It has been necessary in an earlier chapter to notice the strange freaks
madness will sometimes play. It was then the object to show how strong
affections of the mind will recall an erring judgment to its true
balance; but, the action of the counterpoise growing weaker by time,
the disease returns, and reason again kicks the beam. Such was the old
dowager's case: the death of her son recalled her to herself; but a few
days produced relapse, and she was as foolish as ever. Nevertheless, as
Polonius remarks of Hamlet,
“There is method in his madness;”
so in the dowager's case there was method--not of a sane intention,
as the old courtier implies of the Danish Prince, but of _in_sane
birth--begot of a chivalrous feeling on an enfeebled mind.
To make this clearly understood it is necessary to call attention to
one other peculiarity of madness,--that, while it makes those under
its influence liable to say and enact all sorts of nonsense on some
subjects, it never impairs their powers of observation on those which
chance to come within the reach of the un-diseased portion of the mind;
and moreover, they are quite as capable of arriving at just conclusions
upon what they _so_ see and hear, as the most reasonable person, and,
perhaps, in proportion as the reasoning power is limited within a
smaller compass, so the capability of observation becomes stronger by
being concentrated.
Such was the case with the old dowager, who, while Furlong was “doing
devotion” to Augusta, and appeared the pink of faithful swains, saw very
clearly that Furlong did not like it a bit, and would gladly be off his
bargain. Yea, while the people in their sober senses on the same plane
with the parties were taken in, the old lunatic, even from the toppling
height of her own mad chimney-pot, could look down and see that Furlong
would not marry Augusta if he could help it.
It _was_ even so. Furlong had acted under the influence of terror when
poor Augusta, shoved into his bedroom through the devilment of that
rascally imp, Ratty, and found there, through the evil destiny of Andy,
was flung into his arms by her enraged father, and accepted as his wife.
The immediate hurry of the election had delayed the marriage--the
duel and its consequences further interrupted “the happy event”--and
O'Grady's death caused a further postponement. It was delicately hinted
to Furlong, that when matters had gone so far as to the wedding-dresses
being ready, that the sooner the contracting parties under such
circumstances were married, the better. But Furlong, with that
affectation of propriety which belongs to his time-serving
tribe, pleaded the “regard to appearances”--“so soon after the
ever-to-be-deplored event,”--and other such specious excuses, which
were but covers to his own rascality, and used but to postpone the
“wedding-day.” The truth was, the moment Furlong had no longer the
terrors of O'Grady's pistol before his eyes, he had resolved never to
take so bad a match as that with Augusta appeared to be--indeed was, as
far as regarded money; though Furlong should only have been too glad
to be permitted to mix his plebeian blood with the daughter of a man
of high family, whose crippled circumstances and consequent truckling
conduct had reduced him to the wretched necessity of making _such a cur_
as Furlong the inmate of his house. But so it was.
The family began at last to suspect the real state of the case, and all
were surprised except the old dowager; she had expected what was coming,
and had prepared herself for it. All her pistol practice was with a view
to call Furlong to the “last arbitrament” for this slight to her house.
Gusty was too young, she considered, for the duty; therefore she, in
her fantastic way of looking at the matter, looked upon _herself_ as the
head of the family, and, as such, determined to resent the affront put
upon it.
But of her real design the family at Neck-or-Nothing Hall had not the
remotest notion. Of course, an old lady going about with a pistol,
powder-flask, and bullets, and practising on the trunks of the trees in
the park, could not pass without observation, and surmises there were
on the subject; then her occasional exclamation of “Tremble, villain!”
would escape her; and sometimes in the family circle, after sitting for
a while in a state of abstraction, she would lift her attenuated hand
armed with a knitting-needle or a ball of worsted, and assuming the
action of poising a pistol, execute a smart _click_ with her tongue, and
say, “I hit him that time.”
These exclamations, indicative of vengeance, were supposed at length
by the family to apply to Edward O'Connor, but excited pity rather than
alarm. When, however, one morning, the dowager was nowhere to be
found, and Ratty and the pistols had also disappeared, an inquiry was
instituted as to the old lady's whereabouts, and Mount Eskar was one
of the first places where she was sought, but without success; and all
other inquiries were equally unavailing.
The old lady had contrived, with that cunning peculiar to insane people,
to get away from the house at an early hour in the morning, unknown to
all except Ratty, to whom she confided her intention, and he managed to
get her out of the domain unobserved, and thence together they proceeded
to Dublin in a post-chaise. It was the day after this secret expedition
was undertaken that Mr. Furlong was sitting in his private apartment
at the Castle, doing “the state some service” by reading the morning
papers, which heavy official duty he relieved occasionally by turning
to some scented notes which lay near a morocco writing-case, whence they
had been drawn by the lisping dandy to flatter his vanity. He had been
carrying on a correspondence with an anonymous fair one, in whose heart,
if her words might be believed, Furlong had made desperate havoc.
It happened, however, that these notes were all fictitious, being the
work of Tom Loftus, who enjoyed playing on a puppy as much as playing on
the organ; and he had the satisfaction of seeing Furlong going through
his paces in certain squares he had appointed, wearing a flower of Tom's
choice and going through other antics which Tom had demanded under
the signature of “Phillis,” written in a delicate hand on pink satin
note-paper with a lace border; one of the last notes suggested the
possibility of a visit from the lady, and, after assurances of “secrecy
and honour” had been returned by Furlong, he was anxiously expecting
“what would become of it;” and filled with pleasing reflections of what
“a devil of a fellow” he was among the ladies, he occasionally paced
the room before a handsome dressing-glass (with which his apartment
was always furnished), and ran his fingers through his curls with a
complacent smile. While thus occupied, and in such a frame of mind, the
hall messenger entered the apartment, and said a lady wished to see him.
“A lady!” exclaimed Furlong, in delighted surprise.
“She won't give her name, sir, but--”
“Show her up! show her up!” exclaimed the Lothario, eagerly.
All anxiety, he awaited the appearance of his donna; and quite a donna
she seemed, as a commanding figure, dressed in black, and enveloped in a
rich veil of the same, glided into the room.
“How vewy Spanish!” exclaimed Furlong, as he advanced to meet his
incognita, who, as soon as she entered, locked the door, and withdrew
the key.
“Quite pwactised in such secwet affairs,” said Furlong slily. “Fai'
lady, allow me to touch you' fai' hand, and lead you to a seat.”
The mysterious stranger made no answer; but lifting her long veil,
turned round on the lisping dandy, who staggered back, when the dowager
O'Grady appeared before him, drawn up to her full height, and anything
but an agreeable expression in her eye. She stalked up towards him,
something in the style of a spectre in a romance, which she was not
very unlike; and as she advanced, he retreated, until he got the table
between him and this most unwelcome apparition.
“I am come,” said the dowager, with an ominous tone of voice.
“Vewy happy of the hono', I am sure, Mistwess O'Gwady,” faltered
Furlong.
“The avenger has come.” Furlong opened his eyes. “I have come to wash
the stain!” said she, tapping her fingers in a theatrical manner on the
table, and, as it happened, she pointed to a large blotch of ink on the
table-cover. Furlong opened his eyes wider than ever, and thought this
the queerest bit of madness he ever heard of; however, thinking it best
to humour her, he answered, “Yes, it was a little awkwa'dness of mine--I
upset the inkstand the othe' day.”
“Do you mock me, sir?” said she, with increasing bitterness.
“La, no! Mistwess O'Gwady.”
“I have come, I say, to wash out in your blood the stain you have dared
to put on the name of O'Grady.”
Furlong gasped with mingled amazement and fear.
“Tremble, villain!” she said; and she pointed toward him her long
attenuated finger with portentous solemnity.
[Illustration: The Challenge]
“I weally am quite at a loss, Mistwess O'Gwady, to compwehend--”
Before he could finish his sentence, the dowager had drawn from the
depths of her side-pockets a brace of pistols, and presenting them to
Furlong, said, “Be at a loss no longer, except the loss of life which
may ensue: take your choice of weapons, sir.”
“Gwacious Heaven!” exclaimed Furlong, trembling from head to foot.
“You won't choose, then?” said the dowager. “Well, there's one for you;”
and she laid a pistol before him with as courteous a manner as if she
were making him a birthday present.
Furlong stared down upon it with a look of horror.
“Now we must toss for choice of ground,” said the dowager. “I have no
money about me, for I paid my last half-crown to the post-boy, but this
will do as well for a toss as anything else;” and she laid her hands
on the dressing-glass as she spoke. “Now the call shall be 'safe,' or
'smash;' whoever calls 'safe,' if the glass comes down unbroken, has the
choice, and _vice versâ_. I call first--'_Smash_,'” said the dowager, as
she flung up the dressing-glass, which fell in shivers on the floor. “I
have won,” said she; “oblige me, sir, by standing in that far corner.
I have the light in my back--and you will have something else in yours
before long; take your ground, sir.”
Furlong, finding himself thus cooped up with a mad woman, in an agony of
terror suddenly bethought himself of instances he had heard of escape,
under similar circumstances, by coinciding to a certain extent with the
views of the insane people, and suggested to the dowager that he hoped
she would not insist on a duel without their having a “friend” present.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old lady: “I quite forgot that
form, in the excitement of the moment, though I have not overlooked the
necessity altogether, and have come provided with one.”
“Allow me to wing for him,” said Furlong, rushing to the bell.
“Stop!” exclaimed the dowager, levelling her pistol at the bell-pull;
“touch it, and you are a dead man!”
Furlong stood riveted to the spot where his rush had been arrested.
“No interruption, sir, till this little affair is settled. Here is my
friend,” she added, putting her hand into her pocket and pulling out the
wooden cuckoo of her clock. “My little bird, sir, will see fair between
us;” and she perched the painted wooden thing, with a bit of feather
grotesquely sticking up out of its nether end, on the morocco
letter-case.
“Oh, Lord!” said Furlong.
“He's a gentleman of the nicest honour, sir!” said the dowager, pacing
back to the window.
Furlong took advantage of the opportunity of her back being turned, and
rushed at the bell, which he pulled with great fury.
The dowager wheeled round with haste. “So you have rung,” said she,
“but it shall not avail you--the door is locked; take your weapon,
sir,--quick!--what!--a coward!”
“Weally, Mistwess O'Gwady, I cannot think of deadly arbitrament with a
lady.”
“Less would you like it with a man, _poltroon_!” said she, with an
exaggerated expression of contempt in her manner. “However,” she added,
“if you _are_ a coward, you shall have a coward's punishment.” She went
to a corner where stood a great variety of handsome canes, and laying
hold of one, began soundly to thrash Furlong, who feared to make any
resistance or attempt to disarm her of the cane, for the pistol was yet
in her other hand.
The bell was answered by the servant, who, on finding the door locked,
and hearing the row inside, began to knock and inquire loudly what was
the matter. The question was more loudly answered by Furlong, who roared
out, “Bweak the door! bweak the door!” interlarding his directions with
cries of “mu'der!”
The door at length was forced, Furlong rescued, and the old lady
separated from him. She became perfectly calm the moment other persons
appeared, and was replacing the pistols in her pocket, when Furlong
requested the “dweadful weapons” might be seized. The old lady gave up
the pistols very quietly, but laid hold of her bird and put it back into
her pocket.
“This is a dweadful violation!” said Furlong, “and my life is not safe
unless she is bound ove' to keep the peace.”
“Pooh! pooh!” said one of the gentlemen from the adjacent office, who
came to the scene on hearing the uproar, “binding over an old lady to
keep the peace--nonsense!”
“I insist upon it,” said Furlong, with that stubbornness for which fools
are so remarkable.
“Oh--very well!” said the sensible gentleman, who left the room.
A party, pursuant to Furlong's determination, proceeded to the head
police-office close by the Castle, and a large mob gathered as they went
down Cork-hill and followed them to Exchange-court, where they crowded
before them in front of the office, so that it was with difficulty the
principals could make their way through the dense mass.
At length, however, they entered the office; and when Major Sir heard
any gentleman attached to the Government wanted his assistance, of
course he put any other case aside, and had the accuser and accused
called up before him.
Furlong made his charge of assault and battery, with intent to murder,
&c., &c. “Some mad old rebel, I suppose,” said Major Sir. “Do you
remember '98, ma'am?” said the major.
“Indeed I do, sir--and I remember _you_ too: Major Sir I have the honour
to address, if I don't mistake.”
“Yes, ma'am. What then?”
“I remember well in '98 when you were searching for rebels, you thought
a man was concealed in a dairy-yard in the neighbourhood of my mother's
house, major, in Stephen's Green; and you thought he was hid in a
hay-rick, and ordered your sergeant to ask for the loan of a spit from
my mother's kitchen to probe the haystack.”
“Oh! then, madam, your mother was _loyal_, I suppose.”
“Most loyal, sir.”
“Give the lady a chair,” said the major.
“Thank you, I don't want it--but, major, when you asked for the spit,
my mother thought you were going to practise one of your delightfully
ingenious bits of punishment, and asked the sergeant _who it was you
were going to roast_?”
The major grew livid on the bench where he sat, at this awkward
reminiscence of one of his friends, and a dead silence reigned through
the crowded office. He recovered himself, however, and addressed Mrs.
O'Grady in a mumbling manner, telling her she must give security to keep
the peace, herself--and find friends as sureties. On asking her had she
any friends to appear for her, she declared she had.
“A gentleman of the nicest honour, sir,” said the dowager, pulling her
cuckoo from her pocket, and holding it up in view of the whole office.
A shout of laughter, of course, followed. The affair became at once
understood in its true light; a mad old lady--a paltry coward--&c., &c.
Those who know the excitability and fun of an Irish mob will not
wonder that, when the story got circulated from the office to the crowd
without, which it did with lightning rapidity, the old lady, on being
placed in a hackney-coach which was sent for, was hailed with a chorus
of “Cuckoo!” by the multitude, one half of which ran after the coach
as long as they could keep pace with it, shouting forth the spring-time
call, and the other half followed Furlong to the Castle, with hisses and
other more articulate demonstrations of their contempt.