they say, when Old Nick _drives_,” said the widow, smiling. “Well,

still it was but paper we got for the cow; then that must be gold

before the agent would take or touch it--so I was laying out to sell

the dresser, and had taken the plates and cups, and little things

off it, and my boy was lifting it out with Andy the carpenter,

that was agreeing for it, when in comes Grace, all rosy and out of

breath--it’s a wonder I never minded her run out, nor ever missed her.

‘Mother,’ says she, ‘here’s the gold for you; don’t be stirring your

dresser.’--‘And where’s your gown and cloak, Grace?’ says I. But, I

beg your pardon, sir; may be, I’m tiring you?”

Lord Colambre encouraged her to go on.

“‘Where’s your gown and cloak, Grace?’ says I. ‘Gone,’ says she. ‘The

cloak was too warm and heavy, and I don’ doubt, mother, but it was

that helped to make me faint this morning. And as to the gown, sure

I’ve a very nice one here, that you spun for me yourself, mother; and

that I prize above all the gowns ever came out of a loom; and that

Brian said become me to his fancy above any gown ever he see me wear;

and what could I wish for more?’ Now I’d a mind to scold her for going

to sell the gown unknown’st to me, but I don’t know how it was, I

couldn’t scold her just then, so kissed her, and Brian the same, and

that was what no man ever did before. And she had a mind to be angry

with him, but could not, nor ought not, says I, ‘for he’s as good

as your husband now, Grace; and no man can part yees now,’ says I,

putting their hands together. Well, I never saw her look so pretty;

nor there was not a happier boy that minute on God’s earth than my

son, nor a happier mother than myself; and I thanked God, that had

given them to me; and down they both fell on their knees for my

blessing, little worth as it was; and my heart’s blessing they had,

and I laid my hands upon them. ‘It’s the priest you must get to do

this for you to-morrow,’ says I. And Brian just held up the ring, to

show me all was ready on his part, but could not speak. ‘Then there’s

no America between us any more!’ said Grace, low to me, and her heart

was on her lips; but the colour came and went, and I was _afeard_

she’d have swooned again, but not for sorrow, so I carried her off.

Well, if she was not my own--but she is not my own born, so I may

say it--there never was a better girl, not a more kind-hearted, nor

generous; never thinking any thing she could do, or give, too much

for them she loved, and any thing at all would do for herself; the

sweetest natured and tempered both, and always was, from this high;

the bond that held all together, and joy of the house.”

“Just like her namesake,” cried Lord Colambre.

“Plase your honour!”

“Is not it late?” said Lord Colambre, stretching himself and gaping;

“I’ve walked a great way to-day.”

The old woman lighted his rushlight, showed him to his red check bed,

and wished him a very good night; not without some slight sentiment

of displeasure at his gaping thus at the panegyric on her darling

Grace. Before she left the room, however, her short-lived resentment

vanished, upon his saying, that he hoped, with her permission, to be

present at the wedding of the young couple.

Early in the morning Brian went to the priest, to ask his reverence

when it would be convenient to marry him; and whilst he was gone,

Mr. Dennis Garraghty came to the cottage, to receive the rent and

possession. The rent was ready, in gold, and counted into his hand.

“No occasion for a receipt; for a new _lase_ is a receipt in full for

every thing.”

“Very well, sir,” said the widow; “I know nothing of law. You know

best--whatever you direct--for you are acting as a friend to us now.

My son got the attorney to draw the pair of new _lases_ yesterday, and

here they are ready, all to signing.”

Mr. Dennis said, his brother must settle that part of the business,

and that they must carry them up to the castle; “but first give me the

possession.”

Then, as he instructed her, she gave up the key of the door to him,

and a bit of the thatch of the house; and he raked out the fire, and

said every living creature must go out. “It’s only form of law,” said

he.

“And must my lodger get up, and turn out, sir?” said she.

“He must turn out, to be sure--not a living soul must he left in it,

or it’s no legal possession, properly. Who is your lodger?”

On Lord Colambre’s appearing, Mr. Dennis showed some surprise, and

said, “I thought you were lodging at Brannagan’s; are not you the man

who spoke to me at his house about the gold mines?”

“No, sir, he never lodged at Brannagan’s,” said the widow.

“Yes, sir, I am the person who spoke to you about the gold mines at

Brannagan’s; but I did not like to lodge--”

“Well, no matter where you liked to lodge; you must walk out of this

lodging now, if you please, my good friend.”

So Mr. Dennis pushed his lordship out by the shoulders, repeating, as

the widow turned back, and looked with some surprise and alarm, “only

for form sake, only for form sake!” then locking the door, took the

key, and put it into his pocket. The widow held out her hand for it:

“The form’s gone through now, sir; is not it? Be plased to let us in

again.”

“When the new lease is signed, I’ll give you possession again; but not

till then--for that’s the law. So make away with you to the castle;

and mind,” added he, winking slily, “mind you take sealing-money with

you, and something to buy gloves.”

“Oh, where will I find all that?” said the widow.

“I have it, mother; don’t fret,” said Grace. “I have it--the price

of--what I can want[10]. So let us go off to the castle without delay.

Brian will meet us on the road, you know.”

They set off for Clonbrony Castle, Lord Colambre accompanying them.

Brian met them on the road. “Father Tom is ready, dear mother; bring

her in, and he’ll marry us. I’m not my own man till she’s mine. Who

knows what may happen?”

“Who knows? that’s true,” said the widow.

“Better go to the castle first,” said Grace.

“And keep the priest waiting! You can’t use his reverence so,” said

Brian.

So she let him lead her into the priest’s house, and she did not make

any of the awkward draggings back, or ridiculous scenes of grimace

sometimes exhibited on these occasions; but blushing rosy red, yet

with more self-possession than could have been expected from her timid

nature, she gave her hand to the man she loved, and listened with

attentive devotion to the holy ceremony.

“Ah!” thought Lord Colambre, whilst he congratulated the bride, “shall

I ever be as happy as these poor people are at this moment?” He longed

to make them some little present, but all he could venture at this

moment was to pay the priest’s dues.

The priest positively refused to take any thing.

“They are the best couple in my parish,” said he; “and I’ll take

nothing, sir, from you, a stranger and my guest.”

“Now, come what will, I’m a match for it. No trouble can touch me,”

said Brian.

“Oh, don’t be bragging,” said the widow.

“Whatever trouble God sends, he has given one now will help to bear

it, and sure I may be thankful,” said Grace.

“Such good hearts must be happy,--shall be happy!” said Lord Colambre.

“Oh, you’re very kind,” said the widow, smiling; “and I wouldn’t doubt

you, if you had the power. I hope, then, the agent will give you

encouragement about them mines, that we may keep you among us.”

“I am determined to settle among you, warm-hearted, generous people!”

cried Lord Colambre; “whether the agent gives me encouragement or

not,” added he.

It was a long walk to Clonbrony Castle; the old woman, as she said

herself, would not have been able for it, but for a _lift_ given to

her by a friendly carman, whom she overtook on the road with an empty

car. This carman was Finnucan, who dissipated Lord Colambre’s fears of

meeting and being recognized by Mrs. Raffarty; for he, in answer to

the question of “Who is at the castle?” replied, “Mrs. Raffarty will

be in it afore night; but she’s on the road still. There’s none

but Old Nick in it yet; and he’s more of a _neger_ than ever; for

think, that he would not pay me a farthing for the carriage of his

_shister’s_ boxes and band-boxes down. If you’re going to have any

dealings with him, God grant ye a safe deliverance!”

“Amen!” said the widow, and her son and daughter.

Lord Colambre’s attention was now engaged by the view of the castle

and park of Clonbrony. He had not seen it since he was six years old.

Some faint reminiscence from his childhood made him feel or fancy

that he knew the place. It was a fine castle, spacious park; but all

about it, from the broken piers at the great entrance, to the mossy

gravel and loose steps at the hall-door, had an air of desertion and

melancholy. Walks overgrown, shrubberies wild, plantations run up into

bare poles; fine trees cut down, and lying on the ground in lots to

be sold. A hill that had been covered with an oak wood, where in his

childhood our hero used to play, and which he called the black forest,

was gone; nothing to be seen but the white stumps of the trees, for

it had been freshly cut down, to make up the last remittances.--“And

how it went, when sold!--but no matter,” said Finnucan; “it’s all

alike.--It’s the back way into the yard, I’ll take you, I suppose.”

“And such a yard! but it’s no matter,” repeated Lord Colambre to

himself; “it’s all alike.”

In the kitchen, a great dinner was dressing for Mr. Garraghty’s

friends, who were to make merry with him when the business of the day

was over.

“Where’s the keys of the cellar, till I get out the claret for after

dinner,” says one; “and the wine for the cook--sure there’s venison,”

cries another.--“Venison!--That’s the way my lord’s deer goes,” says

a third, laughing.--“Ay, sure! and very proper, when he’s not here

to eat ‘em.”--“Keep your nose out of the kitchen, young man, if you

_plase_,” said the agent’s cook, shutting the door in Lord Colambre’s

face. “There’s the way to the office, if you’ve money to pay, up the

back stairs.”

“No; up the grand staircase they must,--Mr. Garraghty ordered,” said

the footman; “because the office is damp for him, and it’s not there

he’ll see any body to-day; but in my lady’s dressing-room.”

So up the grand staircase they went, and through the magnificent

apartments, hung with pictures of great value, spoiling with damp.

“Then, isn’t it a pity to see them? There’s my lady, and all

spoiling,” said the widow.

Lord Colambre stopped before a portrait of Miss Nugent--“Shamefully

damaged!” cried he.

“Pass on, or let me pass, if you _plase_,” said one of the tenants;

“and don’t be stopping the door-way.”

“I have business more nor you with the agent,” said the surveyor;

“where is he?”

“In the _presence-chamber_,” replied another: “Where should the

viceroy be but in the _presence-chamber_?”

There was a full levee, and fine smell of great coats.--“Oh! would you

put your hats on the silk cushions?” said the widow to some men in the

doorway, who were throwing off their greasy hats on a damask sofa.

“Why not? where else?”

“If the lady was in it, you wouldn’t,” said she, sighing.

“No, to be sure, I wouldn’t: great news! would I make no _differ_ in

the presence of Old Nick and my lady?” said he, in Irish. “Have I no

sense or manners, good woman, think ye?” added he, as he shook the ink

out of the pen on the Wilton carpet, when he had finished signing his

name to a paper on his knee.

“You may wait long before you get to the speech of the great man,”

said another, who was working his way through numbers.

They continued pushing forward, till they came within sight of Mr.

Nicholas Garraghty, seated in state; and a worse countenance, or a

more perfect picture of an insolent, petty tyrant in office, Lord

Colambre had never beheld.

We forbear all further detail of this levee. “It’s all the same!” as

Lord Colambre repeated to himself, on every fresh instance of roguery

or oppression to which he was witness; and having completely made

up his mind on the subject, he sat down quietly in the back-ground,

waiting till it should come to the widow’s turn to be dealt with, for

he was now interested only to see how she would be treated. The room

gradually thinned I Mr. Dennis Garraghty came in, and sat down at the

table, to help his brother to count the heaps of gold.

“Oh, Mr. Dennis, I’m glad to see you as kind as your promise, meeting

me here,” said the widow O’Neil, walking up to him;

“I’m sure you’ll speak a good word for me: here’s the _lases_--who

will I offer this to?” said she, holding the _glove-money_ and

_sealing-money_, “for I’m strange and ashamed.”

“Oh, don’t be ashamed--there’s no strangeness in bringing money or

taking it,” said Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, holding out his hand. “Is

this the proper compliment?”

“I hope so, sir: your honour knows best.”

“Very well,” slipping it into his private purse. “Now what’s your

business?”

“The _lases_ to sign--the rent’s all paid up.”

“Leases! Why, woman, is the possession given up?”

“It was, _plase_ your honour; and Mr. Dennis has the key of our little

place in his pocket.”

“Then I hope he’ll keep it there. _Your_ little place--it’s no longer

yours; I’ve promised it to the surveyor. You don’t think I’m such a

fool as to renew to you at this rent.”

“Mr. Dennis named the rent. But any thing your honour _plases_--any

thing at all that we can pay.”

“Oh, it’s out of the question--put it out of your head. No rent you

can offer would do, for I have promised it to the surveyor.”

“Sir, Mr. Dennis knows my lord gave us his promise in writing of a

renewal, on the back of the _ould lase_.”

“Produce it.”

“Here’s the _lase_, but the promise is rubbed out.”

“Nonsense! coming to me with a promise that’s rubbed out. Who’ll

listen to that in a court of justice, do you think?”

“I don’t know, plase your honour; but this I’m sure of, my lord and

Miss Nugent, though but a child at the time, God bless her! who was by

when my lord wrote it with his pencil, will remember it.”

“Miss Nugent! what can she know of business?--What has she to do with

the management of my Lord Clonbrony’s estate, pray?”

“Management!--no, sir.”

“Do you wish to get Miss Nugent turned out of the house?”

“Oh, God forbid!--how could that be?”

“Very easily; if you set about to make her meddle and witness in what

my lord does not choose.”

“Well, then, I’ll never mention Miss Nugent’s name in it at all, if it

was ever so with me. But be _plased_, sir, to write over to my lord,

and ask him; I’m sure he’ll remember it.”

“Write to my lord about such a trifle--trouble him about such

nonsense!”

“I’d be sorry to trouble him. Then take it on my word, and believe

me, sir; for I would not tell a lie, nor cheat rich or poor, if in my

power, for the whole estate, nor the whole world: for there’s an eye

above.”

“Cant! nonsense!--Take those leases off the table; I never will sign

them. Walk off, ye canting hag; it’s an imposition--I will never sign

them.”

“You _will_, then, sir,” cried Brian, growing red with indignation;

“for the law shall make you, so it shall; and you’d as good have been

civil to my mother, whatever you did--for I’ll stand by her while

I’ve life; and I know she has right, and shall have law. I saw the

memorandum written before ever it went into your hands, sir, whatever

became of it after; and will swear to it too.”

“Swear away, my good friend; much your swearing will avail in your own

case in a court of justice,” continued Old Nick.

“And against a gentleman of my brother’s established character and

property,” said St. Dennis. “What’s your mother’s character against a

gentleman’s like his?”

“Character! take care how you go to that, any way, sir,” cried Brian.

Grace put her hand before his mouth, to stop him.

“Grace, dear, I must speak, if I die for it; sure it’s for my mother,”

said the young man, struggling forward, while his mother held him

back; “I must speak.”

“Oh, he’s ruined, I see it,” said Grace, putting her hand before her

eyes, “and he won’t mind me.”

“Go on, let him go on, pray, young woman,” said Mr. Garraghty, pale

with anger and fear, his lips quivering; “I shall be happy to take

down his words.”

“Write them; and may all the world read it, and welcome!”

His mother and wife stopped his mouth by force.

“Write you, Dennis,” said Mr. Garraghty, giving the pen to his

brother; for his hand shook so he could not form a letter. “Write the

very words, and at the top” (pointing) “after warning, _with malice

prepense_.”

“Write, then--mother, Grace--let me,” cried Brian, speaking in a

smothered voice, as their hands were over his mouth. “Write then,

that, if you’d either of you a character like my mother, you might

defy the world; and your word would be as good as your oath.”

“_Oath!_ mind that, Dennis,” said Mr. Garraghty.

“Oh, sir! sir! won’t you stop him?” cried Grace, turning suddenly to

Lord Colambre.

“Oh, dear, dear, if you haven’t lost your feeling for us,” cried the

widow.

“Let him speak,” said Lord Colambre, in a tone of authority; “let the

voice of truth be heard.”

“_Truth!_” cried St. Dennis, and dropped the pen.

“And who the devil are you, sir?” said Old Nick.

“Lord Colambre, I protest!” exclaimed a female voice; and Mrs.

Raffarty at this instant appeared at the open door.

“Lord Colambre!” repeated all present, in different tones.

“My lord, I beg pardon,” continued Mrs. Raffarty, advancing as if

her legs were tied; “had I known you was down here, I would not have

presumed. I’d better retire; for I see you’re busy.”

“You’d best; for you’re mad, sister,” said St. Dennis, pushing her

back; “and we _are_ busy; go to your room, and keep quiet, if you

can.”

“First, madam,” said Lord Colambre, going between her and the door,

“let me beg that you will consider yourself as at home in this house,

whilst any circumstances make it desirable to you. The hospitality you

showed me you cannot think I now forget.”

“Oh, my lord, you’re too good--how few--too kind--kinder than my own;”

and, bursting into tears, she escaped out of the room.

Lord Colambre returned to the party round the table, who were in

various attitudes of astonishment, and with faces of fear, horror,

hope, joy, doubt.

“Distress,” continued his lordship, “however incurred, if not by vice,

will always find a refuge in this house. I speak in my father’s name,

for I know I speak his sentiments. But never more shall vice,” said

he, darting such a look at the brother agents as they felt to the

back-bone--“never more shall vice, shall fraud enter here.”

He paused, and there was a momentary silence.

“There spoke the true thing! and the _rael_ gentleman; my own heart’s

satisfied,” said Brian, folding his arms, and standing erect.

“Then so is mine,” said Grace, taking breath, with a deep sigh.

The widow advancing, put on her spectacles, and, looking up close at

Lord Colambre’s face--“Then it’s a wonder I didn’t know the family

likeness.”

Lord Colambre, now recollecting that he still wore the old great coat,

threw it off.

“Oh, bless him! Then now I’d know him any where. I’m willing to die

now, for we’ll all be happy.”

“My lord, since it is so--my lord, may I ask you,” said Mr. Garraghty,

now sufficiently recovered to be able to articulate, but scarcely to

express his ideas; “if what your lordship hinted just now--”

“I hinted nothing, sir; I spoke plainly.”

“I beg pardon, my lord,” said Old Nick; “respecting vice, was levelled

at me; because, if it was, my lord,” trying to stand erect; “let me

tell your lordship, if I could think it was--”

“If it did not hit you, sir, no matter at whom it was levelled.”

“And let me ask, my lord, if I may presume, whether, in what you

suggested by the word fraud, your lordship had any particular

meaning?” said St. Dennis.

“A very particular meaning, sir--feel in your pocket for the key of

this widow’s house, and deliver it to her.”

“Oh, if that’s all the meaning, with all the pleasure in life. I never

meant to detain it longer than till the leases were signed,” said St.

Dennis.

“And I’m ready to sign the leases this minute,” said the brother.

“Do it, sir, this minute; I have read them; I will be answerable to my

father.”

“Oh, as to that, my lord, I have power to sign for your father.”

He signed the leases; they were duly witnessed by Lord Colambre.

“I deliver this as my act and deed,” said Mr. Garraghty:

“My lord,” continued he, “you see, at the first word from you; and had

I known sooner the interest you took in the family, there would have

been no difficulty; for I’d make it a principle to oblige you, my

lord.”

“Oblige me!” said Lord Colambre, with disdain.

“But when gentlemen and noblemen travel _incognito_, and lodge in

cabins,” added St. Dennis, with a satanic smile, glancing his eye on

Grace, “they have good reasons, no doubt.”

“Do not judge my heart by your own, sir,” said Lord Colambre, coolly;

“no two things in nature can, I trust, be more different. My purpose

in travelling _incognito_ has been fully answered: I was determined to

see and judge how my father’s estates were managed; and I have seen,

compared, and judged. I have seen the difference between the Clonbrony

and the Colambre property; and I shall represent what I have seen to

my father.”

“As to that, my lord, if we are to come to that--but I trust your

lordship will suffer me to explain these matters. Go about your

business, my good friends; you have all you want; and, my lord, after

dinner, when you are cool, I hope I shall be able to make you sensible

that things have been represented to your lordship in a mistaken

light; and, I flatter myself, I shall convince you, I have not only

always acted the part of a friend to the family, but am particularly

willing to conciliate your lordship’s good-will,” said he, sweeping

the rouleaus of gold into a bag; “any accommodation in my power, at

any time.”

“I want no accommodation, sir--were I starving, I would accept of none

from you. Never can you conciliate my good-will; for you can never

deserve it.”

“If that be the case, my lord, I must conduct myself accordingly: but

it’s fair to warn you, before you make any representation to my Lord

Clonbrony, that, if he should think of changing his agent, there are

accounts to be settled between us--that may be a consideration.”

“No, sir; no consideration--my father never shall be the slave of such

a paltry consideration.”

“Oh, very well, my lord; you know best. If you choose to make an

assumpsit, I’m sure I shall not object to the security. Your lordship

will be of age soon, I know--I’m sure I’m satisfied--but,” added he,

with a malicious smile, “I rather apprehend you don’t know what you

undertake: I only premise that the balance of accounts between us is

not what can properly be called a paltry consideration.”

“On that point, perhaps, sir, you and I may differ.”

“Very well, my lord, you will follow your own principles, if it suits

your convenience.”

“Whether it does or not, sir, I shall abide by my principles.”

“Dennis! the letters to the post--When do you go to England, my lord?”

“Immediately, sir,” said Lord Colambre: his lordship saw new leases

from his father to Mr. Dennis Garraghty, lying on the table, unsigned.

“Immediately!” repeated Messrs. Nicholas and Dennis, with an air of

dismay. Nicholas got up, looked out of the window, and whispered

something to his brother, who instantly left the room.

Lord Colambre saw the postchaise at the door, which had brought Mrs.

Raffarty to the castle, and Larry standing beside it: his lordship

instantly threw up the sash, and holding between his finger and thumb

a six shilling piece, cried, “Larry, my friend, let me have the

horses.”

“You shall have ‘em--your honour,” said Larry.

Mr. Dennis Garraghty appeared below, speaking in a magisterial tone.

“Larry, my brother must have the horses.”

“He can’t, _plase_ your honour--they’re engaged.”

“Half a crown!--a crown!--half a guinea!” said Mr. Dennis Garraghty,

raising his voice, as he increased his proffered bribe. To each offer

Larry replied, “You can’t, _plase_ your honour, they’re engaged;” and,

looking up to the window at Lord Colambre, he said, “As soon as they

have ate their oats, you shall have ‘em.”

No other horses were to be had. The agent was in consternation. Lord

Colambre ordered that Larry should have some dinner, and whilst the

postilion was eating, and the horses finished their oats, his lordship

wrote the following letter to his father, which, to prevent all

possibility of accident, he determined to put, with his own hand, into

the post-office at Clonbrony, as he passed through the town.

“MY DEAR FATHER,

“I hope to be with you in a few days. Lest any thing should detain

me on the road, I write this, to make an earnest request, that you

will not sign any papers, or transact any farther business with

Messrs. Nicholas or Dennis Garraghty before you see

“Your affectionate son,

“COLAMBRE.”

The horses came out. Larry sent word he was ready, and Lord Colambre,

having first eaten a slice of his own venison, ran down to the

carriage, followed by the thanks and blessings of the widow, her

son, and daughter, who could hardly make their way after him to the

chaise-door, so great was the crowd which had gathered on the report

of his lordship’s arrival.

“Long life to your honour! Long life to your lordship!” echoed on all

sides. “Just come, and going, are you?”

“Good bye to you all, good people!”

“Then _good bye_ is the only word we wouldn’t wish to hear from your

honour.”

“For the sake both of landlord and tenant, I must leave you now, my

good friends; but I hope to return to you at some future time.”

“God bless you! and speed ye! and a safe journey to your honour!--and

a happy return to us, and soon!” cried a multitude of voices.

Lord Colambre stopped at the chaise-door, and beckoned to the widow

O’Neil, before whom others had pressed. An opening was made for her

instantly.

“There! that was the very way his father stood, with his foot on the

step. And Miss Nugent was _in it_.”

Lord Colambre forgot what he was going to say,--with some difficulty

recollected. “This pocket-book,” said he, “which your son restored to

me--I intend it for your daughter--don’t keep it as your son kept it

for me, without opening it. Let what is withinside,” added he, as he

got into the carriage, “replace the cloak and gown, and let all things

necessary for a bride be bought; ‘for the bride that has all things to

borrow has surely mickle to do.’ Shut the door, and drive on.”

“Blessings be _wid_ you,” cried the widow, “and God give you grace!”

CHAPTER XIII.

Larry drove off at full gallop, and kept on at a good rate, till he

got out of the great gate, and beyond the sight of the crowd: then,

pulling up, he turned to Lord Colambre--“_Plase_ your honour, I did

not know nor guess ye was my lord, when I let you have the horses: did

not know who you was from Adam, I’ll take my affidavit.”

“There’s no occasion,” said Lord Colambre; “I hope you don’t repent

letting me have the horses, now you do know who I am?”

“Oh! not at all, sure: I’m as glad as the best horse ever I crossed,

that your honour is my lord--but I was only telling your honour, that

you might not be looking upon me as a _timesarver_.”

“I do not look upon you as a _timesarver_, Larry; but keep on, that

time may serve me.”

In two words, he explained his cause of haste; and no sooner explained

than understood. Larry thundered away through the town of Clonbrony,

bending over his horses, plying the whip, and lending his very soul at

every lash. With much difficulty, Lord Colambre stopped him at the end

of the town, at the post-office. The post was gone out--gone a quarter

of an hour.

“May be, we’ll overtake the mail,” said Larry: and, as he spoke,

he slid down from his seat, and darted into the public-house,

re-appearing, in a few moments, with a _copper_ of ale and a horn in

his hand: he and another man held open the horses’ mouths, and poured

the ale through the horn down their throats.

“Now, they’ll go with spirit!”

And, with the hope of overtaking the mail, Larry made them go “for

life or death,” as he said: but in vain! At the next stage, at his own

inn-door, Larry roared for fresh horses till he, got them, harnessed

them with his own hands, holding the six shilling piece, which Lord

Colambre had given him, in his mouth, all the while: for he could not

take time to put it into his pocket.

“Speed ye! I wish I was driving you all the way, then,” said he.

The other postilion was not yet ready. “Then your honour sees,”

said he, putting his head into the carriage, “_consarning_ of them

Garraghties--Old Nick and St. Dennis--the best part, that is, the

worst part, of what I told you, proved true; and I’m glad of it, that

is, I’m sorry for it--but glad your honour knows it in time. So Heaven

prosper you! And may all the saints (_barring_ St. Dennis) have charge

of you, and all belonging to you, till we see you here again!--And

when will it be?”

“I cannot say when I shall return to you myself, but I will do my best

to send your landlord to you soon. In the mean time, my good fellow,

keep away from the sign of the Horseshoe--a man of your sense to drink

and make an idiot and a brute of yourself!”

“True!--And it was only when I had lost hope I took to it--but now!

Bring me the book one of _yees_, out of the landlady’s parlour. By

the virtue of this book, and by all the books that ever was shut and

opened, I won’t touch a drop of spirits, good or bad, till I see your

honour again, or some of the family, this time twelvemonth--that long

I live on hope,--but mind, if you disappoint me, I don’t swear but

I’ll take to the whiskey for comfort, all the rest of my days. But

don’t be staying here, wasting your time, advising me. Bartley! take

the reins, can’t ye?” cried he, giving them to the fresh postilion;

“and keep on, for your life, for there’s thousands of pounds depending

on the race--so off, off, Bartley, with speed of light!”

Bartley did his best; and such was the excellence of the roads, that,

notwithstanding the rate at which our hero travelled, he arrived

safely in Dublin, just in time to put his letter into the post-office,

and to sail in that night’s packet. The wind was fair when Lord

Colambre went on board, but before they got out of the Bay it changed;

they made no way all night: in the course of the next day, they had

the mortification to see another packet from Dublin sail past them,

and when they landed at Holyhead, were told the packet, which had left

Ireland twelve hours after them, had been in an hour before them.

The passengers had taken their places in the coach, and engaged what

horses could be had. Lord Colambre was afraid that Mr. Garraghty was

one of them; a person exactly answering his description had taken four

horses, and set out half an hour before in great haste for London.

Luckily, just as those who had taken their places in the mail were

getting into the coach, Lord Colambre saw among them a gentleman, with

whom he had been acquainted in Dublin, a barrister, who was come over

during the long vacation, to make a tour of pleasure in England. When

Lord Colambre explained the reason he had for being in haste to reach

London, he had the good-nature to give up to him his place in the

coach. Lord Colambre travelled all night, and delayed not one moment,

till he reached his father’s house, in London.

“My father at home?”

“Yes, my lord, in his own room--the agent from Ireland with him, on

particular business--desired not to be interrupted--but I’ll go and

tell him, my lord, you are come.”

Lord Colambre ran past the servant, as he spoke--made his way into the

room--found his father, Sir Terence O’Fay, and Mr. Garraghty--leases

open on the table before them; a candle lighted; Sir Terence sealing;

Garraghty emptying a bag of guineas on the table, and Lord Clonbrony

actually with a pen in his hand, ready to sign.

As the door opened, Garraghty started back, so that half the contents

of his bag rolled upon the floor.

“Stop, my dear father, I conjure you,” cried Lord Colambre, springing

forward, and snatching the pen from his father’s hand.

“Colambre! God bless you, my dear boy! at all events. But how came you

here?--And what do you mean?” said his father.

“Burn it!” cried Sir Terence, pinching the sealing-wax; “for I burnt

myself with the pleasure of the surprise.”

Garraghty, without saying a word, was picking up the guineas that were

scattered upon the floor.

“How fortunate I am,” cried Lord Colambre, “to have arrived just in

time to tell you, my dear father, before you put your signature to

these papers, before you conclude this bargain, all I know, all I have

seen of that man!”

“Nick Garraghty, honest old Nick; do you know him, my lord?” said Sir

Terence.

“Too well, sir.”

“Mr. Garraghty, what have you done to offend my son? I did not expect

this,” said Lord Clonbrony.

“Upon my conscience, my lord, nothing to my knowledge,” said Mr.

Garraghty, picking up the guineas; “but showed him every civility,

even so far as offering to accommodate him with cash without security;

and where will you find the other agent, in Ireland, or any where

else, will do that? To my knowledge, I never did any thing, by word

or deed, to offend my Lord Colambre; nor could not, for I never

saw him but for ten minutes, in my days; and then he was in such

a foaming passion, begging his lordship’s pardon, owing to the

misrepresentations he met with of me, I presume, from a parcel of

blackguards that he went amongst, _incognito_, he would not let me or

my brother Dennis say a word to set him right; but exposed me before

all the tenantry, and then threw himself into a hack, and drove off

here, to stop the signing of these leases, I perceive. But I trust,”

concluded he, putting the replenished money-bag down, with a heavy

sound on the table, opposite to Lord Clonbrony, “I trust my Lord

Clonbrony will do me justice; that’s all I have to say.”

“I comprehend the force of your last argument fully, sir,” said Lord

Colambre. “May I ask, how many guineas there are in the bag?--I don’t

ask whether they are my father’s or not.”

“They are to be your lordship’s father’s, sir, if he thinks proper,”

replied Garraghty. “How many, I don’t know that I can justly,

positively say--five hundred, suppose.”

“And they would be my father’s, if he signed those leases--I

understand that perfectly, and understand that my father will lose

three times that sum by the bargain. My dear father, you start--but it

is true--is not this the rent, sir, at which you are going to let Mr.

Garraghty have the land?” placing a paper before Lord Clonbrony.

“It is--the very thing.”

“And here, sir, written with my own hand, are copies of the proposals

I saw from responsible, respectable tenants, offered and refused. Is

it so, or is it not, Mr. Garraghty?--deny it, if you can.”

Mr. Garraghty grew pale; his lips quivered; he stammered; and, after

a shocking convulsion of face, could at last articulate--only, “That

there was a great difference between tenant and tenant, his lordship

must be sensible--especially for so large a rent.”

“As great a difference as between agent and agent, I am

sensible--especially for so large a property!” said Lord Colambre,

with cool contempt. “You find, sir, I am well informed with regard to

this transaction; you will find, also, that I am equally well informed

with respect to every part of your conduct towards my father and his

tenantry. If, in relating to him what I have seen and heard, I should

make any mistakes, you are here; and I am glad you are, to set me

right, and to do yourself justice.”

“Oh! as to that, I should not presume to contradict any thing your

lordship asserts from your own authority: where would be the use?

I leave it all to your lordship. But, as it is not particularly

agreeable to stay to hear one’s self abused--Sir Terence! I’ll thank

you to hand me my hat!--And if you’ll have the goodness, my Lord

Clonbrony, to look over finally the accounts before morning, I’ll

call at your leisure to settle the balance, as you find convenient:

as to the leases, I’m quite indifferent.” So saying, he took up his

money-bag.

“Well, you’ll call again in the morning, Mr. Garraghty?” said

Sir Terence; “and, by that time, I hope we shall understand this

misunderstanding better.”

Sir Terence pulled Lord Clonbrony’s sleeve: “Don’t let him go with the

money--it’s much wanted.”

“Let him go,” said Lord Colambre: “money can be had by honourable

means.”

“Wheugh!--He talks as if he had the bank of England at his command, as

every young man does,” said Sir Terence.

Lord Colambre deigned no reply. Lord Clonbrony walked undecidedly

between his agent and his son--looked at Sir Terence, and said

nothing.

Mr. Garraghty departed: Lord Clonbrony called after him from the head

of the stairs, “I shall be at home and at leisure in the morning.”

Sir Terence ran down stairs after him: Lord Colambre waited quietly

for their return.

“Fifteen hundred guineas at a stroke of a goose-quill!--That was a

neat hit, narrowly missed, of honest Nick’s!” said Lord Clonbrony.

“Too bad! too bad, faith!--I am much, very much obliged to you,

Colambre, for that hint: by to-morrow morning we shall have him in

another tune.”

“And he must double the bag, or quit,” said Sir Terence.

“Treble it, if you please, Terry. Sure, three times five’s

fifteen:--fifteen hundred down, or he does not get my signature to

those leases for his brother, nor get the agency of the Colambre

estate.--Colambre, what more have you to tell of him? for, since he

is making out his accounts against me, it is no harm to have a _per

contra_ against him, that may ease my balance.”

“Very fair! very fair!” said Sir Terence. “My lord, trust me for

remembering all the charges against him--every item: and when he can’t

clear himself, if I don’t make him buy a good character dear enough,

why, say I am a fool, and don’t know the value of character, good or

bad!”

“If you know the value of character, Sir Terence,” said Lord Colambre,

“you know that it is not to be bought or sold.” Then turning from Sir

Terence to his father, he gave a full and true account of all he had

seen in his progress through his Irish estates; and drew a faithful

picture both of the bad and good agent. Lord Clonbrony, who had

benevolent feelings, and was fond of his tenantry, was touched; and

when his son ceased speaking, repeated several times, “Rascal! rascal!

How dare he use my tenants so--the O’Neills in particular!--Rascal!

bad heart!--I’ll have no more to do with him.” But, suddenly

recollecting himself, he turned to Sir Terence, and added, “That’s

sooner said than done--I’ll tell you honestly, Colambre, your friend

Mr. Burke may he the best man in the world--but he is the worst man to

apply to for a remittance or a loan, in a HURRY! He always tells me,

‘he can’t distress the tenants.’”

“And he never, at coming into the agency even,” said Sir Terence,

“_advanced_ a good round sum to the landlord, by way of security for

his good behaviour. Now honest Nick did that much for us at coming

in.”

“And at going out is he not to be repaid?” said Lord Colambre.

“That’s the devil!” said Lord Clonbrony: “that’s the very reason I

can’t conveniently turn him out.”

“I will make it convenient to you, sir, if you will permit me,” said

Lord Colambre. “In a few days I shall be of age, and will join with

you in raising whatever sum you want, to free you from this man. Allow

me to look over his account; and whatever the honest balance may be,

let him have it.”

“My dear boy!” said Lord Clonbrony, “you’re a generous fellow. Fine

Irish heart!--glad you’re my son! But there’s more, much more, that

you don’t know,” added he, looking at Sir Terence, who cleared his

throat; and Lord Clonbrony, who was on the point of opening all his

affairs to his son, stopped short.

“Colambre,” said he, “we will not say any thing more of this at

present; for nothing effectual can be done till you are of age, and

then we shall see all about it.”

Lord Colambre perfectly understood what his father meant, and what was

meant by the clearing of Sir Terence’s throat. Lord Clonbrony wanted

his son to join him in opening the estate to pay his debts; and Sir

Terence feared that if Lord Colambre were abruptly told the whole sum

total of the debts, he would never be persuaded to join in selling or

mortgaging so much of his patrimony as would be necessary for their

payment. Sir Terence thought that the young man, ignorant probably of

business, and unsuspicious of the state of his father’s affairs, might

be brought, by proper management, to any measures they desired. Lord

Clonbrony wavered between the temptation to throw himself upon the

generosity of his son, and the immediate convenience of borrowing a

sum of money from his agent, to relieve his present embarrassments.

“Nothing can be settled,” repeated he, “till Colambre is of age; so it

does not signify talking of it.”

“Why so, sir?” said Lord Colambre. “Though my act, in law, may not be

valid till I am of age, my promise, as a man of honour, is binding

now; and, I trust, would be as satisfactory to my father as any legal

deed whatever.”

“Undoubtedly, my dear boy; but--”

“But what?” said Lord Colambre, following his father’s eye, which

turned to Sir Terence O’Fay, as if asking his permission to explain.

“As my father’s friend, sir, you ought, permit me to say, at this

moment to use your influence to prevail upon him to throw aside all

reserve with a son, whose warmest wish is to serve him, and to see him

at ease and happy.”

“Generous, dear boy,” cried Lord Clonbrony. “Terence, I can’t stand

it; but how shall I bring myself to name the amount of the debts?”

“At some time or other, I must know it,” said Lord Colambre: “I cannot

be better prepared at any moment than the present; never more disposed

to give my assistance to relieve all difficulties. Blindfold, I cannot

be led to any purpose, sir,” said he, looking at Sir Terence: “the

attempt would be degrading and futile. Blindfolded I will not be--but,

with my eyes open, I will see, and go straight and prompt as heart can

go, to my father’s interest, without a look or thought to my own.”

“By St. Patrick! the spirit of a prince, and an Irish prince, spoke

there,” cried Sir Terence: “and if I’d fifty hearts, you’d have all in

your hand this minute, at your service, and warm. Blindfold you! After

that, the man that would attempt it _desarves_ to be shot; and I’d

have no sincerer pleasure in life than shooting him this moment, was

he my best friend. But it’s not Clonbrony, or your father, my lord,

would act that way, no more than Sir Terence O’Fay--there’s the

schedule of the debts,” drawing a paper from his bosom; “and I’ll

swear to the lot, and not a man on earth could do that but myself.”

Lord Colambre opened the paper. His father turned aside, covering his

face with both his hands.

“Tut, man,” said Sir Terence: “I know him now better than you; he will

stand, you’ll find, the shock of that regiment of figures--he is steel

to the backbone, and proof spirit.”

“I thank you, my dear father,” said Lord Colambre, “for trusting

me thus at once with a view of the truth. At first sight it is, I

acknowledge, worse than I expected; but I make no doubt that, when

you allow me to examine Mr. Garraghty’s accounts and Mr. Mordicai’s

claims, we shall be able to reduce this alarming total considerably.”

“The devil a pound, nor a penny,” said Sir Terence; “for you have to

deal with a Jew and Old Nick; and, since I’m not a match for them, I

don’t know who is; and I have no hope of getting any abatement. I’ve

looked over the accounts till I’m sick.”

“Nevertheless, you will observe that fifteen hundred guineas have been

saved to my father at one stroke, by his not signing those leases.”

“Saved to you, my lord; not your father, if you please,” said Sir

Terence. “For now I’m upon the square with you, I must be straight

as an arrow, and deal with you as the son and friend of my friend:

before, I was considering you only as the son and heir, which is quite

another thing, you know; accordingly, acting for your father here,

I was making the best bargain against you I could: honestly, now, I

tell you. I knew the value of the lands well enough: I was as sharp

as Garraghty, and he knew it; I was to have had for your father

_the difference_ from him, partly in cash and partly in balance of

accounts--you comprehend--and you only would have been the loser, and

never would have known it, may be, till after we all were dead and

buried; and then you might have set aside Garraghty’s lease easy, and

no harm done to any but a rogue that _desarved_ it; and, in the mean

time, an accommodation to my honest friend, my lord, your father here.

But, as fate would have it, you upset all by your progress incognito

through them estates. Well, it’s best as it is, and I am better

pleased to be as we are, trusting all to a generous son’s own heart.

Now put the poor father out of pain, and tell us what you’ll do, my

dear.”

“In one word, then,” said Lord Colambre, “I will, upon two conditions,

either join my father in levying fines to enable him to sell or

mortgage whatever portion of his estate is necessary for the payment

of these debts; or I will, in whatever mode he can point out, as more

agreeable or more advantageous to him, join in giving security to his

creditors.”

“Dear, noble fellow!” cried Sir Terence: “none but an Irishman could

do it.”

Lord Clonbrony, melted to tears, could not articulate, but held his

arms open to embrace his son.

“But you have not heard my conditions yet,” said Lord Colambre.

“Oh, confound the conditions!” cried Sir Terence.

“What conditions could he ask, that I could refuse at this minute?”

said Lord Clonbrony.

“Nor I--was it my heart’s blood, and were I to be hanged for it,”

cried Sir Terence. “And what are the conditions?”

“That Mr. Garraghty shall be dismissed from the agency.”

“And welcome, and glad to get rid of him--the rogue, the tyrant,” said

Lord Clonbrony; “and, to be beforehand with you in your next wish, put

Mr. Burke into his place.”

“I’ll write the letter for you to sign, my lord, this minute,” cried

Terry, “with all the pleasure in life. No; it’s my Lord Colambre

should do that in all justice.”

“But what’s your next condition? I hope it’s no worse,” said Lord

Clonbrony.

“That you and my mother should cease to be absentees.”

“Oh, murder!” said Sir Terence; “may be that’s not so easy; for there

are two words to that bargain.”

Lord Clonbrony declared that, for his own part, he was ready to return

to Ireland next morning, and to promise to reside on his estate all

the rest of his days; that there was nothing he desired more, provided

Lady Clonbrony would consent to it; but that he could not promise for

her; that she was as obstinate as a mule on that point; that he had

often tried, but that there was no moving her; and that, in short, he

could not promise on her part.

But it was on this condition, Lord Colambre said, he must insist.

Unless this condition were granted, he would not engage to do any

thing.

“Well, we must only see how it will be when she comes to town; she

will come up from Buxton the day you’re of age to sign some papers,”

said Lord Clonbrony; “but,” added he with a very dejected look and

voice, “if all’s to depend on my Lady Clonbrony’s consenting to return

to Ireland, I’m as far from all hope of being at ease as ever.”

“Upon my conscience, we’re all at sea again,” said Sir Terence.

Lord Colambre was silent; but in his silence there was such an air

of firmness, that both Lord Clonbrony and Sir Terence were convinced

entreaties would, on this point, be fruitless. Lord Clonbrony sighed

deeply.

“But when it’s ruin or safety! and her husband and all belonging to

her at stake, the woman can’t persist in being a mule,” said Sir

Terence.

“Of whom are you talking, sir?” said Lord Colambre.

“Of whom? Oh, I beg your lordship’s pardon--I thought I was talking to

my lord; but, in other words, as you are her son, I’m persuaded her

ladyship, your mother, will prove herself a reasonable woman--when she

sees she can’t help it. So, my Lord Clonbrony, cheer up; a great deal

may be done by the fear of Mordicai, and an execution, especially now

there’s no prior creditor. Since there’s no reserve between you and

I now, my Lord Colambre,” said Sir Terence, “I must tell you all,

and how we shambled on those months while you were in Ireland. First,

Mordicai went to law, to prove I was in a conspiracy with your father,

pretending to be prior creditor, to keep him off and out of his own;

which, after a world of swearing and law--law always takes time to do

justice, that’s one comfort--the villain proved at last to be true

enough, and so cast us; and I was forced to be paid off last week. So

there’s no prior creditor, or any shield of pretence that way. Then

his execution was coming down upon us, and nothing to stay it till I

thought of a monthly annuity to Mordicai, in the shape of a wager.

So the morning after he cast us, I went to him: ‘Mr. Mordicai,’ says

I, ‘you must be _plased_ to see a man you’ve beaten so handsomely;

and though I’m sore, both for myself and my friend, yet you see I

can laugh still, though an execution is no laughing matter, and

I’m sensible you’ve one in petto in your sleeve for my friend Lord

Clonbrony. But I’ll lay you a wager of a hundred guineas on paper,

that a marriage of his son with an heiress, before next Lady-day, will

set all to rights, and pay you with a compliment too.”

“Good heavens, Sir Terence! surely you said no such thing?”

“I did--but what was it but a wager? which is nothing but a dream;

and, when lost, as I am as sensible as you are that it must be, why

what is it, after all, but a bonus, in a gentlemanlike form, to

Mordicai? which, I grant you, is more than he deserves--for staying

the execution till you be of age; and even for my Lady Clonbrony’s

sake, though I know she hates me like poison, rather than have her

disturbed by an execution, I’d pay the hundred guineas this minute out

of my own pocket, if I had ‘em in it.”

A thundering knock at the door was heard at this moment.

“Never heed it; let ‘em thunder,” said Sir Terence: “whoever it is,

they won’t get in; for my lord bid them let none in for their life.

It’s necessary for us to be very particular about the street-door

now; and I advise a double chain for it, and to have the footmen well

tutored to look before they run to a double rap; for a double rap

might be a double trap.”

“My lady and Miss Nugent, my lord,” said a footman, throwing open the

door.

“My mother! Miss Nugent!” cried Lord Colambre, springing eagerly

forward.

“Colambre! Here!” said his mother: “but it’s all too late now, and no

matter where you are.”

Lady Clonbrony coldly suffered her son to embrace her; and he, without

considering the coldness of her manner, scarcely hearing, and not at

all understanding, the words she said, fixed his eyes on his cousin,

who, with a countenance all radiant with affectionate joy, held out

her hand to him.

“Dear cousin Colambre, what an unexpected pleasure!”

He seized the hand; but, as he was going to kiss it, the recollection

of _St. Omar_ crossed his mind: he checked himself, and said something

about joy and pleasure, but his countenance expressed neither; and

Miss Nugent, much surprised by the coldness of his manner, withdrew

her hand, and, turning away, left the room.

“Grace! darling!” called Lord Clonbrony, “whither so fast, before

you’ve given me a word or a kiss?”

She came back, and hastily kissed her uncle, who folded her in his

arms. “Why must I let you go? And what makes you so pale, my dear

child?”

“I am a little, a little tired--I will be with you again soon.”

Her uncle let her go.

“Your famous Buxton baths don’t seem to have agreed with her, by all I

can see,” said Lord Clonbrony.

“My lord, the Buxton baths are no way to blame; but I know what is

to blame and who is to blame,” said Lady Clonbrony, in a tone of

displeasure, fixing her eyes upon her son. “Yes, you may well look

confounded, Colambre; but it is too late now--you should have known

your own mind in time. I see you have heard it, then--but I am sure

I don’t know how; for it was only decided the day I left Buxton. The

news could hardly travel faster than I did. Pray how did you hear it?”

“Hear what, ma’am?” said Colambre.

“Why, that Miss Broadhurst is going to be married.”

“All! Now, Lord Colambre, you _reelly_ are too much for my patience.

But I flatter myself you will feel, when I tell you that it is your

friend, Sir Arthur Berryl, as I always prophesied, who has carried off

the prize from you.”

“But for the fear of displeasing my dear mother, I should say, that

I do feel sincere pleasure in this marriage--I always wished it: my

friend, Sir Arthur, from the first moment, trusted me with the secret

of his attachment; he knew that he had my warm good wishes for his

success; he knew that I thought most highly of the young lady; but

that I never thought of her as a wife for myself.”

“And why did not you? that is the very thing I complain of,” said Lady

Clonbrony. “But it is all over now. You may set your heart at ease,

for they are to be married on Thursday; and poor Mrs. Broadhurst is

ready to break her heart, for she was set upon a coronet for her

daughter; and you, ungrateful as you are, you don’t know how she

wished you to be the happy man. But only conceive, after all that

has passed, Miss Broadhurst had the assurance to expect I would let

my niece be her bride’s-maid. Oh, I flatly refused; that is, I told

Grace it could not be; and, that there might be no affront to Mrs.

Broadhurst, who did not deserve it, I pretended Grace had never

mentioned it; but ordered my carriage, and left Buxton directly. Grace

was hurt, for she is very warm in her friendships. I am sorry to hurt

Grace. But _reelly_ I could not let her be bride’s-maid:--and that, if

you must know, is what vexed her, and made the tears come in her eyes,

I suppose--and I’m sorry for it; but one must keep up one’s dignity a

little. After all, Miss Broadhurst was only a citizen--and _reelly_

now, a very odd girl; never did any thing like any body else; settled

her marriage at last in the oddest way. Grace can tell you the

particulars. I own, I am tired of the subject, and tired of my

journey. My lord, I shall take leave to dine in my own room to-day,”

continued her ladyship, as she quitted the room.

“I hope her ladyship did not notice me,” said Sir Terence O’Fay,

coming from behind a window-curtain.

“Why, Terry, what did you hide for?” said Lord Clonbrony.

“Hide! I didn’t hide, nor wouldn’t from any man living, _let alone_

any woman.[11] Hide! no; but I just stood looking out of the window,

behind this curtain, that my poor Lady Clonbrony might not be

discomfited and shocked by the sight of one whom she can’t abide, the

very minute she come home. Oh, I’ve some consideration--it would have

put her out of humour worse with both of you too; and for that there’s

no need, as far as I see. So I’ll take myself off to my coffee-house

to dine, and may be you may get her down and into spirits again. But,

for your lives, don’t touch upon Ireland this night, nor till she has

fairly got the better of the marriage. _Apropos_--there’s my wager

to Mordicai gone at a slap. It’s I that ought to be scolding you, my

Lord Colambre; but I trust you will do as well yet, not in point of

purse, may be. But I’m not one of those that think that money’s every

thing--though, I grant you, in this world there’s nothing to be had

without it--love excepted,--which most people don’t believe in--but

not I--in particular cases. So I leave you, with my blessing, and I’ve

a notion, at this time, that is better than my company--your most

devoted.”

The good-natured Sir Terence would not be persuaded by Lord Clonbrony

to stay. Nodding at Lord Colambre as he went out of the room, he

said, “I’ve an eye, in going, to your heart’s ease too. When I played

myself, I never liked standers-by.”

Sir Terence was not deficient in penetration, but he never could help

boasting of his discoveries.

Lord Colambre was grateful for his judicious departure; and followed

his equally judicious advice, not to touch upon Ireland this night.

Lady Clonbrony was full of Buxton, and he was glad to be relieved from

the necessity of talking; and he indulged himself in considering what

might be passing in Miss Nugent’s mind. She now appeared in remarkably

good spirits; for her aunt had given her a hint that she thought

her out of humour because she had not been permitted to be Miss

Broadhurst’s bride’s-maid, and she was determined to exert herself

to dispel this notion. This it was now easy for her to do, because

she had, by this time, in her own imagination, found a plausible

excuse for that coldness in Lord Colambre’s reception of her, by

which she had at first been hurt: she had settled it, that he had

taken it for granted she was of his mother’s sentiments respecting

Miss Broadhurst’s marriage, and that this idea, and perhaps the

apprehension of her reproaches, had caused this embarrassment--she

knew that she could easily set this misunderstanding right.

Accordingly, when Lady Clonbrony had talked herself to sleep about

Buxton, and was taking her afternoon’s nap, as it was her custom to do

when she had neither cards nor company to keep her awake, Miss Nugent

began to explain her own sentiments, and to give Lord Colambre, as her

aunt had desired, an account of the manner in which Miss Broadhurst’s

marriage had been settled.

“In the first place,” said she, “let me assure you, that I rejoice in

this marriage: I think your friend, Sir Arthur Berryl, is every way

deserving of my friend Miss Broadhurst; and this from me,” said she,

smiling, “is no slight eulogium. I have marked the rise and progress

of their attachment; and it has been founded on the perception of

such excellent qualities on each side, that I have no fear for its

permanence. Sir Arthur Berryl’s honourable conduct in paying his

father’s debts, and his generosity to his mother and sisters, whose

fortunes were left entirely dependent upon him, first pleased my

friend. It was like what she would have done herself, and like--in

short, it is what few young men, as she said, of the present day

would do. Then his refraining from all personal expenses, his going

without equipage and without horses, that he might do what he felt

to be right, whilst it exposed him continually to the ridicule of

fashionable young men, or to the charge of avarice, made a very

different impression on Miss Broadhurst’s mind; her esteem and

admiration were excited by these proofs of strength of character, and

of just and good principles.”

“If you go on you will make me envious and jealous of my friend,” said

Lord Colambre.

“You jealous!--Oh, it is too late now--besides, you cannot be jealous,

for you never loved.”

“I never loved Miss Broadhurst, I acknowledge.”

“There was the advantage Sir Arthur Berryl had over you--he loved, and

my friend saw it.”

“She was clear-sighted,” said Lord Colambre.

“She was clear-sighted,” repeated Miss Nugent; “but if you mean that

she was vain, and apt to fancy people in love with her, I can assure

you that you are mistaken. Never was woman, young or old, more

clear-sighted to the views of those by whom she was addressed. No

flattery, no fashion, could blind her judgment.”

“She knew how to choose a friend well, I am sure,” said Lord Colambre.

“And a friend for life, too, I am sure you will allow--and she had

such numbers, such strange variety of admirers, as might have puzzled

the choice and turned the brain of any inferior person. Such a

succession of lovers as she has had this summer, ever since you

went to Ireland--they appeared and vanished like figures in a magic

lantern. She had three noble admirers--rank in three different forms

offered themselves First came in, hobbling, rank and gout; next, rank

and gaming; then rank, very high rank, over head and ears in debt.

All of these were rejected; and, as they moved off, I thought Mrs.

Broadhurst would have broken her heart. Next came fashion, with his

head, heart, and soul in his cravat--he quickly made his bow, or

rather his nod, and walked off, taking a pinch of snuff. Then came a

man of wit--but it was wit without worth; and presently came ‘worth

without wit.’ She preferred ‘wit and worth united,’ which she

fortunately at last found, Lord Colambre, in your friend, Sir Arthur

Berryl.”

“Grace, my girl!” said her uncle, “I’m glad to see you’ve got up your

spirits again, though you were not to be bride’s-maid. Well, I hope

you’ll be bride soon--I’m sure you ought to be--and you should think

of rewarding that poor Mr. Salisbury, who plagues me to death,

whenever he can catch hold of me, about you. He must have our

definitive at last, you know, Grace.”

A silence ensued, which neither Miss Nugent nor Lord Colambre seemed

able or willing to break.

“Very good company, faith, you three!--One of ye asleep, and the other

two saying nothing, to keep one awake. Colambre, have you no Dublin

news? Grace, have you no Buxton scandal? What was it Lady Clonbrony

told us you’d tell us, about the oddness of Miss Broadhurst’s settling

her marriage? Tell me that, for I love to hear odd things.”

“Perhaps you will not think it odd,” said she. “One evening--but I

should begin by telling you that three of her admirers, besides Sir

Arthur Berryl, had followed her to Buxton, and had been paying their

court to her all the time we were there; and at last grew impatient

for her decision.”

“Ay, for her definitive!” said Lord Clonbrony. Miss Nugent was put out

again, but resumed.

“So one evening, just before the dancing began, the gentlemen were

all standing round Miss Broadhurst; one of them said, ‘I wish Miss

Broadhurst would decide--that whoever she dances with to-night should

be her partner for life: what a happy man he would be!’

“‘But how can I decide?’ said Miss Broadhurst.

“‘I wish I had a friend to plead for me!’ said one of the suitors,

looking at me.

“‘Have you no friend of your own?’ said Miss Broadhurst.

“‘Plenty of friends,’ said the gentleman.

“‘Plenty!--then you must be a very happy man,’ replied Miss

Broadhurst. ‘Come,’ said she, laughing, ‘I will dance with that man

who can convince me that he has, near relations excepted, one true

friend in the world! That man who has made the best friend, I dare

say, will make the best husband!’

“At that moment,” continued Miss Nugent, “I was certain who would

be her choice. The gentlemen all declared at first that they had

abundance of excellent friends--the best friends in the world! but

when Miss Broadhurst cross-examined them, as to what their friends

had done for them, or what they were willing to do, modern friendship

dwindled into a ridiculously small compass. I cannot give you the

particulars of the cross-examination, though it was conducted with

great spirit and humour by Miss Broadhurst; but I can tell you the

result--that Sir Arthur Berryl, by incontrovertible facts, and

eloquence warm from the heart, convinced every body present that he

had the best friend in the world; and Miss Broadhurst, as he finished

speaking, gave him her hand, and he led her off in triumph--So

you see, Lord Colambre, you were at last the cause of my friend’s

marriage!”

She turned to Lord Colambre as she spoke these words, with such

an affectionate smile, and such an expression of open, innocent

tenderness in her whole countenance, that our hero could hardly resist

the impulse of his passion--could hardly restrain himself from falling

at her feet that instant, and declaring his love. “But St. Omar! St.

Omar!--It must not be!”

“I must be gone!” said Lord Clonbrony, pulling out his watch. “It is

time to go to my club; and poor Terry will wonder what has become of

me.”

Lord Colambre instantly offered to accompany his father; much to Lord

Clonbrony’s, and more to Miss Nugent’s surprise.

“What!” said she to herself, “after so long an absence, leave

me!--Leave his mother, with whom he always used to stay--on purpose to

avoid me! What can I have done to displease him? It is clear it was

not about Miss Broadhurst’s marriage he was offended; for he looked

pleased, and like himself, whilst I was talking of that: but the

moment afterwards, what a constrained, unintelligible expression of

countenance--and leaves me to go to a club which he detests!”

As the gentlemen shut the door on leaving the room, Lady Clonbrony

awakened, and, starting up, exclaimed, “What’s the matter? Are they

gone? Is Colambre gone?”

“Yes, ma’am, with my uncle.”

“Very odd! very odd of him to go and leave me! he always used to stay

with me--what did he say about me?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“Well, then, I have nothing to say about him, or about any thing,

indeed, for I’m excessively tired and stupid--alone in Lon’on’s as bad

as any where else. Ring the bell, and we’ll go to bed directly--if you

have no objection, Grace.”

Grace made no objection: Lady Clonbrony went to bed and to sleep in

ten minutes. Miss Nugent went to bed; but she lay awake, considering

what could be the cause of her cousin Colambre’s hard unkindness, and

of “his altered eye.” She was openness itself; and she determined

that, the first moment she could speak to him alone, she would at once

ask for an explanation. With this resolution, she rose in the morning,

and went down to the breakfast-room, in hopes of meeting him, as it

had formerly been his custom to be early; and she expected to find him

reading in his usual place.

CHAPTER XIV.

No--Lord Colambre was not in his accustomed place, reading in the

breakfast-room; nor did he make his appearance till both his father

and mother had been some time at breakfast.

“Good morning to you, my Lord Colambre,” said his mother, in a

reproachful tone, the moment he entered; “I am much obliged to you for

your company last night.”

“Good morning to you, Colambre,” said his father, in a more jocose

tone of reproach; “I am obliged to you for your good company last

night.”

“Good morning to you, Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent; and though she

endeavoured to throw all reproach from her looks, and to let none be

heard in her voice, yet there was a slight tremulous motion in that

voice, which struck our hero to the heart.

“I thank you, ma’am, for missing me,” said he, addressing himself to

his mother: “I stayed away but half an hour; I accompanied my father

to St. James’s-street, and when I returned I found that every one had

retired to rest.”

“Oh, was that the case?” said Lady Clonbrony: “I own I thought it very

unlike you to leave me in that sort of way.”

“And, lest you should be jealous of that half hour when he was

accompanying me,” said Lord Clonbrony, “I must remark, that, though

I had his body with me, I had none of his mind; that he left at home

with you ladies, or with some fair one across the water, for the

deuce of two words did he bestow upon me, with all his pretence of

accompanying me.”

“Lord Colambre seems to have a fair chance of a pleasant breakfast,”

said Miss Nugent, smiling; “reproaches on all sides.”

“I have heard none on your side, Grace,” said Lord Clonbrony; “and

that’s the reason, I suppose, he wisely takes his seat beside you. But

come, we will not badger you any more, my dear boy. We have given him

as fine a complexion amongst us as if he had been out hunting these

three hours: have not we, Grace?”

“When Colambre has been a season or two more in Lon’on, he’ll not be

so easily put out of countenance,” said Lady Clonbrony; “you don’t see

young men of fashion here blushing about nothing.”

“No, nor about any thing, my dear,” said Lord Clonbrony; “but that’s

no proof they do nothing they ought to blush for.”

“What they do, there’s no occasion for ladies to inquire,” said Lady

Clonbrony; “but this I know, that it’s a great disadvantage to a young

man of a certain rank to blush; for no people, who live in a certain

set, ever do: and it is the most opposite thing possible to a certain

air, which, I own, I think Colambre wants; and now that he has done

travelling in Ireland, which is no use in _pint_ of giving a gentleman

a travelled air, or any thing of that sort, I hope he will put himself

under my conduct for next winter’s campaign in town.”

Lord Clonbrony looked as if he did not know how to look; and, after

drumming on the table for some seconds, said, “Colambre, I told you

how it would be: that’s a fatal hard condition of yours.”

“Not a hard condition, I hope, my dear father,” said Lord Colambre.

“Hard it must be, since it can’t be fulfilled, or won’t be fulfilled,

which comes to the same thing,” replied Lord Clonbrony, sighing.

“I am persuaded, sir, that it will be fulfilled,” said Lord Colambre;

“I am persuaded that, when my mother hears the truth, and the whole

truth--when she finds that your happiness, and the happiness of her

whole family, depend upon her yielding her taste on one subject--”

“Oh, I see now what you are about,” cried Lady Clonbrony; “you are

coming round with your persuasions and prefaces to ask me to give

up Lon’on, and go back with you to Ireland, my lord. You may save

yourselves the trouble, all of you; for no earthly persuasions shall

make me do it. I will never give up my taste on that _pint_. My

happiness has a right to be as much considered as your father’s,

Colambre, or anybody’s; and, in one word, I won’t do it,” cried she,

rising angrily from the breakfast table.

“There! did not I tell you how it would be?” cried Lord Clonbrony.

“My mother has not heard me yet,” said Lord Colambre, laying his hand

upon his mother’s arm, as she attempted to pass: “hear me, madam, for

your own sake. You do not know what will happen, this very day--this

very hour, perhaps--if you do not listen to me.”

“And what will happen?” said Lady Clonbrony, stopping short.

“Ay, indeed; she little knows,” said Lord Clonbrony, “what’s hanging

over her head.”

“Hanging over my head?” said Lady Clonbrony, looking up;

“nonsense!--what?”

“An execution, madam!” said Lord Colambre.

“Gracious me! an execution!” said Lady Clonbrony, sitting down again;

“but I heard you talk of an execution months ago, my lord, before my

son went to Ireland, and it blew over--I heard no more of it.”

“It won’t blow over now,” said Lord Clonbrony; “you’ll hear more of

it now. Sir Terence O’Fay it was, you may remember, that settled it

then.”

“Well, and can’t he settle it now? Send for him, since he understands

these cases; and I will ask him to dinner myself, for your sake, and

be very civil to him, my lord.”

“All your civility, either for my sake or your own, will not signify a

straw, my dear, in this case--any thing that poor Terry could do, he’d

do, and welcome, without it; but he can do nothing.”

“Nothing!--that’s very extraordinary. But I’m clear no one dare to

bring a real execution against us in earnest; and you are only trying

to frighten me to your purpose, like a child; but it shan’t do.”

“Very well, my dear; you’ll see--too late.”

A knock at the house door.

“Who is it?--What is it?” cried Lord Clonbrony, growing very pale.

Lord Colambre changed colour too, and ran down stairs. “Don’t let ‘em

let any body in, for your life, Colambre; under any pretence,” cried

Lord Clonbrony, calling from the head of the stairs: then running to

the window, “By all that’s good, it’s Mordicai himself! and the people

with him.”

“Lean your head on me, my dear aunt,” said Miss Nugent: Lady Clonbrony

leant back, trembling, and ready to faint.

“But he’s walking off now; the rascal could not get in--safe for the

present!” cried Lord Clonbrony, rubbing his hands, and repeating,

“safe for the present!”

“Safe for the present!” repeated Lord Colambre, coming again into the

room. “Safe for the present hour.”

“He could not get in, I suppose.--Oh, I warned all the servants

well,” said Lord Clonbrony; “and so did Terry. Ay, there’s the rascal

Mordicai walking off, at the end of the street; I know his walk a mile

off. Gad! I can breathe again. I am glad he’s gone. But he will come

back and always lie in wait, and some time or other, when we’re off

our guard (unawares), he’ll slide in.”

“Slide in! Oh, horrid!” cried Lady Clonbrony, sitting up, and wiping

away the water which Miss Nugent had sprinkled on her face.

“Were you much alarmed?” said Lord Colambre, with a voice of

tenderness, looking at his mother first, but his eyes fixing on Miss

Nugent.

“Shockingly!” said Lady Clonbrony; “I never thought it would _reelly_

come to this.”

“It will really come to much more, my dear,” said Lord Clonbrony,

“that you may depend upon, unless you prevent it.”

“Lord! What can I do?--I know nothing of business: how should I, Lord

Clonbrony? But I know there’s Colambre--I was always told that when he

was of age, every thing should be settled; and why can’t he settle it

when he’s upon the spot?”

“And upon one condition, I will,” cried Lord Colambre; “at what loss

to myself, my dear mother, I need not mention.”

“Then I will mention it,” cried Lord Clonbrony: “at the loss it will

be of nearly half the estate he would have had, if we had not spent

it.”

“Loss! Oh, I am excessively sorry my son’s to be at such a loss--it

must not be.”

“It cannot be otherwise,” said Lord Clonbrony; “nor it can’t be this

way either, my Lady Clonbrony, unless you comply with his condition,

and consent to return to Ireland.”

“I cannot--I will not,” replied Lady Clonbrony. “Is this your

condition, Colambre?--I take it exceedingly ill of you. I think it

very unkind, and unhandsome, and ungenerous, and undutiful of you,

Colambre; you my son!” She poured forth a torrent of reproaches;

then came to entreaties and tears. But our hero, prepared for this,

had steeled his mind; and he stood resolved not to indulge his own

feelings, or to yield to caprice or persuasion, but to do that which

he knew was best for the happiness of hundreds of tenants, who

depended upon them--best for both his father and his mother’s ultimate

happiness and respectability.

“It’s all in vain,” cried Lord Clonbrony; “I have no resource but one,

and I must condescend now to go to him this minute, for Mordicai will

be back and seize all--I must sign and leave all to Garraghty.”

“Well, sign, sign, my lord, and settle with Garraghty. Colambre, I’ve

heard all the complaints you brought over against that man. My lord

spent half the night telling them to me: but all agents are bad, I

suppose; at any rate I can’t help it--sign, sign, my lord; he has

money--yes, do; go and settle with him, my lord.”

Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent, at one and the same moment, stopped

Lord Clonbrony as he was quitting the room, and then approached Lady

Clonbrony with supplicating looks; but she turned her head to the

other side, and, as if putting away their entreaties, made a repelling

motion with both her hands, and exclaimed, “No, Grace Nugent!--no,

Colambre--no--no, Colambre! I’ll never hear of leaving Lon’on--there’s

no living out of Lon’on--I can’t, I won’t live out of Lon’on, I say.”

Her son saw that the _Londonomania_ was now stronger than ever

upon her, but resolved to make one desperate appeal to her natural

feelings, which, though smothered, he could not believe were wholly

extinguished: he caught her repelling hands, and pressing them with

respectful tenderness to his lips, “Oh, my dear mother, you once loved

your son,” said he; “loved him better than any thing in this world: if

one spark of affection for him remains, hear him now, and forgive him,

if he pass the bounds--bounds he never passed before--of filial duty.

Mother, in compliance with your wishes my father left Ireland--left

his home, his duties, his friends, his natural connexions, and for

many years he has lived in England, and you have spent many seasons in

London.”

“Yes, in the very best company--in the very first circles,” said Lady

Clonbrony; “cold as the high-bred English are said to be in general to

strangers.”

“Yes,” replied Lord Colambre, “the very best company (if you mean the

most fashionable) have accepted of our entertainments. We have forced

our way into their frozen circles; we have been permitted to breathe

in these elevated regions of fashion; we have it to say, that the

Duke of _This_, and my Lady _That_, are of our acquaintance.--We may

say more: we may boast that we have vied with those whom we could

never equal. And at what expense have we done all this? For a single

season, the last winter (I will go no farther), at the expense of

a great part of your timber, the growth of a century--swallowed in

the entertainments of one winter in London! Our hills to be bare for

another half century to come! But let the trees go: I think more of

your tenants--of those left under the tyranny of a bad agent, at the

expense of every comfort, every hope they enjoyed!--tenants, who were

thriving and prosperous; who used to smile upon you, and to bless you

both! In one cottage, I have seen--”

Here Lord Clonbrony, unable to restrain his emotion, hurried out of

the room.

“Then I am sure it is not my fault,” said Lady Clonbrony; “for I

brought my lord a large fortune: and I am confident I have not, after

all, spent more any season, in the best company, than he has among a

set of low people, in his muddling, discreditable way.”

“And how has he been reduced to this?” said Lord Colambre. “Did he

not formerly live with gentlemen, his equals, in his own country;

his contemporaries? Men of the first station and character, whom I

met in Dublin, spoke of him in a manner that gratified the heart of

his son: he was respectable and respected, at his own home; but when

he was forced away from that home, deprived of his objects and his

occupations, compelled to live in London, or at watering-places, where

he could find no employments that were suitable to him--set down, late

in life, in the midst of strangers, to him cold and reserved--himself

too proud to bend to those who disdained him as an Irishman--is he

not more to be pitied than blamed for--yes, I, his son, must say the

word--the degradation which has ensued? And do not the feelings, which

have this moment forced him to leave the room, show of what he is

capable? Oh, mother!” cried Lord Colambre, throwing himself at Lady

Clonbrony’s feet, “restore my father to himself! Should such feelings

be wasted?--No; give them again to expand in benevolent, in kind,

useful actions; give him again to his tenantry, his duties, his

country, his home; return to that home yourself, dear mother! leave

all the nonsense of high life--scorn the impertinence of these

dictators of fashion, who, in return for all the pains we take to

imitate, to court them--in return for the sacrifice of health,

fortune, peace of mind--bestow sarcasm, contempt, ridicule, and

mimicry!”

“Oh, Colambre! Colambre! mimicry--I’ll never believe it.”

“Believe me--believe me, mother; for I speak of what I know. Scorn

them--quit them! Return to an unsophisticated people--to poor, but

grateful hearts, still warm with the remembrance of your kindness,

still blessing you for favours long since conferred, ever praying to

see you once more. Believe me, for I speak of what I know--your son

has heard these prayers, has felt these blessings. Here! at my heart

felt, and still feel them, when I was not known to be your son, in the

cottage of the widow O’Neil.”

“Oh, did you see the widow O’Neil! and does she remember me?” said

Lady Clonbrony.

“Remember you! and you, Miss Nugent! I have slept in the bed--I would

tell you more, but I cannot.”

“Well! I never should have thought they would have remembered me so

long! poor people!” said Lady Clonbrony.

“I thought all in Ireland must have forgotten me, it is now so long

since I was at home.”

“You are not forgotten in Ireland by any rank, I can answer for that.

Return home, my dearest mother--let me see you once more among your

natural friends, beloved, respected, happy!”

“Oh, return! let us return home!” cried Miss Nugent, with a voice of

great emotion. “Return, let us return home! My beloved aunt, speak to

us! say that you grant our request!” She kneeled beside Lord Colambre,

as she spoke.

“Is it possible to resist that voice, that look?” thought Lord

Colambre.

“If any body knew,” said Lady Clonbrony, “if any body could conceive,

how I detest the sight, the thoughts of that old yellow damask

furniture, in the drawing-room at Clonbrony Castle--”

“Good Heavens!” cried Lord Colambre, starting up, and looking at his

mother in stupified astonishment; “is _that_ what you are thinking of,

ma’am?”

“The yellow damask furniture!” said her niece, smiling. “Oh, if that’s

all, that shall never offend your eyes again. Aunt, my painted velvet

chairs are finished; and trust the furnishing that room to me. The

legacy lately left me cannot be better applied--you shall see how

beautifully it will be furnished.”

“Oh, if I had money, I should like to do it myself; but it would take

an immensity to new furnish Clonbrony Castle properly.”

“The furniture in this house,” said Miss Nugent, looking round--

“Would do a great deal towards it, I declare,” cried Lady Clonbrony;

“that never struck me before, Grace, I protest--and what would

not suit one might sell or exchange here--and it would be a great

amusement to me--and I should like to set the fashion of something

better in that country. And I declare now, I should like to see those

poor people, and that widow O’Neil. I do assure you, I think I was

happier at home; only that one gets, I don’t know how, a notion,

one’s nobody out of Lon’on. But, after all, there’s many drawbacks

in Lon’on--and many people are very impertinent, I’ll allow--and if

there’s a woman in the world I hate, it is Mrs. Dareville--and, if I

was leaving Lon’on, I should not regret Lady Langdale neither--and

Lady St. James is as cold as a stone. Colambre may well say

_frozen circles_--these sort of people are really very cold, and

have, I do believe, no hearts. I don’t verily think there is

one of them would regret me more--Hey! let me see, Dublin--the

winter--Merrion-square--new furnished--and the summer--Clonbrony

Castle!”

Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent waited in silence till her mind should

have worked itself clear. One great obstacle had been removed; and now

that the yellow damask had been taken out of her imagination, they no

longer despaired.

Lord Clonbrony put his head into the room. “What hopes?--any? if

not, let me go.” He saw the doubting expression of Lady Clonbrony’s

countenance--hope in the face of his son and niece. “My dear, dear

Lady Clonbrony, make us all happy by one word,” said he, kissing her.

“You never kissed me so since we left Ireland before,” said Lady

Clonbrony. “Well, since it must be so, let us go,” said she.

“Did I ever see such joy!” said Lord Clonbrony, clasping his hands: “I

never expected such joy in my life!--I must go and tell poor Terry!”

and off he ran.

“And now, since we are to go,” said Lady Clonbrony, “pray let us

go immediately, before the thing gets wind, else I shall have Mrs.

Dareville, and Lady Langdale, and Lady St. James, and all the world,

coming to condole with me, just to satisfy their own curiosity: and

then, Miss Pratt, who hears every thing that every body says, and more

than they say, will come and tell me how it is reported every where

that we are ruined. Oh! I never could bear to stay and hear all this.

I’ll tell you what I’ll do--you are to be of age soon, Colambre,--very

well, there are some papers for me to sign,--I must stay to put my

name to them, and, that done, that minute I’ll leave you and Lord

Clonbrony to settle all the rest; and I’ll get into my carriage, with

Grace, and go down to Buxton again; where you can come for me, and

take me up, when you’re all ready to go to Ireland--and we shall be so

far on our way. Colambre, what do you say to this?”

“That, if you like it, madam,” said he, giving one hasty glance at

Miss Nugent, and withdrawing his eyes, “it is the best possible

arrangement.”

“So,” thought Grace, “that is the best possible arrangement which

takes us away.”

“If I like it!” said Lady Clonbrony; “to be sure I do, or I should

not propose it. What is Colambre thinking of? I know, Grace, at all

events, what you and I must think of--of having the furniture packed

up, and settling what’s to go, and what’s to be exchanged, and all

that. Now, my dear, go and write a note directly to Mr. Soho, and bid

him come himself, immediately: and we’ll go and make out a catalogue

this instant of what furniture I will have packed.”

So with her head full of furniture, Lady Clonbrony retired. “I go to

my business, Colambre: and I leaven you to settle yours in peace.”

In peace!--Never was our hero’s mind less at peace than at this

moment. The more his heart felt that it was painful, the more his

reason told him it was necessary that he should part from Grace

Nugent. To his union with her there was an obstacle which his prudence

told him ought to be insurmountable; yet he felt that, during the few

days he had been with her, the few hours he had been near her, he

had, with his utmost power over himself, scarcely been master of his

passion, or capable of concealing its object. It could not have been

done but for her perfect simplicity and innocence. But how could this

be supported on his part? How could he venture to live with this

charming girl? How could he settle at home? What resource?

His mind turned towards the army: he thought that abroad, and in

active life, he should lose all the painful recollections, and drive

from his heart all the sentiments, which could now be only a source of

unavailing regret. But his mother--his mother, who had now yielded her

own taste to his entreaties, for the good of her family--she expected

him to return and live with her in Ireland. Though not actually

promised or specified, he knew that she took it for granted; that it

was upon this hope, this faith, she consented: he knew that she would

be shocked at the bare idea of his going into the army. There was one

chance--our hero tried, at this moment, to think it the best possible

chance--that Miss Nugent might marry Mr. Salisbury, and settle in

England. On this idea he relied, as the only means of extricating him

from difficulties.

It was necessary to turn his thoughts immediately to business, to

execute his promises to his father. Two great objects were now to be

accomplished--the payment of his father’s debts, and the settlement

of the Irish agent’s accounts; and, in transacting this complicated

business, he derived considerable assistance from Sir Terence O’Fay,

and from Sir Arthur Berryl’s solicitor, Mr. Edwards. Whilst acting for

Sir Arthur, on a former occasion, Lord Colambre had gained the entire

confidence of this solicitor, who was a man of the first eminence. Mr.

Edwards took the papers and Lord Clonbrony’s title-deeds home with

him, saying that he would give an answer the next morning. He then

waited upon Lord Colambre, and informed him that he had just received

a letter from Sir Arthur Berryl, who, with the consent and desire of

his lady, requested that whatever money might be required by Lord

Clonbrony should be immediately supplied on their account, without

waiting till Lord Colambre should be of age, as the ready money might

be of some convenience to him in accelerating the journey to Ireland,

which Sir Arthur and Lady Berryl knew was his lordship’s object. Sir

Terence O’Fay now supplied Mr. Edwards with accurate information as to

the demands that were made upon Lord Clonbrony, and of the respective

characters of the creditors. Mr. Edwards undertook to settle with

the fair claimants; Sir Terence with the rogues: so that by the

advancement of ready money from _the Berryls_, and by the detection

of false and exaggerated charges which Sir Terence made among the

inferior class, the debts were reduced nearly to one-half of their

former amount. Mordicai, who had been foiled in his vile attempt

to become sole creditor, had, however, a demand of more than seven

thousand pounds upon Lord Clonbrony, which he had raised to this

enormous sum in six or seven years, by means well known to himself. He

stood the foremost in the list: not from the greatness of the sum; but

from the danger of his adding to it the expenses of law. Sir Terence

undertook to pay the whole with five thousand pounds. Lord Clonbrony

thought it impossible: the solicitor thought it improvident, because

he knew that upon a trial a much greater abatement would be allowed;

but Lord Colambre was determined, from the present embarrassments of

his own situation, to leave nothing undone that could be accomplished

immediately.

Sir Terence, pleased with his commission, immediately went to

Mordicai.

“Well, Sir Terence,” said Mordicai, “I hope you are come to pay me my

hundred guineas; for Miss Broadhurst is married!”

“Well, Mister Mordicai, what then? The ides of March are come, but

not gone! Stay, if you plase, Mister Mordicai, till Lady-day, when it

becomes due: in the mean time, I have a handful, or rather an armful,

of bank-notes for you, from my Lord Colambre.”

“Humph.” said Mordicai: “how’s that? he’ll not be of age these three

days.”

“Don’t matter for that: he has sent me to look over your accounts, and

to hope that you will make some small ABATEMENT in the total.”

“Harkee, Sir Terence--you think yourself very clever in things of this

sort, but you’ve mistaken your man: I have an execution for the whole,

and I’ll be d----d if all your cunning shall MAKE me take up with

part!”

“Be _aisy_, Mister Mordicai!--you sha’n’t make me break your bones,

nor make me drop one actionable word against your high character; for

I know your clerk there, with that long goose-quill behind his ear,

would be ready evidence again’ me. But I beg to know, in one word,

whether you will take five thousand down, and GIVE Lord Clonbrony a

discharge?”

“No, Mr. Terence! nor six thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine

pounds. My demand is seven thousand one hundred and thirty pounds,

odd shillings: if you have that money, pay it; if not, I know how to

get it, and along with it complete revenge for all the insults I have

received from that greenhorn, his son.”

“Paddy Brady!” cried Sir Terence, “do you hear that? Remember that

word _revenge_!--Mind I call you to witness!”

“What, sir, will you raise a rebellion among my workmen?”

“No, Mr. Mordicai, no rebellion; and I hope you won’t cut the boy’s

ears off for listening to a little of the brogue--so listen, my good

lad. Now, Mr. Mordicai, I offer you here, before little goosequill,

5000_l._ ready penny--take it, or leave it: take your money, and leave

your revenge; or take your revenge, and lose your money.”

“Sir Terence, I value neither your threats nor your cunning. Good

morning to you.”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Mordicai--but not kindly! Mr. Edwards, the

solicitor, has been at the office to take off the execution: so now

you may have law to your heart’s content! And it was only to plase the

young lord that the _ould_ one consented to my carrying this bundle to

you,” showing the bank-notes.

“Mr. Edwards employed!” cried Mordicai. “Why, how the devil did Lord

Clonbrony get into such hands as his? The execution taken off! Well,

sir, go to law--I am ready for you. Jack Latitat IS A MATCH for your

sober solicitor.”

“Good morning again to you, Mr. Mordicai: we’re fairly out of your

clutches, and we have enough to do with our money.”

“Well, Sir Terence, I must allow you have a very wheedling way--Here,

Mr. Thompson, make out a receipt for Lord Clonbrony: I never go to law

with an old customer, if I can help it.”

This business settled, Mr. Soho was next to be dealt with.

He came at Lady Clonbrony’s summons; and was taking directions with

the utmost _sang froid_, for packing up and sending off the very

furniture for which he was not paid.

Lord Colambre called him into his father’s study; and, producing his

bill, he began to point out various articles which were charged at

prices that were obviously extravagant.

“Why, really, my lord, they are _abundantly_ extravagant: if I charged

vulgar prices, I should be only a vulgar tradesman. I, however, am not

a broker, nor a Jew. Of the article superintendence, which is only

500_l._, I cannot abate a doit: on the rest of the bill, if you mean

to offer _ready_, I mean, without any negotiation, to abate thirty per

cent., and I hope that is a fair and gentlemanly offer.”

“Mr. Soho, there is your money!”

“My Lord Colambre! I would give the contents of three such bills to be

sure of such noblemanly conduct as yours. Lady Clonbrony’s furniture

shall be safely packed, without costing her a farthing.”

With the help of Mr. Edwards, the solicitor, every other claim was

soon settled; and Lord Clonbrony, for the first time since he left

Ireland, found himself out of debt, and out of danger.

Old Nick’s account could not be settled in London. Lord Colambre had

detected numerous false charges, and sundry impositions: the land,

which had been purposely let to run wild, so far from yielding any

rent, was made a source of constant expense, as remaining still unset:

this was a large tract, for which St. Dennis had at length offered a

small rent.

Upon a fair calculation of the profits of the ground, and from other

items in the account, Nicholas Garraghty, Esq., appeared at last

to be, not the creditor, but the debtor to Lord Clonbrony. He was

dismissed with disgrace; which perhaps he might not have felt, if

it had not been accompanied by pecuniary loss, and followed by the

fear of losing his other agencies, and by the dread of immediate

bankruptcy.

Mr. Burke was appointed agent in his stead to the Clonbrony as well

as the Colambre estate. His appointment was announced to him by the

following letter:--

“TO MRS. BURKE, AT COLAMBRE.

“DEAR MADAM,

“The traveller whom you so hospitably received some months ago

was Lord Colambre; he now writes to you in his proper person. He

promised you that he would, as far as it might be in his power, do

justice to Mr. Burke’s conduct and character, by representing what

he had done for Lord Clonbrony in the town of Colambre, and in the

whole management of the tenantry and property under his care.

“Happily for my father, my dear madam, he is now as fully

convinced as you could wish him to be of Mr. Burke’s merits; and

he begs me to express his sense of the obligations he is under to

him and to you. He entreats that you will pardon the impropriety

of a letter, which, as I assured you the moment I saw it, he never

wrote or read.

“He hopes that you will forget that such a letter was ever

received, and that you will use your influence with Mr. Burke

to induce him to continue to our family his regard and valuable

services. Lord Clonbrony encloses a power of attorney, enabling

Mr. Burke to act in future for him, if Mr. Burke will do him that

favour, in managing the Clonbrony as well as the Colambre estate.

“Lord Clonbrony will be in Ireland in the course of next month,

and intends to have the pleasure of soon paying his respects in

person to Mr. Burke, at Colambre.

“I am, dear madam,

“Your obliged guest,

“And faithful servant,

“COLAMBRE.

“_Grosvenor-square, London_.”

Lord Colambre was so continually occupied with business, during the

days previous to his coming of age, every morning at his solicitor’s

chambers, every evening in his father’s study, that Miss Nugent never

saw him but at breakfast or dinner; and, though she watched for it

most anxiously, never could find an opportunity of speaking to him

alone, or of asking an explanation of the change and inconsistencies

of his manner. At last, she began to think, that, in the midst of so

much business of importance, by which he seemed harassed, she should

do wrong to torment him, by speaking of any small uneasiness that

concerned only herself. She determined to suppress her doubts, to

keep her feelings to herself, and endeavour, by constant kindness, to

regain that place in his affections, which she imagined that she had

lost. “Every thing will go right again,” thought she, “and we shall

all be happy, when he returns with us to Ireland--to that dear home

which he loves as well as I do!”

The day Lord Colambre was of age, the first thing he did was, to sign

a bond for five thousand pounds, Miss Nugent’s fortune, which had been

lent to his father, who was her guardian.

“This, sir, I believe,” said he, giving it to his father as soon as

signed, “this, I believe, is the first debt you would wish to have

secured.”

“Well thought of, my dear boy!--God bless you!--that has weighed more

upon my conscience and heart than all the rest, though I never said

any thing about it. I used, whenever I met Mr. Salisbury, to wish

myself fairly down at the centre of the earth: not that he ever

thought of fortune, I’m sure; for he often told me, and I believed

him, he would rather have Miss Nugent without a penny, if he could get

her, than the first fortune in the empire. But I’m glad she will not

go to him pennyless, for all that; and by my fault, especially. There,

there’s my name to it--do witness it, Terry. But, Colambre, you must

give it to her--you must take it to Grace.”

“Excuse me, sir; it is no gift of mine--it is a debt of yours. I beg

you will take the bond to her yourself, my dear father.”

“My dear son, you must not always have your own way, and hide every

thing good you do, or give me the honour of it--I won’t be the jay in

borrowed feathers. I have borrowed enough in my life, and I’ve done

with borrowing now, thanks to you, Colambre--so come along with me;

for I’ll be hanged if ever I give this joint bond to Miss Nugent,

unless you are with me. Leave Lady Clonbrony here to sign these

papers. Terry will witness them properly, and do you come along with

me.”

“And pray, my lord,” said her ladyship, “order the carriage to the

door; for, as soon as you have my signature, I hope you’ll let me off

to Buxton.”

“Oh, certainly--the carriage is ordered--every thing ready, my dear.”

“And pray tell Grace to be ready,” added Lady Clonbrony.

“That’s not necessary; for she is always ready,” said Lord Clonbrony.

“Come, Colambre,” added he, taking his son under the arm, and carrying

him up to Miss Nugent’s dressing-room.

They knocked, and were admitted.

“Ready!” said Lord Clonbrony; “ay, always ready--so I said. Here’s

Colambre, my darling,” continued he, “has secured your fortune to you

to my heart’s content; but he would not condescend to come up to tell

you so, till I made him. Here’s the bond; and now, all I have to ask

of you, Colambre, is, to persuade her to marry out of hand, that I

may see her happy before I die. Now my heart’s at ease; I can meet

Mr. Salisbury with a safe conscience. One kiss, my little Grace. If

any body can persuade you, I’m sure it’s that man that’s now leaning

against the mantel-piece. It’s Colambre will, or your heart’s not made

like mine--so I leave you.”

And out of the room walked he, leaving his poor son in as awkward,

embarrassing, and painful a situation as could well be conceived. Half

a dozen indistinct ideas crossed his mind; quick conflicting feelings

made his heart beat and stop. And how it would have ended, if he had

been left to himself; whether he would have stood or fallen, have

spoken or have continued silent, can never now be known, for all was

decided without the action of his will. He was awakened from his

trance by these simple words from Miss Nugent: “I’m much obliged

to you, cousin Colambre--more obliged to you for your kindness in

thinking of me first, in the midst of all your other business, than by

your securing my fortune. Friendship--and your friendship--is worth

more to me than fortune. May I believe that is secured?”

“Believe it! Oh, Grace, can you doubt it?”

“I will not; it would make me too unhappy, I will not.”

“You need not.”

“That is enough--I am satisfied--I ask no farther explanation. You are

truth itself--one word from you is security sufficient. We are friends

for life,” said she; “are not we?”

“We are--and therefore sit down, cousin Grace, and let me claim the

privilege of friendship, and speak to you of him who aspires to be

more than your friend for life, Mr.--”

“Mr. Salisbury!” said Miss Nugent; “I saw him yesterday. We had a very

long conversation; I believe he understands my sentiments perfectly,

and that he no longer thinks of being more to me than a friend for

life.”

“You have refused him!”

“Yes. I have a high opinion of Mr. Salisbury’s understanding, a great

esteem for his character; I like his manners and conversation; but I

do not love him, and, therefore, you know, I could not marry him.”

“But, my dear Miss Nugent, with a high opinion, a great esteem, and

liking his manners and conversation, in such a well-regulated mind as

yours, can there be a better foundation for love?”

“It is an excellent foundation,” said she; “but I never went any

farther than the foundation; and, indeed, I never wished to proceed

any farther.”

Lord Colambre scarcely dared to ask why; but after some pause he said,

“I don’t wish to intrude upon your confidence.”

“You cannot intrude upon my confidence; I am ready to give it to

you entirely, frankly; I hesitated only because another person was

concerned. Do you remember, at my aunt’s gala, a lady who danced with

Mr. Salisbury?”

“Not in the least.”

“A lady with whom you and Mr. Salisbury were talking, just before

supper, in the Turkish tent.”

“Not in the least.”

“As we went down to supper, you told me you had had a delightful

conversation with her; that you thought her a charming woman.”

“A charming woman!--I have not the slightest recollection of her.”

“And you told me that she and Mr. Salisbury had been praising me _à

l’envie l’une de l’autre_.”

“Oh, I recollect her now perfectly,” said Lord Colambre: “but what of

her?”

“She is the woman who, I hope, will be Mrs. Salisbury. Ever since I

have been acquainted with them both, I have seen that they were suited

to each other; I fancy, indeed I am almost sure, that she could

love him, tenderly love him--and, I know, I could not. But my own

sentiments, you may be sure, are all I ever told Mr. Salisbury.”

“But of your own sentiments you may not be sure,” said Lord

Colambre; “and I see no reason why you should give him up from false

generosity.”

“Generosity!” interrupted Miss Nugent; “you totally misunderstand

me; there is no generosity, nothing for me to give up in the case. I

did not refuse Mr. Salisbury from generosity, but because I did not

love him. Perhaps my seeing early what I have just mentioned to you

prevented me from thinking of him as a lover; but, from whatever

cause, I certainly never felt love for Mr. Salisbury, nor any of that

pity which is said to lead to love: perhaps,” added she, smiling,

“because I was aware that he would be so much better off after I

refused him--so much happier with one suited to him in age, talents,

fortune, and love--‘What bliss, did he but know his bliss,’ were

_his_.’”

“Did he but know his bliss!” repeated Lord Colambre; “but is not he

the best judge of his own bliss?”

“And am not I the best judge of mine?” said Miss Nugent: “I go no

farther.”

“You are; and I have no right to go farther. Yet, this much permit me

to say, my dear Grace, that it would give me sincere pleasure, that

is, real satisfaction, to see you happily--established.”

“Thank you, my dear Lord Colambre; but you spoke that like a man of

seventy at least, with the most solemn gravity of demeanour.”

“I meant to be serious, not solemn,” said Lord Colambre, endeavouring

to change his tone.

“There now,” said she, in a playful tone, “you have _seriously_

accomplished the task my good uncle set you; so I will report well of

you to him, and certify that you did all that in you lay to exhort me

to marry; that you have even assured me that it would give you sincere

pleasure, that is, real satisfaction, to see me happily established.”

“Oh, Grace, if you knew how much I felt when I said that, you would

spare this raillery.”

“I will be serious--I am most seriously convinced of the sincerity of

your affection for me; I know my happiness is your object in all you

have said, and I thank you from my heart for the interest you take

about me. But really and truly I do not wish to marry. This is not a

mere commonplace speech; but I have not yet seen any man I could love.

I am happy as I am, especially now we are all going to dear Ireland,

home, to live together: you cannot conceive with what pleasure I look

forward to that.”

Lord Colambre was not vain; but love quickly sees love, or foresees

the probability, the possibility, of its existence. He saw that Miss

Nugent might love him tenderly, passionately; but that duty, habit,

the prepossession that it was impossible she could marry her cousin

Colambre,--a prepossession instilled into her by his mother--had

absolutely prevented her from ever yet thinking of him as a lover. He

saw the hazard for her, he felt the danger for himself. Never had she

appeared to him so attractive as at this moment, when he felt the hope

that he could obtain return of love.

“But St. Omar!--Why! why is she a St. Omar?--illegitimate!--‘No St.

Omar _sans reproche_.’ My wife she cannot be--I will not engage her

affections.”

Swift as thoughts in moments of strong feeling pass in the mind

without being put into words, our hero thought all this, and

determined, cost what it would, to act honourably.

“You spoke of my returning to Ireland, my dear Grace. I have not yet

told you my plans.”

“Plans! are not you returning with us?” said she, precipitately; “are

not you going to Ireland--home--with us?”

“No:--I am going to serve a campaign or two abroad. I think every

young man in these times--

“Good Heavens! What does this mean? What can you mean?” cried she,

fixing her eyes upon his, as if she would read his very soul. “Why?

what reason?--Oh, tell me the truth--and at once.”

His change of colour--his hand that trembled, and withdrew from

hers--the expression of his eyes as they met hers--revealed the truth

to her at once. As it flashed across her mind, she started back; her

face grew crimson, and, in the same instant, pale as death.

“Yes--you see, you feel the truth now,” said Lord Colambre. “You see,

you feel, that I love you--passionately.”

“Oh, let me not hear it!” said she; “I must not--ought not. Never

till this moment did such a thought cross my mind--I thought it

impossible--Oh, make me think so still.”

“I will--it _is_ impossible that we can ever he united.”

“I always thought so,” said she, taking breath with a deep sigh.

“Then, why not live as we have lived?”

“I cannot--I cannot answer for myself--I will not run the risk;

and therefore I must quit you, knowing, as I do, that there is an

invincible obstacle to our union; of what nature I cannot explain; I

beg you not to inquire.”

“You need not beg it--I shall not inquire--I have no curiosity--none,”

said she in a passive, dejected tone; “that is not what I am thinking

of in the least. I know there are invincible obstacles; I wish it to

be so. But, if invincible, you who have so much sense, honour, and

virtue--”

“I hope, my dear cousin, that I have honour and virtue. But there

are temptations to which no wise, no good man will expose himself.

Innocent creature! you do not know the power of love. I rejoice that

you have always thought it impossible--think so still--it will save

you from--all I must endure. Think of me but as your cousin, your

friend--give your heart to some happier man. As your friend, your true

friend, I conjure you, give your heart to some more fortunate man.

Marry, if you can feel love--marry, and be happy. Honour! virtue!

Yes, I have both, and I will not forfeit them. Yes, I will merit your

esteem and my own--by actions, not words; and I give you the strongest

proof, by tearing myself from you at this moment. Farewell!”

“The carriage at the door, Miss Nugent, and my lady calling for you,”

said her maid. “Here’s your key, ma’am, and here’s your gloves, my

dear ma’am.”

“The carriage at the door, Miss Nugent,” said Lady Clonbrony’s woman,

coming eagerly with parcels in her hand, as Miss Nugent passed

her, and ran down stairs; “and I don’t know where I laid my lady’s

_numbrella_, for my life--do you, Anne?”

“No, indeed--but I know here’s my own young lady’s watch that she has

left. Bless me! I never knew her to forget any thing on a journey

before.”

“Then she is going to be married, as sure as my name’s Le Maistre, and

to my Lord Colambre; for he has been here this hour, to my certain

Bible knowledge. Oh, you’ll see she will be Lady Colambre.”

“I wish she may, with all my heart,” said Anne; “but I must run

down--they’re waiting.”

“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Le Maistre, seizing Anne’s arm, and holding her

fast; “stay--you may safely--for they’re all kissing and taking

leave, and all that, you know; and _my_ lady is talking on about

Mr. Soho, and giving a hundred directions about legs of tables, and

so forth, I warrant--she’s always an hour after she’s ready before

she gets in--and I’m looking for the _numbrella_. So stay, and

tell me--Mrs. Petito wrote over word it was to be Lady Isabel; and

then a contradiction came--it was turned into the youngest of the

Killpatricks; and now here he’s in Miss Nugent’s dressing-room to the

last moment. Now, in my opinion, that am not censorious, this does not

look so pretty; but, according to my verdict, he is only making a fool

of Miss Nugent, like the rest; and his lordship seems too like what

you might call a male _cocket_, or a masculine jilt.”

“No more like a masculine jilt than yourself, Mrs. Le Maistre,” cried

Anne, taking fire. “And my young lady is not a lady to be made a fool

of, I promise you; nor is my lord likely to make a fool of any woman.”

“Bless us all! that’s no great praise for any young nobleman, Miss

Anne.”

“Mrs. Le Maistre! Mrs. Le Maistre! are you above?” cried a footman

from the bottom of the stairs: “my lady’s calling for you.”

“Very well! Very well!” said sharp Mrs. Le Maistre; “Very well! and

if she is--manners, sir!--Come up for one, can’t you, and don’t stand

bawling at the bottom of the stairs, as if one had no ears to be

saved. I’m coming as fast as I can--conveniently can.”

Mrs. Le Maistre stood in the door-way, so as to fill it up, and

prevent Anne from passing.

“Miss Anne! Miss Anne! Mrs. Le Maistre!” cried another footman; “my

lady’s in the carriage, and Miss Nugent.”

“Miss Nugent!--is she?” cried Mrs. Le Maistre, running down stairs,

followed by Anne. “Now, for the world in pocket-pieces wouldn’t I have

missed seeing him hand Miss Nugent in; for by that I could have judged

definitively.”

“My lord, I beg pardon!--I’m _afeard_ I’m late,” said Mrs. Le Maistre,

as she passed Lord Colambre, who was standing motionless in the hall.

“I beg a thousand pardons; but I was hunting, high and low, for my

lady’s _numbrella_.” Lord Colambre did not hear or heed her: his eyes

were fixed, and they never moved.

Lord Clonbrony was at the open carriage-door, kneeling on the step,

and receiving Lady Clonbrony’s “more last words” for Mr. Soho. The two

waiting-maids stood together on the steps.

“Look at our young lord, how he stands,” whispered Mrs. Le Maistre to

Anne, “the image of despair! And she, the picture of death!--I don’t

know what to think.”

“Nor I: but don’t stare, if you can help it,” said Anne. “Get in, get

in, Mrs. Le Maistre,” added she, as Lord Clonbrony now rose from the

step, and made way for them.

“Ay, in with you--in with you, Mrs. Le Maistre,” said Lord Clonbrony.

“Good bye to you, Anne, and take care of your young mistress at

Buxton: let me see her blooming when we meet again; I don’t half like

her looks, and I never thought Buxton agreed with her.”

“Buxton never did any body harm,” said Lady Clonbrony: “and as

to bloom, I’m sure, if Grace has not bloom enough in her cheeks

this moment to please you, I don’t know what you’d have, my dear

lord--Rouge?--Shut the door, John! Oh, stay!--Colambre!--Where upon

earth’s Colambre?” cried her ladyship, stretching from the farthest

side of the coach to the window.--“Colambre!”

Colambre was forced to appear.

“Colambre, my dear! I forgot to say, that, if any thing detains you

longer than Wednesday se’nnight, I beg you will not fail to write, or

I shall be miserable.”

“I will write: at all events, my dearest mother, you shall hear from

me.”

“Then I shall be quite happy. Go on!”

The carriage drove on.

“I do believe Colambre’s ill: I never saw a man look so ill in my

life--did you, Grace?--as he did the minute we drove on. He should

take advice. I’ve a mind,” cried Lady Clonbrony, laying her hand on

the cord, to stop the coachman, “I’ve a mind to turn about--tell him

so--and ask what is the matter with him.”

“Better not!” said Miss Nugent: “he will write to you, and tell

you--if any thing is the matter with him. Better go on now to Buxton!”

continued she, scarcely able to speak. Lady Clonbrony let go the cord.

“But what is the matter with you, my dear Grace? for you are certainly

going to die too!”

“I will tell you--as soon as I can; but don’t ask me now, my dear

aunt!”

“Grace, Grace! pull the cord!” cried Lady Clonbrony--“Mr. Salisbury’s

phaeton!--Mr. Salisbury, I’m happy to see you! We’re on our way to

Buxton--as I told you.”

“So am I,” said Mr. Salisbury. “I hope to be there before your

ladyship: will you honour me with any commands?--of course, I will see

that every thing is ready for your reception.”

Her ladyship had not any commands. Mr. Salisbury drove on rapidly.

Lady Clonbrony’s ideas had now taken the Salisbury channel. “You

didn’t know that Mr. Salisbury was going to Buxton to meet you, did

you, Grace?” said Lady Clonbrony.

“No, indeed, I did not!” said Miss Nugent; “and I am very sorry for

it.”

“Young ladies, as Mrs. Broadhurst says, ‘never know, or at least never

tell, what they are sorry or glad for,’” replied Lady Clonbrony. “At

all events, Grace, my love, it has brought the fine bloom back to your

cheeks; and I own I am satisfied.”

CHAPTER XV.

“Gone! for ever gone from me!” said Lord Colambre to himself, as the

carriage drove away. “Never shall I see her more--never _will_ I see

her more, till she is married.”

Lord Colambre went to his own room, locked the door, and was relieved

in some degree by the sense of privacy; by the feeling that he could

now indulge his reflections undisturbed. He had consolation--he had

done what was honourable--he had transgressed no duty, abandoned no

principle--he had not injured the happiness of any human being--he

had not, to gratify himself, hazarded the peace of the woman he

loved--he had not sought to win her heart. Of her innocent, her warm,

susceptible heart, he might, perhaps, have robbed her--he knew it--but

he had left it untouched, he hoped entire, in her own power, to bless

with it hereafter some man worthy of her. In the hope that she might

be happy, Lord Colambre felt relief; and in the consciousness that

he had made his parents happy, he rejoiced; but, as soon as his mind

turned that way for consolation, came the bitter reflection, that his

mother must be disappointed in her hopes of his accompanying her home,

and of his living with her in Ireland: she would be miserable when she

should hear that he was going abroad into the army--and yet it must be

so--and he must write, and tell her so. “The sooner this difficulty is

off my mind, the sooner this painful letter is written, the better,”

thought he. “It must be done--I will do it immediately.”

He snatched up his pen, and began a letter.

“My dear mother, Miss Nugent--” He was interrupted by a knock at his

door.

“A gentleman below, my lord.” said a servant, “who wishes to see you.”

“I cannot see any gentleman. Did you say I was at home?”

“No, my lord, I said you was not at home; for I thought you would not

choose to be at home, and your own man was not in the way for me to

ask--so I denied you: but the gentleman would not be denied; he said

I must come and see if you was at home. So, as he spoke as if he was

a gentleman not used to be denied, I thought it might be somebody of

consequence, and I showed him into the front drawing-room. I think he

said he was sure you’d be at home for a friend from Ireland.”

“A friend from Ireland! Why did not you tell me that sooner?” said

Lord Colambre, rising, and running down stairs. “Sir James Brooke, I

dare say.”

No, not Sir James Brooke; but one he was almost as glad to see--Count

O’Halloran!

“My dear count! the greater pleasure for being unexpected.”

“I came to London but yesterday,” said the count; “but I could not be

here a day, without doing myself the honour of paying my respects to

Lord Colambre.”

“You do me not only honour, but pleasure, my dear count. People, when

they like one another, always find each other out, and contrive to

meet, even in London.”

“You are too polite to ask what brought such a superannuated militaire

as I am,” said the count, “from his retirement into this gay world

again. A relation of mine, who is one of the ministry, knew that I had

some maps, and plans, and charts, which might be serviceable in an

expedition they are planning. I might have trusted my charts across

the channel, without coming myself to convoy them, you will say. But

my relation fancied--young relations, you know, if they are good for

any thing, are apt to overvalue the heads of old relations--fancied

that mine was worth bringing all the way from Halloran Castle to

London, to consult with _tête-à-tête_. So, you know, when this was

signified to me by a letter from the secretary in office, _private,

most confidential_, what could I do, but do myself the honour to

obey? For though honour’s voice cannot provoke the silent dust, yet

‘flattery soothes the dull cold ear of _age_.’--But enough and too

much of myself,” said the count: “tell me, my dear lord, something of

yourself. I do not think England seems to agree with you so well as

Ireland; for, excuse me, in point of health, you don’t look like the

same man I saw some weeks ago.”

“My mind has been ill at ease of late,” said Lord Colambre.

“Ay, there’s the thing! The body pays for the mind--but those who

have feeling minds, pain and pleasure altogether computed, have the

advantage; or at least they think so; for they would not change with

those who have them not, were they to gain by the bargain the most

robust body that the most selfish coxcomb, or the heaviest dunce

extant, ever boasted. For instance, would you now, my lord, at this

moment, change altogether with Major Benson, or Captain Williamson, or

even with our friend, ‘Eh, really now, ‘pon honour’--would you?--I’m

glad to see you smile.”

“I thank you for making me smile, for I assure you I want it. I

wish--if you would not think me encroaching upon your politeness in

honouring me with this visit--You see,” continued he, opening the

doors of the back drawing-room, and pointing to large packages, “you

see we are all preparing for a march: my mother has left town half an

hour ago--my father engaged to dine abroad--only I at home--and, in

this state of confusion, could I even venture to ask Count O’Halloran

to stay and dine with me, without being able to offer him Irish

ortolans or Irish plums--in short, will you let me rob you of two

or three hours of your time? I am anxious to have your opinion on a

subject of some importance to me, and on one where you are peculiarly

qualified to judge and decide for me.”

“My dear lord, frankly, I have nothing half so good or so agreeable to

do with my time; command my hours. I have already told you how much it

flatters me to be consulted by the most helpless clerk in office; how

much more about the private concerns of an enlightened young-friend,

will Lord Colambre permit me to say? I hope so; for, though the

length of our acquaintance might not justify the word, yet regard and

intimacy are not always in proportion to the time people have known

each other, but to their mutual perception of certain attaching

qualities, a certain similarity and suitableness of character.”

The good count, seeing that Lord Colambre was in much distress of

mind, did all he could to soothe him by kindness: far from making any

difficulty about giving up a few hours of his time, he seemed to have

no other object in London, and no purpose in life, but to attend to

our hero. To put him at ease, and to give him time to recover and

arrange his thoughts, the count talked of indifferent subjects.

“I think I heard you mention the name of Sir James Brooke.”

“Yes, I expected to have seen him when the servant first mentioned a

friend from Ireland; because Sir James had told me that, as soon as he

could get leave of absence, he would come to England.”

“He is come; is now at his estate in Huntingdonshire; doing, what

do you think? I will give you a leading hint; recollect the seal

which the little De Cressy put into your hands the day you dined

at Oranmore. Faithful to his motto, ‘Deeds, not words,’ he is this

instant, I believe, at deeds, title deeds; making out marriage

settlements, getting ready to put his seal to the happy articles.”

“Happy man! I give him joy,” said Lord Colambre: “happy man! going to

be married to such a woman--daughter of such a mother.”

“Daughter of such a mother! That is indeed a great addition and a

great security to his happiness,” said the count. “Such a family

to marry into; good from generation to generation; illustrious by

character as well as by genealogy; ‘all the sons brave, and all the

daughters chaste.’”

Lord Colambre with difficulty repressed his feelings. “If I could

choose,” said the count, “I would rather that a woman I loved were of

such a family than that she had for her dower the mines of Peru.”

“So would I,” cried Lord Colambre.

“I am glad to hear you say so, my lord, and with such energy; so few

young men of the present day look to what I call good connexion. In

marrying, a man does not, to be sure, marry his wife’s mother; and yet

a prudent man, when he begins to think of the daughter, would look

sharp at the mother; ay, and back to the grandmother too, and along

the whole female line of ancestry.”

“True--most true--he ought--he must.”

“And I have a notion,” said the count, smiling, “your lordship’s

practice has been conformable to your theory.”

“I!--mine!” said Lord Colambre, starting, and looking at the count

with surprise.

“I beg your pardon,” said the count; “I did not intend to surprise

your confidence. But you forget that I was present, and saw the

impression which was made on your mind by a mother’s want of a proper

sense of delicacy and propriety--Lady Dashfort.”

“Oh, Lady Dashfort! she was quite out of my head.”

“And Lady Isabel?--I hope she is quite out of your heart.”

“She never was in it,” said Lord Colambre. “Only laid siege to it,”

said the count. “Well, I am glad your heart did not surrender at

discretion, or rather without discretion. Then I may tell you, without

fear or preface, that the Lady Isabel, who talks of ‘refinement,

delicacy, sense,’ is going to stoop at once, and marry--Heathcock.”

Lord Colambre was not surprised, but concerned and disgusted, as

he always felt, even when he did not care for the individual, from

hearing any thing which tended to lower the female sex in public

estimation.

“As to myself,” said he, “I cannot say I have had an escape, for I

don’t think I ever was in much danger.”

“It is difficult to measure danger when it is over--past danger, like

past pain, is soon forgotten,” said the old general. “At all events, I

rejoice in your present safety.”

“But is she really going to be married to Heathcock?” said Lord

Colambre.

“Positively: they all came over in the same packet with me, and

they are all in town now, buying jewels, and equipages, and horses.

Heathcock, you know, is as good as another man for all those

purposes: his father is dead, and has left him a large estate. _Que

voulez-vous?_ as the French valet said to me on the occasion, _c’est

que monsieur est un homme de bien: il a des biens, à ce qu’on dit._”

Lord Colambre could not help smiling.

“How they got Heathcock to fall in love is what puzzles me,” said his

lordship. “I should as soon have thought of an oyster’s falling in

love as that being.”

“I own I should have sooner thought,” replied the count, “of his

falling in love with an oyster; and so would you, if you had seen him,

as I did, devouring oysters on shipboard.

“‘Say, can the lovely _heroine_ hope to vie

With a fat turtle or a ven’son pie?’

“But that is not our affair; let the Lady Isabel look to it.”

Dinner was announced; and no farther conversation of any consequence

passed between the count and Lord Colambre till the cloth was removed

and the servants had withdrawn. Then our hero opened on the subject

which was heavy at his heart.

“My dear count--I have a mind to serve a campaign or two, if I could

get a commission in a regiment going to Spain; but I understand so

many are eager to go at this moment, that it is very difficult to get

a commission in such a regiment.”

“It is difficult,” said the count. “But,” added he, after thinking for

a moment, “I have it! I can get the thing done for you, and directly.

Major Benson, who is in danger of being broke, in consequence of that

affair, you know, about his mistress, wants to sell out; and that

regiment is to be ordered immediately to Spain: I will have the thing

done for you, if you request it.”

“First, give me your advice, Count O’Halloran: you are well acquainted

with the military profession, with military life. Would you advise

me--I won’t speak of myself, because we judge better by general views

than by particular cases--would you advise a young man at present to

go into the army?”

The count was silent for a few minutes, and then replied: “Since

you seriously ask my opinion, my lord, I must lay aside my own

prepossessions, and endeavour to speak with impartiality. To go into

the army in these days, my lord, is, in my sober opinion, the most

absurd and base, or the wisest and noblest thing a young man can do.

To enter into the army, with the hope of escaping from the application

necessary to acquire knowledge, letters, and science--I run no risk,

my lord, in saying this to you--to go into the army, with the hope of

escaping from knowledge, letters, science, and morality; to wear a red

coat and an epaulette; to be called captain; to figure at a ball; to

lounge away time in country sports, at country quarters, was never,

even in times of peace, creditable; but it is now absurd and base.

Submitting to a certain portion of ennui and contempt, this mode

of life for an officer was formerly practicable--but now cannot be

submitted to without utter, irremediable disgrace. Officers are now,

in general, men of education and information; want of knowledge,

sense, manners, must consequently be immediately detected, ridiculed,

and despised, in a military man. Of this we have not long since seen

lamentable examples in the raw officers who have lately disgraced

themselves in my neighbourhood in Ireland--that Major Benson and

Captain Williamson. But I will not advert to such insignificant

individuals, such are rare exceptions--I leave them out of the

question--I reason on general principles. The life of an officer

is not now a life of parade, of coxcombical or of profligate

idleness--but of active service, of continual hardship and danger. All

the descriptions which we see in ancient history of a soldier’s life,

descriptions which in times of peace appeared like romance, are now

realized; military exploits fill every day’s newspapers, every day’s

conversation. A martial spirit is now essential to the liberty and

the existence of our own country. In the present state of things, the

military must be the most honourable profession, because the most

useful. Every movement of an army is followed wherever it goes, by

the public hopes and fears. Every officer must now feel, besides this

sense of collective importance, a belief that his only dependence

must be on his own merit--and thus his ambition, his enthusiasm, are

raised; and, when once this noble ardour is kindled in the breast,

it excites to exertion, and supports under endurance. But I forget

myself,” said the count, checking his enthusiasm; “I promised to speak

soberly. If I have said too much, your own good sense, my lord, will

correct me, and your good nature will forgive the prolixity of an old

man, touched upon his favourite subject--the passion of his youth.”

Lord Colambre, of course, assured the count that he was not tired.

Indeed, the enthusiasm with which this old officer spoke of his

profession, and the high point of view in which he placed it,

increased our hero’s desire to serve a campaign abroad. Good sense,

politeness, and experience of the world preserved Count O’Halloran

from that foible with which old officers are commonly reproached, of

talking continually of their own military exploits. Though retired

from the world, he had contrived, by reading the best books, and

corresponding with persons of good information, to keep up with the

current of modern affairs; and he seldom spoke of those in which he

had been formerly engaged. He rather too studiously avoided speaking

of himself; and this fear of egotism diminished the peculiar interest

he might have inspired: it disappointed curiosity, and deprived those

with whom he conversed of many entertaining and instructive anecdotes.

However, he sometimes made exceptions to his general rule in favour

of persons who peculiarly pleased him, and Lord Colambre was of this

number.

He this evening, for the first time, spoke to his lordship of the

years he had spent in the Austrian service; told him anecdotes of

the emperor; spoke of many distinguished public characters whom he

had known abroad; of those officers who had been his friends and

companions. Among others he mentioned, with particular regard, a young

English officer who had been at the same time with him in the Austrian

service, a gentleman of the name of Reynolds.

The name struck Lord Colambre: it was the name of the officer who had

been the cause of the disgrace of Miss St. Omar--of--Miss Nugent’s

mother. “But there are so many Reynoldses.”

He eagerly asked the age--the character of this officer.

“He was a gallant youth,” said the count, “but too adventurous--too

rash. He fell, after distinguishing himself in a glorious manner, in

his twentieth year--died in my arms.”

“Married or unmarried?” cried Lord Colambre.

“Married--he had been privately married, less than a year before

his death, to a very young English lady, who had been educated at a

convent in Vienna. He was heir to a considerable property, I believe,

and the young lady had little fortune; and the affair was kept secret,

from the fear of offending his friends, or for some other reason--I do

not recollect the particulars.”

“Did he acknowledge his marriage?” said Lord Colambre.

“Never, till he was dying--then he confided his secret to me.”

“Do you recollect the name of the young lady he married?”

“Yes--a Miss St. Omar.”

“St. Omar!” repeated Lord Colambre, with an expression of lively joy

in his countenance. “But are you certain, my dear count, that she was

really married, legally married, to Mr. Reynolds? Her marriage has

been denied by all his friends and relations--hers have never been

able to establish it--her daughter is--My dear count, were you present

at the marriage?”

“No,” said the count, “I was not present at the marriage; I never

saw the lady; nor do I know any thing of the affair, except that Mr.

Reynolds, when he was dying, assured me that he was privately married

to a Miss St. Omar, who was then boarding at a convent in Vienna. The

young man expressed great regret at leaving her totally unprovided

for; but said that he trusted his father would acknowledge her, and

that her friends would be reconciled to her. He was not of age, he

said, to make a will; but I think he told me that his child, who at

that time was not born, would, even if it should be a girl, inherit a

considerable property. With this I cannot, however, charge my memory

positively; but he put a packet into my hands which, he told me,

contained a certificate of his marriage, and, I think he said, a

letter to his father: this he requested that I would transmit to

England by some safe hand. Immediately after his death, I went to the

English ambassador, who was then leaving Vienna, and delivered the

packet into his hands: he promised to have it safely delivered. I was

obliged to go the next day, with the troops, to a distant part of the

country. When I returned, I inquired at the convent what had become of

Miss St. Omar--I should say Mrs. Reynolds; and I was told that she had

removed from the convent to private lodgings in the town, some time

previous to the birth of her child. The abbess seemed much scandalized

by the whole transaction; and I remember I relieved her mind by

assuring her that there had been a regular marriage. For poor young

Reynolds’ sake, I made farther inquiries about the widow, intending,

of course, to act as a friend, if she were in any difficulty or

distress. But I found, on inquiry at her lodgings, that her brother

had come from England for her, and had carried her and her infant

away. The active scenes,” continued the count, “in which I was

immediately afterwards engaged, drove the whole affair from my mind.

Now that your questions have recalled them, I feel certain of the

facts I have mentioned; and I am ready to establish them by my

testimony.”

Lord Colambre thanked him with an eagerness that showed how much he

was interested in the event. It was clear, he said, that either the

packet left with the ambassador had not been delivered, or that the

father of Mr. Reynolds had suppressed the certificate of the marriage,

as it had never been acknowledged by him or by any of the family. Lord

Colambre now frankly told the count why he was so anxious about this

affair; and Count O’Halloran, with all the warmth of youth, and with

all the ardent generosity characteristic of his country, entered

into his feelings, declaring that he would never rest till he had

established the truth.

“Unfortunately,” said the count, “the ambassador who took the packet

in charge is dead. I am afraid we shall have difficulty.”

“But he must have had some secretary,” said Lord Colambre: “who was

his secretary?--we can apply to him.”

“His secretary is now chargé d’affaires in Vienna--we cannot get at

him.”

“Into whose hands have that ambassador’s papers fallen--who is his

executor?” said Lord Colambre.

“His executor!--now you have it,” cried the count. “His executor is

the very man who will do your business--your friend Sir James Brooke

is the executor. All papers, of course, are in his hands; or he can

have access to any that are in the hands of the family. The family

seat is within a few miles of Sir James Brooke’s, in Huntingdonshire,

where, as I told you before, he now is.”

“I’ll go to him immediately--set out in the mail this night. Just in

time!” cried Lord Colambre, pulling out his watch with one hand, and

ringing the bell with the other.

“Run and take a place for me in the mail for Huntingdon. Go directly,”

said Lord Colambre to the servant.

“And take two places, if you please, sir,” said the count. “My lord, I

will accompany you.”

But this Lord Colambre would not permit, as it would be unnecessary

to fatigue the good old general; and a letter from him to Sir James

Brooke would do all that the count could effect by his presence: the

search for the papers would be made by Sir James, and if the packet

could be recovered, or if any memorandum or mode of ascertaining that

it had actually been delivered to old Reynolds could be discovered,

Lord Colambre said he would then call upon the count for his

assistance, and trouble him to identify the packet; or to go with him

to Mr. Reynolds to make farther inquiries; and to certify, at all

events, the young man’s dying acknowledgment of his marriage and of

his child.

The place in the mail, just in time, was taken. Lord Colambre sent a

servant in search of his father, with a note, explaining the necessity

of his sudden departure. All the business which remained to be done in

town he knew Lord Clonbrony could accomplish without his assistance.

Then he wrote a few lines to his mother, on the very sheet of paper

on which, a few hours before, he had sorrowfully and slowly begun,

“_My dear mother--Miss Nugent._”

He now joyfully and rapidly went on,

“My dear mother and Miss Nugent,

“I hope to be with you on Wednesday se’nnight; but if unforeseen

circumstances should delay me, I will certainly write to you again.

Dear mother, believe me,

“Your obliged and grateful son,

“Colambre.”

The count, in the mean time, wrote a letter for him to Sir James

Brooke, describing the packet which he had given to the ambassador,

and relating all the circumstances that could lead to its recovery.

Lord Colambre, almost before the wax was hard, seized the letter; the

count seeming almost as eager to hurry him off as he was to set out.

He thanked the count with few words, but with strong feeling. Joy and

love returned in full tide upon our hero’s soul; all the military

ideas, which but an hour before filled his imagination, were put to

flight: Spain vanished, and green Ireland reappeared.

Just as they shook hands at parting, the good old general, with a

smile, said to him, “I believe I had better not stir in the matter of

Benson’s commission till I hear more from you. My harangue, in favour

of the military profession, will, I fancy, prove, like most other

harangues, a waste of words.”

CHAPTER XVI.

In what words of polite circumlocution, or of cautious diplomacy,

shall we say, or hint, that the deceased ambassador’s papers were

found in shameful disorder. His excellency’s executor, Sir James

Brooke, however, was indefatigable in his researches. He and Lord

Colambre spent two whole days in looking over portfolios of letters,

and memorials, and manifestoes, and bundles of paper of the most

heterogeneous sorts; some of them without any docket or direction to

lead to a knowledge of their contents; others written upon in such

a manner as to give an erroneous notion of their nature; so that it

was necessary to untie every paper separately. At last, when they had

opened, as they thought, every paper, and, wearied and in despair,

were just on the point of giving up the search, Lord Colambre spied a

bundle of old newspapers at the bottom of a trunk.

“They are only old Vienna Gazettes; I looked at them,” said Sir James.

Lord Colambre, upon this assurance, was going to throw them into the

trunk again; but observing that the bundle had not been untied, he

opened it, and withinside of the newspapers he found a rough copy of

the ambassador’s journal, and with it the packet directed to Ralph

Reynolds, sen., Esq., Old Court, Suffolk, per favour of his excellency

Earl *****--a note on the cover, signed O’Halloran, stating when

received by him, and, the date of the day when delivered to the

ambassador--seals unbroken. Our hero was in such a transport of joy

at the sight of this packet, and his friend Sir James Brooke so full

of his congratulations, that they forgot to curse the ambassador’s

carelessness, which had been the cause of so much evil.

The next thing to be done was to deliver the packet to Ralph Reynolds,

Old Court, Suffolk. But when Lord Colambre arrived at Old Court,

Suffolk, he found all the gates locked, and no admittance to be had.

At last an old woman came out of the porter’s lodge, who said Mr.

Reynolds was not there, and she could not say where he was. After

our hero had opened her heart by the present of half a guinea, she

explained, that she “could not _justly_ say where he was, because that

he never let any body of his own people know where he was any day;

he had several different houses and places in different parts, and

far off counties, and other shires, as she heard, and by times he

was at one, and by times at another. The names of two of the places,

Toddrington and Little Wrestham, she knew; but there were others to

which she could give no direction. He had houses in odd parts of

London, too, that he let; and sometimes, when the lodgers’ time was

out, he would go, and be never heard of for a month, may be, in one of

them. In short, there was no telling or saying where he was or would

be one day of the week, by where he had been the last.”

When Lord Colambre expressed some surprise that an old gentleman,

as he conceived Mr. Ralph Reynolds to be, should change places so

frequently, the old woman answered, “that though her master was a deal

on the wrong side of seventy, and though, to look at him, you’d think

he was glued to his chair, and would fall to pieces if he should stir

out of it, yet he was as alert, and thought no more of going about,

than if he was as young as the gentleman who was now speaking to her.

It was old Mr. Reynolds’ delight to come down and surprise his people

at his different places, and see that they were keeping all tight.”

“What sort of a man is he?--Is he a miser?” said Lord Colambre.

“He is a miser, and he is not a miser,” said the woman. “Now he’d

think as much of the waste of a penny as another man would of a

hundred pounds, and yet he would give a hundred pounds easier

than another would give a penny, when he’s in the humour. But his

humour is very odd, and there’s no knowing where to have him; he’s

cross-grained, and more _positiver_-like than a mule; and his deafness

made him worse in this, because he never heard what nobody said, but

would say on his own way--he was very _odd_, but not _cracked_--no,

he was as clear-headed, when he took a thing the right way, as any

man could be, and as clever, and could talk as well as any member of

parliament--and good-natured, and kind-hearted, where he would take a

fancy--but then, may be, it would be to a dog (he was remarkably fond

of dogs), or a cat, or a rat even, that he would take a fancy, and

think more of ‘em than he would of a Christian. But, poor gentleman,

there’s great allowance,” said she, “to be made for him, that lost

his son and heir--that would have been heir to all, and a fine youth

that he doted upon. But,” continued the old woman, in whose mind

the transitions from great to little, from serious to trivial, were

ludicrously abrupt, “that was no reason why the old gentleman should

scold me last time he was here, as he did, for as long as ever he

could stand over me, only because I killed a mouse who was eating

my cheese; and, before night, he beat a boy for stealing a piece of

that same cheese; and he would never, when down here, let me set a

mouse-trap.”

“Well, my good woman,” interrupted Lord Colambre, who was little

interested in this affair of the mouse-trap, and nowise curious to

learn more of Mr. Reynolds’ domestic economy, “I’ll not trouble

you any farther, if you can be so good as to tell me the road to

Toddrington, or to Little Wickham, I think you call it.”

“Little Wickham!” repeated the woman, laughing--“Bless you, sir, where

do you come from? It’s Little Wrestham: sure every body knows, near

Lantry; and keep the _pike_ till you come to the turn at Rotherford,

and then you strike off into the by-road to the left, and then turn

again at the ford to the right. But, if you are going to Toddrington,

you don’t go the road to market, which is at the first turn to the

left, and the cross country road, where there’s no quarter, and

Toddrington lies--but for Wrestham, you take the road to market.”

It was some time before our hero could persuade the old woman to stick

to Little Wrestham, or to Toddrington, and not to mix the directions

for the different roads together--he took patience, for his impatience

only confused his director the more. In process of time he made out,

and wrote down, the various turns that he was to follow, to reach

Little Wrestham; but no human power could get her from Little Wrestham

to Toddrington, though she knew the road perfectly well; but she had,

for the seventeen last years, been used to go “the other road,” and

all the carriers went that way, and passed the door, and that was all

she could certify.

Little Wrestham, after turning to the left and right as often as his

directory required, our hero happily reached: but, unhappily, he

found no Mr. Reynolds there; only a steward, who gave nearly the same

account of his master as had been given by the old woman, and could

not guess even where the gentleman might now be. Toddrington was as

likely as any place--but he could not say.

“Perseverance against fortune.” To Toddrington our hero proceeded,

through cross country roads--such roads!--very different from the

Irish roads. Waggon ruts, into which the carriage wheels sunk nearly

to the nave--and, from time to time, “sloughs of despond,” through

which it seemed impossible to drag, walk, wade, or swim, and all the

time with a sulky postilion. “Oh, how unlike my Larry!” thought Lord

Colambre.

At length, in a very narrow lane, going up a hill, said to be two

miles of ascent, they overtook a heavy laden waggon, and they were

obliged to go step by step behind it, whilst, enjoying the gentleman’s

impatience much, and the postilion’s sulkiness more, the waggoner, in

his embroidered frock, walked in state, with his long sceptre in his

hand.

The postilion muttered “curses not loud, but deep.” Deep or loud, no

purpose would they have answered; the waggoner’s temper was proof

against curse in or out of the English language; and from their

snail’s pace neither _Dickens_, nor devil, nor any postilion in

England could make him put his horses. Lord Colambre jumped out of the

chaise, and, walking beside him, began to talk to him; and spoke of

his horses, their bells, their trappings; the beauty and strength

of the thill-horse--the value of the whole team, which his lordship

happening to guess right within ten pounds, and showing, moreover,

some skill about road-making and waggon-wheels, and being fortunately

of the waggoner’s own opinion in the great question about conical and

cylindrical rims, he was pleased with the young chap of a gentleman;

and, in spite of the chuffiness of his appearance and churlishness of

his speech, this waggoner’s bosom being “made of penetrable stuff,” he

determined to let the gentleman pass. Accordingly, when half way up

the hill, and the head of the fore-horse came near an open gate, the

waggoner, without saying one word or turning his head, touched the

horse with his long whip--and the horse turned in at the gate, and

then came, “Dobbin!--Jeho!” and strange calls and sounds, which all

the other horses of the team obeyed; and the waggon turned into the

farm-yard.

“Now, master! while I turn, you may pass.”

The covering of the waggon caught in the hedge as the waggon turned

in; and as the sacking was drawn back, some of the packages were

disturbed--a cheese was just rolling off on the side next Lord

Colambre; he stopped it from falling: the direction caught his quick

eye--“To Ralph Reynolds, Esq.”--“_Toddrington_” scratched out; “Red

Lion Square, London,” written in another hand below.

“Now I have found him! And surely I know that hand!” said Lord

Colambre to himself, looking more closely at the direction.

The original direction was certainly in a hand-writing well known to

him--it was Lady Dashfort’s.

“That there cheese, that you’re looking at so cur’ously,” said the

waggoner, “has been a great traveller; for it came all the way down

from Lon’on, and now its going all the way up again back, on account

of not finding the gentleman at home; and the man that booked it told

me as how it came from foreign parts.”

Lord Colambre took down the direction, tossed the honest waggoner a

guinea, wished him good night, passed, and went on. As soon as he

could, he turned into the London road--at the first town, got a place

in the mail--reached London--saw his father--went directly to his

friend, Count O’Halloran, who was delighted when he beheld the packet.

Lord Colambre was extremely eager to go immediately to old Reynolds,

fatigued as he was; for he had travelled night and day, and had

scarcely allowed himself, mind or body, one moment’s repose.