THE LADY’S LETTER—PETER AND HIS ACQUAINTANCES—TOO LATE.
Her ladyship’s letter ran thus—
“Callonby, Tuesday morning.
“My dear Mr. Lorrequer,—My lord has deputed me to convey to you our
adieus, and at the same time to express our very great regret that we
should not have seen you before out departure from Ireland. A sudden
call of the House, and some unexpected ministerial changes, require
Lord Callonby’s immediate presence in town; and probably before this
reaches you we shall be on the road. Lord Kilkee, who left us
yesterday, was much distressed at not having seen you—he desired me to
say you shall hear from him from Leamington. Although writing amid all
the haste and bustle of departure, I must not forget the principal part
of my commission, nor lady-like defer it to a postscript: my lord
entreats that you will, if possible, pass a month or two with us in
London this season; make any use of his name you think fit at the
Horse-Guards, where he has some influence. Knowing as I do, with what
kindness you ever accede to the wishes of your friends, I need not say
how much gratification this will afford us all; but, sans response, we
expect you. Believe me to remain, yours very sincerely,
“Charlotte Callonby.”
“P.S.—We are all quite well, except Lady Jane, who has a slight cold,
and has been feverish for the last day or two.”
Words cannot convey any idea of the torrent of contending emotions
under which I perused this letter. The suddenness of the departure,
without an opportunity of even a moment’s leave-taking, completely
unmanned me. What would I not have given to be able to see her once
more, even for an instant—to say “a good bye”—to watch the feeling with
which she parted from me, and augur from it either favourably to my
heart’s dearest hope, or darkest despair. As I continued to read on,
the kindly tone of the remainder reassured me, and when I came to the
invitation to London, which plainly argued a wish on their part to
perpetuate the intimacy, I was obliged to read it again and again,
before I could convince myself of its reality. There it was, however,
most distinctly and legibly impressed in her ladyship’s fairest
calligraphy; and certainly great as was its consequence to me at the
time, it by no means formed the principal part of the communication.
The two lines of postscript contained more, far more food for hopes and
fears than did all the rest of the epistle.
Lady Jane was ill then, slightly however—a mere cold; true, but she was
feverish. I could not help asking myself what share had I causing that
flushed cheek and anxious eye, and pictured to myself, perhaps with
more vividness than reality, a thousand little traits of manner, all
proofs strong as holy writ to my sanguine mind, that my affection was
returned, and that I loved not in vain. Again and again I read over the
entire letter; never truly did a nisi prius lawyer con over a new act
of parliament with more searching ingenuity, to detect its hidden
meaning, than did I to unravel through its plain phraseology the secret
intention of the writer towards me.
There is an old and not less true adage, that what we wish we readily
believe; and so with me—I found myself an easy convert to my own hopes
and desires, and actually ended by persuading myself—no very hard
task—that my Lord Callonby had not only witnessed but approved of my
attachment to his beautiful daughter, and for reasons probably known to
him, but concealed from me, opined that I was a suitable “parti,” and
gave all due encouragement to my suit. The hint about using his
lordship’s influence at the Horse guards I resolved to benefit by; not,
however, in obtaining leave of absence, which I hoped to accomplish
more easily, but with his good sanction in pushing my promotion, when I
claimed him as my right honorable father-in-law—a point, on the
propriety of which, I had now fully satisfied myself. What visions of
rising greatness burst upon my mind, as I thought on the prospect that
opened before me; but here let me do myself the justice to record, that
amid all my pleasure and exultation, my proudest thought, was in the
anticipation of possessing one in every way so much my superior—the
very consciousness of which imparted a thrill of fear to my heart, that
such good fortune was too much even to hope for.
How long I might have luxuriated in such Chateaux en Espagne, heaven
knows; thick and thronging fancies came abundantly to my mind, and it
was with something of the feeling of the porter in the Arabian Nights,
as he surveyed the fragments of his broken ware, hurled down in a
moment of glorious dreaminess, that I turned to look at the squat and
unaristocratic figure of Father Malachi, as he sat reading his
newspaper before the fire. How came I in such company; methinks the
Dean of Windsor, or the Bishop of Durham had been a much more seemly
associate for one destined as I was for the flood-tide of the world’s
favour.
My eye at this instant rested upon the date of the letter, which was
that of the preceding morning, and immediately a thought struck me
that, as the day was a louring and gloomy one, perhaps they might have
deferred their journey, and I at once determined to hasten to Callonby,
and, if possible, see them before their departure.
“Father Brennan,” said I, at length, “I have just received a letter
which compels me to reach Kilrush as soon as possible. Is there any
public conveyance in the village?”
“You don’t talk of leaving us, surely,” said the priest, “and a haunch
of mutton for dinner, and Fin says he’ll be down, and your friend, too,
and we’ll have poor Beamish in on a sofa.”
“I am sorry to say my business will not admit of delay, but, if
possible, I shall return to thank you for all you kindness, in a day or
two—perhaps tomorrow.”
“Oh, then,” said Father Brennan, “if it must be so, why you can have
‘Pether,’ my own pad, and a better you never laid leg over; only give
him his own time, and let him keep the ‘canter,’ and he’ll never draw
up from morning till night; and now I’ll just go and have him in
readiness for you.”
After professing my warm acknowledgments to the good father for his
kindness, I hastened to take a hurried farewell of Curzon before going.
I found him sitting up in bed taking his breakfast; a large strip of
black plaster, extending from the corner of one eye across the nose,
and terminating near the mouth, denoted the locale of a goodly wound,
while the blue, purple and yellow patches into which his face was
partitioned out, left you in doubt whether he now resembled the knave
of clubs or a new map of the Ordnance survey; one hand was wrapped up
in a bandage, and altogether a more rueful and woe-begone looking
figure I have rarely looked upon; and most certainly I am of opinion
that the “glorious, pious and immortal memory” would have brought
pleasanter recollections to Daniel O’Connell himself, than it would on
that morning to the adjutant of his majesty’s 4—th.
“Ah, Harry,” said he, as I entered, “what Pandemonium is this we’ve got
into? did you ever witness such a business as last night’s?”
“Why truly,” said I, “I know of no one to blame but yourself; surely
you must have known what a fracas your infernal song would bring on.”
“I don’t know now whether I knew it or not; but certainly at the moment
I should have preferred anything to the confounded cross-examination I
was under, and was glad to end it by any coup d’etat. One wretch was
persecuting me about green crops, and another about the feeding of
bullocks; about either of which I knew as much as a bear does of a
ballet.”
“Well, truly, you caused a diversion at some expense to your
countenance, for I never beheld anything—”
“Stop there,” said he, “you surely have not seen the doctor—he beats me
hollow—they have scarcely left so much hair on his head as would do for
an Indian’s scalp lock; and, of a verity, his aspect is awful this
morning; he has just been here, and by-the-bye has told me all about
your affair with Beamish. It appears that somewhere you met him at
dinner, and gave a very flourishing account of a relative of his who
you informed him was not only selected for some very dashing service,
but actually the personal friend of Picton; and, after the family
having blazed the matter all over Cork, and given a great entertainment
in honor of their kinsman, it turns out that, on the glorious 19th, he
ran away to Brussels faster than even the French to Charleroi; for
which act, however, there was no aspersion ever cast upon his courage,
that quality being defended at the expense of his honesty; in a word,
he was the paymaster of the company, and had what Theodore Hook calls
an ‘affection of his chest,’ that required change of air. Looking only
to the running away part of the matter, I unluckily expressed some
regret that he did not belong to the North Cork, and I remarked the
doctor did not seem to relish the allusion, and as _I_ only now
remember, it was _his_ regiment, I suppose I’m in for more mischief.”
I had no time to enjoy Curzon’s dilemma, and had barely informed him of
my intended departure, when a voice from without the room proclaimed
that “Pether” was ready, and having commissioned the adjutant to say
the “proper” to Mr. Beamish and the doctor, hurried away, and after a
hearty shake of the hand from Father Brennan, and a faithful promise to
return soon, I mounted and set off.
Peter’s pace was of all others the one least likely to disturb the
lucubrations of a castle-builder like myself; without any admonition
from whip or spur he maintained a steady and constant canter, which, I
am free to confess, was more agreeable to sit, than it was graceful to
behold; for his head being much lower than his tail, he every moment
appeared in the attitude of a diver about to plunge into the water, and
more than once I had misgivings that I would consult my safety better
if I sat with my face to the tail; however, what will not habit
accomplish? before I had gone a mile or two, I was so lost in my own
reveries and reflections, that I knew nothing of my mode of
progression, and had only thoughts and feelings for the destiny that
awaited me; sometimes I would fancy myself seated in the House of
Commons, (on the ministerial benches, of course,) while some leading
oppositionist was pronouncing a glowing panegyric upon the eloquent and
statesmanlike speech of the gallant colonel—myself; then I thought I
was making arrangements for setting out for my new appointment, and
Sancho Panza never coveted the government of an island more than I did,
though only a West Indian one; and, lastly, I saw myself the chosen
diplomate on a difficult mission, and was actually engaged in the easy
and agreeable occupation of outmaneuvering Talleyrand and Pozzo di
Borgo, when Peter suddenly drew up at the door of a small cabin, and
convinced me that I was still a mortal man, and a lieutenant in his
Majesty’s 4—th. Before I had time afforded me even to guess at the
reason of this sudden halt, an old man emerged from the cabin, which I
saw now was a road-side ale-house, and presented Peter with a bucket of
meal and water, a species of “viaticum” that he evidently was
accustomed to, at this place, whether bestrode by a priest or an
ambassador. Before me lay a long straggling street of cabins,
irregularly thrown, as if riddled over the ground; this I was informed
was Kilkee; while my good steed, therefore, was enjoying his potation,
I dismounted, to stretch my legs and look about me, and scarcely had I
done so when I found half the population of the village assembled round
Peter, whose claims to notoriety, I now learned, depended neither upon
his owner’s fame, nor even my temporary possession of him. Peter, in
fact, had been a racer, once—when, the wandering Jew might perhaps have
told, had he ever visited Clare—for not the oldest inhabitant knew the
date of his triumphs on the turf; though they were undisputed
traditions, and never did any man appear bold enough to call them in
question: whether it was from his patriarchal character, or that he was
the only race-horse ever known in his county I cannot say, but, of a
truth, the Grand Lama could scarcely be a greater object of reverence
in Thibet, than was Peter in Kilkee.
“Musha, Peter, but it’s well y’r looking,” cried one.
“Ah, thin, maybe ye an’t fat on the ribs,” cried another.
“An’ cockin’ his tail like a coult,” said a third.
I am very certain, if I might venture to judge from the faces about,
that, had the favourite for the St. Leger, passed through Kilkee at
that moment, comparisons very little to his favor had been drawn from
the assemblage around me. With some difficulty I was permitted to reach
my much admired steed, and with a cheer, which was sustained and caught
up by every denizen of the village as I passed through, I rode on my
way, not a little amused at my equivocal popularity.
Being desirous to lose no time, I diverged from the straight road which
leads to Kilrush, and took a cross bridle-path to Callonby; this, I
afterwards discovered was a detour of a mile or two, and it was already
sun-set when I reached the entrance to the park. I entered the avenue,
and now my impatience became extreme, for although Peter continued to
move at the same uniform pace, I could not persuade myself that he was
not foundering at every step, and was quite sure we were scarcely
advancing; at last I reached the wooden bridge, and ascended the steep
slope, the spot where I had first met her, on whom my every thought now
rested. I turned the angle of the clump of beech trees from whence the
first view of the house is caught—I perceived to my inexpressible
delight that gleams of light shone from many of the windows, and could
trace their passing from one to the other. I now drew rein, and with a
heart relieved from a load of anxiety, pulled up my good steed, and
began to think of the position in which a few brief seconds would place
me. I reached the small flower-garden, sacred by a thousand endearing
recollections. Oh! of how very little account are the many words of
passing kindness, and moments of light-hearted pleasure, when spoken or
felt, compared to the memory of them when hallowed by time or distance.
“The place, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,” all reminded me of
the happy past, and all brought vividly before me every portion of that
dream of happiness in which I was so utterly—so completely
steeped—every thought of the hopelessness of my passion was lost in the
intensity of it, and I did not, in the ardour of my loving, stop to
think of its possible success.
It was strange enough that the extreme impatience, the hurried anxiety,
I had felt and suffered from, while riding up the avenue, had now fled
entirely, and in its place I felt nothing but a diffident distrust of
myself, and a vague sense of awkwardness about intruding thus
unexpectedly upon the family, while engaged in all the cares and
preparations for a speedy departure. The hall-door lay as usual wide
open, the hall itself was strewn and littered with trunks, imperials,
and packing-cases, and the hundred et ceteras of travelling baggage. I
hesitated a moment whether I should not ring, but at last resolved to
enter unannounced, and, presuming upon my intimacy, see what effect my
sudden appearance would have on Lady Jane, whose feelings towards me
would be thus most unequivocally tested. I passed along the wide
corridor, entered the music-room—it was still—I walked then to the door
of the drawing-room—I paused—I drew a full breath—my hand trembled
slightly as I turned the lock—I entered—the room was empty, but the
blazing fire upon the hearth, the large arm-chairs drawn around, the
scattered books upon the small tables, all told that it had been
inhabited a very short time before. Ah! thought I, looking at my watch,
they are at dinner, and I began at once to devise a hundred different
plans to account for my late absence and present visit. I knew that a
few minutes would probably bring them into the drawing-room, and I felt
flurried and heated as the time drew near. At last I heard voices
without—I started from the examination of a pencil drawing but partly
finished, but the artist of which I could not be deceived in—I
listened—the sounds drew near—I could not distinguish who were the
speakers—the door-lock turned, and I rose to make my well-conned, but
half-forgotten speech; and oh, confounded disappointment, Mrs. Herbert,
the house-keeper, entered. She started, not expecting to see me, and
immediately said,
“Oh! Mr. Lorrequer! then you’ve missed them.”
“Missed them!” said I; “how—when—where?”
“Did you not get a note from my lord?”
“No; when was it written?”
“Oh, dear me, that is so very unfortunate. Why, sir, my lord sent off a
servant this morning to Kilrush, in Lord Kilkee’s tilbury, to request
you would meet them all in Ennis this evening, where they had intended
to stop for to-night; and they waited here till near four o’clock
to-day, but when the servant came back with the intelligence that you
were from home, and not expected to return soon, they were obliged to
set out, and are not going to make any delay now, till they reach
London. The last direction, however, my lord gave, was to forward her
ladyship’s letter to you as soon as possible.”
What I thought, said, or felt, might be a good subject of confession to
Father Malachi, for I fear it may be recorded among my sins, as I doubt
not that the agony I suffered vented itself in no measured form of
speech or conduct; but I have nothing to confess here on the subject,
being so totally overwhelmed as not to know what I did or said. My
first gleam of reason elicited itself by asking,
“Is there, then, no chance of their stopping in Ennis to-night?” As I
put the question my mind reverted to Peter and his eternal canter.
“Oh, dear, no, sir; the horses are ordered to take them, since Tuesday;
and they only thought of staying in Ennis, if you came time enough to
meet them—and they will be so sorry.”
“Do you think so, Mrs. Herbert? do you, indeed, think so?” said I, in a
most insinuating tone.
“I am perfectly sure of it, sir.”
“Oh, Mrs. Herbert, you are too kind to think so; but perhaps—that
is—may be, Mrs. Herbert, she said something—”
“Who, sir?”
“Lady Callonby, I mean; did her ladyship leave any message for me about
her plants? or did she remember—”
Mrs. Herbert kept looking at me all the time, with her great wide grey
eyes, while I kept stammering and blushing like a school-boy.
“No, sir; her ladyship said nothing, sir; but Lady Jane—”
“Yes; well, what of Lady Jane, my dear Mrs. Herbert?”
“Oh, sir! but you look pale; would not you like to have a little wine
and water—or perhaps—”
“No, thank you, nothing whatever; I am just a little fatigued—but you
were mentioning—”
“Yes, sir; I was saying that Lady Jane was mighty particular about a
small plant; she ordered it to be left in her dressing-room, though
Collins told her to have some of the handsome ones of the green-house,
she would have nothing but this; and if you were only to hear half the
directions she gave about keeping it watered, and taking off dead
leaves, you’d think her heart was set on it.”
Mrs. Herbert would have had no cause to prescribe for my paleness had
she only looked at me this time; fortunately, however, she was engaged,
housekeeper-like, in bustling among books, papers, &c. which she had
come in for the purpose of arranging and packing up. She being left
behind to bring up the rear, and the heavy baggage.
Very few moments’ consideration were sufficient to show me that pursuit
was hopeless; whatever might have been Peter’s performance in the reign
of “Queen Anne,” he had now become like the goose so pathetically
described by my friend Lover, rather “stiff in his limbs,” and the odds
were fearfully against his overtaking four horses, starting fresh every
ten miles, not to mention their being some hours in advance already.
Having declined all Mrs. Herbert’s many kind offers, anent food and
rest, I took a last lingering look at the beautiful pictures, which
still held its place in the room lately mine, and hurried from a place
so full of recollections; and, notwithstanding the many reasons I had
for self-gratulation, every object around and about, filled me with
sorrow and regret for hours that had passed—never, never to return.
It was very late when I reached my old quarters at Kilrush; Mrs. Healy
fortunately was in bed asleep—fortunately I say, for had she selected
that occasion to vent her indignation for my long absence, I greatly
fear that, in my then temper I should have exhibited but little of that
Job-like endurance for which I was once esteemed; I entered my little
mean-looking parlour, with its three chairs and lame table, and, as I
flung myself upon the wretched substitute for a sofa, and thought upon
the varied events which a few weeks had brought about; it required the
aid of her ladyship’s letter, which I opened before me, to assure me I
was not dreaming.
The entire of that night I could not sleep; my destiny seemed upon its
balance; and, whether the scale inclined to this side or that, good or
evil fortune seemed to betide me. How many were my plans and
resolutions, and how often abandoned; again to be pondered over, and
once more given up. The grey dawn of the morning was already breaking,
and found me still doubting and uncertain. At last the die was thrown;
I determined at once to apply for leave to my commanding officer,
(which he could, if he pleased, give me, without any application to the
Horse Guards,) set out for Elton, tell Sir Guy my whole adventure, and
endeavour, by a more moving love story than ever graced even the
Minerva Press, to induce him to make some settlement on me, and use his
influence with Lord Callonby in my behalf; this done, set out for
London, and then—and then—what then?—then for the Morning Post—“Cadeau
de noces”—“happy couple”—“Lord Callonby’s seat in Hampshire,” &c. &c.
“You wished to be called at five, sir,” said Stubber.
“Yes; is it five o’clock?”
“No, sir; but I heard you call out something about ‘four horses,’ and I
thought you might be hurried, so I came a little earlier.”
“Quite right, Stubber; let me have my breakfast as soon as possible,
and see that chestnut horse I brought here last night, fed.”
“And now for it,” said I, after writing a hurried note to Curzon,
requesting him to take command of my party at Kilrush, till he heard
from me, and sending my kindest remembrance to my three friends; I
despatched the epistle by my servant on Peter, while I hastened to
acquire a place in the mail for Ennis, on the box seat of which let my
kind reader suppose me seated, as wrapping my box-coat around me, I lit
my cigar and turned my eyes towards Limerick.