--Who, however, is Shelved for a Time.
Lord Dunroe, as had already been agreed upon between him and her father,
went directly to that worthy gentleman, that he might make a faithful
report of the interview.
“Well, Dunroe,” said the baronet, “what's the news? How did it go off?”
“Just as we expected,” replied the other. “Vapors, entreaties, and
indignation. I give you my honor, she asked me to become her advocate
with you, in order to get released from the engagement. That was rather
cool, wasn't it?”
“And what did you say?”
“Why, the truth is, I conducted the affair altogether on a new
principle. I maintained that love should not be a necessary element in
marriage; vindicated the rights of honest indifference, and said that it
was against my system to marry any woman who was attached to me.”
“Why, I remember preaching some such doctrine, in a bantering way, to
her myself.”
“Guided by this theory, I met her at every turn; but, nevertheless,
there was a good deal of animated expostulation, tears, solicitations,
and all that.”
“I fear you have mismanaged the matter some way; if you have followed
my advice, and done it with an appearance of common sense, so much the
better. This would have required much tact, for Lucy is a girl very
difficult to be imposed upon by appearances. I am the only person who
can do so, but! that is because I approach her aided by my knowledge of
her filial affection. As it is, however, these things are quite common.
My own wife felt much the same way with myself, and yet we lived as
happily as most people. Every young baggage must have her scenes and her
sacrifices. Ah! what a knack they have got at magnifying everything! How
do you do, my Lady Dunroe? half a dozen times repeated, however, will
awaken her vanity, and banish all this girlish rodomontade.”
“'Room for the Countess of Cullamore,' will soon follow,” replied his
lordship, laughing, “and that will be still better. The old peer, as
Norton and I call him, is near the end of his journey, and will make his
parting bow to us some of these days.”
“Did she actually consent, though?” asked the father, somewhat
doubtfully.
“Positively, Sir Thomas; make your mind easy upon that point. To be
sure, there were protestations and entreaties, and God knows what; but
still the consent was given.”
“Exactly, exactly,” replied her father; “I knew it would be so. Well,
now, let us not lose much time about it. I told those lawyers to wait a
little for further instructions, because I was anxious to hear how this
interview would end, feeling some apprehension that she might relapse
into obstinacy; but now that she has consented, we shall go on. They may
meet to-morrow, and get the necessary writings drawn up; and then for
the wedding.”
“Will not my father's illness stand a little in the way?” asked Dunroe.
“Not a bit; why should it? But he really is not ill, only getting feeble
and obstinate. The man is in his dotage. I saw him yesterday, and he
refused, most perversely, to sanction the marriage until some facts
shall come to his knowledge, of which he is not quite certain at
present. I told him the young people would not wait; and he replied,
that if I give you my daughter now, I shall do so at my peril; and
that I may consider myself forewarned. I know he is thinking of your
peccadilloes, my lord, for he nearly told me as much before. I think,
indeed, he is certainly doting, otherwise there is no understanding
him.”
“You are light, Sir Thomas; the fuss he makes about morality and
religion is a proof that he is. In the meantime, I agree with you
that there is little time to be lost. The lawyers must set to work
immediately; and the sooner the better, for I am naturally impatient.”
They then shook hands very cordially, and Dunroe took his leave.
The reader may have observed that in this conversation the latter
reduced his account of the interview to mere generalities, a mode of
reporting it which was agreeable to both, as it spared each of them
some feeling. Dunroe, for instance, never mentioned a syllable of Lucy's
having frankly avowed her passion for another; neither did Sir Thomas
make the slightest allusion to the settled disinclination to marry
him which he knew she all along felt. Indifferent, however, as Dunroe
naturally was to high-minded feeling or principle, he could not
summon courage to dwell upon this attachment of Lucy to another.
A consciousness of his utter meanness and degradation of spirit in
consenting to marry any woman under such circumstances, filled him with
shame even to glance at it. He feared, besides, that if her knavish
father had heard it, he would at once have attributed his conduct to its
proper motives--that is to say, an eagerness to get into the possession
and enjoyment of the large fortune to which she was entitled. He
himself, in his conversations with the baronet, never alluded to the
subject of dowry, but placed his anxiety for the match altogether to the
account of love. So far, then, each was acting a fraudulent part toward
the other.
The next morning, about the hour of eleven o'clock, Thomas
Corbet--foster-brother to the baronet, though a much younger man--sent
word that he wished to see him on particular business. This was quite
sufficient; for, as Corbet was known to be more deeply in his confidence
than any other man living, he was instantly admitted.
“Well, Corbet,” said his master, “I hope there is nothing wrong.”
“Sir Thomas,” replied the other, “you have a right to be a happy and
a thankful man this morning; and although I cannot mention the joyful
intelligence with which I am commissioned, without grief and shame for
the conduct of a near relation of my own, yet I feel this to be the
happiest day of my life.”
“What the deuce!” exclaimed the baronet, starting to his feet--“how is
this? What is the intelligence?”
“Rejoice, Sir Thomas--rejoice and be thankful; but, in the meantime,
pray sit down, if you please, and don't be too much agitated. I know
how evil news, or anything that goes in opposition to your will, affects
you: the two escapes, for instance, of that boy.”
“Ha! I understand you now,” exclaimed the baronet, whilst the very eyes
danced in his head with a savage delight that was frightful, and, for
the sake of human nature, painful to look upon, “I understand you now,
Corbet--he is dead! eh? Is it not so? Yes, yes--it is--it is true. Well,
you shall have a present of one hundred pounds for the intelligence. You
shall, and that in the course of five minutes.”
“Sir Thomas,” replied Corbet, calmly, “have patience; the person, Fenton,
you speak about, is still alive; but to all intents and purposes,
dead to you and for you. This, however, is another and a far different
affair. Your son has been found!”
The baronet's brow fell: he looked grave, and more like a man
disappointed than anything else. In fact, the feeling associated with
the recovery of his son was not strong enough to balance or counteract
that which he experienced in connection with the hoped-for death of the
other. He recovered himself, however, and exclaimed,
“Found! Tom found!--little Tom found! My God! When--where--how?”
“Have the goodness to sit down, sir,” replied Corbet, “and I will tell
you.”
The baronet took a seat, but the feeling of disappointment, although
checked by the intelligence of his son, was not extinguished, and could
still be read in his countenance. He turned his eyes upon Corbet and
said,
“Well, Corbet, go on; he is not dead, though?”
“No, sir; thank God, he is not.”
“Who--who--are you speaking of? Oh, I forgot--proceed. Yes, Corbet, you
are right; I am very much disturbed. Well, speak about my son. Where
is he? In what condition of life? Is he a gentleman--a beggar--a
profligate--what?”
“You remember, Sir Thomas--hem--you remember that unfortunate affair
with my sister?”
Corbet's face became deadly pale as he spoke, and his voice grew, by
degrees, hollow and husky; yet he was both calm and cool, as far, at
least, as human observation could form a conjecture.
“Of course I do; it was a painful business; but the girl was a fool for
losing her senses.”
“Hear me, Sir Thomas. When her child died, you may remember my father
sent me to you, as its parent, for the means of giving it decent
interment. You cannot forget your words to me on that occasion. I
confess I felt them myself as very offensive. What, then, must his
mother have suffered--wild, unsettled, and laboring, as she was, under a
desperate sense of the injury she had experienced at your hands?”
“But why have mentioned it to her?”
“I confess I was wrong there; but I did so to make her feel more
severely the consequences of her own conduct. I did it more in anger
to her than to you. My words, however, instead of producing violence
or outrage on my sister, seemed to make her settle down into a fearful
silence, which none of us could get her out of for several days. It
struck us that her unfortunate malady had taken a new turn, and so it
did.”
“Well? Well? Well?”
“Soon after that, your son, Master Thomas, disappeared. You may
understand me now: it was she who took him.”
“Ah! the vindictive vagabond!” exclaimed the baronet.
“Have patience, Sir Thomas. She took your little boy with no kind
intention toward him: her object was to leave you without a son; her
object, in fact, was, at first, to murder him, in consequence of your
want, as she thought, of all paternal affection for him she had just
lost, and, in short, of your whole conduct toward her. The mother's
instinct, however, proved stronger than her revenge. She could not take
away the child's life for the thought of her own; but she privately
placed him with an uncle of ours, a classical hedge-school-master, in a
remote part of the kingdom, with whom he lived under a feigned name, and
from whom he received a good education.”
“But where is he now?” asked the other. “How does he live? Why not bring
him here?”
“He must first wait your pleasure, you know, Sir Thomas. He's in town,
and has been in town for some time, a student in college.”
“That's very good, indeed; we must have him out of college, though. Poor
Lucy will go distracted with joy, to know that she has now a brother.
Bring him here, Corbet; but stop, stay--his appearance now--let me
see--caution, Corbet--caution. We must look before us. Miss Gourlay, you
know, is about to be married. Dunroe, I understand; he cares little or
nothing personally about the girl--it is her fortune, but principally
her inheritance, he loves. It is true, he doesn't think that I even
suspect this, much less feel certain of it. How does the young fellow
look, though? Good looking--eh?”
“Exceedingly like his father, sir; as you will admit on seeing him.”
“He must have changed considerably, then; for I remember he was supposed
to bear a nearer resemblance to his mother and her family, the only
thing which took him down a little in my affection. But hold; hang it,
I am disturbed more than I have been this long time. What was I speaking
of, Corbet? I forgot--by the way, I hope this is not a bad sign of my
health.”
“You were talking of Dunroe, sir, and Miss Gourlay's marriage.”
“Oh, yes, so I was. Well--yes--here it is, Corbet--is it not
possible that the appearance of this young man at this particular
crisis--stepping in, as he does, between Dunroe and the very property
his heart is set upon--might knock the thing to pieces? and there is
all that I have had my heart set upon for years--that grand project of
ambition for my daughter--gone to the winds, and she must put up with
some rascally commoner, after all.”
“It is certainly possible, sir; and, besides, every one knows that Lord
Dunroe is needy, and wants money at present very much.”
“In any event, Corbet, it is our best policy to keep this discovery
a profound secret till after the marriage, when it can't affect Miss
Gourlay, or Lady Dunroe as she will then be.”
“Indeed, I agree with you, Sir Thomas; but, in the meantime, you had
better see your son; he is impatient to come to you and his sister. It
was only last night that the secret of his birth was made known to him.”
“By what name does he go?”
“By the name of Ambrose Gray, sir; but I cannot tell you why my sister
gave him such a name, nor where she got it. She was at the time very
unsettled. Of late her reason has returned to her very much, thank God,
although she has still touches of her unfortunate complaint; but they
are slight, and are getting more so every time they come. I trust she
will soon be quite well.”
The baronet fixed his eye upon the speaker with peculiar steadiness.
“Corbet,” said he, “you know you have lost a great deal of my confidence
of late. The knowledge of certain transactions which reached that
strange fellow who stopped in the Mitre, you were never able to account
for.”
“And never will, sir, I fear; I can make nothing of that.”
“It must be between you and your father, then; and if I thought so--”
He paused, however, but feared to proceed with anything in the shape of
a threat, feeling that, so far as the fate of poor Fenton was concerned,
he still lay at their mercy.
“It may have been my father, Sir Thomas, and I am inclined to think it
must, too, as there was no one else could. Our best plan, however, is to
keep quiet and not provoke him. A very short time will put us out of his
power. Fenton's account with this world is nearly settled.”
“I wish, with all my heart, it was closed,” observed the other; “it's a
dreadful thing to feel that you are liable to every accident, and never
beyond the reach of exposure. To me such a thing would be death.”
“You need entertain no apprehension, Sir Thomas. The young man is safe,
at last; he will never come to light, you may rest assured. But about
your son--will you not see him?”
“Certainly; order the carriage, and fetch; him--quietly and as secretly
as you can, observe--his sister must see him, too; and in order to
prepare her, I must first see her. Go now, and lose no time about it.”
“There is no necessity for a carriage, Sir Thomas; I can have him here
in a quarter of an hour.”
Sir Thomas went to the drawing-room with the expectation of finding Lucy
there--a proof that the discovery of his son affected him very much, and
deeply; for, in general his habit when he wanted to speak with her was
to have her brought to the library, which was his favorite apartment.
She was not there, however, and without ringing, or making any further
inquiries, he proceeded to an elegant little boudoir, formerly occupied
by her mother and herself, before this insane persecution had rendered
her life so wretched. The chief desire of her heart now was to look at
and examine and contemplate every object that belonged to that mother,
or in which she ever took an interest. On this account, she had of late
selected this boudoir as her favorite apartment; and here, lying asleep
upon a sofa, her cheek resting upon one arm, the baronet found her. He
approached calmly, and with a more extraordinary combination of feelings
than perhaps he had ever experienced in his life, looked upon her; and
whether it was the unprotected helplessness of sleep, or the mournful
impress of suffering and sorrow, that gave such a touching charm to her
beauty, or whether it was the united influence of both, it is difficult
to say; but the fact was, that for an instant he felt one touch of pity
at his heart.
“She is evidently unhappy,” thought he, as he contemplated her; “and
that face, lovely as it is, has become the exponent of misery and
distress. Goodness me! how wan she is! how pale! and how distinctly do
those beautiful blue veins run through her white and death-like temples!
Perhaps, after all, I am wrong in urging on this marriage. But what can
I do? I have no fixed principle from any source sufficiently authentic
to guide me; no creed which I can believe. This life is everything to
us; for what do we know, what can we know, of another? And yet, could
it be that for my indifference to what is termed revealed truth, God
Almighty is now making me the instrument of my own punishment? But
how can I receive this doctrine? for here, before my eyes, is not the
innocent suffering as much, if not more, than the guilty, even granting
that I am so? And if I am perversely incredulous, is not here my son
restored to me, as if to reward my unbelief? It is a mysterious maze,
and I shall never get out of it; a curse to know that the most we
can ever know is, that we know--nothing. Yet I will go on with this
marriage. Pale as that brow is, I must see it encircled by the coronet
of a countess; I must see her, as she ought to be, high in rank as she
is in truth, in virtue, in true dignity. I shall force the world to make
obeisance to her; and I shall teach her afterwards to despise it. She
once said to me, 'And is it to gain the applause of a world you hate
and despise, that you wish to exalt me to such a bawble?'--meaning the
coronet. I replied, 'Yes, and for that very reason.' I shall not now
disturb her.”
He was about to leave the room, when he! noticed that her bosom
began suddenly and rapidly to heave, as if by some strong and fearful
agitation; and a series of close, pain-fed sobbings proceeded from her
half-closed lips. This tumult went on for a little, when at length
it was terminated by one long, wild scream, that might be supposed to
proceed from the very agony of despair itself; and opening her eyes,
she started up, her! face, if possible, paler than before, and her eyes
filled as if with the terror of some horrible vision.
“No,” she said, “the sacrifice is complete--I am your wife; but there is
henceforth an eternal gulf between us, across which you shall never drag
me.”
On gazing about her with wild and disturbed looks, she paused for
moment, and, seeing her father, she rose up, and with a countenance
changed from its wildness to one in which was depicted an expression so
woe-begone, so deplorable, so full of sorrow, that it was scarcely in
human nature, hardened into the induration of the world's worst
spirit, not to feel its irresistible influence. She then threw her arms
imploringly and tenderly about his neck, and looking into his eyes as
if she were supplicating for immortal salvation at his hands, she said,
“Oh, papa, have compassion on me.”
“What's the matter, Lucy? what's the matter, my love?”
But she only repeated the words, “Oh, papa, have pity on me! have mercy
on me, papa! Save me from destruction--from despair--from madness!”
“You don't answer me, child. You have been dreaming, and are not
properly awake.”
Still, however, the arms--the beautiful arms--clung around his neck; and
still the mournful supplication was repeated.
“Oh, papa, have pity upon me! Look at me! Am I not your daughter? Have
mercy upon your daughter, papa!” And still she clung to him; and still
those eyes, from which the tears now flowed in torrents, were imploring
him, and gazing through his into the very soul within him; then she
kissed his lips, and hung upon him as upon her last stay; and the soft
but melting accents were again breathed mournfully and imploringly
as before. “Oh, have pity upon me, beloved papa--have pity upon your
child!”
“What do you mean, Lucy? what are you asking, my dear girl? I am willing
to do anything I can to promote your happiness. What is it you want?”
“I fear to tell you, papa; but surely you understand me. Oh, relent! as
you hope for heaven's mercy, pity me. I have, for your sake, undertaken
too much. I have not strength to fulfil the task I imposed on myself. I
will die; you will see me dead at your feet, and then your last one will
be gone. You will be alone; and I should wish to live for your sake,
papa. Look upon me! I am your only child--your only child--your
last, as I said; and do not make your last and only one
miserable--miserable--mad! Only have compassion on me, and release me
from this engagement.”
The baronet's eye brightened at the last two or three allusions, and
he looked upon her with a benignity that filled her unhappy heart with
hope.
“Oh, speak, papa,” she exclaimed, “speak. I see, I feel that you are
about to give me comfort--to fill my heart with joy.”
“I am, indeed, Lucy. Listen to me, and restrain yourself. You are not my
only child!”
“What!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean, papa? What is it?”
“Have strength and courage, Lucy; and, mark me, no noise nor rout
about what I am going to say. Your brother is found--my son Thomas is
found--and you will soon see him; he will be here presently. Get rid of
this foolish dream you've had, and prepare to receive him!”
“My brother!” she exclaimed, “my brother! and have I a brother? Then God
has not deserted me; I shall now have a friend. My brother!--my brother!
But is it possible, or am I dreaming still? Oh, where is he, papa? Bring
me to him!--is he in the house? Or where is he? Let the carriage be
ordered, and we will both go to him. Alas, what may not the poor boy
have suffered! What privations, what necessities, what distress and
destitution may he not have suffered! But that matters little; come to
him. In want, in rags, in misery, he is welcome--yes, welcome; and, oh,
how much more if he has suffered.”
“Have patience, child; he will be here by and by. You cannot long to
see him more than I do. But, Lucy, listen to me; for the present we must
keep his discovery and restoration to us a profound secret.”
“A profound secret! and why so, papa? Why should we keep it secret? Is
it not a circumstance which we should publish to the world with delight
and gratitude? Surely you will not bring him into this house like a
criminal, in secrecy and silence? Should the lawful heir of your name
and property be suffered to enter otherwise than as becomes him? Oh,
that I could see him! Will he soon be here?”
“How your tongue runs on, you foolish girl, without knowing what you
say.”
“I know what I say, papa. I know--I feel--that he will be a friend to
me--that he will share with me in my sorrows.”
“Yes, the sorrows of being made a countess.”
“And a wretched woman, papa. Yes, he will sympathize with, sustain, and
console me. Dear, dear brother, how I wish to see you, to press you to
my heart, and to give you a sister's tenderest welcome!”
“Will you hear me, madam?” said he, sternly; “I desire you to do so.”
“Yes, papa; excuse me. My head is in a tumult of joy and sorrow; but for
the present I will forget myself. Yes, papa, speak on; I hear you.”
“In the first place, then, it is absolutely necessary, for reasons which
I am not yet at liberty to disclose to you, that the discovery of this
boy should be kept strictly secret for a time.”
“For a time, papa, but not long, I hope. How proud I shall feel to go
out with him. We shall be inseparable; and if he wants instructions, I
shall teach him everything I know.”
“Arrange all that between you as you may, only observe me, I repeat.
None in this house knows of his restoration but I, yourself, and Corbet.
He must not live here; but he shall want neither the comforts nor the
elegancies of life, at all events. This is enough for the present, so
mark my words, and abide by them.”
He then left her, and retired to his private room, where he unlocked a
cabinet, from which he took out some papers, and having added to them
two or three paragraphs, he read the whole over, from beginning to end,
then locked them up again, and returned to the library.
The reader may perceive that this unexpected discovery enabled the
baronet to extricate himself from a situation of much difficulty with
respect to Lucy; nor did he omit to avail himself of it, in order to
give a new turn to her feelings. The affectionate girl's heart was now
in a tumult of delight, checked, however, so obviously by the gloomy
retrospection of the obligation she had imposed upon herself, that from
time to time she could not repress those short sobs by which recent
grief, as in the case of children who are soothed after crying, is
frequently indicated. Next to the hated marriage, however, that which
pressed most severely upon her was the recollection of the manly and
admirable qualities of him whom she had now forever lost, especially
as contrasted with those of Dunroe. The former, for some time past, has
been much engaged in attempting to trace Fenton, as well as in business
connected with his own fortunes; and yet so high was his feeling of
generosity and honor, that, if left to the freedom of his own will, he
would have postponed every exertion for the establishment of his just
rights until death should have prevented at least one honored individual
from experiencing the force of the blow which must necessarily be
inflicted on him by his proceedings.
At the moment when the baronet was giving such an adroit turn to the
distracted state of his daughter's mind, the stranger resolved to see
Birney, who was then preparing to visit France, as agent in his affairs,
he himself having preferred staying near Lucy, from an apprehension that
his absence might induce Sir Thomas Gourlay to force on her marriage. On
passing through the hall of his hotel, he met his friend Father M'Mahon,
who, much to his surprise, looked careworn and perplexed, having
lost, since he saw him last, much of his natural cheerfulness and easy
simplicity of character. He looked travel-stained, too, and altogether
had the appearance of a man on whose kind heart something unpleasant was
pressing.
“My excellent friend,” said he, “I am heartily glad to see you. But
how is this? you look as if something was wrong, and you have been
travelling. Come upstairs; and if you have any lengthened stay to make
in town, consider yourself my guest. Nay, as it is, you must stop with
me. Here, Dandy--here, you Dulcimer, bring in this gentleman's luggage,
and attend him punctually.”
Dandy, who had been coming from the kitchen at the time, was about to
comply with his orders, when he was prevented by the priest.
“Stop, Dandy, you thief. My luggage, sir! In truth, the only luggage I
have is this bundle under my arm. As to my time in town, sir, I hope
it won't be long; but, long or short, I must stop at my ould place, the
Brazen Head, for not an hour's comfort I could have in any other place,
many thanks to you. I'm now on my way to it; but I thought I'd give you
a call when passing.”
They then proceeded upstairs to the stranger's room, where breakfast was
soon provided for the priest, who expressed an anxiety to know how the
stranger's affairs proceeded, and whether any satisfactory trace of poor
Fenton had been obtained.
“Nothing satisfactory has turned up in either case,” replied the
stranger. “No additional clew to the poor young fellow has been got, and
still my own affairs are far from being complete. The loss of important
documents obtained by myself in France will render it necessary for
Birney to proceed to that country, in order to procure fresh copies. I
had intended to accompany him myself; but I have changed my mind on that
point, and prefer remaining where I am. A servant in whom I had every
confidence, but who, unfortunately, took to drink, and worse vices,
robbed me of them, and has fled to America, with a pretty Frenchwoman,
after having abandoned his wife.”
“Ay, ay,” replied the priest, “that is the old story; first drink,
and after that wickedness of every description. Ah, sir, it's a poor
wretched world; but at the same time it is as God made it; and it
becomes our duty to act an honest and a useful part in it, at all
events.”
“You seemed depressed, sir, I think,” observed the stranger; “I hope
there is nothing wrong. If there is, command my services, my friendship,
my purse; in each, in all, command me.”
“Many thanks, many thanks,” returned the other, seizing him warmly by
the hand, whilst the tears fell from his eyes. “I wish there were more
in the world like you. There is nothing wrong with me, however, but what
I will be able, I hope, to set right soon.”
“I trust you will not allow any false delicacy to stand in your way, so
far as I am concerned,” said the stranger. “I possess not only the wish
but the ability to serve you; and if--”
“Not now,” replied the priest; “nothing to signify is wrong with me.
God bless you, though, and he will, too, and prosper your honorable
endeavors. I must go now: I have to call on old Corbet, and if I can
influence him to assist you in tracing that poor young man, I will do
it. He is hard and cunning, I know; but then he is not insensible to
the fear of death, which, indeed, is the only argument likely to prevail
with him.”
“You should dine with me to-day,” said his friend, “but that I am myself
engaged to dine with Dean Palmer, where I am to meet the colonel of
the Thirty-third, and some of the officers. It is the first time I have
dined out since I came to the country. The colonel is an old friend of
mine, and can be depended on.”
“The dean is a brother-in-law of Lady Gourlay's, is he not?”
“He is.”
“Yes, and what is better still, he is an excellent man, and a good
Christian. I wish there were more like him in the country. I know the
good done by him in my own neighborhood, where he has established, by
his individual exertions, two admirable institutions for the poor--a
savings' bank and a loan fund--to the manifest, relief of every
struggling man who is known to be industrious and honest; and see the
consequences--he is loved and honored by all who know him, for he is
perpetually doing good.”
“Your own bishop is not behindhand in offices of benevolence and
charity, any more than Dean Palmer,” observed the stranger.
“In truth, you may say so,” replied, the other. “With the piety and
humility of an apostle, he possesses the most childlike simplicity of
heart; to which I may add, learning the most profound and extensive. His
private charity to the poor will always cause himself to be ranked among
their number. I wish every dean and bishop in the two churches resembled
the Christian men we speak of; it would be well for the country.”
“Mr. Birney, I know, stands well with you. I believe, and I take it for
granted, that he does also with the people.”
“You may be certain of that, my dear sir. He is one of the few attorneys
who is not a rogue, but, what is still more extraordinary, an honest man
and an excellent landlord. I will tell you, now, what he did some time
ago. He has property, you know, in my parish. On that property an arrear
of upwards of eight hundred pounds had accumulated. Now, this arrear,
in consideration of the general depression in the value of agricultural
produce, he not only wiped off, but abated the rents ten per cent.
Again, when a certain impost, which shall be nameless (tithe), became
a settled charge upon the lands, under a composition act, instead of
charging it against the tenants, he paid it himself, never calling upon
a tenant to pay one farthing of it. Now, I mention these things as an
example to be held up and imitated by those who hold landed property in
general, many of whom, the Lord knows, require such an example badly;
but I must not stop here. Our friend Birney has done more than this.
“For the last fifteen years he has purchased for and supplied his
tenants with flaxseed, and for which, at the subsequent gale time, in
October, they merely repay him the cost price, without interest or any
other charge save that of carriage.
“He also gives his tenantry, free of all charges, as much turf-bog as is
necessary for the abundant supply of their own fuel.
“He has all along paid the poor-rates, without charging one farthing to
the tenant.
“During a season of potato blight, he forgave every tenant paying under
ten pounds, half a year's rent; under twenty, a quarter's rent; and over
it, twenty per cent. Now, it is such landlords as this that are the best
benefactors to the people, to the country, and ultimately to themselves;
but, unfortunately, we cannot get them to think so; and I fear that
nothing but the iron scourge of necessity will ever teach them their
duty, and then, like most other knowledge derived from the same painful
source, it will probably come too late. One would imagine a landlord
ought to know without teaching, that, when he presses his tenantry until
they fall, he must himself fall with them. In truth, I must be off now.”
“Well, then, promise to dine with me tomorrow.”
“If I can I will, then, with pleasure; but still it may be out of my
power. I'll try, however. What's your hour?”
“Suit your own convenience: name it yourself.”
“Good honest old five o'clock, then; that is, if I can come at all, but
if I cannot, don't be disappointed. The Lord knows I'll do everything in
my power to come, at any rate; and if I fail, it won't be my heart that
will hinder me.”
When he had gone, the stranger, after a pause, rang his bell, and in a
few moments Dandy Dulcimer made his appearance.
“Dandy,” said his master, “I fear we are never likely to trace this
woman, Mrs. Norton, whom I am so anxious to find.”
“Begad, plaise your honor, and it isn't but there's enough of them to be
had. Sure it's a levy I'm houldin' every day in the week wid them, and
only that I'm engaged, as they say, I'd be apt to turn some o' them into
Mrs. Dulcimer.”
“How is that, Dandy?”
“Why, sir, I gave out that you're young and handsome, God pardon me.”
“How, sirra,” said his master, laughing, “do you mean to say that I am
not?”
“Well, sir, wait till you hear, and then you may answer yourself; as for
me, afther what I've seen, I'll not undertake to give an opinion on the
subject. I suppose I'm an ugly fellow myself, and yet I know a sartin
fair one that's not of that opinion--ahem!”
“Make yourself intelligible in the meantime,” said his master: “I don't
properly understand you.”
“That's just what the Mrs. Nortons say, your honor. 'I don't understand
you, sir;' and that is bekaise you keep me in the dark, and that I can't
explain to them properly what you want; divil a thing but an oracle
you've made of me. But as to beauty--only listen, sir. This mornin'
there came a woman to me wid a thin, sharp face, a fiery eye that looked
as if she had a drop in it, or was goin' to fight a north-wester, and a
thin, red nose that was nothing else than a stunner. She was, moreover,
a good deal of the gentleman on the upper lip--not to mention two or
three separate plantations of the same growth on different parts of the
chin. Altogether, I was very much struck with her appearance.”
“You are too descriptive, Dandy,” said his master, after enjoying the
description, however; “come to the point.”
“Ay, that's just what she said,” replied Dandy, “coaxing the point
of her nose wid her finger and thumb: 'Come to the point,' said she;
'mention the services your master requires from me.'
“'From you,' says I, lookin' astonished, as you may suppose--'from you,
ma'am?'
“'Yes, my good man, from me; I'm Mrs. Norton.'
“'Are you indeed, ma'am?' says I; 'I hope you're well, Mrs. Norton. My
master will be delighted to see you.'
“'What kind of a man is he?' she asked.
“'Young and handsome, ma'am,' says I; 'quite a janious in beauty.'
“'Well,' says my lady, 'so far so good; I'm young and handsome myself,
as you see, and I dare say we'll live happily enough together;' and as
she spoke, she pushed up an old bodice that was tied round something
that resembled a dried skeleton, which it only touched at points, like
a reel in a bottle, strivin', of course, to show off a good figure; she
then winked both eyes, as if she was meetin' a cloud o' dust, and agin
shuttin' one, as if she was coverin' me wid a rifle, whispered, 'You'll
find me generous maybe, if you desarve it. I'll increase your allowances
afther our marriage.'
“'Thanks, ma'am,' says I, 'but my masther isn't a marryin'
man--unfortunately, he is married; still,' says I, recoverin'
myself--for it struck me that she might be the right woman, afther
all--'although he's married, his wife's an invalid; so that it likely
you may be the lady still. Were you ever in France, ma'am?'
“'No,' says she, tossing up the stunner I spoke of, 'I never was in
Prance; but I was in Tipperary, if that would sarve him.'
“I shook my head, your honor, as much as to say--'It's no go this time.'
“'Ma'am,' says I, 'that's unfortunate--my masther, when he gets a loose
leg, will never marry any woman that has not been in France, and can
dance the fandango like a Frenchman.'
“'I am sorry for his taste,' says she, 'and for yours, too; but at
all events, you had better go up and tell him that I'll walk down the
opposite side of the street, and then he can see what he has lost, and
feel what France has cost him.'
“She then walked, sir, or rather sailed, down the other side of the
street, holdin' up her clothes behind, to show a pair of legs like
telescopes, with her head to it's full height, and one eye squintin' to
the hotel, like a crow lookin' into a marrow bone.”
“Well,” said his master, “but I don't see the object of all this.”
“Why, the object, sir, is to show you that it's not so aisy to know
whether a person's young and handsome or not. You, sir, think yourself
both; and so did the old skeleton I'm spakin' of.”
“I see your moral, Dandy,” replied his master, laughing; “at all events,
make every possible inquiry, but, at the same time, in a quiet way. More
depends upon it than you can imagine. Not,” he added, in a kind of
half soliloquy, “that I am acting in this affair from motives of a mere
personal nature; I am now only the representative of another's wishes,
and on that account, more than from any result affecting myself, do I
proceed in it.”
“I wish I knew, sir,” said Dandy, “what kind of a woman this Mrs. Norton
is; whether she's old or young, handsome or otherwise. At all events,
I think I may confine myself to them that's young and handsome. It's
always pleasanter, sir, and more agreeable to deal with a hands--”
“Confine yourself to truth, sir,” replied his master, sharply;
“make prudent inquiries, and in doing so act like a man of sense and
discretion, and don't attempt to indulge in your buffoonery at my
expense. No woman named Norton can be the individual I want to find, who
has not lived for some years in France. That is a sufficient test; and
if you should come in the way of the woman I am seeking, who alone
can answer this description, I shall make it worth your while to have
succeeded.”