--Tom Norton's Aristocracy fails Him--His Reception by Lord Cullamore.
At the hour appointed, Lord Dunroe's father and sister arrived. The old
peer, as his son usually, but not in the most reverential spirit, termed
him, on entering his sleeping chamber, paused for a moment in the middle
of the room, as if to ascertain his precise state of health; but his
sister, Lady Emily, with all the warmth of a young and affectionate
heart, pure as the morning dew-drop, ran to his bedside, and with tears
in her eyes, stooped down and kissed him, exclaiming at the same time,
“My dear Dunroe; but no--I hate those cold and formal titles--they are
for the world, but not for brother and sister. My dear John, how is your
wound? Thank God, it is not dangerous, I hear. Are you better? Will you
soon be able to rise? My dear brother, how I was alarmed on hearing it;
but there is another kiss to help to cure you.”
“My dear Emily, what the deuce are you about? I tell you I have a
prejudice against kissing female relations. It is too tame, and somewhat
of a bore, child, especially to a sick man.”
His father now approached him with a grave, but by no means an unfeeling
countenance, and extending his hand, said, “I fear, John, that this
has been a foolish business; but I am glad to find that, so far as your
personal danger was concerned, you have come off so safely. How do you
find yourself?”
“Rapidly recovering, my lord, I thank you. At first they considered the
thing serious; but the bullet only grazed the rib slightly, although the
flesh wound was, for a time, troublesome enough. I am now, however, free
from fever, and the wound is closing fast.”
“Whilst this brief dialogue took place, Lady Emily sat on a chair by the
bedside, her large, brilliant eyes no longer filled with tears, but
open with astonishment, and we may as well add with pain, at the utter
indifference with which her brother received her affectionate caresses.
After a few moments' reflection, however, her generous heart supposed it
had discovered his apology.
“Ah,” thought the sweet girl, “I had forgotten his wound, and of course
I must have occasioned him great pain, which his delicacy placed to a
different motive. He did not wish to let me know that I had hurt
him.” And her countenance again beamed with the joy of an innocent and
unsuspecting spirit.
“But, Dunroe,” she said--“John, I mean, won't you soon be able to get
up, and to walk about, or, at all events, to take an airing with us in
the carriage? Will you not, dear John?”
“Yes, I hope so, Emily. By the way, Emily, you have grown quite a woman
since I saw you last. It is now better than two years, I think, since
then.”
“How did you like the Continent, John?”
“Why, my dear girl, how is this? What sympathy can you feel with the
experience of a young fellow like me on the Continent? When you know the
world better, my dear girl, you will feel the impropriety of asking such
a question. Pray be seated, my lord.”
Lord Cullamore sat, as if unconsciously, in an arm-chair beside the
table on which were placed his son's dressings and medicines, and
resting his head on his hand for a moment, as if suffering pain, at
length raised it, and said,
“No, Dunroe; no. I trust my innocent girl will never live to feel the
impropriety of asking a question so natural?”
“I'm sure I hope not, my lord, with all my heart,” replied Dunroe. “Have
you been presented, Emily? Have you been brought out?”
“She has been presented,” said her father, “but not brought out; nor
is it my intention, in the obvious sense of that word, that she ever
shall.”
“Oh, your lordship perhaps has a tendency to Popery, then, and there
is a convent in the background? Is that it, my good lord?” he asked,
smiling.
“No,” replied his father, who could not help smiling in return, “not at
all, John. Emily will not require to be brought out, nor paraded through
the debasing formalities of fashion. She shall not be excluded from
fashion, certainly; but neither shall I suffer her to run the vulgar
gauntlet of heartless dissipation, which too often hardens, debases,
and corrupts. But a truce to this; the subject is painful to me; let us
change it.”
The last observation of Dunroe to his sister startled her so much that
she blushed deeply, and looked with that fascinating timidity which
is ever associated with innocence and purity from her brother to her
father.
“Have I said anything wrong, papa?” she asked, when Lord Cullamore had
ceased to speak.
“Nothing, my love, nothing, but precisely what was natural and right.
Dunroe's reply, however, was neither the one nor the other, and he ought
to have known it.”
“Well now, Emily,” said her brother, “I don't regret it, inasmuch as it
has enabled me to satisfy myself upon a point which I have frequently
heard disputed--that is, whether a woman is capable of blushing or not.
Now I have seen you blush with my own eyes, Emily; nay, upon my honor,
you blush again this moment.”
“Dunroe,” observed his father, “you are teasing your sister; forbear.”
“But don't you see, my lord,” persisted his son, “the absolute necessity
for giving her a course of fashionable life, if it were only to remove
this constitutional blemish. If it were discovered, she is ruined;
to blush being, as your lordship knows, contrary to all the laws and
statutes of fashion in that case made and provided.”
“Dunroe,” said his father, “I intend you shall spend part of the summer
and all the autumn in Ireland, with us.”
“Oh, yes, John, you must come,” said his sister, clapping her snow-white
hands in exultation at the thought. “It will be so delightful.”
“Ireland!” exclaimed Dunroe, with well-feigned surprise; “pray where is
that, my lord?”
“Come, come, John,” said his father, smiling; “be serious.”
“Ireland!” he again exclaimed; “oh, by the way, that's an island, I
think, in the Pacific--is it not?”
“No,” replied his father; “a more inappropriate position you could not
have possibly found for it.”
“Is not that the happy country where the people live without food? Where
they lead a life of independence, and starve in such an heroic spirit?”
“My dear Dunroe,” said his father, seriously, “never sport with
the miseries of a people, especially when that people are your own
countrymen.”
“My lord,” he replied, disregarding the rebuke he had received, “for
Heaven's sake conceal that disgraceful fact. Remember, I am a young
nobleman; call me profligate--spendthrift--debauchee--anything you will
but an Irishman. Don't the Irish refuse beef and mutton, and take to
eating each other? What can be said of a people who, to please their
betters, practise starvation as their natural pastime, and dramatize
hunger to pamper their most affectionate lords and masters, who,
whilst the latter witness the comedy, make the performers pay for their
tickets? And yet, although the cannibal system flourishes, I fear they
find it anything but a Sandwich island.”
“Papa,” said Lady Emily, in a whisper, and with tears in her eyes, “I
fear John's head is a little unsettled by his illness.”
“You will injure yourself, my dear Dunroe,” said his father, “if you
talk so much.”
“Not at all, my good lord and father. But I think I recollect one of
their bills of performance, which runs thus: 'On Saturday, the 25th
inst., a tender and affectionate father, stuffed by so many cubic
feet of cold wind, foul air, all resulting from extermination and
the benevolence of a humane landlord, will in the very wantonness
of repletion, feed upon, the dead body of his own child--for which
entertaining performance he will have the satisfaction, subsequently,
of enacting with success the interesting character of a felon, and be
comfortably lodged at his Majesty's expense in the jail of the county.'
Why, my lord, how could you expect me to acknowledge such a country?
However, I must talk to Tom Norton about this. He was born in the
country you speak of--and yet Tom has an excellent appetite; eats like
other people; abhors starvation; and is no cannibal. It is true, I
have frequently seen him ready enough to eat a fellow--a perfect
raw-head-and-bloody-bones--for which reason, I suppose, the principle,
or instinct, or whatever you call it, is still latent in his
constitution. But, on the other hand, whenever Tom gnashed his teeth at
any one _a la cannibale_, if the other gnashed his teeth at him, all the
cannibal disappeared, and Tom was quite harmless.”
* This alludes to a dreadful fact of cannibalism, which
occurred in the South of Ireland in 1846.
“By the way, Dunroe,” said his father, “who is this Tom Norton you speak
of?”
“He is my most particular friend, my lord--my companion--and traveled
with me over the Continent. He is kind enough to take charge of my
affairs: he pays my servants, manages my tradesmen--and, in short, is
a man whom I could not do without. He's up to everything; and is
altogether indispensable to me.”
Lord Cullamore paused for some time, and seemed for a moment absorbed in
some painful reflection or reminiscence. At length he said,
“This man, Dunroe, must be very useful to you, if he be what you have
just described him. Does he also manage your correspondence?”
“He does, my lord; and is possessed of my most unlimited confidence. In
fact, I could never get on without him. My affairs are in a state of
the most inextricable confusion, and were it not for his sagacity
and prudence, I could scarcely contrive to live at all. Poor Tom; he
abandoned fine prospects in order to devote himself to my service.”
“Such a friend must be invaluable, John,” observed his sister. “They say
a friend, a true friend, is the rarest thing in the world; and when one
meets such a friend, they ought to appreciate him.”
“Very true, Emily,” said the Earl; “very true, indeed.” He spoke,
however, as if in a state of abstraction. “Norton!--Norton. Do you know,
John, who he is? Anything of his origin or connections?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Dunroe; “unless that he is well
connected--he told me so himself--too well, indeed, he hinted, to render
the situation of a dependent one which he should wish his relatives to
become acquainted with--Of course, I respected his delicacy, and did
not, consequently, press him further upon the point.”
“That was considerate on your part,” replied the Earl, somewhat dryly;
“but if he be such as you have described him, I agree with Emily in
thinking he must be invaluable. And now, John, with respect to another
affair--but perhaps this interview may be injurious to your health.
Talking much, and the excitement attending it, may be bad, you know.”
“I am not easily excited, my lord,” replied Dunroe; “rather a cool
fellow; unless, indeed, when I used to have duns to meet. But now Norton
manages all that for me. Proceed, my lord.”
“Yes, but, John,” observed Lady Emily, “don't let affection for papa and
me allow you to go beyond your strength.”
“Never mind, Emily; I am all right, if this wound were healed, as it
will soon be. Proceed, my lord.”
“Well, then, my dear Dunroe, I am anxious you should know that I have
had a long conversation with Sir Thomas Gourlay, upon the subject of
your marriage with his beautiful and accomplished daughter.”
“Yes, the Black Baronet; a confounded old scoundrel by all accounts.”
“You forget, sir,” said the Earl, sternly, “that he is father to your
future wife.”
“Devilish sorry for it, my lord. I wish Lucy was daughter to any one
else--but it matters not; I am not going to marry the black fellow, but
twelve thousand a year and a pretty girl. I know a prettier, though.”
“Impossible, John,” replied Lady Emily, with enthusiasm. “I really think
Lucy Gourlay the most lovely girl I have ever seen--the most amiable,
the most dignified, the most,accomplished, the most--dear John, how
happy I shall be to call her sister!”
“Dunroe,” proceeded his father, “I beg you consider this affair
seriously--solemnly--the happiness of such a girl as Lucy Grourlay is
neither to be sported with nor perilled. You will have much to reform
before you can become worthy of her. I now tell you that the reformation
must be effected, sincerely and thoroughly, before I shall ever give my
consent to your union with her. There must be neither dissimulation nor
hypocrisy on your part. Your conduct must speak for you, and I must,
from the clearest evidence, be perfectly satisfied that in marrying you
she is not wrecking her peace and happiness, by committing them to a man
who is incapable of appreciating her, or who is insensible to what is
due to her great and shining virtues.”
“It would be dreadful, John,” said his sister, “if she should not feel
happy. But if John, papa, requires reformation, I am sure he will reform
for Lucy's sake.”
“He ought to reform from a much higher principle, my dear child,”
replied her father.
“And so he will, papa. Will you not, dear brother?”
“Upon my honor, my lord,” said Dunroe, “I had a conversation this very
morning upon the subject with Tom Norton.”
“I am glad to hear it, my dear son. It is not too late--it is never too
late--to amend the life; but in this instance there is an event about
to take place which renders a previous reformation, in its truest sense,
absolutely indispensable.”
“My lord,” he replied, “the truth is, I am determined to try a course of
religion. Tom Norton tells me it is the best thing in the world to get
through life with.”
“Tom Norton might have added that it is a much better thing to get
through death with,” added the Earl, gravely.
“But he appears to understand it admirably, my lord,” replied Dunroe.
“He says it quickens a man's intellects, and not only prevents him from
being imposed upon by knaves and sharpers, but enables him, by putting
on a long face, and using certain cabalistic phrases, to overreach--no,
not exactly that, but to--let me see, to steer a safe course through the
world; or something to that effect. He says, too, that religious folks
always come best off, and pay more attention to the things of this life,
than any one else; and that, in consequence, they thrive and prosper
under it. No one, he says, gets credit so freely as a man that is
supposed to be religious. Now this struck me quite forcibly, as a thing
that might be very useful to me in getting out of my embarrassments. But
then, it would be necessary to go to church, I believe--to pray--sing
psalms--read the Bible--and subscribe to societies of some kind or
other. Now all that would be very troublesome. How does a person pray,
my lord? Is it by repeating the Ten Commandments, or reading a religious
book?”
Despite the seriousness of such a subject, Lord Cullamore and his
daughter, on glancing at each other, could scarcely refrain from
smiling.
“Now, I can't see,” proceeded Dunroe, “how either the one or the other
of the said commandments would sharpen a man for the world, as Tom
Norton's religion does.”
The good old Earl thought either that his son was affecting an ignorance
on the subject which he did not feel, or that his ignorance was in
reality so great that for the present, at least, it was useless to
discuss the matter with him.
“I must say, my dear Dunroe,” he added, in a kind and indulgent voice,
“that your first conceptions of reformation are very original, to say
the least of them.”
“I grant it, my lord. Every one knows that all my views, acts, and
expressions are original. 'Dunroe's a perfect original' is the general
expression among my friends. But on the subject of religion, I am
willing to be put into training. I told Tom Norton to look out and
hire me a pas'n, or somebody, to give me lessons in it. Is there such a
thing, by the way, as a Religious Grammar? If so, I shall provide
one, and make myself master of all the rules, cases, inflections,
interjections, groans, exclamations, and so on, connected with it. The
Bible is the dictionary, I believe?”
Poor Lady Emily, like her father, could not for the life of her suppose
for a moment that her brother was serious: a reflection that relieved
her from much anxiety of mind and embarrassment on his account.
“Papa,” said, she, whilst her beautiful features were divided, if we may
so say, between smiles and tears, “papa, Dunroe is only jesting; I am
sure he is only jesting, and does not mean any serious disrespect to
religion.”
“That may be, my dear Emily; but he will allow me to tell him that it
is the last subject upon which he, or any one else, should jest. Whether
you are in jest or earnest, my dear Dunroe, let me advise you to bring
the moral courage and energies of a man to the contemplation of your
life, in the first place; and in the next, to its improvement. It is not
reading the Bible, nor repeating prayers, that will, of themselves, make
you religious, unless the heart is in earnest; but a correct knowledge
of what is right and wrong--in other words, of human duty--will do much
good in the first place; with a firm resolution to avoid the evil and
adopt the good. Remember that you are accountable to the Being who
placed you in this life, and that your duty here consists, not in the
indulgence of wild and licentious passions, but in the higher and nobler
ones of rendering as many of your fellow-creatures happy as you can:
for such a course will necessarily insure happiness to yourself. This is
enough for the present; as soon as you recover your strength you shall
come to Ireland.”
“When I recover my strength!” he exclaimed. “Ay, to be eaten like a
titbit. Heavens, what a delicious morsel a piece of a young peer would
be to such fellows! but I will not run that horrible risk. Lucy must
come to me--I am sure the prospect of a countess's coronet ought to be
a sufficient inducement to her. But, to think that I should run the risk
of being shot from behind a hedge--made a component part of a midnight
bonfire, or entombed in the bowels of some Patagonian cannibal, savagely
glad to feed, upon the hated Saxon who has so often fed upon him!--No,
I repeat, Lucy, if she is to be a countess, must travel in this
direction.”
The indelicacy and want of all consideration for the feelings of his
father, so obvious in his heartless allusion to a fact which could
only result from that father's death, satisfied the old man that any
reformation in his son was for the present hopeless, and even Lady Emily
felt anxious to put an end to the visit as soon as possible.
“By the way,” said his father, as they were taking their leave, “I have
had an unpleasant letter from my brother, in which he states that he
wrote to you, but got no answer.”
“I never received a letter from him,” replied his lordship; “none ever
reached me; if it had, the very novelty of a communication from such a
quarter would have prevented me from forgetting it.”
“I should think so. His letter to me, indeed, is a strange one. He
utters enigmatical threats--”
“Come, I like that--I am enigmatical myself--you see it is in the
family.”
“Enigmatical threats which I cannot understand, and desires me to hold
myself prepared for certain steps which he is about to take, in justice
to what he is pleased to term his own claims. However, it is not worth
notice. But this Norton, I am anxious to see him, Dunroe--will you
request him to call upon me to-morrow at twelve o'clock?--of course, I
feel desirous to make the acquaintance of a man who has proved himself
such a warm and sterling friend to my son.”
“Undoubtedly, my lord, he shall attend on you--I shall take care of
that. Good-by, my lord--good by, Emily--good--good--my dear girl, never
mind the embrace--it is quite undignified--anything but a patrician
usage, I assure you.”
Now it is necessary that we should give our readers a clearer conception
of Lord Dunroe's character than is to be found in the preceding
dialogue. This young gentleman was one of those who wish to put every
person who enters into conversation with them completely at fault. It
was one of his whims to affect ignorance on many subjects with which he
was very well acquainted. His ambition was to be considered a character;
and in order to carry this idea out, he very frequently spoke on the
most commonplace topics as a man might be supposed to do who had just
dropped from the moon. He thought, also, that there was something
aristocratic in this fictitious ignorance, and that it raised him above
the common herd of those who could talk reasonably on the ordinary
topics of conversation or life. His ambition, the reader sees, was to
be considered original. It had besides, this advantage, that in matters
where his ignorance is anything but feigned, it brought him out safely
under the protection of his accustomed habit, without suffering from the
imputation of the ignorance he affected. It was, indeed, the ambition of
a vain and silly mind; but provided he could work out this paltry joke
upon a grave and sensible though unsuspecting individual, he felt quite
delighted at the feat; and took the person thus imposed upon into the
number of his favorites. It was upon this principle among others that
Norton, who pretended never to see through his flimsy irony, contrived
to keep in his favor, and to shape him according to his wishes, whilst
he made the weak-minded young man believe that everything he did and
every step he took was the result of his own deliberate opinion, whereas
in fact he was only a puppet in his hands.
His father, who was naturally kind and indulgent, felt deeply grieved
and mortified by the reflections arising from this visit. During the
remainder of the day he seemed wrapped in thought; but we do not attempt
to assert that the dialogue with his son was the sole cause of this.
He more than once took out his brother's letter which he read with
surprise, not unmingled with strong curiosity and pain. It was, as
he said, extremely enigmatical, whilst at the same time it contained
evidences of that deplorable spirit which almost uniformly embitters
so deeply the feuds which arise from domestic misconceptions. On this
point, however, we shall enable the reader to judge for himself. The
letter was to the following effect:
“My Lord Cullamore.--It is now nine months and upwards since I addressed
a letter to your son; and I wrote to him in reference to you, because it
had been for many years my intention never to have renewed or held any
communication whatsoever with you. It was on this account, therefore,
that I opened, or endeavored to open, a correspondence with him rather
than with his father. In this I have been disappointed, and my object,
which was not an unfriendly one, frustrated. I do not regret, however,
that I have been treated with contempt. The fact cancelled the foolish
indulgence with which an exhibition of common courtesy and politeness,
if not a better feeling, on the part of your son, might have induced me
to treat both you and him. As matters now stand between us, indulgence
is out of the question; so is compromise. I shall now lose little time
in urging claims which you will not be able to withstand. Whether you
suspect the nature of these claims or not is more than I know. Be that,
however, as it may, I can assure you that I had resolved not to disturb
your last days by prosecuting them during your lifetime. That resolution
I have now rescinded, and all that remains for me to say is; that as
little time as possible shall be lost in enforcing the claims I allude
to, in justice to my family.
“I am, my Lord Cullamore,
“Your obedient servant,
“RICHARD STAPLETON.”
This strange and startling communication caused the good old man much
uneasiness, even although its object and purpose were altogether beyond
his comprehension. The only solution that occurred to him of the mystery
which ran through it, was that it must have been written under some
misconception or delusion for which he could not account. Another key
to the difficulty--one equally replete with distress and alarm--was
that his brother's reason had probably become unsettled, and that the
communication in question was merely the emanation of mental alienation.
And, indeed, on this point only could he account for the miscarriage of
the letter to his son, which probably had never been written at all and
existed only in the disturbed imagination of his unfortunate brother.
At all events, the contents of this document, like those mysterious
presentiments of evil which sometimes are said to precede calamity, hung
like a weight upon his mind, view them as he might. He became nervous,
depressed, and gloomy, pleaded illness as an apology for not dining
abroad; remained alone and at home during the whole evening, but arose
the next morning in better spirits, and when our friend Tom Norton
presented himself, he had regained sufficient equanimity and composure
to pay proper attention to that faithful and friendly gentleman.
Now Tom, who resolved to make an impression, as it is termed, was
dressed in the newest and most fashionable morning visit costume, drove
up to the hall-door at that kind of breakneck pace with which your
celebrated whips delight to astonish the multitude, and throwing the
reins to a servant, desired, if he knew how to pace the horse up and
down, to do so; otherwise to remember that he had a neck.
The servant in question, a stout, compact fellow, with a rich Milesian
face and a mellow brogue, looked at him with a steady but smiling eye.
“Have a neck, is it?” he exclaimed; “by my sowl, an' it's sometimes an
inconvenience to have that same. My own opinion is, sir, that the neck
now is jist one of the tenderest joints in the body.”
Norton looked at him for a moment with an offended and haughty stare.
“If you are incapable of driving the landau, sir,” he replied, “call
some one who can; and don't be impertinent.”
“Incapable,” replied the other, with a cool but humorous kind of
gravity; “troth, then it's disgrace I'd bring on my taicher if I
couldn't sit a saddle an' handle a whip with the best o' them. And wid
regard to the neck, sir, many a man has escaped a worse fall than one
from the box or the saddle.”
Norton drew himself up with a highly indignant scowl, and turning his
frown once more upon this most impertinent menial, encountered a look
of such comic familiarity, easy assurance, and droll indifference, as
it would not be easy to match. The beau started, stared, again pulled
himself to a still greater height--as if by the dignity of the attitude
to set the other at fault--frowned more awfully, then looked bluster,
and once more surveyed the broad, knowing face and significant laughing
eyes that were fixed upon him--set, as they were, in the centre of a
broad grin--after which he pulled up his collar with an air--taking
two or three strides up and down with what he intended as aristocratic
dignity--
“Hem! ahem! What do you mean, sir?”
To this, for a time, there was no reply; but there, instead, were the
laughing fascinators at work, fixed not only upon him, but in him,
piercing him through; the knowing grin still increasing and gathering
force of expression by his own confusion.
“Curse me, sir, I don't understand this insolence. What do you mean? Do
you know who it is you treat in this manner?”
Again he stretched himself, pulled up his collar as before, displaying a
rich diamond ring, then taking out a valuable gold watch, glanced at
the time, and putting it in his fob, looked enormously big and haughty,
exclaiming again, with a frown that was intended to be a stunner--after
again pacing up and down with the genuine tone and carriage of true
nobility--
“I say, sir, do you know the gentleman whom you are treating with
such impertinence? Perhaps you mistake me, on account of a supposed
resemblance, for some former acquaintance of yours. If, so, correct
yourself; I have never seen you till this moment.”
There, however, was the grin, and there were the eyes as before,
to which we must add a small bit of pantomime on the part of Morty
O'Flaherty, for such was the servant's name, which bit of pantomime
consisted in his (Morty's) laying his forefinger very knowingly
alongside his nose, exclaiming, in a cautious and friendly voice
however,
“Barney, achora, don't be alarmed; there's no harm done yet. You're safe
if you behave yourself.”
“What!” said Norton. “By the bones of St. Patrick but you are Morty
O'Flaherty! Confound it, my dear Morty, why didn't you make yourself
known at once? it would have relieved both of us.”
“One of us, you mane,” replied Morty, with a wink.
“Upon my soul I am glad to free you, Morty. And how are you, man alive?
In a snug berth here, I see, with the father of my friend, Lord Dunroe.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Morty, shrewdly; “is that it? Your friend; Oh, I see.
Nate as ever, like a clane sixpence. Well, Barney, the world will have
its way.”
“Ay, Morty, and we must comply with it. Some it brings up, and others it
brings down.”
“Whisht, now, Barney,” said Morty; “let by-gones be by-gones. That it
didn't bring you up, be thankful to a gracious Providence and a light
pair o' heels; that's all. And what are you now?”
“No longer Barney Bryan, at any rate,” replied the other. “My name, at
present, is Norton.”
“At present! Upon my sowl, Barney, so far as names goes, you're a
walkin' catalogue.”
“Thomas Norton, Esquire; residing with that distinguished young
nobleman, Lord Dunroe, as his bosom friend and inseparable companion.”
“Hem! I see,” said Morty, with a shrug, which he meant as one of
compassion for the aforesaid Lord Dunroe; “son to my masther. Well, God
pity him, Barney, is the worst I wish him. You will take care of him;
you'll tache him a thing or two--and that's enough. But, Barney--”
“Curse Barney--Mr. Norton's the word.”
“Well, Mr. Norton--ah, Mr. Norton, there's one person you'll not
neglect.”
“Who is that, Morty?”
“Faith, your mother's son, achora. However, you know the proverb--'A
burnt child dreads the fire.' You have a neck still, Barney--beg pardon,
Mr. Norton--don't forget that fact.”
“And I'll take care of the said neck, believe me, Morty; I shall keep it
safe, never fear.”
“Take care you don't keep it a little too safe. A word to the wise is
enough, Bar--Mr. Norton.”
“It is, Morty; and I trust you will remember that that is to be a
regulation between us. 'A close mouth is the sign of a wise head,' too;
and there's a comrade for your proverb--but we are talking too long.
Listen; keep my secret, and I will make it worth your while to do so.
You may ruin me, without serving yourself; but as a proof that you will
find me your friend, I will slip you five guineas, as a recompense, you
know, for taking care of the landau and horses. In short, if we work
into each other's hands it will be the better for us both.”
“I'll keep your' saicret,” replied honest Morty, “so long, Barney--hem!
Mr. Norton--as you keep yourself honest; but I'll dirty my hands wid
none o' your money. If I was willin' to betray you, it's not a bribe
would prevent me.”
Mr. Norton, in a few moments, was ushered into the presence of Lord
Cullamore.
On entering the apartment, the old nobleman, with easy and native
courtesy, rose up, and received him with every mark of attention and
respect.
“I am happy, Mr. Norton,” he proceeded, “to have it in my power to thank
you for the friendship and kindness which my son, Lord Dunroe, has been
so fortunate as to receive at your hands. He speaks of you with such
warmth, and in terms of such high esteem, that I felt naturally anxious
to make your acquaintance, as his friend. Pray be seated.”
Norton, who was a quick and ready fellow, in more senses than one, bowed
lowly, and with every mark of the deepest respect; but, at the same
time, he certainly started upon a high and a rather hazardous theory--to
wit, that of a man of consequence, who wished to be considered with
respect to Dunroe rather as a patron than a dependent.
The fellow, we should have stated to the reader, was originally from
Kerry, though he adopted Connaught, and consequently had a tolerable
acquaintance with Latin and Greek--an acquisition which often stood him
in stead through life; joined to which was an assurance that nothing
short of a scrutiny such as Morty O'Maherty's could conquer.
“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “you quite overrate any trifling
services I may have rendered to my friend Dunroe. Upon my soul and honor
you do. I have done nothing for him--that is, nothing to speak of. But
the truth is, I took a fancy to Dunroe; and I do assure you again, Lord
Cullamore, that when I do take a fancy to any person--a rare case with
me, I grant--I would go any possible lengths to serve him. Every man has
his whim, my lord, and that is mine. I hope your lordship had a pleasant
trip across Channel?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Norton; but I have been for some time past in
delicate health, and am not now so capable of bearing the trip as
formerly. Still I feel no reason to complain, although far from strong.
Dunroe, I perceive, is reduced considerably by his wound and the
consequent confinement.”
“Oh, naturally, of course, my lord; but a few days now will set him upon
his legs.”
“That, it seems to me, Mr. Norton, was a very foolish and unpleasant
affair altogether.”
“Nothing could be more so, my lord. It was altogether wrong on the part
of Dunroe, and so I told him.”
“Could you not have prevented it, Mr. Norton?”
“Ha, ha, ha! very good, Lord Cullamore. Ask me could I prevent or check
a flash of lightning. Upon my soul and honor, the thing was over, and my
poor friend down, before you could say 'Jack Robinson'--hem!--as we say
in Connaught.”
“You have travelled, too, with my son, Mr. Norton, and he is perfectly
sensible of the services you have rendered him during his tour.”
“God forbid, my Lord Cullamore, that I should assume any superiority
over poor, kind-hearted, and honorable Dunroe; but as you are his
father, my lord, I may--and with pride and satisfaction I do it--put the
matter on its proper footing, and say, that Dunroe travelled with me.
The thing is neither here nor there, of course, nor would I ever allude
to it unless as a proof of my regard and affection for him.”
“That only enhances your kindness, Mr. Norton.”
“Why, my lord, I met Dunroe in Paris--no matter, I took him out of some
difficulties, and prevented him from getting into more. He had been set
by a clique of--but I will not dwell on this, it looks like egotism--I
said before, I took a fancy to him--for it frequently happens, my good
lord, that you take a fancy to the person you have served.”
“True enough, indeed, Mr. Norton.”
“I am fond of travelling, and was about to make my fourth or fifth tour,
when I met your son, surrounded by a crew of--but I have alluded to this
a moment ago. At all events, I saw his danger--a young man exposed to
temptation--the most alluring and perilous. Well, my lord, mine was
a name of some weight and authority, affording just the kind of
countenance and protection your son required. Well, I travelled with
him, guarded him, guided him, for as to any inconvenience I may myself
have experienced in taking him by the most comprehensive routes, and
some other matters, they are not worth naming. Of course I introduced
him to some of the most distinguished men of France--to the Marquis De
Fogleville, for instance, the Count Rapscallion, Baron Snottellin, and
some others of the first rank and nobility of the country. The pleasure
of his society, however, more than compensated me for all.”
“But, pardon me, Mr. Norton, I believe the title and family of De
Fogleville have been extinct. The last of them was guillotined not long
since for an attempt to steal the crown jewels of France, I think.”
“True, my lord, you are perfectly right, the unhappy man was an insane
legitimist; but the title and estates have been revived in the person of
another member of the family, the present marquis, who is a nobleman of
high consideration and honor.”
“Oh, indeed! I was not aware of that, Mr. Norton,” said his lordship. “I
am quite surprised at the extent of your generosity and goodness to my
son.”
“But, my lord, it is not my intention to give up Dunroe or abandon the
poor fellow yet awhile. I am determined to teach him economy in managing
his affairs, to make him know the value of time, of money, and of
system, in everything pertaining to Life and business. Nor do I regret
what I have done, nor what I propose to do; far from it, my lord. All
I ask is, that he will always look upon me as a friend or an elder
brother, and consult me, confide in me, and come to me, in fact, or
write to me, whenever he may think I can be of service to him.”
“And in his name, of course, I may at least thank you, Mr. Norton,”
replied the Earl, with a slight irony in his manner, “not only for all
you have done, but for all you propose to do, as you say.”
Norton shook his head peremptorily.
“Pardon me, my lord, no thanks. I am overpaid by the pleasure of ranking
Dunroe among the number of my friends.”
“You are too kind, indeed, Mr. Norton; and I trust my son will be duly
grateful, as he is duly sensible of all you have done for him. By
the way, Mr. Norton, you alluded to Connaught. You are, I presume, an
Irishman?”
“I am an Irishman, my lord.”
“Of course, sir, I make no inquiry as to your individual family. I am
sure from what I have seen of you they must have been, and are, persons
of worth and consideration; but I wished to ask if the name be a
numerous one in Ireland, or rather, in your part of it--Connaught?”
“Numerous, my lord, no, not very numerous, but of the first
respectability.”
“Pray, is your father living, Mr. Norton? If he be, why don't you bring
him among us? And if you have any brother, I need scarcely say what
pleasure it would afford me, having, as you are aware, I presume, some
influence with ministers, to do anything I could for him, should he
require it; probably in the shape of a foreign appointment, or something
that way. Anything, Mr. Norton, to repay a portion of what is due to you
by my family.”
“I thank your lordship,” replied Tom. “My poor father was, as too many
other Irish gentlemen have been, what is termed a hard goer (the honest
man was a horse jockey like myself, thought Tom)--and indeed ran through
a great deal of property during the latter part of his life (when he was
huntsman to Lord Rattlecap, he went through many an estate).”
“Well, but your brother?”
“Deeply indebted, my lord, but I have no brother living. Poor Edward did
get a foreign appointment many years ago (he was transported for horse
stealing), by the influence of one of the most eminent of our judges,
who strongly advised him to accept it, and returned his name to
government as a worthy and suitable candidate. He died there, my lord,
in the discharge of his appointed duties. Poor Ned, however, was never
fond of public business under government, and, indeed, accepted the
appointment in question with great reluctance.”
“The reason why I made these inquiries about the name of Norton,” said
Lord Cullamore, “is this. There was, several years ago, a respectable
female of the name, who held a confidential situation in my family; I
have long lost sight of her, however, and would be glad to know whether
she is living or dead.”
(“My sister-in-law,” thought Tom.) “I fear,” he replied, “I can render
you no information on that point, my lord; the last female branch of our
part of the family was my grandmother, who died about three years ago.”
At this moment a servant entered the apartment, bearing in his hand a
letter, for which office he had received a bribe of half-a-crown. “I beg
pardon, my lord, but there's a woman at the hall-door, who wishes this
letter to be handed to that gentleman; but I fear there's some mistake,”
he added, “it is directed to Barney Bryan. She insists he is here, and
that she saw him come into the house.”
“Barney Bryan,” said Tom, with great coolness; “show me the letter,
for I think I know something about it. Yes, I am right. It is an insane
woman, my lord, wife to a jockey of mine, who broke his neck riding my
celebrated horse, Black and all Black, on the Curragh. The poor creature
cannot believe that her husband is dead, and thinks that I enjoy that
agreeable privilege. The circumstance, indeed, was a melancholy one; but
I have supported her ever since.”
Morty O'Flaherty, who had transferred his charge to other hands, fearing
that Mister Norton might get into trouble, now came to the rescue.
“Pray,” said Tom, quick as lightning, “is that insane creature below
still, a poor woman whose husband broke his neck riding a race for me on
the Curragh, and she thinks that I stand to her in that capacity?”
“Oh, yes; she says,” added the man who brought the letter, “that this
gentleman's name is not Norton, but Bryan--Barney Bryan, I think--and
that he is her husband, exactly as the gentleman says.”
“Just so, my lord,” said Tom, smiling; “poor thing! what a melancholy
delusion.”
“I was present at the accident, Mr. Norton,” added Morty, boldly, “and
remember the circumstance, in throth, very well. Didn't the poor woman
lose her senses by it?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, “I have just mentioned the circumstance to his
lordship.”
“And--beg pardon, Mr. Norton--doesn't she take you for her husband from
that day to this?”
“Yes, so I have said.”
“Oh, God help her, poor thing! Isn't she to be pitied?” added Morty,
with a dry roguish glance at Mr. Norton; “throth, she has a hard fate of
it. Howaniver, she is gone. I got her off, an' now the place is I clear
of the unfortunate creature. The lord look to her!”
The servants then withdrew, and Norton made his parting bow to Lord
Cullamore, whom we now leave to his meditations on the subject of this
interview.