The following day was that eventful one which should witness the return
of either Edward Egan, Esq., or the Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain as
member for the county. There was no doubt in any reasonable man's mind
as to the real majority of Egan, but the numbers were sufficiently close
to give the sheriff an opportunity of doing a bit of business to
oblige his friends, and therefore he declared the Honourable Sackville
Scatterbrain duly elected. Great was the uproar; the people hissed,
and hooted, and groaned, for which the Honourable Sackville very
good-naturedly returned them his thanks. Murphy snapped his fingers in
the sheriff's face, and told them his honourable friend should not long
remain member, for that he must be unseated on petition, and that he
would prove the return most corrupt, with which words he again snapped
his fingers in the sheriff's face.
The sheriff threatened to read the riot act if such conduct was
repeated.
Egan took off his hat, and thanked him for his _honourable, upright,
and impartial_ conduct, whereupon all Egan's friends took off their hats
also, and made profound bows to the functionary, and then laughed most
uproariously. Counter laughs were returned from the opposite party, who
begged to remind the Eganites of the old saying, “that they might laugh
who win.” A cross-fire of sarcasms was kept up amidst the two parties
as they were crushing forward out of the courthouse; and at the door,
before entering his carriage, Scatterbrain very politely addressed Egan,
and trusted that, though they had met as rivals on the hustings, they
nevertheless parted friends, and expressing the highest respect for the
squire, offered his hand in amity.
Egan, equally good-hearted as his opponent, shook his hand cordially;
declaring he attributed to him none of the blame which attached to other
persons. “Besides, my dear sir,” said Egan, laughing, “I should be a
very ill-natured person to grudge you so small an indulgence as being
member of parliament _for a month or so_.”
Scatterbrain returned the laugh, good-humouredly, and replied that, “at
all events, he _had_ the seat.”
“Yes, my dear sir,” said Egan, “and make the most of it _while_ you
have it. In short, I shall owe you an obligation when I go over to St.
Stephen's, for you will have just _aired my seat_ for me--good bye.”
They parted with smiles, and drove to their respective homes; but as
even doubtful possession is preferable to expectation for the time
being, it is certain that Neck-or-Nothing Hall rang with more merriment
that night on the reality of the present, than Merryvale did on the hope
of the future.
Even O'Grady, as he lay with his wounded arm on the sofa, found more
healing in the triumph of the hour than from all the medicaments of the
foregoing week, and insisted on going down-stairs and joining the party
at supper.
“Gusty, dear,” said his wife, “you know the doctor said--”
“Hang the doctor!”
“Your arm, my love.”
“I wish you'd leave off pitying my arm, and have some compassion on my
stomach.”
“The doctor said--”
“There are oysters in the house; I'll do myself more good by the use of
an oyster-knife than all the lancets in the College of Surgeons.”
“But your wound, dear?”
“Are they Carlingfords or Poldoodies?”
“So fresh, love.”
“So much the better.”
“Your wound I mean, dear?”
“Nicely opened.”
“Only dressed an hour ago?”
“With some mustard, pepper, and vinegar.”
“Indeed, Gusty, if you take my advice--”
“I'd rather have oysters any day.”
O'Grady sat up on the sofa as he spoke and requested his wife to say no
more about the matter, but put on his cravat. While she was getting it
from his wardrobe, his mind wandered from supper to the pension,
which he looked upon as secure now that Scatterbrain was returned; and
oyster-banks gave place to the Bank of Ireland, which rose in a pleasing
image before O'Grady's imagination. The wife now returned with the
cravat, still dreading the result of eating to her husband, and her mind
occupied wholly with the thought of supper, while O'Grady was wrapt in
visions of a pension.
“You won't take it, Gusty, dear,” said his wife with all the insinuation
of manner she could command.
“Won't I, 'faith?” said O'Grady. “Maybe you think I don't want it?”
“Indeed, I don't, dear.”
“Are you mad, woman? Is it taking leave of the few senses you ever had
you are?”
“'T won't agree with you.”
“Won't it? just wait till I'm tried.”
“Well, love, how much do you expect to be allowed?”
“Why I can't expect much just yet--we must begin gently--feel the pulse
first; but I should hope, by way of start, that six or seven hundred--”
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed his wife, dropping the cravat from her
hands. “What the devil is the woman shouting at?” said O'Grady.
“Six or seven hundred!!!” exclaimed Mrs. O'Grady; “my dear, there's not
as much in the house.”
“No, nor has not been for many a long day; I know that as well as you,”
said O'Grady; “but I hope we shall get as much for all that.”
“My dear, where could you get them?” asked the wife, timidly, who began
to think his head was a little light.
“From the treasury, to be sure.”
“The treasury, my dear?” said the wife, still at fault; “how could you
get oysters from the treasury?”
“Oysters!” exclaimed O'Grady, whose turn it was now to wonder, “who
talks of oysters?”
“My dear, I thought you said you'd eat six or seven hundred of oysters!”
“Pooh! pooh! woman; it is of the pension I'm talking--six or seven
hundred pounds--pounds--cash--per annum; now I suppose you'll put on my
cravat. I think a man may be allowed to eat his supper who expects six
hundred a year.”
A great many people besides O'Grady order suppers, and dinners too, on
the expectation of less than six hundred a year. Perhaps there is no
more active agent for sending people into the Insolvent Court than the
aforesaid “_expectation_.”
O'Grady went down-stairs, and was heartily welcomed by Scatterbrain on
his re-appearance from his sick-room; but Mrs. O'Grady suggested that,
for fear any excess would send him back there for a longer time, a
very moderate indulgence at the table should suffice. She begged the
honourable member to back her argument, which he did; and O'Grady
promised temperance, but begged the immediate appearance of the oysters,
for he experienced that eager desire which delicate health so often
prompts for some particular food.
Andy was laying the table at the time, and was ordered to expedite
matters as much as possible.
“Yis, ma'am.”
“You're sure the oysters are all good, Andy?”
“Sartin, ma'am.”
“Because the last oysters you know--”
“Oh, yis, ma'am--were bad, ma'am--bekase they had their mouths all open.
I remember, ma'am; but when I'm towld a thing once, I never forget it
again; and you towld me when they opened their mouths once they were no
good. So you see, ma'am, I'll never bring up bad oysthers again, ma'am.”
“Very good, Andy; and you have kept them in a cool place, I hope.”
“Faix, they're cowld enough where I put them, ma'am.”
“Very well; bring them up at once.”
Off went Andy, and returned with all the haste he could with a large
dish heaped up with oysters.
O'Grady rubbed his hands with the impatience of a true lover of the
crustaceous delicacy, and Scatterbrain, eager to help him, flourished
his oyster-knife; but before he had time to commence operations the
olfactory nerves of the company gave evidence that the oysters were
rather suspicious; every one began sniffing, and a universal “Oh dear!”
ran round the table.
“Don't you smell it, Furlong?” said Scatterbrain, who was so lost in
looking at Augusta's mustachios that he did not mind anything else.
“Isn't it horrid?” said O'Grady, with a look of disgust.
Furlong thought he alluded to the mustachio, and replied with an
assurance that he “liked it of all things.”
“Like it?” said O'Grady; “you've a queer taste. What do _you_ think of
it, miss?” added he to Augusta, “it's just under your nose.” Furlong
thought this rather personal, even from a father.
“I'll try my knife on one,” said Scatterbrain, with a flourish of the
oyster-knife, which Furlong thought resembled the preliminary trial of a
barber's razor.
Furlong thought this worse than O'Grady; but he hesitated to reply to
his chief, and an _honourable_ into the bargain.
In the meantime, Scatterbrain opened an oyster, which Furlong, in his
embarrassment and annoyance, did not perceive.
“Cut off the beard,” said O'Grady, “I don't like it.”
This nearly made Furlong speak, but, considering O'Grady's temper
and ill-health, he hesitated, till he saw Augusta rubbing her eye, in
consequence of a small splinter of the oyster-shell having struck it
from Scatterbrain's mismanagement of his knife; but Furlong thought she
was crying, and then he could be silent no longer; he went over to where
she sat, and with a very affectionate demonstration in his action, said,
“Never mind them, dear Gussy--never mind--don't cwy--I love her dear
little moustachios, I do.” He gave a gentle pat on the back of the neck
as he spoke, and it was returned by an uncommonly smart box on the ear
from the young lady, and the whole party looked thunderstruck. “Dear
Gussy” cried for spite, and stamped her way out of the room, followed by
Furlong.
“Let them go,” said O'Grady; “they'll make it up outside.”
“These oysters are all bad,” said Scatterbrain.
O'Grady began to swear at his disappointment--he had set his heart on
oysters. Mrs. O'Grady rang the bell--Andy appeared.
“How dare you bring up such oysters as these?” roared O'Grady.
“The misthris ordhered them, sir.”
“I told you never to bring up bad oysters,” said she.
“Them's not bad, ma'am,” said Andy,
“Have you a nose?” says O'Grady.
“Yes, sir.”
“And can't you smell them, then?”
“Faix, I smelt them for the last three days, sir.”
“And how could you say they were good, then?” asked his mistress.
“Sure you tould me, ma'am, that if they didn't open their mouths they
were good, and I'll be on my book oath them oysters never opened their
mouths since I had them, for I laid them on a coolflag in the kitchen
and put the jack-weight over them.”
Notwithstanding O'Grady's rage, Scatterbrain could not help roaring with
laughter at Andy's novel contrivance for keeping oysters fresh. Andy
was desired to take the “ancient and fish-like smell” out of the room,
amidst jeers and abuse; and, as he fumbled his way to the kitchen in
the dark, lamenting the hard fate of servants, who can never give
satisfaction, though they do everything they are bid, he went head over
heels down-stairs, which event was reported to the whole house as soon
as it happened, by the enormous clatter of the broken dish, the oysters,
and Andy, as they all rolled one over the other to the bottom.
O'Grady, having missed the cool supper he intended, and had longed for,
was put into a rage by the disappointment; and as hunger with O'Grady
was only to be appeased by broiled bones, accordingly, against all the
endeavours of everybody, the bells rang violently through the house, and
the ogre-like cry of “broiled bones!” resounded high and low.
The reader is sufficiently well acquainted with O'Grady by this time to
know, that of course, when once he had determined to have his broiled
bone, nothing on the face of the earth could prevent it but the want
of anything to broil, or the immediate want of his teeth; and as his
masticators were in order, and something in the house which could carry
mustard and pepper, the invalid primed and loaded himself with as much
combustible matter as exploded in a fever the next day.
The supper-party, however, in the hope of getting him to bed, separated
soon; and as Scatterbrain and Furlong were to start early in the morning
for Dublin, the necessity of their retiring to rest was pleaded. The
honourable member had not been long in his room when he heard a tap at
his door, and his order to “come in” was followed by the appearance of
Handy Andy.
“I found somethin' on the road nigh the town to-day, sir, and I thought
it might be yours, maybe,” said Andy, producing a small pocket-book.
The honourable member disavowed the ownership.
“Well, there's something else I want to speak to your honour about.”
“What is it, Handy?”
“I want your honour to see the account of the money your honour gave me
that I spint at the _shebeen_ [Footnote: Low publick house.] upon the
'lecthors that couldn't be accommodated at Mrs. Fay's.”
“Oh! never mind it, Andy; if there's anything over, keep it yourself.”
“Thank your honour, but I must make the account all the same, if
you plaze, for I'm going to Father Blake, to my duty, [Footnote:
Confession.] soon, and I must have my conscience as clear as I can, and
I wouldn't like to be keeping money back.”
“But if I give you the money, what matter?”
“I'd rather you'd just look over this little bit of a count, if you
plaze,” said Andy, producing a dirty piece of paper, with some nearly
inscrutable hieroglyphics upon it. Scatterbrain commenced an examination
of this literary phenomenon from sheer curiosity, asking Andy at the
same time if _he_ wrote it.
“Yis, sir,” said Andy; “but you see the man couldn't keep the count of
the piper's dhrink at all, it was so confusin', and so I was obliged to
pay him for that every time the piper dhrunk, and keep it separate, and
the 'lecthors that got their dinner afther the bill was made out I put
down myself too, and that's it you see, sir, both ating and dhrinkin'.”
To Dhrinkin A blind piper everry day
wan and in Pens six dais 0 16 6
To atein four Tin Illikthurs And Thare 1 8 8
horses on Chewsdai 0 14 0
---------
Toe til 2 19 4
Lan lord Bil For All Be four 7 17 8-1/2
---------
10 18 12-1/2
“Then I owe you money, instead of your having a balance in hand, Andy,”
said the member.
“Oh, no matter, your honour; it's not for that I showed you the
account.”
“It's very like it, though,” said Scatterbrain, laughing; “here, Andy,
here are a couple of pounds for you, take them, Andy--take it and be
off; your bill is worth the money,” and Scatterbrain closed the door on
the great accountant.
Andy next went to Furlong's room, to know if the pocket-book belonged
to him; it did not, but Furlong, though he disclaimed the ownership, had
that small curiosity which prompts little minds to pry into what does
not belong to them, and taking the pocket-book into his hands, he opened
it, and fumbled over its leaves; in the doing of which a small piece of
folded paper fell from one of the pockets unnoticed by the impertinent
inquisitor or Andy, to whom he returned the book when he had gratified
his senseless curiosity. Andy withdrew, Furlong retired to rest; and as
it was in the grey of an autumnal morning he dressed himself, the paper
still remained unobserved: so that the housemaid, on setting the room
to rights, found it, and fancying Miss Augusta was the proper person to
confide Mr. Furlong's stray papers to, she handed that young lady the
manuscript which bore the following copy of verses:--
I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE
I
It is the chime, the hour draws near
When you and I must sever;
Alas, it must be many a year,
And it _may_ be for ever!
How long till we shall meet again!
How short since first I met thee!
How brief the bliss--how long the pain--
For I can ne'er forget thee.
II
You said my heart was cold and stern;
You doubted love when strongest:
In future days you'll live to learn
Proud hearts can love the longest.
Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That _all_ must love thee, when thou'rt near,
But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!
III
The changeful sand doth only know
The shallow tide and latest;
The rocks have mark'd its highest flow,
The deepest and the greatest;
And deeper still the flood-marks grow:--
So, since the hour I met thee,
The more the tide of time doth flow,
The less can I forget thee!
When Augusta saw the lines, she was charmed. She discovered her Furlong
to be a poet! That the lines were his there was no doubt--they were
_found in his room,_ and of course they _must_ be his, just as partial
critics say certain Irish airs must be English, because they are to be
found in Queen Elizabeth's music-book.
Augusta was so charmed with the lines that she amused herself for a long
time in hiding them under the sofa-cushion and making her pet dog find
and fetch them. Her pleasure, however, was interrupted by her sister
Charlotte remarking, when the lines were shown to her in triumph, that
the writing was not Furlong's, but in a lady's hand.
Even as beer is suddenly soured by thunder, so the electric influence
of Charlotte's words converted all Augusta had been brewing to acidity;
jealousy stung her like a wasp, and she boxed her dog's ears as he was
barking for another run with the verses.
“A _lady's_ hand?” said Augusta, snatching the paper from her sister; “I
declare if it ain't! the wretch--so he receives lines from ladies.”
“I think I know the hand, too,” said Charlotte.
“You do?” exclaimed Augusta, with flashing eyes.
“Yes, I'm certain it is Fanny Dawson's writing.”
“So it is,” said Augusta, looking at the paper as if her eyes could have
burnt it; “to be sure--he was there before he came here.”
“Only for two days,” said Charlotte, trying to slake the flame she had
raised.
“But I've heard that girl always makes conquests at first sight,”
returned Augusta, half crying; “and what do I see here? some words in
pencil.”
The words were so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but Augusta
deciphered them; they were written on the margin, beside a circumflex
which embraced the last four lines of the second verse, so that it stood
thus:--
[Sidenote: Dearest, I will.]
Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That _all_ must love thee when thou'rt near,
But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!
“Will you, indeed?” said Augusta, crushing the paper in her hand, and
biting it; “but I must not destroy it--I must keep it to prove his
treachery to his face.” She threw herself on the sofa as she spoke, and
gave vent to an outpour of spiteful tears.