--Glimpse of a new Character--Lord Gullamore's Rebuke to his Son, who
greatly refuses to give up his Friend.
A considerable period now elapsed, during which there was little done
that could contribute to the progress of our narrative. Summer had set
in, and the Cullamore family, owing to the failing health of the old
nobleman, had returned to his Dublin residence, with an intention
of removing to Glenshee, as soon he should receive the advice of his
physician. From the day on which his brother's letter reached him, his
lordship seemed to fall into a more than ordinary despondency of mind.
His health for years had been very infirm, but from whatsoever cause it
proceeded, he now appeared to labor under some secret presentiment of
calamity, against which he struggled in vain. So at least he himself
admitted. It is true that age and a constitution enfeebled by delicate
health might alone, in a disposition naturally hypochondriac, occasion
such anxiety; as we know they frequently do even in the youthful. Be
this as it may, one thing was evident, his lordship began to sink more
rapidly than he had ever done before; and like most invalids of his
class, he became wilful and obstinate in his own opinions. His doctor,
for instance, advised him to remove to the delightful air of Glenshee
Castle; but this, for some reason or other, he peremptorily refused to
do, and so long as he chose to remain in town, so long were Lady Emily
and her aunt resolved to stay with him. Dunroe, also, was pretty regular
in inquiries after his health; but whether from a principle of filial
affection, or a more flagitious motive, will appear from the following
conversation, which took place one morning after breakfast, between
himself and Norton.
“How is your father this morning, my lord?” inquired that worthy
gentleman. “I hope he is better.”
“A lie, Norton,” replied his lordship--“a lie, as usual. You hope no
such thing. The agency which is to follow on the respectable old peer's
demise bars that--eh?”
“I give you my honor, my lord, you do me injustice. I am in no hurry
with him on that account; it would be unfeeling,and selfish.”
“Now, Tom,” replied the other, in that kind of contemptuous familiarity
which slavish minions or adroit knaves like Norton must always put up
with from such men, “now, Tom, my good fellow, you know the case is
this--you get the agency to the Cullamore property the moment my right
honorable dad makes his exit. If he should delay that exit for seven
years to come, then you will be exactly seven years short of the
period in which you will fleece me and my tenants, and put the wool on
yourself.”
“Only your tenants, my lord, if you please. I may shear them, a little,
I trust; but you can't suppose me capable of shearing--”
“My lordship. No, no, you are too honest; only you will allow me to
insinuate, in the meantime, that I believe you have fleeced me to some
purpose already. I do not allude to your gambling debts, which, with my
own, I have been obliged to pay; but to other opportunities which have
come in your way. It doesn't matter, however; you are a pleasant and
a useful fellow, and I believe that although you clip me yourself a
little, you would permit no one else to do so. And, by the way, talking
of the respectable old peer, he is anything but a friend of yours, and
urged me strongly to send you to the devil, as a cheat and impostor.”
“How is that, my lord?” asked Norton, with an interest which he could
scarcely disguise.
“Why, he mentioned something of a conversation you had, in which you
told him, you impudent dog--and coolly to his face, too--that you
patronized his son while in France, and introduced him to several
distinguished French noblemen, not one of whom, he had reason to
believe, ever existed except in your own fertile and lying imagination.”
“And was that all?” asked Norton, who I began to entertain apprehensions
of Morty O'Flaherty; “did he mention nothing else?”
“No,” replied Dunroe; “and you scoundrel, was not that a d--d deal too
much?”
Norton, now feeling that he was safe from Morty, laughed very heartily,
and replied,
“It's a fact, sure enough; but then, wasn't it on your lordship's
account I bounced? The lie, in point of fact, if it can be called one,
was, therefore, more your lordship's lie than mine.”
“How do you mean by 'if it can be called one'?”
“Why, if I did not introduce you to real noblemen, I did to some
spurious specimens, gentlemen who taught you all the arts and etiquette
of the gaming-table, of which, you know very well, my lord, you were
then so shamefully ignorant, as to be quite unfit for the society of
gentlemen, especially on the continent.”
“Yes, Tom, and the state of my property now tells me at what cost you
taught me. You see these tenants say they have not money, plead hard
times, failure of crops, and depreciation of property.”
“Ay, and so they will plead, until I take them in hand.”
“And, upon my soul, I don't care how soon that may be.”
“Monster of disobedience,” said Norton, ironically, “is it thus you
speak of a beloved parent, and that parent a respectable old peer? In
other words, you wish him in kingdom come. Repent, my lord--retract
those words, or dread 'the raven of the valley'.”
“Faith, Tom, there's no use in concealing it. It's not that I wish him
gone; but that I long as much to touch the property at large, as you the
agency. It's a devilish tough affair, this illness of his.”
“Patience, my lord, and filial affection.”
“I wish he would either live or die; for, in the first case, I could
marry this brave and wealthy wench of the baronet's, which I can't do
now, and he in such a state of health. If I could once touch the Gourlay
cash, I were satisfied. The Gourlay estates will come to me, too,
because there is no heir, and they go with this wench, who is a brave
wench, for that reason.”
“So she has consented to have you at last?”
“Do you think, Tom, she ever had any serious intention of declining the
coronet? No, no; she wouldn't be her father's daughter if she had.”
“Yes; but your lordship suspected that the fellow who shot you had made
an impression in that quarter.”
“I did for a time--that is, I was fool enough to think so; she is,
however, a true woman, and only played him off against me.”
“But why does she refuse to see you?”
“She hasn't refused, man; her health, they tell me, is not good of late;
of course, she is only waiting to gain strength for the interview, that
is all. Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, I understand women a devilish deal
better than you do.”
“So you ought; you have had greater experience, and paid more for it.
What will you do with the fair blonde, though. I suppose the matrimonial
compact will send her adrift.”
“Suppose no such thing, then. I had her before matrimony, and I will
have her after it. No, Tom, I am not ungrateful; fore or aft, she shall
be retained. She shall never say that I acted unhandsomely by her,
especially as she has become a good girl and repented. I know I did
her injustice about the player-man. On that point she has thoroughly
satisfied me, and I was wrong.”
Norton gave him a peculiar look, one of those looks which an adept in
the ways of life, in its crooked paths and unprincipled impostures,
not unfrequently bestows upon the poor aristocratic dolt whom he is
plundering to his face. The look we speak of might be mistaken for
surprise--it might be mistaken for pity--but it was meant for contempt.
“Of course,” said he, “you are too well versed in the ways of the world,
my lord, and especially in those of the fair sex, to be imposed upon. If
ever I met an individual who can read a man's thoughts by looking into
his face, your lordship is the man. By the way, when did you see your
father-in-law that is to be?”
“A couple of days ago. He, too, has been ill, and looks somewhat shaken.
It is true, I don't like the man, and I believe nobody does; but I like
very well to hear him talk of deeds, settlements, and marriage articles.
He begged of me, however, not to insist on seeing his daughter until she
is fully recovered, which he expects will be very soon; and the moment
she is prepared for an interview, he is to let me know. But, harkee,
Tom, what can the old earl want with me this morning, think you?”
“I cannot even guess,” replied the other, “unless it be to prepare you
for--”
“For what?”
“Why, it is said that the fair lady with whom you are about to commit
the crime of matrimony is virtuous and religious, as well as beautiful
and so forth; and, in that case, perhaps he is about to prepare you for
the expected conference. I cannot guess anything else, unless,
perhaps, it may be the avarice of age about to rebuke the profusion and
generosity of youth. In that case, my lord, keep your temper, and don't
compromise your friends.”
“Never fear, Tom; I have already fought more battles on your account
than you could dream of. Perhaps, after all, it is nothing. Of late
he has sent for me occasionally, as if to speak upon some matter of
importance, when, after chatting upon the news of the day or lecturing
me for supporting an impostor--meaning you--he has said he would defer
the subject on which he wished to speak, until another opportunity.
Whatever it is, he seems afraid of it, or perhaps the respectable old
peer is doting.”
“I dare say, my lord, it is very natural he should at these years; but
if he,” proceeded Norton, laughing, “is doting now, what will you be at
his years? Here, however, is his confidential man, Morty O'Flaherty.”
O'Flaherty now entered, and after making a bow that still smacked
strongly of Tipperary, delivered his message.
“My masther, Lord Cullamore, wishes to see you, my lord. He has come
down stairs, and is facing the sun, the Lord be praised, in the back
drawin'-room.”
“Go, my lord,” said Norton; “perhaps he wishes you to make a third
luminary. Go and help him to face the sun.”
“Be my sowl, Mr. Norton, if I'm not much mistaken, it's the father he'll
have to face. I may as well give you the hard word, my lord--troth, I
think you had better be on your edge; he's as dark as midnight, although
the sun is in his face.”
His lordship went out, after having given two or three yawns, stretched
himself, and shrugged his shoulders, like a man who was about to enter
upon some unpleasant business with manifest reluctance.
“Ah,” exclaimed Morty, looking after him, “there goes a cute boy--at
last, God forgive him, he's of that opinion himself. What a pity
there's not more o' the family; they'd ornament the counthry.”
“Say, rather, Morty, that there's one too many.”
“Faith, and I'm sure, Barney, you oughtn't to think so. Beg pardon--Mr.
Norton.”
“Morty, curse you, will you be cautious? But why should I not think so?”
“For sound raisons, that no man knows better than yourself.”
“I'm not the only person that thinks there's one too many of the family,
Morty. In that opinion I am ably supported by his lordship, just gone
out there.”
“Where! Ay, I see whereabouts you are now. One too many--faith, so the
blessed pair of you think, no doubt.”
“Eight, Morty; if the devil had the agency of the ancient earl's soul,
I would soon get that of his ancient property; but whilst he lives it
can't be accomplished. What do you imagine the old bawble wants with the
young one?”
“Well, I don't know; I'm hammerin' upon that for some time past, and
can't come at it.”
“Come, then, let us get the materials first, and then put them on the
anvil of my imagination. _Imprimis_--which means, Morty, _in the first
place_, have you heard anything?”
“No; nothing to speak of.”
“Well, in the second place, have you seen or observed anything?”
“Why, no; not much.”
“Which means--both your answers included--that you have both heard and
seen--so I interpret 'nothing to speak of,' on the one hand, and your
'not much,' on the other. Out with it; two heads are better than one:
what you miss, I may hit.”
“The devil's no match for you, Bar--Mr. Norton, and it's hard to expect
Dunroe should. I'll tell you, then--for, in troth, I'm as anxious to
come at the meanin' of it myself as you can be for the life of you. Some
few months ago, when we were in London, there came a man to me.”
“Name him, Morty.”
“His name was M'Bride.”
“M'Bride--proceed.”
“His name was M'Bride. His face was tanned into mahogany, just as every
man's is that has lived long in a hot country. 'Your name,' says he, 'is
O'Flaherty, I understand?'”
“'Morty O'Flaherty, at your sarvice,' says I, 'and how are you, sir? I'm
happy to see you; only in the mane time you have the advantage of me.'”
“'Many thanks to you,' said he, 'for your kind inquiries; as to the
advantage, I won't keep it long; only you don't seem to know your
relations.'”
“'Maybe not,' says I, 'they say it's a wise man that does. Are you one
o' them?'”
“'I'm one o' them, did you ever hear of ould Kid Flaherty?'”
“'Well, no; but I did of Buck Flaherty, that always went in boots and
buckskin breeches, and wore two watches and a silver-mounted whip.'”
“'Well, you must know that Kid was a son'--and here he pointed his thumb
over his left shoulder wid a knowin' grin upon him--'was a son of the
ould Buck's. The ould Buck's wife was a Murtagh; now she again had a
cousin named M'Shaughran, who was married upon a man by name M'Faddle.
M'Faddle had but one sisther, and she was cousin to Frank M'Fud,
that suffered for--but no matther--the M'Swiggins and the M'Fuds
were cleaveens to the third cousins of Kid Flaherty's first wife's
sister-in-law, and she again was married in upon the M'Brides of Newton
Nowhere--so that you see you and I are thirty-second cousins at all
events.'”
“'Well, anyway he made out some relationship between us, or at least
I thought he did--and maybe that was as good--and faith may be a great
deal better, for if ever a man had the look of a schemer about him the
same customer had. At any rate we had some drink together, and went on
very well till we got befuddled, which, it seems, is his besetting sin.
It was clearly his intention, I could see, to make me tipsy, and I
dare say he might a done so, only for a slight mistake he made in first
getting tipsy himself.”
“Well, but I'm not much the wiser of this,” observed Norton. “What are
you at?”
“Neither am I,” replied Morty; “and as to what I'm at--I dunna what the
devil I'm at. That's just what I want to know.”
“Go on,” said the other, “we must have patience. Who did this fellow
turn out to be?”
“He insisted he was a relation of my own, as I tould you.”
“Who the devil cares whether he was or not! What was he, then?”
“Ay; what was he?--that's what I'm askin' you.”
“Proceed,” said Norton; “tell it your own way.”
“He said he came from the Aist Indies beyant; that he knew some members
of his lordship's family there; that he had been in Paris, and that
while he was there he larned to take French lave of his masther.”
“But who was his master?”
“That he would not tell me. However, he said he had been in Ireland for
some time before, where he saw an aunt of his, that was half mad; and
then he went on to tell me that he had been once at sarvice wid my
masther, and that if he liked he could tell him a secret; but then, he
said, it wouldn't be worth his while, for that he would soon know it.”
“Very clear, perfectly transparent, nothing can be plainer. What a
Tipperary sphinx you are; an enigma, half man, half beast, although
there is little enigma in that, it is plain enough. In the meantime, you
bog-trotting oracle, say whether you are humbugging me or not.”
“Devil a bit I'm humbuggin' you; but proud as you sit there, you have
trotted more bogs and horses than ever I did.”
“Well, never mind that, Morty. What did this end in?”
“End in!--why upon my conscience I don't think it's properly begun yet.”
“Good-by,” exclaimed Norton, rising to go, or at least pretending to do
so. “Many thanks in the meantime for your information--it is precious,
invaluable.”
“Well, now, wait a minute. A few days ago I seen the same schemer
skulkin' about the house as if he was afeared o' bein' seen; and that
beef and mutton may be my poison, wid health to use them, but I seen
him stealin' out of his lordship's own room. So, now make money o' that;
only when you do, don't be puttin' it in circulation.”
“No danger of that, Morty, in any sense. At all events, I don't deal in
base coin.”
“Don't you, faith. I wondher what do you call imposin' Barney Bryan, the
horse-jockey, on his lordship, for Tom Norton, the gentleman? However,
no matther--that's your own affair; and so long as you let the good ould
lord alone among you--keep your secret--I'm not goin' to interfere wid
you. None of your travellers' tricks upon him, though.”
“No, not on him, Morty; but concerning this forthcoming marriage, if
it takes place, I dare say I must travel; I can't depend upon Dunroe's
word.”
“Why, unlikelier things has happened, Mr. Norton. I think you'll be
forced to set out.”
“Well, I only say that if Mr. Norton can prevent it, it won't happen.
I can wind this puppy of a lord, who has no more will of his own than a
goose, nor half so much; I say I can wind him round my finger; and if I
don't get him to make himself, in any interview he may have with her,
so egregiously ridiculous, as to disgust her thoroughly, my name's not
Norton--hem--ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, your name's not Norton--very good. In the mane time more power
to you in that; for by all accounts it's a sin and a shame to throw away
such a girl upon him.”
Norton now having gained all he could from his old acquaintance, got
up, and was about to leave the room, when Morty, looking at him
significantly, asked,
“Where are you bound for now, if it's a fair question?”
“I will tell you, then, Morty--upon an affair that's anything but
pleasant to me, and withal a little dangerous: to buy a horse for
Dunroe.”
“Troth, you may well say so; in God's name keep away from horses and.
jockeys, or you'll be found out; but, above all things, don't show your
face on the Curragh.”
“Well, I don't know. I believe, after all, there's no such vast
distinction there between the jockeys and the gentlemen. Sometimes the
jockey swindles himself up into a gentleman, and sometimes the gentleman
swindles himself down to a jockey. So far there would be no great
mistake; the only thing to be dreaded is, discovery, so far as it
affects the history which I gave of myself to Dunroe and his father.
Then there is the sale of some races against me on that most elastic
sod; and I fear they are not yet forgotten. Yes, I shall avoid the
Curragh; but you know, a fit of illness will easily manage that.
However, pass that by; I wish I knew what the old peer and the young one
are discussing.”
“What now,” said Norton to himself, after Morty had gone, “can this
M'Bride be scheming about in the family? There's a secret here, I'm
certain. Something troubles the old peer of late, whatever it is. Well,
let me see; I'll throw myself in the way of this same M'Bride, and it
will go hard with me or I'll worm it out of him. The knowledge of it
may serve me. It's a good thing to know family secrets, especially for
a hanger-on like myself. One good effect it may produce, and that
is, throw worthy Lord Dunroe more into my power. Yes, I will see this
M'Bride, and then let me alone for playing my card to some purpose.”
Dunroe found his father much as Morty had described him--enjoying the
fresh breeze and blessed light of heaven, as both came in upon him
through the open window at which he sat.
The appearance of the good old man was much changed for the worse. His
face was paler and more emaciated than when we last described it. His
chin almost rested on his breast, and his aged-looking hands were worn
away to skin and bone. Still there was the same dignity about him as
ever, only that the traces of age and illness gave to it something that
was still more venerable and impressive. Like some portrait, by an old
master, time, whilst it mellowed and softened the colors, added that
depth and truthfulness of character by which the value I is at once
known. He was sitting in an arm-chair, with a pillow for his head to
rest upon when he wished it; and on his son's entrance he asked him to
wheel it round nearer the centre of the room, and let down the window.
“I hope you are better this morning, my lord?” inquired Dunroe.
“John,” said he in reply, “I cannot say that I am better, but I can that
I am worse.”
“I am sorry to hear that, my lord,” replied the other, “the season is
remarkably fine, and the air mild and cheerful.”
“I would much rather the cheerfulness were here,” replied his father,
putting his wasted hand upon his heart; “but I did not ask you here to
talk about myself on this occasion, or about my feelings. Miss Gourlay
has consented to marry you, I know.”
“She has, my lord.”
“Well, I must confess I did her father injustice for a time. I ascribed
his extraordinary anxiety for this match less to any predilection of
hers--for I thought it was otherwise--than to his ambition. I am glad,
however, that it is to be a marriage, although I feel you are utterly
unworthy of her; and if I did not hope that her influence may in
time, and in a short time, too, succeed in bringing about a wholesome
reformation in your life and morals, I would oppose it still as far as
lay in my power. It is upon this subject I wish to speak with you.”
Lord Dunroe bowed with an appearance of all due respect, but at the
same time wished in his heart that Norton could be present to hear the
lecture which he had so correctly prognosticated, and to witness the
ability with which he should bamboozle the old peer.
“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “I am very willing and anxious
to hear and be guided by everything you shall say. I know I have been
wild--indeed, I am very sorry for it; and if it will satisfy you, my
lord, I will add, without hesitation, that it is time I should turn over
a new leaf--hem!”
“You have, John, been not merely wild--for wildness I could overlook
without much severity--but you have been profligate in morals,
profligate in expenditure, and profligate in your dealings with those
who trusted in your integrity. You have been intemperate; you have been
licentious; you have been dishonest; and as you have not yet abandoned
any one of these frightful vices, I look upon your union with Miss
Gourlay as an association between pollution and purity.”
“You are very severe, my lord.”
“I meant to be so; but am I unjust? Ah, John, let your own conscience
answer that question.”
“Well, my lord, I trust you will be gratified to hear that I am
perfectly sensible of the life I have led--ahem?”
“And what is that but admitting that you know the full extent of your
vices?--unless, indeed, you have made a firm resolution to give them
up.”
“I have made such a resolution, my lord, and it is my intention to keep
it. I know I can do little of myself, but I trust that where there is
a sincere disposition, all will go on swimmingly, as the Bible
says--ahem!”
“Where does the Bible say that all will go on swimmingly?”
“I don't remember the exact chapter and verse, my lord,” he replied,
affecting a very grave aspect, “but I know it is somewhere in the Book
of Solomon--ahem!--ahem! Either in Solomon or Exodus the Prophet, I am
not certain which. Oh, no, by the by, I believe it is in the dialogue
that occurs between Jonah and the whale.”
His father looked at him as if to ascertain whether his worthy son
were abandoned enough to tamper, in the first place, with a subject
so solemn, and, in the next, with the anxiety of his own parent,
while laboring, under age and infirmity, to wean him from a course of
dissipation and vice. Little indeed did he suspect that his virtuous
offspring was absolutely enacting his part, for the purpose of having
a good jest to regale Norton with in the course of their evening's
potations.
Let it not be supposed that we are overstepping the modesty of nature in
this scene. There is scarcely any one acquainted with life who does not
know that there are hundreds, thousands, of hardened profligates,
who would take delight, under similar circumstances, to quiz the
governor--as a parent is denominated by this class--even at the risk
of incurring his lasting displeasure, or of altogether forfeiting his
affection, rather than lose the opportunity of having a good joke to
tell their licentious companions, when they meet. The present age has as
much of this, perhaps, as any of its predecessors, if not more. But to
return.
“I know not,” observed Lord Cullamore, “whether this is an ironical
affectation of ignorance, or ignorance itself; but on whichever horn of
the dilemma I hang you, Dunroe, you are equally contemptible and guilty.
A heart must be deeply corrupted, indeed, that can tempt its owner
to profane sacred things, and cast an aged and afflicted parent into
ridicule. You are not aware, unfortunate young man, of the precipice
on which you stand, or the dismay with which I could fill your hardened
heart, by two or three words speaking. And only that I was not a
conscious party in circumstances which may operate terribly against us
both, I would mention them to you, and make you shudder at the fate that
is probably before you.”
“I really think,” replied his son, now considerably alarmed by what he
had heard, “that you are dealing too severely with me. I am not, so
far as I know, profaning anything sacred; much less would I attempt to
ridicule your lordship. But the truth is, I know little or nothing of
the Bible, and consequently any mistaken references to it that I may
sincerely make, ought not to be uncharitably misinterpreted--ahem! 'We
are going on swimmingly' as Jonah said to the whale, or the whale to
Jonah, I cannot say which, is an expression which I have frequently
heard, and I took it for granted that it was a scriptural quotation.
Your lordship is not aware, besides, that I am afflicted with a very bad
memory.”
“Perfectly aware of it, Dunroe: since I have been forced to observe that
you forget every duty of life. What is there honorable to yourself or
your position in the world, that you ever have remembered? And supposing
now, on the one hand, that you may for the present only affect a
temporary reformation, and put in practice that worst of vices, a
moral expediency, and taking it for granted, on the other, that
your resolution to amend is sincere, by what act am I to test that
sincerity?”
“I will begin and read the Bible, my lord, and engage a parson to
instruct me in virtue. Isn't that generally the first step?”
“I do not forbid you the Bible, nor the instructions of a pious
clergyman; but I beg to propose a test that will much more
satisfactorily establish that sincerity. First, give up your dissipated
and immoral habits; contract your expenditure within reasonable limits;
pay your just debts, by which I mean your debts of honesty, not
of honor--unless they have been lost to a man of honor, and not to
notorious swindlers; forbear to associate any longer with sharpers and
blacklegs, whether aristocratic or plebeian; and as a first proof of
the sincerity you claim, dismiss forever from your society that
fellow, Norton, who is, I am sorry to say, your bosom friend and boon
companion.”
“With every condition you have proposed, my lord, I am willing and ready
to comply, the last only excepted. I am sorry to find that you have
conceived so strong and unfounded a prejudice against Mr. Norton. You do
not know his value to me, my lord. He has been a Mentor to me--saved me
thousands by his ability and devotion to my interests. The fact is, he
is my friend. Now I am not prepared to give up and abandon my friend
without a just cause; and I regret that any persuasion to such an act
should proceed from you, my lord. In all your other propositions I shall
obey you implicitly; but in this your lordship must excuse me. I cannot
do it with honor, and therefore cannot do it at all.”
“Ah, I see, Dunroe, and I bitterly regret to see it--this fellow, this
Norton, has succeeded in gaining over you that iniquitous ascendancy
which the talented knave gains over the weak and unsuspicious fool.
Pardon me, for I speak plainly. He has studied your disposition and
habits; he has catered for your enjoyments; he has availed himself of
your weaknesses; he has flattered your vanity; he has mixed himself up
in the management of your affairs; and, in fine, made himself necessary
to your existence; yet you will not give him up?”
“My lord, I reply to you in one word--he IS MY FRIEND.”
A shade of bitterness passed over the old man's face as he turned a
melancholy look upon Dunroe.
“May you never live, Dunroe,” he said, “to see your only son refuse to
comply with your dying request, or to listen with an obedient I spirit
to your parting admonition. It is true, I am not, I trust, immediately
dying, and yet why should I regret it? But, at the same time, I feel
that my steps are upon the very threshold of death--a consideration
which ought to insure obedience to my wishes in any heart not made
callous by the worst experiences of life.”
“I would comply with your wishes, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “with the
sincerest pleasure, and deny myself anything to oblige you; but in
what you ask there is a principle involved, which I cannot, as a man of
honor, violate. And, besides, I really could not afford to part with him
now. My affairs are in such a state, and he is so well acquainted with
them, that to do so would ruin me.”
His father, who seemed wrapt in some painful reflection, paid no
attention to this reply, which, in point of fact, contained, so far as
Norton was concerned, a confirmation of the old man's worst suspicions.
His chin had sunk on his breast, and looking into the palms of his hands
as he held them clasped together, he could not prevent the tears from
rolling slowly down his furrowed cheeks. At length he exclaimed:
“My child, Emily, my child! how will I look upon thee! My innocent,
my affectionate angel; what, what, oh what will become of thee? But it
cannot be. My guilt was not premeditated. What I did I did in ignorance;
and why should we suffer through the arts of others? I shall oppose
them step by step should they proceed. I shall leave no earthly resource
untried to frustrate their designs; and if they are successful, the
cruel sentence may be pronounced, but it will be over my grave. I could
never live to witness the sufferings of my darling and innocent child.
My lamp of life is already all but exhausted--this would extinguish it
forever.”
He then raised his head, and after wiping away the tears, spoke to his
son as follows:
“Dunroe, be advised by me; reform your life; set your house in order,
for you know not, you see not, the cloud which is likely to burst over
our heads.”
“I don't understand you, my lord.”
“I know you do not, nor is it my intention that you should for the
present; but if you are wise, you will be guided by my instructions and
follow my advice.”
When Dunroe left him, which he did after some formal words of
encouragement and comfort, to which the old man paid little attention,
turning toward the door, which his son on going out had shut, he looked
as if his eye followed him beyond the limits of the room, and exclaimed:
“Alas! why was I not born above the ordinary range of the domestic
affections? Yet so long as I have my darling child--who is all
affection--why should I complain on this account? Alas, my Maria, it is
now that thou art avenged for the neglect you experienced at my hands,
and for the ambition that occasioned it. Cursed ambition! Did the
coronet I gained by my neglect of you, beloved object of my first and
only affection, console my heart under the cries of conscience,
or stifle the grief which returned for you, when that ambition was
gratified? Ah, that false and precipitate step! How much misery has it
not occasioned me since I awoke from my dream! Your gentle spirit seemed
to haunt me through life, but ever with that melancholy smile of tender
and affectionate reproach with which your eye always encountered mine
while living. And thou, wicked woman, what has thy act accomplished, if
it should be successful? What has thy fraudulent contrivance effected?
Sorrow to one who was ever thy friend--grief, shame, and degradation to
the innocent!”
Whilst the old man indulged in these painful and melancholy reflections,
his son, on the other hand, was not without his own speculations. On
retiring to his dressing-room, he began to ponder over the admonitory if
not prophetic words of his father.
“What the deuce can the matter be?” he exclaimed, surveying himself in
the glass; “a good style of face that, in the meantime. Gad, I knew she
would surrender in form, and I was right. Something is wrong with--that
gold button--yes, it looks better plain--the old gentleman--something's
in the wind--in the meantime I'll raise this window--or why should he
talk so lugubriously as he does? Upon my soul it was the most painful
interview I ever had. There is nothing on earth so stupid as the twaddle
of a sick old lord, especially when repenting for his sins. Repentance!
I can't at all understand that word; but I think the style of the thing
in the old fellow's hands was decidedly bad--inartistic, as they say,
and without taste; a man, at all events, should repent like a gentleman.
As far as I can guess at it, I think there ought to be considerable
elegance of manner in repentance--a kind of genteel ambiguity, that
should seem to puzzle the world as to whether you weep for or against
the sin; or perhaps repentance should say--as I suppose it often
does--'D--n me, this is no humbug; this, look you, is a grand process--I
know what I'm about; let the world look on; I have committed a great
many naughty things during my past life; I am now able to commit no
more; the power of doing so has abandoned me; and I call gods and men to
witness that I am very sorry for it.'--Now, that, in my opinion, would
be a good style of thing. Let me see, however, what the venerable earl
can mean. I am threatened, am I? Well, but nothing can affect the title;
of that I'm sure when the cue, 'exit old peer,' comes; then, as to the
property; why, he is one of the wealthiest men in the Irish peerage,
although he is an English one also. Then, what the deuce can his threats
mean? I don't know--perhaps he does not know himself; but, in any event,
and to guard against all accidents, I'll push on this marriage as fast
as possible; for, in case anything unexpected and disagreeable should
happen, it will be a good move to have something handsome--something
certain, to fall back upon.”
Having dressed, he ordered his horse, and rode out to the Phoenix Park,
accompanied by his shadow, Norton, who had returned, and heard with much
mirth a full history of the interview, with a glowing description of the
stand which Dunroe made for himself.